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At dawn the wind had died away to a light breeze, and the sun rose to shine upon an ocean of unspecked blue. To the eastward, the slopes of New Britain were hidden from our view by a thick mist, only the tops of some high mountain peaks far inland showing above, and there seemed to be every appearance of the fine weather lasting. This gave us much satisfaction, and after a bathe in a rocky pool on the reef, we ate our breakfast of fish and coconut with good spirits, then filling our pipes, went down to the inner beach to bask in the glorious sunshine.
“If this sort ot weather keeps up,” I remarked to Yorke, “I'm afraid your prediction about our seeing Guest and the cutter in another two days won't be verified--it'll fall calm before noon to-day, and may keep so for a week. I've known a calm to last for a solid ten days on the north side of New Britain.”
“Perhaps so,” he replied; “but then the current about here sets strongly to the eastward, and somehow I feel certain that, wind or no wind, we'll see the ships.”
“Well, if we do, you ought to give up sailoring, Captain Yorke, and go into business as a prophet. I for one would always come to you for a tip. But, joking apart, let us imagine that Guest or the cutter did not run far to the eastward, but hove-to, and as soon as the hurricane had blown itself out, headed back for us; in such a case, both vessels may be within half a day's sail of us at this very moment.”
“That is quite possible--it is also possible they may be within twenty miles of us, becalmed. It would not surprise me if Guest actually drifts in sight of these islands, and comes to look for us in his boat.”
“Now that brings me to the kernel of my imagination. I think it very likely he may have no boat to send, and----” He gave me a mighty thump on the back.
“Good boy! I know what you're thinking of--the raft?”
“Exactly, Captain. So don't you think it would be as well for us to turn to at once, and make a couple of good paddles? though in an emergency the butt ends of dry coconut branches do very well for paddles.”
Then I went on to say that it was quite likely that Guest had lost both his boats, and the cutter her dingy, before there was time to have them properly secured; and that the brigantine had lost the whaler, which had brought us ashore, I was sure of, for she had, as I have mentioned, been nearly thrown over on her beam ends when struck by the first blast, and the boat must certainly either have been hopelessly stove when she was forced below, or torn away from the davits by the weight of water in her when the ship righted herself.
We set to at once with a good will--Yorke overhauling the cane fastenings with which the great bamboos were lashed together, whilst I went along the beach in search of some young _futu_ trees, the wood of which is soft when green, but dries hard, and could be easily worked, even by such a tool as a sheath knife.
A quarter of a mile from our camp I found just what I wanted--three or four young _futu_ saplings lying on the ground, torn up by the roots. Taking two ot the best, I stripped off the branches, and returned to my companion, who was still at work on the raft, relashing its timbers wherever needed.
In a couple of hours I had made quite a decent pair of paddles, each about four feet in length, and with four inches of blade in the widest part. Then Yorke, having finished with the raft, went with me along the beach, and collected some old coconuts for food, and some young ones to drink, for, as my comrade observed, one never knew what might happen, and it would be as well to have some provisions all ready to hand in case of emergency. There were still thousands of dead fish to be seen everywhere lying on the sand, cast up among the _débris_ above high-water mark, but these were now turning putrid, and of no use.
We had noticed a huge banyan tree not far distant from our sleeping place, which was the roosting and breeding place of a vast number of whale birds, so Yorke proposed that we should go there and see if we could kill some by hurling sticks at them. We had often seen this done by the natives ot the western Caroline Islands, for the birds are very stupid, and allow themselves, when not on the wing, to be approached quite closely. We cut ourselves each a half-dozen of short, heavy throwing-sticks of green wood, and set out for the rookery, and within an hour had killed thirty or forty of the poor birds, some of which we at once picked, cleaned, and roasted. We had no lack of salt, for every rock and shrub above high-water mark on the weather side of the island was covered with a thin incrustation of it, caused by the rapid evaporation of the spray under a torrid sun. The remainder of the birds we cooked later in the day, intending them as a stand-by.
In the afternoon we again bathed, this time in the lagoon, and Yorke, who was one of the strongest and swiftest swimmers, for an European, that I had ever seen, succeeded in capturing a turtle which was lying asleep on the surface of the water, and brought it ashore; but it proved to be so old and poor that we let it go again in disgust.
Towards the close of the day we again crossed the islet to have a better look at the New Britain shore, the heavy mist which had hung over it most of the day having now vanished. That the native owners of the plantations would put in an appearance before many days had passed I was certain, for they would be anxious to see what damage had been done by the hurricane, and no doubt dig up some of the taro, which, as I have said, was fully grown.
The moment we emerged from the scrub out upon the eastern shore, we obtained a splendid view of the opposite coast of the great island, though the actual shore was not visible on account of the extreme lowness of the belt of littoral, which was many miles in width; but by climbing a tree we could just discern the long, dark line of palms, and here and there a narrow strip of white, denoting either surf or a sandy beach.
“Why,” I said to Yorke, “that land cannot be more than five miles distant to its nearest point, and if there are niggers living there we should see their fires to-night, and----” The next moment I uttered a loud hurrah! and nearly fell off the tree in my excitement, for away on the northern horizon was a sail, shining snowy-white in the rays of the sinking sun!
Yorke echoed my cheer. “A day sooner than I prophesied, Drake! Wish we had a glass, so that we could make out which it is. I am rather inclined to think it is the _Fray Bentos_ it looks too big for the cutter. Anyway, whichever it is, she's becalmed; but even if there is not a breath of wind during the night, she'll be closer in in the morning, as the current is bound to set her along this way.”
We descended from the tree jubilantly, and I suggested that we should make a big blaze on the eastern shore, so as to let the ship know we saw her, but the more cautious Yorke said it would be rather risky. Natives, he said, might be quite near at that moment, a party of canoes could have easily crossed over during the day, and we should be none the wiser unless we happened to see the reflections of their fires, after they had arrived, on the lagoon waters. So, after waiting another ten minutes, when the sun set, we returned to camp.
“Let us kill the fatted calf and divide it between us,” said my companion, taking our plug of tobacco and cutting it in halves; “I'm going to smoke all night, or at any rate until I fall asleep. Did you see how the sun set? Well, that thick, yellow haze means a calm to-morrow, to a dead certainty, and I shouldn't be a bit surprised if we see Guest pulling into the lagoon at daylight, that is, if he has a boat left.”
I do not think either of us slept for more than a quarter of an hour that night. That Yorke could have done so, I do not doubt, but I would persist in talking, getting up, walking about, and smoking, and he, good-naturedly, kept awake on my account. The night was wondrously calm and beautiful, so calm and quiet that there was not the slightest surf on the outer reef, and the only sound that broke the silence would be the croak of some night-fishing bird, as it rose, prey in bill, from the slumbering lagoon.
As soon as ever we could see our way through to the other side of the island, we were afoot, unheeding the drenching we got from the dew-soaked trees whenever we touched a branch. Within five minutes after we had emerged out into the open the sun rose, and a cheer broke from us when we saw both the cutter and the brigantine lying becalmed about four miles away, between the islet and the mainland of New Britain, and almost abreast of where we stood.
“They have both lost all the boats, I am almost sure,” said Yorke, “or we should see one coming ashore; unless, indeed, a boat is already pulling down the lagoon on the other side. Let us wait an hour. That will decide us what to do; if we see no boat between now and then, we can be assured that Guest has none to send, and that he is waiting for a breeze, so that he can run in close to the reef, and try to get within hail of us. I daresay that he has a raft of some sort already made, and is trying to get closer to the land to send it ashore for us. So we'll give him a pleasant surprise.”
We waited impatiently till the hour had passed, but could see no sign of a boat putting off from, or on the way from the brigantine, and were then certain that she had none to send, as if it had left the vessel, even at daylight, it would have entered the lagoon and been with us by that time.
Whilst we were waiting we had piled together on the shore a great heap of dried coconut branches, on top of which we threw masses of a thick, green, saline creeper. This heap we lit as a signal, and a pillar of dense smoke rose high in the windless atmosphere. It was answered by Guest in a few minutes--not by a gun, as we expected, but by a similar signal of smoke, caused by a mass of cotton waste being soaked in coal tar and ignited.
“He's answering us,” exclaimed Yorke. “Now, let's get the raft launched and make a start.”
We tore back through the scrub to our camp, I panting with excitement, Yorke as cool as ever. Carrying the raft down to the water we quickly put on board the bundles of young coconuts, not deeming it worth while to bother with the old ones and the cooked birds, as we quite expected to be alongside the _Fray Bentos_ within three hours at least, the sea being as calm as a mill-pond, and the raft very light.
“Go easy, my lad, go easy,” said Yorke with a smile, as he saw the state of flurry I was in. “We've got two or three hours paddling to do, so don't knock yourself up needlessly. Now, what about our rifles?”
I had actually forgotten them, but at once ran back for them (the cartridges we always kept in our pockets), and picking one up in each hand, tore down the bank again, caught my left foot in a vine, and pitched upon my nose on the top of the broken coral and pebbles covering the beach with such violence that had it not been for the muzzle of the rifle I was carrying in my right hand plunging into the loose stones, and bringing me up sharply, I might have broken my jaw against a big boulder, which just caught me on the chin.
Pretending I was not hurt, though my chin was skinned, and my shoulder was strained, I picked myself up, handed the rifles to Yorke, and said I was ready.
“Take a drink first,” he said in his authoritative, yet sympathetic way, as he opened a young coconut. “Then fill your pipe and rest awhile. We're in no hurry for ten minutes. Poor chap, you did do a flyer. Talk about the Gadarene swine! Why you could give them points in running down steep places!”
I certainly had given myself a tremendous shaking, for I felt quite dizzy, but after a few draws at my pipe, said I was fit to paddle the raft to Cape Horn.
We pushed off, then poled along shore till we came to the passage, which was as smooth as glass. Here, on account of the deep water, we had to take to our paddles, and were soon out in the open sea, heading for the vessels. The sun was intensely hot, but we took no heed of it, and congratulated ourselves upon having such a calm sea, instead of having to paddle against a swell, which would have greatly impeded our progress.
For the first mile or so we went along in great style--then, to our consternation, we suddenly ran right into a heavy tide rip, and away we went at the rate of three or four knots an hour to the south-east, and towards the New Britain shore. The belt or tide-rip seemed to be about a mile in width, and although we paddled furiously in the endeavour to get out of the whirling, seething stream, it was in vain--the raft spun round and round with such rapidity that we lost control over, and had to let her go; for not only were we unable to make any headway, but the manner in which we were spinning round would not allow us to keep our feet, and began to make us sea-sick. After half an hour or more of this, we at last saw a chance of getting out of the rip into a side eddy; and, putting forth all our strength, we just succeeded in doing so, only to be menaced by a fresh and more alarming danger.
Yorke, dashing the pouring perspiration from his brow with his hand, had just stood up to get a look at the brigantine and cutter, when he uttered an oath.
“By God, we're in for it now! Look, here's four canoes, filled with niggers, heading dead on for us. The beggars see us, too!”
I stood up beside him, and saw, about a quarter of a mile away, four canoes, each of which was carrying six or eight natives, coming towards us at a furious rate. They were, like all New Britain canoes, very low down in the water, which, together with our own troubles when we were in the tide rip, had prevented our seeing them long before.
“Lucky we have not wasted any of our cartridges” said Yorke grimly; “we'll give them all the fight they want. But let them get closer, while we head back for the ships. We _must_ get out of this current--we can lick the niggers easy enough; but if we get into that tide-rip again, we'll be carried out of sight of the brigantine by midday.”
Plunging our paddles into the water, we sent our bamboo craft along till we were in absolute safety as far as the tide-rip was concerned. Then Yorke laid down his paddle.
“We're all right now, Drake; and now we'll give these man-chawing beggars a bit of a surprise. They mean to knock us on the head in another ten minutes, and take our carcasses ashore for to-night's dinner. You are the younger man, and can shoot better than I, so I'll be polite and give you first show. Sight for five hundred yards for a trial shot, at the leading canoe. But wait a minute--don't stand up.”
He quickly piled up the young coconuts in a firm heap, and then stood over me, his own rifle in hand, whilst I knelt on the bamboos and placed my rifle on the top of the heap of coconuts.
I am now, at this time of life, ashamed of the savage instinct that in those days filled me with a certain joy in destroying human life, unthinkingly, and without compunction. But I had been brought up in a rough school, among men who thought it not only justifiable, but correct and proper to shoot a man--black, or white, or brown, or yellow--who had done them any wrong. It had been my lot, in the Solomon Islands, to witness one of the most hideous and appalling massacres of a ship's crew that was ever perpetrated by natives--a massacre that had filled my youthful mind with the most intense and unreasoning hatred of all “niggers,” as we called the natives of Melanesia. The memory of that awful scene had burned itself upon my brain, for the captain and mate of the vessel were dear friends of mine, and they and their men had been cruelly slaughtered, not for any wrong they had done--for they were good, straight men--but simply because their blind confidence in the savage natives invited their destruction.
***** I steadied my rifle upon the top of the heap of coconuts, and waited a second or two till every man in the first canoe was in line. Then I pulled the trigger, and was thrown back bleeding and unconscious, for the rifle burst just in front of the breech block, which blew out and struck me on the top of my head, nearly fracturing my skull.
When I came to again Yorke's face was bending over me.
“We're all right, Drake. The brigantine is within a mile of us, coming up with a light air, and we'll be aboard in half an hour. How do you feel, my son?”
“Rockotty. Did the rifle burst?”
“Burst? It burst like a cannon, all but killed you, and a splinter hurt me in the eye. Drake, my boy, the next time you do the Gadarene swine trick with a cheap German Snider in your hand, see that the barrel is clear before you fire it. When you fell that time, your rifle barrel must have been pretty badly choked with sand and coral pebbles... Now lie still, and don't worry like an old maid who has lost her cat. You can do nothing, and will only be a damned nuisance if you _do_ try to do anything. The brigantine will be here presently, and you'll get your head attended to, and have 'pretty-pretty' plasters stuck on your nose and other parts of your facial beauties.”
“Where are the niggers?” I asked.
“Gone, gone, my dear boy. Vanished, but not vanished in time enough for five or six of them. I have used every one of our cartridges on the four canoes, and have had the supreme satisfaction of knowing that I have not used them in vain. Now stop talking, and let me attend to the ship--the bamboo ship... There, put your head on my coat; and don't talk.”
***** When the _Fray Bentos_ sailed up alongside the raft I was lifted on board, and placed in my berth, and long days passed ere I saw Yorke again.
When I did see him the brigantine was lying at anchor at Rook Island, and Guest was in my cabin telling me the story of the hurricane--of how he had lost the two boats within an hour--one being carried away when the brigantine was all but thrown over on her beam ends, and the other--the longboat--swept away with everything else on deck--guns, deck-houses, bulwarks and all.
“How we escaped smashing into some reef or another I don't know,” said Guest; “but the strangest thing about it all is that Yorke's cutter, manned by native seamen, managed to stick so close to the _Fray Bentos_; for when I, running before the hurricane, with my decks swept with tremendous seas, suddenly ran into smooth water, brought to in fifteen fathoms, and dropped anchor, there was the _Francesca_ cheek by jowl, alongside of me.”
“Kanaka sailors' eyesight,” I said. “Napoleon never lost sight of the brigantine for a moment! And, talking about eyesight, how is Yorke's eye?”
“Bad, bad, my boy. It is destroyed entirely, and he is now on board here, in my cabin. He has been asking for you. Do you feel strong enough to get up and see him?”
I rose at once, and went into Guest's cabin. Yorke was lying in the skipper's bunk, and as I entered he extended both hands to me, and smiled cheerfully, though his left eye was covered with a bandage, and his brave, square-set face was white and drawn.
“How are you, Drake, my boy? We had a narrow squeak, didn't we, from the niggers? And here is Captain Guest worrying and tormenting himself that he could not fire a gun to scare them off.”
I held his big, right hand between my own, and pressed it gently, for there was something in his one remaining eye that told me the end of all was near.
“Goodbye, dear lad.... Goodbye, Captain Guest. _I_ know what is the matter with me--erysipelas--and erysipelas to a big, fat man like me means death... and if you would put a bullet through my head now you would do me a good turn... But here, Guest, and you, Drake... your hands. I'll be dead by to-morrow morning, and want to say goodbye, and wish good luck to you both, before I begin babbling silly twaddle about things that are of no account now... of no account now... not worth speaking about now. But the South Seas are a rotten sort of a place, anyway.”
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{
"id": "23821"
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I have titled these pages with nothing more than my baptismal name. If the reader finds sufficient interest in them to read to the end, he will discover the position that I am in, after an eventful life. I shall, however, not trespass upon his time by making many introductory remarks; but commence at once with my birth, parentage, and education. This is necessary, as although the two first are, perhaps, of little comparative consequence, still the latter is of importance, as it will prepare the reader for many events in my after-life. I may add, that much depends upon birth and parentage; at all events, it is necessary to complete a perfect picture. Let me, therefore, begin at the beginning.
I was born in France. My father, who was of the _ancienne noblesse_ of France, by a younger branch of the best blood, and was a most splendid specimen of the outward man, was the son of an old officer, and an officer himself in the army of Napoleon. In the conquest of Italy, he had served in the ranks, and continuing to follow Napoleon through all his campaigns, had arrived to the grade of captain of cavalry. He had distinguished himself on many occasions, was a favourite of the Emperor's, wore the cross of the Legion of Honour, and was considered in a fair way to rapid promotion, when he committed a great error. During the time that his squadron was occupying a small German town, situated on the river Erbach, called Deux Ponts, he saw my mother, fell desperately in love, and married. There was some excuse for him, for a more beautiful woman than my mother I never beheld; moreover, she was highly talented, and a most perfect musician; of a good family, and with a dower by no means contemptible.
The reader may say that, in marrying such a woman, my father could hardly be said to have committed a very great error. This is true, the error was not in marrying, but in allowing his wife's influence over him to stop his future advancement. He wished to leave her with her father and mother until the campaign was over. She refused to be left, and he yielded to her wishes. Now, Napoleon had no objection to his officers being married, but a very great dislike to their wives accompanying the army; and this was the fault which my father committed, and which lost him the favour of his general. My mother was too beautiful a woman not to be noticed, and immediately inquired about, and the knowledge soon came to Napoleon's ears, and militated against my father's future advancement.
During the first year of their marriage, my eldest brother, Auguste, was born, and shortly afterwards my mother promised an increase to the family, which was the occasion of great satisfaction to my father, who now that he had been married more than a year, would at times look at my mother, and, beautiful as she was, calculate in his mind whether the possession of her was indemnification sufficient for the loss of the brigade which she had cost him.
To account for my father's satisfaction, I must acquaint the reader with circumstances which are not very well known. As I before observed, Napoleon had no objection to marriage, because he required men for his army; and because he required men, and not women, he thought very poorly of a married couple who produced a plurality of girls. If, on the contrary, a woman presented her husband with six or seven boys, if he was an officer in the army, he was certain of a pension for life. Now, as my mother had commenced with a boy, and it is well known that there is every chance of a woman continuing to produce the sex which first makes its appearance, she was much complimented and congratulated by the officers when she so soon gave signs of an increase, and they prophesied that she would, by her fruitfulness, in a few years obtain a pension for her husband. My father hoped so, and thought that if he had lost the brigade, he would be indemnified by the pension. My mother was certain of it; and declared it was a boy.
But prophesies, hopes, and declarations, were all falsified and overthrown by my unfortunate appearance. The disappointment of my father was great; but he bore it like a man. My mother was not only disappointed, but indignant. She felt mortified after all her declarations, that I should have appeared and disproved them. She was a woman of violent temper, a discovery which my father made too late. To me, as the cause of her humiliation and disappointment, she took an aversion, which only increased as I grew up, and which, as will be hereafter shown, was the main spring of all my vicissitudes in after-life.
Surely, there is an error in asserting that there is no feeling so strong as maternal love. How often do we witness instances like mine, in which disappointed vanity, ambition, or interest, have changed this love into deadly hate!
My father, who felt the inconvenience of my mother accompanying him on forced marches, and who, perhaps, being disappointed in his hopes of a pension, thought that he might as well recover the Emperor's favour, and look for the brigade, now proposed that my mother should return with her two children to her parents. This my mother, who had always gained the upper-hand, positively refused to accede to. She did, however, allow me and my brother Auguste to be sent to her parents' care at Deux Ponts, and there we remained while my father followed the fortunes of the Emperor, and my mother followed the fortunes of my father. I have little or no recollection of my maternal grandfather and grandmother. I remember that I lived with them, as I remained there with my brother till I was seven years old, at which period my paternal grandmother offered to receive my brother and me, and take charge of our education. This offer was accepted, and we both went to Luneville where she resided.
I have said that my paternal grandmother offered to receive us, and not my paternal grandfather, who was still alive. Such was the case; as, could he have had his own way, he would not have allowed us to come to Luneville, for he had a great dislike to children; but my grandmother had property of her own, independent of her husband, and she insisted upon our coming. Very often, after we had been received into her house, I would hear remonstrance on his part relative to the expense of keeping us, and the reply of my grandmother, which would be, "_Eh bien, Monsieur Chatenoeuf, c'est mon argent que je depense_." I must describe Monsieur Chatenoeuf. As I before stated, he had been an officer in the French army; but had now retired upon his pension, with the rank of major, and decorated with the Legion of Honour. At the time that I first saw him, he was a tall, elegant old man, with hair as white as silver. I heard it said, that when young he was considered one of the bravest and handsomest officers in the French army. He was very quiet in his manners, spoke very little, and took a large quantity of snuff. He was egotistic to excess, attending wholly to himself and his own comforts, and it was because the noise of children interfered with his comfort, that he disliked them so much. We saw little of him, and cared less. If I came into his room when he was alone, he promised me a good whipping, I therefore avoided him as much as I could; the association was not pleasant.
Luneville is a beautiful town in the Department of Meurthe. The castle, or rather palace, is a very splendid and spacious building, in which formerly the Dukes of Lorraine held their court. It was afterwards inhabited by King Stanislaus, who founded a military school, a library and a hospital. The palace was a square building, with a handsome facade facing the town, and in front of it there was a fountain. There was a large square in the centre of the palace, and behind it an extensive garden, which was well kept up and carefully attended to. One side of the palace was occupied by the officers of the regiments quartered in Luneville; the opposite side, by the soldiery; and the remainder of the building was appropriated to the reception of old retired officers who had been pensioned. It was in this beautiful building, that my grandfather and grandmother were established for the remainder of their lives. Except the Tuileries, I know of no palace in France equal to that of Luneville. Here it was that, at seven years old, I took up my quarters; and it is from that period that I have always dated my existence.
I have described my grandfather and my residence, but now I must introduce my grandmother; my dear, excellent, grandmother, whom I loved so much when she was living, and whose memory I shall ever revere. In person she was rather diminutive, but, although sixty years of age, she still retained her figure, which was remarkably pretty, and she was as straight as an arrow. Never had age pressed more lightly upon the human frame; for, strange to say, her hair was black as jet, and fell down to her knees. It was considered a great curiosity, and she was not a little proud of it, for there was not a grey hair to be seen. Although she had lost many of her teeth, her skin was not wrinkled, but had a freshness most remarkable in a person so advanced in years. Her mind was as young as her body; she was very witty and coquettish, and the officers living in the palace were continually in her apartments, preferring her company to that of younger women. Partial to children, she would join in all our sports, and sit down to play "hunt the slipper," with us and our young companions. But with all her vivacity, she was a strictly moral and religious woman. She could be lenient to indiscretion and carelessness, but any deviation from truth and honesty on the part of my brother or myself, was certain to be visited with severe punishment. She argued, that there could be no virtue, where there was deceit, which she considered as the hot-bed from which every vice would spring out spontaneously; that truth was the basis of all that was good and noble, and that every other branch of education was, comparatively speaking, of no importance, and, without truth, of no value. She was right.
My brother and I were both sent to day-schools. The maid Catherine always took me to school after breakfast, and came to fetch me home about four o'clock in the afternoon. Those were happy times. With what joy I used to return to the palace, bounding into my grandmother's apartment on the ground floor, sometimes to frighten her, leaping in at the window and dropping at her feet, the old lady scolding and laughing at the same time. My grandmother was, as I observed, religious, but she was not a devotee. The great object was to instil into me a love of truth, and in this she was indefatigable. When I did wrong, it was not the fault I had committed which caused her concern; it was the fear that I should deny it, which worried and alarmed her. To prevent this, the old lady had a curious method--she dreamed for my benefit. If I had done wrong, and she suspected me, she would not accuse me until she had made such inquiries as convinced her that I was the guilty person; and then, perhaps, the next morning, she would say, as I stood by her side: "Valerie, I had a dream last night; I can't get it out of my head. I dreamt that my little girl had forgotten her promise to me, and when she went to the store-room had eaten a large piece of the cake."
She would fix her eyes upon me as she narrated the events of her dream, and, as she proceeded, my face would be covered with blushes, and my eyes cast down in confusion; I dared not look at her, and by the time that she had finished, I was down on my knees, with my face buried in her lap. If my offence was great, I had to say my prayers, and implore the Divine forgiveness, and was sent to prison, that is, locked up for a few hours in my bedroom. Catherine, the maid, had been many years with my grandmother, and was, to a certain degree, a privileged person; at all events, she considered herself warranted in giving her opinion, and grumbling as much as she pleased, and such was invariably the case whenever I was locked up. " _Toujours en prison, cette pauvre petite_. It is too bad, madam; you must let her out." My grandmother would quietly reply, "Catherine, you are a good woman, but you understand nothing about the education of children." Sometimes, however, she obtained the key from my grandmother, and I was released sooner than was originally intended.
The fact is, that being put in prison was a very heavy punishment, as it invariably took place in the evenings, after my return from school, so that I lost my play-hours. There were a great many officers with their wives located in the palace, and, of course, no want of playmates. The girls used to go to the bosquet, which adjoined the gardens of the palace, collect flowers, and make a garland, which they hung on a rope stretched across the court-yard of the palace. As the day closed in, the party from each house, or apartments rather, brought out a lantern, and having thus illuminated our ballroom by subscription, the boys and girls danced the "_ronde_," and other games, until it was bedtime. As the window of my bedroom looked out upon the court, whenever I was put into prison, I had the mortification of witnessing all these joyous games, without being permitted to join in them.
To prove the effect of my grandmother's system of dreaming upon me, I will narrate a circumstance which occurred. My grandfather had a landed property about four miles from Luneville. A portion of this land was let to a farmer, and the remainder he farmed on his own account, and the produce was consumed in the house-keeping. From this farm we received milk, butter, cheese, all kinds of fruit, and indeed everything which a farm produces. In that part of France they have a method of melting down and clarifying butter for winter use, instead of salting it. This not only preserves it, but, to most people, makes it more palatable; at all events I can answer for myself, for I was inordinately fond of it. There were eighteen or twenty jars of it in the store-room, which were used up in rotation. I dared not take any out of the jar in use, as I should be certain to be discovered; so I went to the last jar, and by my repeated assaults upon it, it was nearly empty before my grandmother discovered it. As usual, she had a dream. She commenced with counting over the number of jars of butter; and how she opened such a one, and it was full; and then the next, and it was full; but before her dream was half over, and while she was still a long way from the jar which I had despoiled, I was on my knees, telling her the end of the dream, of my own accord, for I could not bear the suspense of having all the jars examined. From that time, I generally made a full confession before the dream was ended.
But when I was about nine years old, I was guilty of a very heavy offence, which I shall narrate, on account of the peculiar punishment which I received, and which might be advantageously pursued by the parents of the present day, who may happen to cast their eyes over these memoirs. It was the custom for the children of the officers who lived in the palace, that is, the girls, to club together occasionally, that they might have a little _fete_ in the garden of the palace. It was a sort of pic-nic, to which every one contributed; some would bring cakes, some fruit; some would bring money (a few sous) to purchase bon-bons, or anything else which might be agreed upon.
On those occasions, my grandmother invariably gave me fruit, a very liberal allowance of apples and pears, from the store-room; for we had plenty from the orchard of the farm. But one day, one of the elder girls told me that they had plenty of fruit, and that I must bring some money. I asked my grandmother, but she refused me; and then this girl proposed that I should steal some from my grandfather. I objected; but she ridiculed my objections, and pressed me until she overcame my scruples, and I consented. But when I left her after she had obtained my promise, I was in a sad state. I knew it was wicked to steal, and the girl had taken care to point out to me how wicked it was to break a promise. I did not know what to do: all that evening I was in such a state of feverish excitement, that my grandmother was quite astonished. The fact was, that I was ashamed to retract my promise, and yet I trembled at the deed that I was about to do. I went into my room and got into bed. I remained awake; and about midnight I got up, and creeping softly into my grandfather's room, I went to his clothes, which were on a chair, and rifled his pockets of--two sous!
Having effected my purpose, I retired stealthily, and gained my own room. What my feelings were when I was again in bed I cannot well describe--they were horrible--I could not shut my eyes for the remainder of the night and the next morning I made my appearance, haggard, pale, and trembling. It proved, however, that my grandfather who was awake, had witnessed the theft in silence, and informed my grandmother of it. Before I went to school, my grandmother called me in to her, for I had avoided her.
"Come here, Valerie," said she, "I have had a dream--a most dreadful dream--it was about a little girl, who, in the middle of the night, crept into her grandfather's room--" I could bear no more. I threw myself on the floor, and, in agony, screamed out-- "Yes, grandmamma, and stole two sous."
A paroxysm of tears followed the confession, and for more than an hour I remained on the floor, hiding my face and sobbing. My grandmother allowed me to remain there--she was very much annoyed--I had committed a crime of the first magnitude--my punishment was severe. I was locked up in my room for ten days: but this was the smallest portion of the punishment: every visitor that came in, I was sent for, and on my making my appearance, my grandmother would take me by the hand, and leading me up, would formally present me to the visitors.
"Permettez, madame (ou monsieur), que je vous presente Mademoiselle Valerie, qui est enfermee dans sa chambre, pour avoir vole deux sous de son grand-pere."
Oh! the shame, the mortification that I felt. This would take place at least ten times a day; and each succeeding presentation was followed by a burst of tears, as I was again led back to my chamber. Severe as this punishment was, the effect of it was excellent. I would have endured martyrdom, after what I had gone through, before I would have taken what was not my own. It was a painful, but a judicious, and most radical cure.
For five years I remained under the care of this most estimable woman, and, under her guidance, had become a truthful and religious girl; and I may conscientiously add, that I was as innocent as a lamb--but a change was at hand. The Emperor had been hurled from his throne, and was shut up on a barren rock, and soon great alterations were made in the French army. My father's regiment of huzzars had been disbanded, and he was now appointed to a dragoon regiment, which was ordered to Luneville. He arrived with my mother and a numerous family, she having presented him with seven more children; so that, with Auguste and me, he had now nine children. I may as well here observe that my mother continued to add yearly to the family, till she had fourteen in all, and out of these there were seven boys; so that, had the Emperor remained on the throne of France, my father would certainly have secured the pension.
The arrival of my family was a source both of pleasure and pain to me. I was most anxious to see all my brothers and sisters, and my heart yearned towards my father and mother, although I had no recollection of them; but I was fearful that I should be removed from my grandmother's care, and she was equally alarmed at the chance of our separation. Unfortunately for me, it turned out as we had anticipated. My mother was anything but gracious to my grandmother, notwithstanding the obligations she was under to her, and very soon took an opportunity of quarrelling with her. The cause of the quarrel was very absurd, and proved that it was predetermined on the part of my mother. My grandmother had some curious old carved furniture, which my mother coveted, and requested my grandmother to let her have it. This my grandmother would not consent to, and my mother took offence at her refusal. I and my brother were immediately ordered home, my mother asserting that we had been both very badly brought up; and this was all the thanks that my grandmother received for her kindness to us, and defraying all our expenses for five years. I had not been at home more than a week, when my father's regiment was ordered to Nance; but, during this short period, I had sufficient to convince me that I should be very miserable. My mother's dislike to me, which I have referred to before, now assumed the character of positive hatred, and I was very ill-treated. I was employed as a servant, and as nurse to the younger children; and hardly a day passed without my feeling the weight of her hand. We set off for Nance, and I thought my heart would break as I quitted the arms of my grandmother, who wept over me. My father was very willing to leave me with my grandmother, who promised to leave her property to me; but this offer in my favour enraged my mother still more; she declared that I should not remain; and my father had long succumbed to her termagant disposition, and yielded implicit obedience to her authority. It was lamentable to see such a fine soldierlike man afraid even to speak before this woman; but he was completely under her thraldom, and never dared to contradict.
As soon as we were settled in the barracks at Nance, my mother commenced her system of persecution in downright earnest. I had to make all the beds, wash the children, carry out the baby, and do every menial office for my brothers and sisters, who were encouraged to order me about. I had very good clothes, which had been provided me by my grandmother; they were all taken away, and altered for my younger sisters; but what was still more mortifying, all my sisters had lessons in music, dancing, and other accomplishments, from various masters, whose instructions I was not permitted to take advantage of, although there would have been no addition to the expense.
"Oh! my father," cried I, "why is this? --what have I done? --am not I your daughter--your eldest daughter?"
"I will speak to your mother," replied he.
And he did venture to do so; but by so doing, he raised up such a tempest, that he was glad to drop the subject, and apologise for an act of justice. Poor man! he could do no more than pity me.
I well remember my feelings at that time. I felt that I could love my mother, love her dearly, if she would have allowed me so to do. I had tried to obtain her good-will, but I received nothing in return but blows, and at last I became so alarmed when in her presence that I almost lost my reason. My ears were boxed till I could not recollect where I was, and I became stupefied with fear. All I thought of, all my anxiety, at last, was to get out of the room where my mother was. My terror was so great that her voice made me tremble, and at the sight of her I caught my breath and gasped from alarm. My brother Auguste was very nearly as much an object of dislike to my mother as I was, chiefly because he had been brought up by my grandmother, and moreover because he would take my part.
The great favourite of my mother was my second brother Nicolas; he was a wonderful musician, could play upon any instrument and the most difficult music at sight. This talent endeared him to my mother, who was herself a first-rate musician. He was permitted to order me about just as he pleased, and if I did not please him, to beat me without mercy, and very often my mother would fly at me and assist him. But Auguste took my part, and Nicolas received very severe chastisement from him, but this did not help me; on the contrary, if Auguste interfered in my behalf, my mother would pounce upon me, and I may say that I was stunned with her blows. Auguste appealed to his father, but he dared not interfere. He was coward enough to sit by and see his daughter treated in this way without remonstrance; and, in a short time, I was fast approaching to what my mother declared me to be--a perfect idiot.
I trust that my own sex will not think me a renegade when I say, that, if ever there was a proof that woman was intended by the Creator to be subject to man, it is, that once place power in the hands of woman, and there is not one out of a hundred who will not abuse it. We hear much of the rights of woman, and their wrongs; but this is certain, that in a family, as in a State, there can be no divided rule--no equality. One must be master, and no family is so badly managed, or so badly brought up, as where the law of nature is reversed, and we contemplate that most despicable of all _lusi naturae_--a hen-pecked husband. To proceed, the consequence of my mother's treatment, was to undermine in me all the precepts of my worthy grandmother. I was a slave; and a slave under the continual influence of fear cannot be honest. The fear of punishment produced deceit to avoid it. Even my brother Auguste, from his regard and pity for me, would fall into the same error. "Valerie," he would say, running out to me as I was coming home with my little brother in my arms, "your mother will beat you on your return. You must say so and so." This so and so was, of course, an untruth; and, in consequence, my fibs were so awkward, and accompanied by so much hesitation and blushing, that I was invariably found out, and then punished for what I did not deserve to be; and when my mother obtained such triumphant proof against me, she did not fail to make the most of it with my father, who, by degrees, began to consider that my treatment was merited, and that I was a bad and deceitful child.
My only happiness was to be out in the open air, away from my mother's presence, and this was only to be obtained when I was ordered out with my little brother Pierre, whom I had to carry as soon as I had done the household work. If Pierre was fractious, my mother would order me out of the house with him immediately. This I knew, and I used to pinch the poor child to make him cry, that I might gain my object, and be sent away; so that to duplicity I added cruelty. Six months before this, had any one told me that I ever would be guilty of such a thing, with what indignation I should have denied it!
Although my mother flattered herself that it was only in her own domestic circle that her unnatural conduct towards me was known, such was not the case, and the treatment which I received from her was the occasion of much sympathy on the part of the officers and their wives, who were quartered in the barracks. Some of them ventured to remonstrate with my father for his consenting to it; but although he was cowed by a woman, he had no fear of men, and as he told them candidly that any future interference in his domestic concerns must be answered by the sword, no more was said to him on the subject. Strange, that a man should risk his life with such indifference, rather than remedy an evil, and yet be under such thraldom to a woman! --that one who was always distinguished in action as the most forward and the most brave, should be a trembling coward before an imperious wife! But this is a world of sad contradictions.
There was a lady in the barracks, wife to one of the superior officers, who was very partial to me. She had a daughter, a very sweet girl, who was also named Valerie. When I could escape from the house, I used to be constantly with them; and when I saw my name-sake caressing and caressed, in the arms of her mother, as I was sitting by on a stool, the tears would run down at the thoughts that such pleasure was debarred from me.
"Why do you cry, Valerie?"
"Oh! madam, why have I not a mother like your Valerie? Why am I to be beat instead of being caressed and fondled like her? What have I done? --But she is not my mother--I'm sure she cannot be--I will never believe it!"
And such had really become my conviction, and in consequence I never would address her by the title of mother. This my mother perceived, and it only added to her ill-will. Only permit any one feeling or passion to master you--allow it to increase by never being in the slightest degree checked, and it is horrible to what an excess it will carry you. About this time, my mother proved the truth of the above observation, by saying to me, as she struck me to the ground-- "I'll kill you," cried she; and then, catching her breath, said in a low, determined tone, "Oh! I only wish that I dared."
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One day, a short time after this, I was walking out as usual with my little brother Pierre in my arms; I was deep in thought; in imagination I was at Luneville with my dear grandmother, when my foot slipped and I fell. In trying to save my brother I hurt myself very much, and he, poor child, was unfortunately very much hurt as well as myself. He cried and moaned piteously, and I did all that I could to console him, but he was in too much pain to be comforted. I remained out for an hour or two, not daring to go home, but the evening was closing in and I returned at last. The child, who could not yet speak, still moaned and cried, and I told the truth as to the cause of it. My mother flew at me, and I received such chastisement that I could be patient no longer, and I pushed my mother from me; I was felled to the ground and left there bleeding profusely.
After a time I rose up and crawled to bed. I reflected upon all I had suffered, and made up my mind that I would no longer remain under my father's roof. At daybreak I dressed myself, hastened out of the barracks, and set off for Luneville, which was fifteen miles distant. I had gained about half the way when I was met by a soldier of the regiment who had once been our servant. I tried to avoid him, but he recognised me. I then begged him not to interfere with me, and told him that I was running away to my grandmother's. Jacques, for that was his name, replied that I was right, and that he would say nothing about it.
"But, mademoiselle," continued he, "you will be tired before you get to Luneville, and may have a chance of a conveyance if you have money to pay for it."
He then slipped a five-franc piece into my hand, and left me to pursue my way. I continued my journey, and at last arrived at the farm belonging to my grandfather, which I have before mentioned, as being about four miles from the town. I was afraid to go direct to Luneville, on account of my grandfather, who, I knew from motives of parsimony, would be unwilling to receive me. I told my history to the farmer's wife, showing her my face covered with bruises and scars, and entreated her to go to my grandmother's and tell her where I was. She put me to bed, and the next morning set off for Luneville, and acquainted my grandmother with the circumstances. The old lady immediately ordered her _char-a-banc_ and drove out for me. There was proof positive of my mother's cruelty, and the good old woman shed tears over me when she had pulled off the humble blue cotton dress which I wore and examined my wounds and bruises. When we arrived at Luneville, we met with much opposition from my grandfather, but my grandmother was resolute.
"Since you object to my receiving her in the house," said she, "at all events you cannot prevent my doing my duty towards her, and doing as I please with my own money. I shall, therefore, send her to school and pay her expenses."
As soon as new clothes could be made for me, I was sent to the best _pension_ in Luneville. Shortly afterwards my father arrived; he had been despatched by my mother to reclaim me and bring me back with him, but he found the tide too strong against him, and my grandmother threatened to appeal to the authorities and make an exposure; this he knew would be a serious injury to his character, and he was therefore compelled to go back without me, and I remained a year and a half at the _pension_, very happy and improving very fast in my education and my personal appearance.
But I was not destined to be so happy long. True it was, that during this year and a half of tranquillity and happiness, the feelings created by my mother's treatment had softened down, and all animosity had long been discarded, but I was too happy to want to return home again. At the expiration of this year and a half, my father's regiment was again ordered to shift their quarters to a small town, the name of which I now forget, but Luneville lay in their route. My mother had for some time ceased to importune my father about my return. The fact was, that she had been so coldly treated by the other ladies at Nance, in consequence of her behaviour to me, that she did not think it advisable; but now that they were about to remove, she insisted upon my father taking me with him, promising that I should be well-treated, and have the same instruction as my sisters; in fact, she promised everything; acknowledging to my grandmother that she had been too hasty to me, and was very sorry for it. Even my brother Auguste thought that she was now sincere, and my father, my brother, and even my dear grandmother, persuaded me to consent. My mother was now very kind and affectionate towards me, and as I really wanted to love her, I left the _pension_ and accompanied the family to their new quarters.
But this was all treachery on the part of my mother. Regardless of my advantage, as she had shown herself on every occasion, she had played her part that she might have an opportunity of discharging an accumulated debt of revenge, which had been heaped up in consequence of the slights she had received from other people on account of her treatment of me. We had hardly been settled in our new abode, before my mother burst out again with a virulence which exceeded all her former cruelty. But I was no longer the frightened victim that I had been; I complained to my father, and insisted upon justice; but that was useless. My brother Auguste now took my part in defiance of his father, and it was one scene of continual family discord. I had made many friends, and used to remain at their houses all day. As for doing household work, notwithstanding her blows, I refused it. One morning my mother was chastising me severely, when my brother Auguste, who was dressed in his hussar uniform, came in and hastened to my assistance, interposing himself between us. My mother's rage was beyond all bounds.
"Wretch," cried she, "would you strike your mother?"
"No," replied he, "but I will protect my sister. You barbarous woman, why do you not kill her at once, it would be a kindness?"
It was after this scene that I resolved that I would again return to Luneville. I did not confide my intentions to anyone, not even to Auguste. There was a great difficulty in getting out of the front door without being perceived, and my bundle would have created suspicion; by the back of the house the only exit was through a barred window. I was then fourteen years old but very slight in figure. I tried if my head would pass through the bars, and succeeding, I soon forced my body through, and seizing my bundle, made all haste to the diligence office. I found that it was about to start for Luneville, which was more than half a day's journey distant. I got in very quickly, and the conducteur knowing me, thought that all was right, and the diligence drove off.
There were two people in the coupe with me, an officer and his wife; before we had proceeded far they asked me where I was going, I replied to my grandmother's at Luneville. Thinking it, however, strange that I should be unaccompanied, they questioned, until they extracted the whole history from me. The lady wished me to come to her on a visit, but the husband, more prudent, said that I was better under the care of my grandmother.
About mid-day we stopped to change horses at an auberge called the Louis d'Or, about a quarter of a mile from Luneville. Here I alighted without offering any explanation to the conducteur; but as he knew me and my grandmother well, that was of no consequence. My reason for alighting was, that the diligence would have put me down at the front of the palace, where I was certain to meet my grandfather, who passed the major portion of the day there, basking on one of the seats, and I was afraid to see him until I had communicated with my grandmother. I had an uncle in the town, and I had been very intimate with my cousin Marie, who was a pretty, kind-hearted girl, and I resolved that I would go there, and beg her to go to my grandmother. The difficulty was, how to get to the house without passing the front of the palace, or even the bridge across the river. At last I decided that I would walk down by the river side until I was opposite to the bosquet, which adjoined the garden of the palace, and there wait till it was low water, when I knew that the river could be forded, as I had often seen others do so.
When I arrived opposite to the bosquet I sat down on my bundle, by the banks of the river for two or three hours, watching the long feathery weeds at the bottom, which moved gently from one side to the other with the current of the stream. As soon as it was low water, I pulled off my shoes and stockings, put them into my bundle, and raising my petticoats, I gained the opposite shore without difficulty. I then replaced my shoes and stockings, crossed the bosquet, and gained my uncle's house. My uncle was not at home, but I told my story and showed my bruises to Marie, who immediately put on her bonnet and went to my grandmother. That night I was again installed in my own little bedroom, and most gratefully did I pray before I went to sleep.
This time my grandmother took more decided steps. She went to the commandant of the town, taking me with her, pointing out the treatment which I had received, and claiming his protection; she stated that she had educated me and brought me up, and that she had a claim upon me. My mother's treatment of me was so notorious, that the commandant immediately decided that my grandmother had a right to detain me; and when my father came a day or two after to take me back, he was ordered home by the commandant, with a severe rebuke, and the assurance that I should not return to a father who could permit such cruelty and injustice.
I was now once more happy; but as I remained in the house, my grandfather was continually vexing my grandmother on my account; nevertheless, I remained there more than a year, during which I learnt a great deal, particularly lace-work and fine embroidery, at which I became very expert. But now there was another opposition raised, which was on the part of my uncle, who joined my grandfather in annoying the old lady. The fact was, that when I was not there, my grandmother was very kind and generous to my cousin Marie, who certainly deserved it; but now that I was again with her, all her presents and expenses were lavished upon me, and poor Marie was neglected.
My uncle was not pleased at this; he joined my grandfather, and they pointed out that I was now more than fifteen, and my mother dare not beat me, and as my father was continually writing for me to return, it was her duty not to oppose. Between the two, my poor grandmother was so annoyed and perplexed that she hardly knew what to do. They made her miserable, and at last they worried her into consenting that I should return to my family which had now removed to Colmar. I did not know this. It was my grandmother's birthday. I had worked for her a beautiful sachet in lace and embroidery, which, with a large bouquet, I brought to her as a present. The old lady folded me in her arms and burst into tears. She then told me that we must part, and that I must return to my father's. Had a dagger been thrust to my heart, I could not have received more anguish.
"Yes, dear Valerie," continued she, "you must leave me to-morrow; I can no longer prevent it. I have not the health and spirits that I had. I am growing old--very old."
I did not remonstrate or try to make her alter her decision. I knew how much she had been annoyed and worried for my sake, and I felt that I would bear everything for hers. I cried bitterly. The next morning my father made his appearance and embraced me with great affection. He was much pleased with my personal improvement. I was now fast budding into womanhood, although I had the feelings of a mere child. I bade farewell to my grandmother, and also to my grandfather, whom I never saw again, as he died three months after I quitted Luneville.
I trust my readers will not think that I dwell too long upon this portion of my life. I do it because I consider it is necessary they should know in what manner I was brought up, and also the cause of my leaving my family, as I afterwards did. If I had stated merely that I could not agree with my mother who treated me cruelly, they might have imagined that I was not warranted, in a moment of irritation, in taking such a decided step; but when they learn that my persecutions were renewed the moment that I was again in my mother's power, and that nothing could conquer her inveteracy against me, neither time, nor absence, nor submission on my part, nor remonstrance from others; not even a regard for her own character, nor the loss of her friends and acquaintances, they will then acknowledge that I could have done no otherwise, unless I preferred being in daily risk of my life. On my arrival at Colmar, my mother received me graciously, but her politeness did not last long. I now gave a new cause of offence--one that a woman, proud of her beauty and jealous of its decay, does not easily forgive. I was admired and paid great attention to by the officers, much more attention than she received herself.
"M. Chatenoeuf," the officers would say, "you have begotten a daughter much handsomer than yourself." My mother considered this as a polite way to avoid saying that I was much handsomer than she was. If she thought so, she did herself a great injustice, for I could not be compared to what she was, when she was of my age. She was even then a most splendid matron. But I had youth in my favour, which is more than half the battle. At all events, the remarks and attentions of the officers aroused my mother's spleen, and she was more harsh in language than ever, although I admit that it was but seldom that she resorted to blows.
I recollect that one day, when I was not supposed to be in hearing, one of the officers said to another, "Ma foi, elle est jolie--elle a besoin de deux ans, et elle sera parfaite." So childish and innocent was I at that time, that I could not imagine what they meant.
"Why was I to be two years older?" I thought, and puzzled over it till I fell fast asleep. The attentions of the officers, and the flattery he received from them on my account, appeared to have more effect on my father than I could have imagined. Perhaps he felt that I was somebody to be proud of, and his vanity gave him that courage to oppose my mother, which his paternal feelings had not roused. I recollect one instance particularly. There was a great ceremony to be performed in the church, no less than the christening of the two new bells, previous to their being hoisted up in the belfry. The officers told my father that I must be present, and on his return home he stated to my mother his intention of taking me with him on the following day to see the ceremony.
"She can't go--she has no clothes fit to wear," cried my mother.
"Why has she not, madame?" replied my father, sternly. "Let her have some ready for to-morrow, and without fail."
My mother perceived that my father was not to be trifled with, and therefore thought proper to acquiesce. Pity it was that he did not use his authority a little more, after he had discovered that he could regain it if he pleased.
On the following day I accompanied my father, who was one of the officers on duty in the interior of the church, and as he stood in advance of his men, I remained at his side, and of course had a very complete view of the whole ceremony. I was very neatly-dressed, and my father received many compliments upon my appearance. At last the ceremony began. The church was lined with troops to keep back the crowd, and the procession entered the church, the bishop walking under a canopy, attended by the priests, then the banners, and pretty children, dressed as angels, tossing frankincense from silver censers. The two bells were in the centre of the church, both of them dressed in white petticoats, which covered them completely, ornamented with ribbons, and a garland of flowers upon the head of each--if I may so designate their tops. The godmothers, dressed in white as on baptismal ceremonies, and the godfathers in court suits, stood on each side. They had been selected from the _elite_ of the families in the town. The organ and the military band relieved each other until the service commenced. The bishop read the formula; the godmothers and godfathers gave the customary security; the holy water was sprinkled over the bells, and thus were they regularly baptised. One was named Eulalie and the other Lucile. It was a very pretty ceremony, and I should have liked to have been present at their "_premiere communion_" if it ever took place.
My English readers may consider this as a piece of mummery. At the time I did not. As a good Catholic, which I was at that time, and a pretty Frenchwoman, I thought that nothing could be more correct than the _decoration des belles_. I believe that it has always been the custom to name bells--to consecrate them most certainly--and if we call to mind what an important part they perform in our religion, I do not wonder at it. By being consecrated, they receive the rites of the church. Why, therefore, should they not receive the same rites in baptism? But why baptise them? Because they speak to us in many ways, and with their loud tongues express the feelings, and make known the duties imposed upon us. Is there cause for the nation to rejoice, their merry notes proclaim it from afar; in solemn tones they summon us to the house of prayer, to the lifting of the Host, and to the blessing of the priest; and it is their mournful notes which announce to us that one of our generation has been summoned away, and has quitted this transitory abode. Their offices are Christian offices, and therefore are they received into the church.
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An elder sister of my mother's resided at Colmar, and I passed most of my time with her during our stay. When my father's regiment was ordered to Paris, this lady requested that I might remain with her; but my mother refused, telling her sister that she could not, conscientiously as a mother, allow any of her daughters to quit her care for any worldly advantage. That this was mere hypocrisy, the reader will imagine; indeed, it was fully proved so to be in two hours afterwards, by my mother telling my father that if her sister had offered to take Clara, my second sister, she would have consented. The fact was, that the old lady had promised to dower me very handsomely (for she was rich), and my mother could not bear any good fortune to come to me.
We passed through Luneville on our road to Paris, and I saw my dear grandmother for the last time. She requested that I might be left with her, making the same offer as she did before, of leaving me all her property at her death, but my mother would not listen to any solicitation. Now as our family was now fourteen in number, she surely might, in either of the above instances, have well spared me, and it would have been a relief to my father; but this is certain, she would not spare me, although she never disguised her dislike, and would, if she had dared, have treated me as she had formerly done. I was very anxious to stay with my dear grandmother. She had altered very much since my grandfather's death, and was evidently breaking up fast; but my mother was inexorable. We continued our route, and arrived at Paris, where we took up our quarters in the barracks close to the Boulevards.
My mother was as harsh as ever, and now recommenced her boxes of the ear--which during the time we were at Colmar had but seldom been applied. In all my troubles I never was without friends. I now made an acquaintance with the wife of the colonel of the regiment who joined us at Paris. She had no children. I imparted all my troubles to her, and she used to console me. She was a very religious woman, and as I had been brought up in the same way by my grandmother, she was pleased to find piety in one so young, and became much attached to me. She had a sister, a widow of large fortune, who lived in the Rue St Honore, a very pleasant, lively woman, but very sarcastic when she pleased, and not caring what she said if her feelings prompted her. I constantly met her at the colonel's house, and she invited me to come and see her at her own, but I knew that my mother would not permit me, so I did not ask. As the colonel was my father's superior officer, all attempts to break off my intimacy with her which my mother made, were unavailing, and I passed as usual all my time in any other house except my home.
I have now to record but two more beatings. The reader may think that I have recorded enough already, but as these were the two last, and they were peculiar, I must beg him to allow me so to do. The first beating was given me for the following cause: A very gentlemanlike young officer in the regiment was very particular in his attentions to me. I liked his company, but my thoughts had never been directed towards marriage, for I was too childish and innocent. One morning it appeared that he proposed to my father, who immediately gave his consent, provided that I was agreeable, and this he ventured to do without consulting my mother. Perhaps he thought it a good opportunity to remove me from my mother's persecution. At all events when he made known to her what he had done, and requested her to sound me on the subject, she was in no pleasant humour. When she did so, my reply was (he being a very dark-complexioned man, although well-featured), "Non, maman, je ne veux pas. Il est trop noir."
To my astonishment, my mother flew at me, and I received such an avalanche of boxes on the ears for this reply, that I was glad to make my escape as fast as I could, and locked myself up in my own room. Now I really believe that I was almost a single instance of a young lady having her ears well boxed for refusing to marry a man that she did not care for--but such was my fate.
The treatment I received in this instance got wind in the barracks, and my cause was warmly taken up by every one. Finding myself thus supported, I one day ventured to refuse to do a very menial and unpleasant office, and for this refusal I received the second beating. It was the last certainly, but it was the most severe, for my mother caught up a hearth-brush, and struck me for several minutes such a succession of severe blows, that my face was so disfigured that I was hardly to be recognised, my head cut open in several places, and the blood pouring down me in every direction. At last she left me for dead on the floor. After a time I recovered my recollection, and when I did so, I sprang away from the servants who had been supporting me, and with my hair flying in the wind, and my face and dress streaming with blood, I ran across the barrack-yard to the colonel's house, and entering the room in which she was sitting with her sister, sank at her feet, choking with the blood which poured out of my mouth.
"Who is it?" exclaimed she, springing up in horror and amazement.
"Valerie--pauvre Valerie," moaned I, with my face on the floor.
They raised me up, sent for the servants, took me into a bedroom, and sent for the surgeon of the regiment, who lived in the barracks. As soon as I was somewhat recovered, I told them that it was my mother's treatment; and I became so excited, that as soon as the surgeon had left the house, I cried, "Never, madam, will I again enter my father's house; never while I live--if you do not protect me--or if nobody else will--if you send me back again, I will throw myself in the Seine. I swear it as I kneel."
"What is to be done, sister?" said the colonel's wife.
"I will see. At all events, Valerie, I will keep you here a few days till something can be arranged. It is now quite dark, and you shall stay here, and sleep on this bed."
"Or the bed of the river," replied I; "I care not if it were that, for I should not rise up to misery. I have made a vow, and I repeat, that I never will enter my father's house again."
"My dear Valerie," said the colonel's wife, in a soothing tone.
"Leave her to me, sister," said the other, who was busy arranging my hair now that my wounds had stopped bleeding, "I will talk to her. The colonel will be home directly, and you must receive him."
Madame Allarde, for that was the colonel's wife's name, left the room. As soon as she was gone, Madame d'Albret, her sister, said to me, "Valerie, I fear that what you have said you will adhere to, and you will throw yourself into the river."
"Yes, if I am taken back again," replied I. "I hope God will forgive me, but I feel I shall, for my mind is overthrown, and I am not sane at times."
"My poor child, you may go back again to your father's house, because my sister and her husband, in their position, cannot prevent it, but believe me, you shall not remain there. As long as I have a home to offer, you shall never want one; but you must listen to me. I wish to serve you and to punish your unnatural mother, and I will do so, but Valerie, you must well weigh circumstances before you decide; I say that I can offer you a home, but recollect life is uncertain, and if it pleases God to summon me, you will have a home no longer. What will you do then? --for you will never be able to return to your father's house."
"You are very kind, madam," replied I, "but my resolution is formed, and I will work for my daily bread in any way that I can, rather than return. Put me but in the way of doing that, and I will for ever bless you."
"You shall never work for your bread while I live, Valerie, but if I die, you will have to do something for your own support, and recollect how friendless you will be, and so young."
"Can I be more friendless than I am at home, madame?" said I, shaking my head, mournfully.
"Your father deserves punishment for his want of moral courage as well as your mother," replied Madame d'Albret. "You had better go to bed now, and to-morrow give me your decision."
"To-morrow will make no change, madame," answered I, "but I fear that there is no chance of my escape. To-morrow my father will arrive for me as usual, and--but I have said it. You may preserve my life, madame, but how I know not," and I threw myself down on the bed in despair.
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About an hour afterwards Madame d'Albret, who had left me on the bed while she went down to her sister, came up again, and spoke to me, but from weakness occasioned by the loss of blood and from excitement, I talked for many minutes in the most incoherent manner, and Madame d'Albret was seriously alarmed. In the meantime the colonel had come home, and his wife explained what had happened. She led him up to my room just at the time that I was raving. He took the candle, and looked at my swelled features, and said, "I should not have recognised the poor girl. Mort de ma vie! but this is infamous, and Monsieur de Chatenoeuf is a contemptible coward. I will see him to-morrow morning."
The colonel and his wife then left the room. By this time I had recovered from my paroxysm. Madame d'Albret came to me, and putting her face close to mine, said, "Valerie."
"Yes, madame," replied I. "Are you more composed now? Do you think that you could listen to me?"
"Yes, madame, and thankfully," replied I. "Well, then, my plan is this. I am sure that the colonel will take you home to-morrow. Let him do so; in the morning I will tell you how to behave. To-morrow night you shall escape, and I will be with a _fiacre_ at the corner of the street ready to receive you. I will take you to my house, and no one, not even my sister, shall know that you are with me. They will believe that you have thrown yourself into the Seine, and as the regiment is ordered to Lyons, and will leave in ten days or a fortnight, there will be no chance, if you are concealed till their departure, of their knowing that you are alive."
"Thank you, thank you, madame, you know not how happy you have made me," replied I, pressing my hand to my heart, which throbbed painfully with joy. "God bless you, Madame d'Albret. Oh, how I shall pray for you, kind Madame d'Albret!"
Madame d'Albret shed tears over me after I had done speaking, and then wishing me good-night, told me that she would see me in the morning, and let me know what was going on, and then give me further directions for my conduct. She then left me, and I tried to go to sleep, but I was in too much pain. Once I did slumber, and dreamt that my mother was beating me again. I screamed with the pain that the blows gave me and awoke. I slept no more that night. At daylight I rose, and, as may be supposed, the first thing that I did was to look into the glass. I was terrified; my face was swelled so that my features were hardly distinguishable; one eye was closed up, and the blood had oozed out through the handkerchief which had been tied round my head by the surgeon. I was, indeed, an object. The servant brought me up some coffee, which I drank, and then remained till the colonel's wife came up to me.
It was the first and only time that I ever beheld that good woman angry. She called from the top of the stairs for her husband to come up; he did so, looked at me, said nothing, but went down again. About half-an-hour afterwards Madame d'Albret and the surgeon came up together. The latter was interrogated by her as to the effects of the injuries I had received, and after examination, he replied, that although it would take some days for the inflammation and marks of the blows to go away, yet he did not consider that eventually I should be in any way disfigured. This gave me great pleasure, as I suspect it would have done any other pretty girl in my situation. Madame d'Albret waited till the surgeon was gone, and then gave me some further instructions, which I obeyed to the letter. She also brought me a black veil in case I had not one of my own. She then left me, saying, that the colonel had sent for my father, and that she wished to be present at the interview.
My father came, and the colonel, after stating the treatment which I had received, loaded him with reproaches; told him his conduct was that of a coward to allow his wife to be guilty of such cruelty towards his child. Then he sent Madame d'Albret to bring me down; when I entered, my father started back with surprise; he had answered the colonel haughtily, but when he beheld the condition I was in, he said, "Colonel, you are right; I deserve all you have said and even more, but now do me the favour to accompany me home. Come, Valerie, my poor child, your father begs your pardon."
As my father took my hand to lead me away, Madame d'Albret said to the colonel, "My dear Allarde, do you not incur a heavy responsibility in allowing that girl to go back again? You know what she said yesterday."
"Yes, ma chere, I have been told by your sister, but it was said in a state of excitement, and I have no doubt that kindness will remove all such ideas. Monsieur de Chatenoeuf, I am at your orders."
I never said a word during all this interview. Madame d'Albret tied the black veil round my head and let it fall to conceal my features, and I was led home by my father accompanied by the colonel. We went into the room where my mother was sitting. My father lifted the veil from my face.
"Madame," said my father, in a severe tone, "do you see the condition to which your barbarity has reduced this poor girl? I have brought Monsieur Allarde here to tell you before him, that your conduct has been infamous, and that mine has been unpardonable in not having protected her from your cruelty; but I now tell you, that you have bent the bow till it has broken, and your power in this house is ended for ever."
My mother was so much astonished at this severe rebuke before witnesses, that she remained with her mouth open and her eyes staring. At last she gave a sort of chuckling laugh.
"Madame, I am in earnest," continued my father, "and you shall find that in future I command here. To your room, madame, immediately!"
The last word was pronounced in a voice of thunder. My mother rose, and as she retired, burst into a passionate flood of tears. The colonel then took his leave, saying to my father.
"Tenez-vous la."
My father remained a quarter of an hour with me, consoling me and blaming himself, and promising that in future he would see me done justice to. I heard him without reply. The tears started in my eyes at his kind expressions, but I felt there was no security for his adhering to all he promised, and I trembled as I thought so. He left me and went out. My mother, who had been watching, as soon as she saw that he had left the house, hastened downstairs from her room, and came into the one where I was sitting alone.
"So, mademoiselle," said she, panting, and apparently striving to contain herself, "my power in this house is gone for ever, and all through you. Ha, ha, ha! we shall see, we shall see. D'ye hear me, creature?" continued she, with her clenched hand close to my face. "No, not yet," said she, after a pause, and then she left the room.
If my father's kindness had somewhat staggered my resolution, this conduct of my mother's confirmed it. I felt that she was right in what she said, and that in a month she would regain her sway, and drive me to desperation. During the whole of that day I made no reply to anything that was said to me by my brothers and sisters, who came in by stealth to see me. In this I followed the advice of Madame d'Albret, and at the same time my own feelings and inclinations. The servants who offered me dinner, and coaxed me to take some nourishment, could not get any answer from me, and at last one of them, who was a kind-hearted girl, burst out into tears, crying that mademoiselle was _folle_. My father did not come home to dinner; my mother remained in her room till he came in in the evening, and then he went up to her. It wanted but half-an-hour of the time that I had agreed to meet Madame d'Albret. I waited that time, during which I heard sounds of high altercation above stairs. I was quite alone, for my mother had prevented the children coming to me, and as the clock struck, I dropped my veil over my face and quietly walking out of the house, made for the rendezvous agreed.
I found the _fiacre_ with Madame d'Albret waiting for me, and stepping into it, I was in a few minutes safely lodged in her splendid comfortable apartments. Madame d'Albret put me in a little cabinet inside of her own room, so that no one, except one servant whom she could trust, knew of my being on the premises. There I was left to recover from my bruises, and regain, if possible, my good looks. On the following day she repaired to the barracks, and remained with her sister till the evening, when she returned, and came up to me.
"All has happened as I wished," said she, as she took off her bonnet; "you are nowhere to be found, and they have not the least suspicion that you are here. When you were first missed, they thought you had returned to the colonel's, and your father did not think it advisable to make inquiry until the next morning, when to his surprise he learnt that you had never been there. The dismounted hussar, who was sentry during the evening, was then examined; and he replied, that about half-past eight o'clock, a young person, who by her figure he presumed to be Mademoiselle Chatenoeuf, had gone out of the gates, but that she had a thick veil over her face, and he could not see it. When your father and the colonel had interrogated the man and dismissed him, my poor sister burst into tears and said, `Alas! alas! then she has kept her word, and has thrown herself into the Seine. Oh, Monsieur Allarde, my sister said you would incur a heavy responsibility by sending that poor girl back, and now it has proved but too true: poor dear Valerie!' Your father and the colonel were almost as much distressed as my sister, and it was just at that time that I came in. " `Sister,' cried Madame Allarde to me, `Valerie has left the barracks.' " `What!' exclaimed I, `When? oh my fear was too true!' said I, clasping my hands and then taking out my handkerchief, I covered my face and sobbed. I tell you, Valerie, that nothing but my affection for you would have induced me to be so deceitful, but under the circumstances I hope I was justified. My assumed grief and distress quite removed any suspicion of your being here, and shortly afterwards the colonel made a sign to your father, and they both left the barracks; I have no doubt they went down to the Morgue, to ascertain if their fears had already been proved correct."
"What is the Morgue, madame?" said I. "Do you not know, my child? It is a small building by the side of the Seine, where all bodies which are found in the river are laid out for the examination of the friends of those who are missing. Below the bridges there is a large strong net laid across, which receives all the bodies as they are swept away by the tide; that is, it receives many, if not most of them, but some are never found again."
Madame Allarde did not fail to return to the barracks on the next day, and found that a general excitement prevailed, not only among the officers but the men. My supposed suicide had been made known. My father had visited the Morgue a second time, and the police had been on the search without success. My mother dared not even show herself at the window of her apartments, and found herself avoided even by her own children. As for my father, he was half mad, and never met her but to load her with reproaches, and to curse his own folly in having so long submitted to her imperious will.
"At all events, one good has arisen from your supposed death, Valerie," said Madame d'Albret, "which is, that your father has completely resumed his authority, and I do not think will ever yield it up again."
"My poor father," replied I, shedding tears, "I feel for him."
"He is certainly to be pitied," replied Madame d'Albret, "but it is his own conscience which must be his greatest tormentor. He was selfish enough not to feel for you during your years of persecution, and rather than have his own comforts invaded by domestic brawls for a short period, he allowed you to be sacrificed. But observe, Valerie, if you have still a wish to return to your parents, it is not too late. The regiment does not leave Paris till next Thursday."
"Oh, no, no," cried I, "my mother would kill me; don't mention that again, madame," continued I, trembling.
"I will not, my child, for to tell you the truth, you would not appear in so favourable a light, if you were now to return. You have caused much grief to my sister and husband, and they would not receive you with cordiality after having thus trifled with their feelings. It would also be a victory for your mother; and I doubt not but that in a short time she would again recover that power which for the present she has lost. You never can be happy in your family after what has passed, and I think that what has been done is for the best. Your father can well spare one child out of fourteen, having little more than a long sword for their support. Your supposed death will be the cause of your father retaining his lawful authority, and preventing any of the remaining children receiving such injustice as you have done; and remorse will check, if it does not humanise your mother, and I trust that the latter will be the case. I had well weighed all this in my mind, my dear Valerie, before I made the proposal, and I consider still that for your sake and for the sake of others, it is better that you should be the sacrifice. Nevertheless, I repeat, consult your own feelings, and if you repent the step which you have taken, there is yet time for you to return."
"My dear madame, return I never will, unless I am taken by force. All I feel is, that I should like that my father's bitter anguish was assuaged by his knowledge of my being still in existence."
"And so should I, Valerie, were it possible that the communication could be made, and the same happy results be arrived at; but that cannot be, unless it should please Heaven to summon your mother, and then you might safely inform your father of your existence."
"You are right, madame."
"Yes, I think I am, Valerie; for, after all, your father duly deserves his severe penance, which is, to visit the Morgue every day; but painful as is the remedy, it is necessary for the cure."
"Yes, madame," replied I, sobbing, "all you say is true, but still I cannot help weeping and pitying my poor father; not that it alters my determination, but I cannot command my feelings."
"Your feelings do you honour, Valerie, and I do not blame you for your grief. Do not, however, indulge it to excess, for that is turning a virtue into a failing."
There were still three days remaining previous to the departure of the regiment for Lyons. I was sorely distressed during this time. I pictured to myself my father's remorse, and would gladly have hastened to the barracks and thrown myself into his arms, but my mother's image rose before me, and her last words, "We shall see if my power is gone for ever," rung in my ears; her clenched hand was apparently close to my face, and then my resolution remained fixed. The swelling of my features had now subsided, and I had in some degree recovered my good looks; still my eye and cheeks were tinged black and yellow in various places, and the cuts on my head not quite healed. However, I was satisfied that the surgeon of the regiment was correct in his assertion that I should not be the least disfigured by the treatment which I had received.
"I have news for you," said Madame d'Albret, as she returned from the barracks, where she had been to see her sister off on her journey. "Your brother, Auguste, who you know has been away, has returned to rejoin his regiment, but has since obtained his rank in another, which is stationed at Brest."
"Why has he done so, madame? do you know? have you seen him?"
"Yes; he was at the colonel's; he stated that he could not remain in the regiment if his mother continued with his father; that he should never be able after what had happened to treat his mother with common courtesy, still less with the duty of a son, and therefore he preferred leaving the regiment."
"And my father, madame?"
"Your father allows him to act as he pleases; indeed, he feels the force of what your brother says, and so does my brother-in-law, who has given his assent, as commanding officer, to your brother's exchange. Auguste laments you very much, and the poor fellow looks very ill. I think he has done right, although it is a severe blow to your mother; but for her I have no compassion."
"My mother never liked Auguste, madame."
"No, I believe that; but what annoys her is the cause of his leaving his regiment, as it is open condemnation of her conduct."
"Yes, I can understand that feeling on her part," replied I. "Well, Valerie, I did not return until the regiment was gone and the barracks cleared. You know the commandant always goes the last. I saw my sister safe off, and now I am here to tell you that you are no longer a prisoner, but may make yourself comfortable by roving through my apartments. But the first affair which we must take in hand is your wardrobe. I am rich enough to furnish you, so that shall be seen to immediately. And, Valerie dear, let me now say once for all, what I do not intend to repeat in words, but I hope to prove by my actions. Look upon me as your mother, for I have not taken you away from your family without the resolution of supplying, as far as I can, not the mother you have lost, but the mother which in your dreams you have fancied. I love you, my child, for you are deserving of love. Treat me, therefore, with that unlimited confidence and affection which your young and pure heart yearns to pour out."
"Bless you, madame, bless you," cried I, bursting into tears, and burying my face in her lap; "I feel that now I have a mother."
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For several days I remained quiet in the little ante-chamber, during which Madame d'Albret had been busy every morning driving in her carriage, and ordering me a wardrobe; and as the various articles came in, I was as much surprised as I was pleased at the taste which had been shown, and the expense which must have been incurred.
"My dear madame," cried I, as each parcel was opened, "these are much too good for me; recollect I am but a poor soldier's daughter."
"You were so," replied Madame d'Albret; "but you forget," continued she, kissing my forehead, "that the poor soldier's daughter was drowned in the Seine, and you are now the _protegee_ of Madame d'Albret. I have already mentioned to all my friends that I expect a young cousin from Gascony, whom I have adopted, having no children of my own. Your own name is noble, and you may safely retain it, as there are no want of Chatenoeufs in Gascony, and there have been former alliances between them and the d'Albrets. I have no doubt that if I were to refer back to family records, that I could prove you to be a cousin, some three hundred times removed, and that is quite enough. As soon as you are quite well, and I think in a week all vestiges of your ill-treatment will be effaced, we will go down to my chateau for a few months, and we will return to Paris in the season. Has Madame Paon been here?"
"Yes, my dear madame, she has, and has taken my measure for the dresses; but don't scold me. I must cry a little, for I am so happy and so grateful. My heart will burst if I do not. Bless you, bless you, dear madame; little did I think before I saw you, that I should ever cry for joy."
Madame d'Albret embraced me with much affection, and allowed me to give vent to my feelings, which I did, bedewing her hands with my tears. A week afterwards, everything was ready, and we set off for the chateau in Brittany, travelling in Madame d'Albret's post-chariot with an _avant courier_, and without regard to expense.
And now I must make the reader somewhat better acquainted with my kind protectress. I little thought at the time that she offered me her protection, that she was a personage of such consequence, but the fact was, that her sister having made a very inferior match to her own, she, out of delicacy, while the Colonel and his wife were at Paris, avoided anything like state in paying them a visit, and I supposed that she was much in the same rank and society as they were; but such was not the case.
Madame d'Albret had married into one of the highest and most noble families of France. Her husband had died three years after their marriage, and having no children, had left her a large revenue entirely at her own disposal during her life, and wishing her to marry again, had the property entailed upon her children if she had any, if not, after her death, it was to go to a distant brand of the d'Albret family. I was informed that her income amounted to 60,000 livres per annum, besides her chateau in the country, and the hotel in the Rue St Honore, which belonged to her, although she only occupied a portion of it. Her husband had now been dead more than ten years, and Madame d'Albret had not been persuaded by her numerous suitors to marry again. She was still handsome, about thirty-four years of age, and I hardly need say, was in the very best society in Paris. Such was the person who came to the barracks in so unassuming a manner, and whose protection I was so fortunate as to obtain.
I could dwell long upon the happy days that I passed at the chateau. There was no want of society, and the _reunions_ were charming; and being in the country, I was allowed to join them, having been formally introduced by Madame d'Albret to all her visitors, as her cousin. My time was fully occupied. Madame d'Albret, perceiving that I had great talent for music and a fine voice, had procured me good masters, and wishing to prove my gratitude by attention, I was indefatigable, and made so rapid a progress, that my masters were surprised. Music and embroidery, at which I had before mentioned I was very expert, were my only occupations--and on the latter my talents were exerted to please Madame d'Albret, by offering her each piece as they were successively taken from the frame. So far from wishing to return to Paris, I was unhappy at the idea of leaving the chateau. Indeed, if the reader will recall what I have narrated of my former life, he will at once perceive that I could but be in a state of perfect happiness.
Until I was received by Madame d'Albret, I had lived a life of persecution, and had not known kindness. Fear was the passion which had been acted upon, and which, I may say, had crushed both mind and body: now all was kindness and love. Praise, which I had never before received, was now lavished upon me, and I felt my energies and talents roused, and developing themselves in a way that astonished myself. I had not known what I was, or what I was capable of. I had had no confidence in myself, and I had believed myself to be almost as incapable as my mother would have persuaded me, and everybody else. This sudden change of treatment had a most surprising effect. In the course of a few months I had grown nearly three inches taller, and not only my figure, but my features, had become so improved, that, although not vain, it was impossible for me not to believe what every one said, and what my glass told me, that I was very handsome, and that I should make a great sensation when I was introduced at Paris. But although I believed this, I felt no desire. I was too happy as I was, and would not have exchanged the kindness of Madame d'Albret for the best husband that France could produce; and when anything was mentioned by ladies who visited Madame d'Albret, to that effect, and they talked about my future establishment, my reply invariably was, "_Je ne veux pas_." I had always expressed my regrets that we should be obliged to go to Paris for the season, and Madame d'Albret, who of course had no wish to part with me so soon, and who felt that I was still young enough to remain for some years single, made me very happy by telling me that she did not intend to stay long in the capital, and that although I should appear at her parties, she did not intend that I should be much at public places. And so it proved; we went to Paris, and the best masters were procured for me, but I did not go out with Madame d'Albret, except occasionally, in her morning drives, and once or twice to the Opera and theatres. My music occupied the major portion of my time, and having expressed a wish to learn English, I had a good master; but I had another resource from an intimacy having arisen between me and Madame Paon, whom, I believe, I have before mentioned as the first milliner in Paris.
This intimacy was brought about in the following manner. Being very clever with my needle, and having a great taste for dress, I used to amuse myself at the chateau with inventing something new, not for myself, but for Madame d'Albret, and very often surprised and pleased her by making alterations or additions to her dresses, which were always admired, and declared to be in the best taste. On our arrival at Paris, Madame Paon was visited of course, that the new fashions might be ascertained, and she immediately remarked and admired my little inventions. I was therefore consulted whenever a new dress was to be made for Madame d'Albret, and as Madame Paon was a very lady-like and superior person, of a decayed, but good family, we soon became very intimate. We had been at Paris about two months, when one morning Madame Paon observed to Madame d'Albret, that as I was learning English it would not be a bad plan if Madame d'Albret was to drop me at her establishment when she took her morning airing, as she had two highly respectable English _modistes_ in her employ, who she found were necessary for her English customers, and that I should learn more English by an hour's conversation with them than a master could supply. Madame d'Albret agreed with her, I was pleased at the idea, and consequently three or four mornings in the week were passed at Madame Paon's.
But the reader must be introduced to the establishment of Madame Paon, or he may imagine that it was too condescending for a young lady in my position to visit at a milliner's. Madame Paon was the first milliner at Paris, and as is generally the case, was on the most intimate terms with all the ladies. She made for the court, and, indeed, for every lady to whom she could dedicate her time, as it was almost a favour to be permitted to be one of her customers. Her establishment was in the Rue St Honore, I forget the name of the hotel, but it was one of the largest.
The suite of apartments were magnificent. You passed from one room to another, each displaying every variety of rich and graceful costume. In every room were demoiselles well-dressed to attend to the customers, and everything bespoke a degree of taste and elegance quite unparalleled. At last you arrived at the reception-room of madame, which was spacious and most superbly furnished. There were no men in the establishment except in one room, called the Comptoir, in which were six clerks at their desks. When I add that Madame Paon was elegant in her manners, and handsome in her person, very tall and majestic, that she was rich, kept several servants, a handsome carriage, and had a _maison de campagne_, to which she retired every Saturday afternoon, the reader may acknowledge that she was a person whom Madame d'Albret might permit me to visit.
This intimacy soon became very great. There was a certain degree of _eclat_ at my being so constantly in the house, and, moreover, as I had a decided taste for dress, I often brought forward some new invention which was not only approved of, but a source of profit to Madame Paon. Everything was submitted to my judgment as Madame Paon more than once observed, "What a first-rate _modiste_ you would make, mademoiselle; but, unfortunately for the fashions, there is no chance of your being so employed."
At last the Paris season was nearly over, and truly glad was I when Madame d'Albret mentioned the day of our departure. I had very much improved in my music and my English during our residence at Paris. I had not been out except to small parties, and had no wish whatever to go out at all. I was satisfied with Madame d'Albret's company, and had no wish to leave her. I may say that I was truly happy, and my countenance was radiant, and proved that I was so. My thoughts would occasionally revert to my father and my brother Auguste, and make me melancholy for the time, but I felt that all was for the best, and I built castles, in which I imagined my suddenly breaking in upon them, throwing myself in my father's arms, and requesting him to share the wealth and luxury with which I fancied myself to be endowed.
I was now nearly eighteen years old. I had been one year under the protection of Madame d'Albret, and the old dowagers who visited us at the chateau were incessantly pointing out to Madame d'Albret that it was time to look out for an establishment for me. Madame d'Albret was, to a certain degree, of their opinion, but she did not wish to part with me, and I was resolute in my determination not to leave her. I had no wish to be married; I had reflected much upon the subject; the few married lives I had witnessed were not to my taste. I had seen my kind-hearted amiable grandmother thwarted by a penurious husband; I had witnessed my father under the control of a revengeful woman; and when I beheld, as I did every day, the peace and happiness in the establishment of Madame d'Albret as a single woman, I felt certain that marriage was a lottery in which there were thousands of blanks to one prize. When, therefore, any of Madame d'Albret's acquaintances brought up the subject, when they left the room I earnestly implored Madame d'Albret not to be influenced by their remarks, as I had made up my mind to remain single, and that all I asked was to remain with her and prove my gratitude.
"I believe you, Valerie," replied Madame d'Albret, "but I should not be doing my duty if I permitted you to act upon your own feelings. A girl like you was not intended by Heaven to pine away in celibacy, but to adorn the station in life in which she is placed. At the same time, I will not press the matter, but if an advantageous offer were to be made, I shall then consider it my duty to exert my influence with you to make you change your mind, but, at the same time, I will never use anything more than persuasion. I am too happy with you as a companion to wish to part with you, but, at the same time, I should be very selfish if I did not give you up when your own interest told me that such was my duty."
"Well, madame, I thank Heaven that I have no fortune, and that will, I trust, be a bar to any proposals from the interested gentleman of the present day."
"That may not save you, Valerie," replied Madame d'Albret, laughing, "gentlemen may be satisfied with expectancies; nay, it is possible that one may be found who may be satisfied with your own pretty self, and ask no more."
"I rather think not, madame," replied I. "You have too good an opinion of me, and must not expect others to view me with your partial eyes; all I can say is, that if such a gentleman could be found, his disinterestedness would make me think more highly of him than I do of the sex at present, although not sufficiently well to wish me to change my present condition."
"Well, well, we shall see," replied Madame d'Albret, "the carriage is at the door, so bring me my bonnet and cashmere."
A few weeks after our return to the chateau, a Monsieur de G--, of an old family in Brittany, who had been for the last two years in England, returned to his father's house, and called upon Madame d'Albret. She had known him from childhood, and received him most cordially. I must describe him fully, as he played no small part in my little drama. He was, I should think, nearly thirty years of age, small in person but elegantly made, with a very handsome but rather effeminate face. His address and manners were perfect. He was very witty, and apparently very amiable. His deportment towards our sex was certainly most fascinating--so tender and so respectful. I certainly never had before seen so polished a man. He sang well, and played upon several instruments; drew, caricatured--indeed, he did everything well that he attempted to do; I hardly need say that with such qualifications, and being so old a friend, that he was gladly welcomed by Madame d'Albret, and became a daily visitor at the chateau. I was soon intimate with him and partial to his company, but nothing more; indeed, his attentions to Madame d'Albret were quite as great as to me, and there was nothing to permit any one to suppose that he was paying his court either to her or to me. Madame d'Albret thought otherwise, because we sang together, and because he talked to me in English, and she as well as others rallied me in consequence.
After two months had passed away, Monsieur de G--was supposed to be paying his attentions more particularly to me, and I thought so myself; Madame d'Albret certainly did, and gave him every opportunity. He was the heir to a large property, and did not require money with his wife. About this time, an English lady of the name of Bathurst who was travelling with a niece, a little girl about fourteen years old, had accepted an invitation from Monsieur de G--'s father, to pass a week with them at their chateau, which was about five miles from that of Madame d'Albret, and this lady was introduced. She was apparently very amiable, and certainly very _distinguee_ in her manners, and we saw a great deal of her as she was a great favourite with Madame d'Albret.
A few weeks after the introduction of this English lady, I was one day on the terrace alone, when I was accosted by Monsieur de G--. After a remark or two upon the beauty of the autumnal flowers, he observed, "How different are the customs of two great nations, with but a few leagues of water between them--I refer to the French and the English. You would be surprised to see how great they are if you were ever to go to England--in none, perhaps, more so than in the affairs of the heart. In France we do not consult the wishes or the feelings of the young lady, we apply to her parents, and if the match is considered equally advantageous, the young lady is told to prepare herself for changing her condition. In England the very reverse is the case; we apply to the young lady, gain her affections, and when certain of them, we then request the sanction of those who are her guardians. Which do you think is the most natural and satisfactory, Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf?"
"I have been brought up in France, Monsieur de G--, and I prefer the mode of France; our parents and our guardians are the people most able to decide upon the propriety of a match, and I think that until that point is ascertained, no affections should be engaged, as, should the marriage not be considered advisable, much pain and disappointment will be prevented."
"In some instances, I grant that such may be the case," replied he; "but still, is it not treating your sex like slaves to permit no love before marriage? and is it agreeable for ours, that we lead to the altar a person who may consent from a sense of duty, without having the least regard for her husband; nay, perhaps feeling an aversion?"
"I do not think that any kind parents would force their child to marry a man for whom she felt an aversion," replied I; "and if there is not much love before marriage, there may be a great deal after; but the fact is, it is a subject upon which I am not able, nor do I wish to give my opinion."
"As you disagree with me, Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf," replied he, "I fear you will not be pleased at my courting you in the English fashion; and previous to addressing myself to Madame d'Albret, making known to you my sincere regard for you, and my humble hopes that I am not indifferent to you."
"I will answer you very plainly, Monsieur de G--; and perhaps it is as well you have taken this unusual step, as it will save you the trouble of making any application to Madame d'Albret. Flattered as I am by your compliment, I beg to decline the honour you propose, and now that you know my feelings, you will of course not be so ungenerous as to make any application to Madame d'Albret."
"Certainly, mademoiselle," replied he, with great pique, "but on one condition, which is, that you will promise me that you will not mention to Madame d'Albret what has now passed between us."
"That I willingly promise, Monsieur de G--, as I may consider it as your secret."
"And I trust," continued he, "that you will not discard me from your friendship, but receive me as before."
"I shall always be happy to receive the friends of Madame d'Albret," replied I, "and now I wish you a good-morning."
I went to my own room and reflected upon what had passed. I was angry with Monsieur de G--for what I considered the unwarrantable liberty he had taken, the greater as he must have known my utter dependence upon Madame D'Albret; and how unlikely it was that I would form any such engagement without her knowledge and sanction. That I had no love for Monsieur de G--was certain, although I was pleased with his company and conversation. I was sorry on reflection that I had given my promise not to mention what had passed, but having made the promise, although hastily, I resolved to adhere to it.
I took it for granted that he would gradually withdraw himself, and that we should see little more of him; but in this I was mistaken; he was as frequent in his visits as before, dividing his attentions between Madame d'Albret and me. This annoyed me, and I avoided him as much as I could, and the consequence was, that he was oftener with Madame d'Albret than with me. At first when Madame d'Albret perceived this, she appeared to be vexed, as she had evidently set her mind upon the match, and expected daily to receive a formal proposal from him in my behalf; but gradually, why I know not, it gave her no further concern, and I was permitted to leave the room, and do as I pleased without being subjected to any remarks.
Such was the state of affairs when the Paris season drew near. Madame Bathurst had been induced to remain in Brittany, and was continually with us. She had often asked me to come over to England, and pass a few weeks with them, and I had jokingly replied that I would. One morning Madame d'Albret said to me-- "My dear Valerie, Madame Bathurst has again requested me to allow you to go to England with her. Now if you think that you would like to pass a short time with her, instead of remaining at Paris during the season, I really have no objection, if it would give you pleasure."
"My dear madame, I was only joking when I said so."
"Well, you have made Madame Bathurst think you were in earnest, my dear," replied she; "and I thought so too, and have this morning promised that you shall go with her. I thought you would perfect yourself in English, and it would be a good opportunity of relieving you for a short time of your constant attendance upon me; so, my dear Valerie, I advise you to go. It will amuse you, and a little change will do you good: besides, my dear, I perceive that the attentions of Monsieur de G--are not agreeable to you, and it is as well to break it off by a short absence."
"I shall not dispute your wishes, madame," replied I, mournfully, for my heart misgave me, why I knew not, "but if I do go, it will be to oblige you, and not because I really wish it."
"My dear Valerie, I think it will be for the best, and therefore you will oblige me. I have promised for you, and I should be sorry to have to recall my promise--so consent, my dear, and I will write to Madame Bathurst, that she may be prepared to receive you."
"Certainly, madame," replied I, "your wishes will ever be a law to me:" and so saying, I left the room, and going to my own chamber, I threw myself down on the bed, and wept bitterly without knowing why.
About ten days after this, Madame Bathurst called for me to take me to the chateau of Monsieur de G--'s father, where I was to remain till the next morning, when we were to post to Paris. It was with great pain that I quitted Madame d'Albret, but her kindness to me appeared to have increased rather than diminished, after the proposal of our short separation. "God bless you, my dear Valerie," she said, "you must write to me twice a week; I shall be most impatient for your return." I parted from her with many tears, and did not leave off weeping till we arrived at the chateau, at which Madame Bathurst resided.
I was received with formal politeness by the old gentleman, and Monsieur de G--, who was also at home, and in an excessive gay humour. "Alas, mademoiselle," cried he, "what a desert you will leave behind you! It is too cruel, this travelling mania on your part. We never shall see you again."
There was so much irony in his face as he said this, that I hardly knew what to make of it; but it made me feel anxious and dissatisfied. I would have given much to have abandoned the journey, but Madame d'Albret's wishes were a law to me. To avoid reflection, which was painful, I talked with Caroline, the niece of Madame Bathurst, and as we were to set off at daylight, we retired early. The following morning we set off, and in due time arrived at Paris, where we remained but one day, and then proceeded to Boulogne, where we embarked.
It was now November, and half-way across the Channel we were enveloped in a fog, and it was with difficulty that we made the harbour. We set off for London, the fog continued during the whole day, and on our arrival at the suburbs it was thicker than ever, and the horses were led through the streets by people carrying flambeaux. I had heard that England was a _triste pays_, and I thought it so indeed. At last I observed to Madame Bathurst, "Est-ce qu'il n'y a jamais de soleil dans ce pays, madame?"
"Oh, yes," replied she, laughing, "and a very beautiful sun too."
The next day we set off for Madame Bathurst's country seat, to pass the Christmas. Before we were three miles out of London, the fog had disappeared, the sun shone out brilliantly, and the branches of the leafless trees covered with rime, glittered like diamond wands, as we flew past them. What with the change in the weather, and the rapid motion produced by the four English post-horses, I thought England beautiful; but I must say that the first two days were a trial, the more so as I was very despondent from having quitted Madame d'Albret. I was delighted with Madame Bathurst's country seat, the well-arranged gardens, the conservatories, the neatness displayed in every thing so different from France, the cleanness of the house and furniture; the London carpets over the whole of the rooms and staircases, were, in my opinion, great improvements; but I cared little for the society, which I found not only dull, but it appeared to me to be selfish. I found a lively companion in Caroline, and we sat up in a little boudoir, where we were never interrupted. Here I practised my music, and at Madame Bathurst's request, spoke alternately English and French with my little companion, for our mutual improvement.
I had written twice to Madame d'Albret, and had received one very kind answer; but no mention was made of my return, although it was at first arranged that my visit was to be three weeks or a month. A fortnight after my arrival at Fairfield, I received a second letter from Madame d'Albret, kind as usual, but stating, to my great grief, that she was not well, having had an attack on her chest from having taken a violent cold. I answered the letter immediately, requesting that I might be permitted to return home and nurse her, for I felt very uneasy. For three weeks, during which I had no reply, I was in a state of great anxiety and distress, as I imagined that Madame d'Albret must have been too ill to write, and I was in a fever of suspense. At last I received a letter from her, stating that she had been very ill, and that she had been recommended by the physicians to go to the south of France for the winter. At the same time, as she could not put off her departure, she wrote to Madame Bathurst, requesting, if not inconvenient, that she would allow my visit to be extended till the spring, at which season she expected to return to Paris. Madame Bathurst read her letter to me, and stated how happy she should be for me to remain. I could do no otherwise but thank her, although I was truly miserable. I wrote to Madame d'Albret, and stated what my feelings were; but as she had, by what was said in her letter, already left for the south of France, I knew that my letter would arrive too late to enable her to alter her determination. All I requested was, that she would give me continual intelligence of her health.
I was, however, much consoled in my distress by the kindness of Madame Bathurst, and affectionate manners of her niece Caroline, who was my constant companion. There was a great deal of company not only visiting, but staying in the house; but although there was much company, there was very little society. Horses, dogs, guns, were the amusements of the gentlemen during the day. In the evening we saw little of them, as they seldom left the dinner-table before Caroline and I had retired to our rooms; and the ladies appeared to me to be all afraid of each other, and to be constantly on the reserve.
Christmas had passed, and I had not heard again from Madame d'Albret, which was a source of great vexation and many bitter tears. I fancied her dying in the south of France, without anyone to take care of her. I often spoke to Madame Bathurst on the subject, who offered all the excuses that she could devise, but I thought at the same time appeared to be very grave, and unwilling to continue the conversation. At last I thought of Madame Paon, and I wrote to her, inquiring whether she knew how Madame d'Albret was, detailing to her how I had come to England, and how Madame D'Albret had been seriously indisposed, stating my fears from not having received any reply to my last letters. The day after I had written to Madame Paon, Caroline, who was sitting with me in the boudoir, observed, "I heard Mrs Corbet say to my aunt that she had seen Madame d'Albret at Paris about ten days ago."
"Impossible!" replied I; "she is in the south of France."
"So I understood," replied Caroline; "but she did say so, and my aunt immediately sent me out of the room on a message. I am sure it was to get rid of me, that she might talk to Mrs Corbet."
"What can this mean?" exclaimed I. "Oh, my heart forebodes evil! Excuse me, Caroline, but I feel very miserable;" and I laid my face down on the table, covering it with my hands, and tears trickled fast through my fingers.
"Speak to my aunt," said Caroline, consolingly; "do not cry, Valerie, it may be all a mistake."
"I will at once speak to Madame Bathurst," said I, raising my head, "it will be the best plan."
I went into my room, bathed my eyes, and then sought Madame Bathurst, whom I found in the conservatory, giving directions to the gardener. After a time she took my arm and we walked down the terrace.
"Madame Bathurst," said I, "I have been made very miserable by Caroline stating that Mrs Corbet had told you that she met Madame d'Albret at Paris. How can this be?"
"I cannot imagine more than yourself, my dear Valerie," replied Madame Bathurst, "except that Mrs Corbet was mistaken."
"Do you think it was Madame?"
"I cannot say, Valerie, but I have written to Paris to ascertain the fact, which is to me incomprehensible. A few days will let us into the truth; I cannot believe it--indeed, if it were true, I shall consider that Madame d'Albret has treated me ill, for much as I am pleased to have you here, she has not been candid with me in proposing that you should remain the winter, upon the plea of her being obliged to go to the south, when she is still at Paris. I cannot understand it, and until confirmed, I will not believe it. Mrs Corbet is not an acquaintance of hers, and may, therefore, be mistaken."
"She must be, madame," replied I; "still it is strange that I do not hear from her. I am fearful something is wrong, and what it can be, I cannot surmise."
"Let us talk no more about it, my dear Valerie. A few days will decide the point."
A few days did decide the point, for I received an answer from Madame Paon, in which she said:-- "My dear Mademoiselle Chatenoeuf,--You may imagine my surprise at receiving your letter, and I fear you must prepare yourself for unpleasant intelligence. Madame d'Albret is in Paris, and has never been in the south of France that I have heard. When she first called, I inquired after you. The reply was that you were on a visit to a lady in England; that you had left her; that you had a _manie pour l'Angleterre_; and so saying, she shrugged up her shoulders. I was about to inquire more particularly, but she cut the conversation short by asking to see a new pelisse, and I perceived at once that there was something wrong, but what I could not comprehend. I did not see her till four or five weeks afterwards, when she called, accompanied by a Monsieur de G--, a person well known in Paris, where he bears a very indifferent character, as a desperate gambler, and a man of very bad disposition concealed under a very polished exterior; but his character is better known in England, which country, I am told, he was obliged to quit in consequence of some gaming transaction anything but honourable. I again made inquiries after you, and this time the reply was given by Monsieur de G--, who replied that you were an _ingrate_, and your name must not be in future mentioned by anyone to Madame d'Albret.
"The handsome face of Monsieur de G--, was changed to that of a demon when he made this remark, and fully proved to me the truth of the report that he was a person of very bad disposition. Madame d'Albret made no remark, except that she should be careful how she ever engaged a _demoiselle de compagnie_ again. I was struck at this remark from her, as I always considered that you were (and indeed I know you were at one time), viewed in a very different light, and I was quite mystified. About a fortnight afterwards Madame d'Albret called upon me and announced her intended marriage to Monsieur de G--, and requested me to make her wedding dresses. Here the whole mystery was out, but why, because she marries Monsieur de G--, you should lose her protection, and why Monsieur de G--should be so inveterate against you, is more than I can tell. I have now, my dear mademoiselle, given you a detail of all I know, and shall be most happy to hear from you if you will please to write to me, etcetera, etcetera.
"Emile Paon, nee Merce."
Here was a solution of the whole mystery. I read the letter and fell back on the sofa, gasping for breath. It was some time before I could recover myself. I was alone in my bedroom, my head and eyes swimming; but I staggered to the washing-stand, and obtained some water. It was half-an-hour before I could recall my astonished senses, and then everything appeared as clear to me as if it had been revealed. Monsieur de G--'s double attentions; his spiteful look at my refusal; his occupying himself wholly with Madame d'Albret after I refused him; her wishing to get rid of me, by sending me to England with Madame Bathurst, and her subsequent false and evasive conduct. Monsieur de G--had had his revenge, and gained his point at the same time. He had obtained the wealth of Madame d'Albret to squander at the gaming-table, and had contrived, by some means or another, to ruin me in her good opinion. I perceived at once that all was lost, and when I considered the awkwardness of my position, I was almost in despair.
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{
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As I continued for more than an hour on the sofa, gloomily passing in review my short career, my present position, and occasionally venturing a surmise upon the future, a feeling which I had not had before,--one which had hitherto been latent--pride, gradually was awakened in my bosom, and as it was aroused, it sustained me. I have before observed that fear had been my predominating feeling till I had quitted my parents, love and gratitude had succeeded it, but now, smarting under injustice, pride, and, with pride, many less worthy passions, were summoned up, and I appeared in the course of two short hours to be another being. I felt confidence in myself, my eyes were opened all at once as it were to the heartlessness of the world; the more I considered the almost hopeless condition in which I was in, the more my energy was roused. I sat down on the sofa a confiding, clinging girl. I rose up a resolute, clear-sighted woman.
I reflected, and had made up my mind that Madame d'Albret would never forgive one whom she had injured as she had me. She had induced me to break off all family and parental ties (such as they were), she had made me wholly dependent upon her, and had now cast me off in a cruel and heartless manner. She had used deceit because she knew that she could not justify her conduct. She had raised calumnies against me, accusing me of ingratitude, as an excuse for her own conduct. Anything like a reconciliation therefore was impossible, and any assistance from her I was determined not to accept.
Besides, was she not married to Monsieur de G--, whom pique at my refusal had made my enemy, and who had, in all probability, as he pressed his own suit, perceived the necessity, independent of the gratification it afforded him to be my ruin, of removing me as a serious obstacle to Madame d'Albret's contracting a new alliance? From that quarter, therefore, there was nothing to be expected or hoped for, even if it were desired. And what was my position with Madame Bathurst? On a visit! At the termination of which I was houseless.
That Madame Bathurst would probably offer me a temporary asylum, for she would hardly turn me out of doors, I felt convinced; but my new-born pride revolted at the idea of dependence upon one on whom I had no claim whatever. What, then, was to be done? I examined my capital. I was handsome, but that was of no use to me; the insidious conduct of Monsieur de G--had raised to positive dislike the indifference that I felt for his sex, and I had no inclination to make a market of my personal advantages. I could sing and play well. I spoke French and English, and understood Italian. I could embroider the work well with my needle. Such were my capabilities, my stock-in-trade with which to commence the world; I was, therefore, competent to a certain degree to give lessons in music and in French, or to take a governess's place, or to become a modiste.
I thought of Madame Paon, but when I reflected in what manner I had visited her, the respect and homage, I may say, which had been offered up to me, and how different my reception and treatment would be if I entered the establishment as one of themselves, the reflection was too mortifying, and I determined that if I were driven to such an employment for my livelihood, it should be where I was not known. After much consideration, I decided that I would see Madame Bathurst, make known to her my intentions, and ask her assistance and recommendation to procure me a situation. I arranged my hair, removed all traces of my late agitation, and went down to her. I found her alone, and asking her whether she could spare me a few minutes of her time, I handed to her the letter which I had received from Madame Paon, and then made her acquainted with that portion of my history with which she had been unacquainted. As I spoke my courage revived, and my voice became firm-- I felt that I was no longer a girl.
"Madame Bathurst, I have confided this to you, because you will agree with me that there can be nothing more between Madame d'Albret and me, for even if she made an offer, I would never accept it. I am now in a very false position, owing to her conduct. I am here on a visit, supposed by you to be the _protegee_ of that lady, and a person of some consequence. Her protection has been taken away from me, and I am now a beggar, with nothing but my talents for my future support. I explain this to you frankly, because I cannot think of remaining as your visitor; and if I do not ask too much, all that I wish of your friendship is, that you will give me such a recommendation as you think I deserve, by which I may obtain the means of future livelihood."
"My dear Valerie," replied Madame Bathurst, "I will not hurt your feelings. It is a heavy blow, and I am glad to perceive, that instead of being crashed by it, you appear to rise. I have heard of Madame d'Albret's marriage, and the deceit which she has been practising evidently to get rid of you. Not many days ago I wrote to her, pointing out the variance between what she stated in her letters, and her actual position, and requesting to know what was to be done relative to you. Her answer I have received this day. She states that you have cruelly deceived her; that at the very time that you professed the utmost gratitude and affection, you were slandering her and laughing at her behind her back, particularly to Monsieur de G--, to whom she is now married; and that, however she might be inclined to forgive and overlook your conduct herself, that Monsieur de G--is resolute, and determined that you never shall come again under his roof. She has, therefore, transmitted a billet of 500 francs to enable you to return to your father's house."
"Then," replied I, "it is as I suspected; Monsieur de G--is the cause of all."
"Why did you trust him, Valerie, or rather why were you so imprudent, and I must add, ungrateful, to speak of Madame d'Albret as you did."
"And you believe it, Madame Bathurst, you believe that I did so? I can only say that if such is your belief, the sooner we part the better."
I then told her what I had omitted in my narrative, how I had refused Monsieur de G--, and explaining his character, showed that he had acted thus out of interest and revenge.
"I believe it all now, Valerie, and I must beg your pardon for having supposed that you had been ungrateful. This explanation relieves me, and enables me to make you the offer which I had thought of doing, had I not been checked by this calumny against you. I say, therefore, for the present, my dear Valerie, remain here. You are quite equal to be governess to Caroline, but I prefer you should remain with me more as a friend than as a governess. I say this, because I fear you will be too proud to remain as a dependent, without making yourself useful. You know that I did intend to take a governess for Caroline as soon as we went to London. I will now take you if you will consent, and shall feel the obligation on my side, as I shall not only have retained a capable person, but shall also not lose a dear young friend."
"I thank you for the offer, my dear madame," replied I, rising and courtseying; "I trust, however, that you will allow me a little time for reflection before I decide. You must admit that this is a most critical epoch in my life, and I must not make one false step if it is possible to prevent it."
"Certainly," replied Madame Bathurst, "certainly. You are right, Valerie, in reflecting well before you decide; but I must say that you are rather haughty in your manner towards me."
"I may have been, my dear Madame Bathurst, but if so, take my excuses. Recollect the Valerie of yesterday, who was your visitor and young friend, is not the Valerie of to-day!" and with these words I took up the cheque for 500 francs which Madame Bathurst had laid on the table, left the room, and returned to my own apartment.
I returned to my room, and was glad to be once more alone, for although I bore up well under the circumstances, still the compressed excitement was wearying to the frame. I had resolved to accept the offer of Madame Bathurst at the time that she made it, but I did not choose to appear to jump at it, as she probably expected that I would. I felt no confidence in anyone but my own self after the treatment of Madame d'Albret, and I considered that Madame Bathurst would probably dismiss me as soon as my services were no longer required, with as little ceremony as had Madame d'Albret. That I was capable of taking charge of and instructing Caroline, I knew well, and that Madame Bathurst would not easily procure a governess so capable in singing and music as myself. There would be consequently no obligation, and I resolved that I would reject her terms if they were not favourable. I had some money, for I had spent but a small portion of twenty sovereigns which Madame d'Albret had given me in a purse when I quitted her. I had therefore the means of subsistence for some little time, should I not come to terms with Madame Bathurst.
After an hour's reflection, I sat down and wrote a letter to Madame Paon, stating what had occurred, and my determination to obtain my own livelihood, and adding that as I was not sure whether I should accept of Madame Bathurst's offer, I wished her to give me a letter of introduction to some French acquaintance of hers in London, as I was an utter stranger to everything, and without advice, should probably be cheated in every way. As soon as this letter was finished I commenced another to Madame d'Albret, which was in the following words:-- "My dear Madame, "Yes, I will still say my dear madame, for although you will never hear of me again, you are still dear to me, more dear perhaps than you were, when I considered you my patroness and my more than mother. And why so,--because when those we love are in misfortune, when those who have benefited us are likely to soon want succour themselves, it is then the time that we should pour out our gratitude and love. I do not consider it your fault, my dear Madame d'Albret, that you have been deceived by a base hypocrite, who wears so captivating a mask; I do not blame you that you have been persuaded by him that I have slandered and behaved ungratefully to you. You have been blinded by your own feelings towards him and by his consummate art. I am also to blame for not having communicated to you that _he_ made me a proposal of marriage but a short time previous to my departure, and which I indignantly rejected, because he had taken such an unusual step without any previous communication with you on the subject--not that I would have accepted him, even if you had wished it, for I knew how false and unworthy he was considered to be. I should have told you, my dear madame, of this offer of marriage on his part, but he requested me as a favour not to mention it to you, and I did not then know that he was a ruined man, a desperate gambler, and that he had been obliged to quit this country for dishonourable practices at the gaming-table, as you may easily discover to be true; for even Madame Paon can give you all the necessary information. And into this man's hands have you fallen, my dear Madame d'Albret. Alas, how you are to be pitied! my heart bleeds for you, and I fear that a few months will suffice to prove to you the truth of what I now write. That I am a sufferer by the conduct of Monsieur de G--is true. I have lost a kind patroness, an indulgent mother, and am now left to obtain my own livelihood how I can. All my visions, all my dreams of happiness with you, all my wishes of proving my gratitude and love for your kindness have vanished, and here I am, young, alone, and unprotected. But I think not of myself; at all events I am free--I am not chained to such a person as Monsieur de G--, and it is of you, and all that you will have to suffer, that my thoughts and heart are full. I return you the cheque for 500 francs--I cannot take the money. You are married to Monsieur de G--, and I can accept nothing from one who has made you believe that Valerie could be calumnious and ungrateful. Adieu, my dear madame; I shall pray for you, and weep over your misfortunes.
"Yours ever gratefully, "Valerie de Chatenoeuf."
That there was a mixed feeling in this letter, I confess. As I said in it, I really pitied Madame d'Albret and forgave her her unkindness; but I sought revenge upon Monsieur de G--, and in seeking that, I planted daggers into the heart of Madame d'Albret; but I did not at the time that I wrote reflect upon this. What I wished to do was to vindicate myself, and that I could not do without exposing Monsieur de G--, and exposing him in his true colours was, of course, awakening Madame d'Albret to her position sooner than she would have been, and filling her mind with doubts and jealousy. That this was not kind, I felt when I had perused what I had written previous to folding the letter, but I felt no inclination to alter it, probably because I had not quite so wholly forgiven Madame d'Albret as I thought that I had. Be it as it may, the letter was sealed and despatched by that night's post, as well as that written to Madame Paon.
I had now only to arrange with Madame Bathurst, and I went down into the drawing-room where I found her alone. "I have considered, my dear Madame Bathurst," said I, "your kind proposal. I certainly have had a little struggle to get over, as you must admit that it is not pleasant to sink from a visitor in a family into a dependent, as I must in future be, if I remain with you, but the advantages of being with a person whom I respect as much as I do you, and of having charge of a young person to whom I am so attached as I am to Caroline, have decided me on accepting your offer. May I know then, what may be the terms upon which I am received as governess?"
"Valerie, I feel that this is all pride," replied Madame Bathurst, "but still it is not disreputable pride, and though I shall yield to it, I would have made no terms, but retained you as a dear friend, my purse and everything in the house at your command, and I hoped that you would have allowed me so to do; but as you will not, I have only to say that I should have expected to pay any governess whom I might have retained for Caroline, a salary of 100 pounds per annum, and that I offer you the same."
"It is more than sufficient, my dear madame," replied I, "and I accept your offer if you will take me on trial for six months."
"Valerie, you make me laugh, and make me angry at the same time, but I can bear much from you now, for you have had a heavy blow, my poor child. Now let's say no more on the subject; all is settled, and the arrangement will remain a secret, unless you publish it yourself."
"I certainly shall make no secret of it, Madame Bathurst; I should be sorry to show false colours, and be supposed by your friends to be otherwise than what I really am. I have done nothing that I ought to be ashamed of, and I abhor deceit. Whatever may be my position in life, I trust that I shall never disgrace the name that I bear, and I am not the first of a noble name who has had a reverse in fortune."
How strange that I now, for the first time in my life, began to feel pride in my family name. I presume because when we have lost almost everything, we cherish more that which remains to us. From the time that Madame Bathurst had first known me till the last twenty-four hours, not a symptom of pride had ever been discovered in me. As the _protegee_ and adopted daughter of Madame d'Albret, with brilliant prospects, I was all humility--now a dependent, with a salary of 100 pounds per annum, Valerie was as proud as Lucifer himself. Madame Bathurst perceived this, and I must do her the justice to say, that she was very guarded in her conduct towards me. She felt sympathy for me, and treated me with more kindness, and, I may say, with more respect than she did when I was her visitor and her equal.
The next day I informed Caroline of the change in my prospects, and of my having accepted the office of governess--that was to say, on a six months' trial. I pointed out to her that it would now be my duty to see that she did not neglect her studies, and that I was determined to do justice to Madame Bathurst's confidence reposed in me. Caroline, who was of a very amiable and sweet disposition, replied, "That she should always look upon me as her friend and companion, and from her love for me, would do everything I wished," and she kept her word.
The reader will agree with me, that it was impossible for any one to have been lowered down in position more gently than I was in this instance. The servants never knew that I had accepted the offer of governess, for I was invariably called Valerie by Madame Bathurst and her niece, and was treated as I was before when a visitor to the house. I bestowed much time upon Caroline, and taught myself daily, that I might be more able to teach her. I went back to the elements in everything, that I might be more capable of instructing, and Caroline made rapid progress in music, and promised to have, in a few years, a very fine voice. We went to town for the season, but I avoided company as much as possible--so much so, that Madame Bathurst complained of it.
"Valerie, you do wrong not to make your appearance. You retire in such a way that people naturally put questions to me, and ask if you are the governess, or what you are."
"I wish them to do so, my dear madame, and I want you to reply frankly. I am the governess, and do not like anything like concealment."
"But I cannot admit that you are what may be called a governess, Valerie. You are a young friend staying with me, who instructs my niece."
"That is what a governess ought to be," replied I, "a young friend who instructs your children."
"I grant it," replied Madame Bathurst; "but I fear if you were to take the situation in another family, you would find that a governess is not generally so considered or so treated. I do not know any class of people, who are more to be pitied than these young people who enter families as governesses; not considered good enough for the drawing-room, they are too good for the kitchen; they are treated with _hauteur_ by the master and mistress, and only admitted, or suffered for a time to be in their company; by the servants they are considered as not having claims to those attentions and civilities, for which they are paid and fed; because receiving salaries, or `wages like themselves,' as they assert, they are not entitled in their opinion to be attended upon. Thus are they, in most houses, neglected by all parties. Unhappy themselves, they cause ill-will and dissension, and more servants are dismissed, or given warning, on account of the governesses, than from any other cause. In the drawing-room they are a check upon conversation; in the school-room, if they do their duty, they are the cause of discontent, pouting and tears; like the bat, they are neither bird nor beast, and they flit about the house like ill-omens; they lose the light-heartedness and spring of youth; become sour from continual vexation and annoyance, and their lives are miserable, tedious, and full of repining. I tell you this candidly; it is a harsh picture, but I fear too true a one. With me I trust you will be happy, but you will run a great risk if you were to change and go into another family."
"I have heard as much before, my dear madame," replied I; "but your considerate kindness has made me forget it. I can only say that it will be a melancholy day when I am forced to quit your roof."
Visitors announced, interrupted the conversation. I have before mentioned the talent I had for dress, and the kindness of Madame Bathurst, induced me to exert all that I possessed in her favour. Every one was pleased, and expressed admiration at the peculiar elegance of her attire, and asked who was the _modiste_ she employed, and Madame Bathurst never failed to ascribe all the merit to me.
Time passed on rapidly, and the season was nearly over. Madame Bathurst had explained to her most intimate friends the alteration which had taken place in my prospects, and that I remained with her more as a companion than in any other capacity. This procured me consideration and respect, and I very often had invitations to parties; but I invariably refused; except, occasionally, accepting a seat in the box at the Opera and French plays I was content to remain quiet.
Madame Paon had, as I requested, sent me a letter of introduction to a friend of hers, a Monsieur Gironac, who lived in Leicester Square. He was a married man, without family. He obtained his livelihood by giving lessons on the flute, on the guitar, and in teaching French during the day, and at night was engaged as second violin in the orchestra of the Opera House; so that he had many strings to his bow, besides those of his fiddle. His wife, a pretty little lively woman, taught young ladies to make flowers in wax, and mended lace in the evenings. They were a very amiable and amusing couple, always at good-natured warfare with each other, and sparring all day long, from the time they met until they parted. Their battles were the most comical and amusing I ever witnessed, and generally ended in roars of laughter. They received me with the greatest kindness and consideration, treating me with great respect, until our extreme intimacy no longer required it, and our friendship increased more than it could have done from Caroline expressing a wish to learn to model flowers, and becoming the pupil of Madame Gironac. Such was the state of affairs when the London season was over, and we once more returned to the country.
The time flew away rapidly. Madame Bathurst treated me with kindness and respect, Caroline with affection, and I was again quite happy and contented. I was earnest in my endeavours to improve Caroline, and moreover had the satisfaction to feel and hear it acknowledged that my attempts were not thrown away. I looked forward to remaining at least till Caroline's education was complete, which it could not be under two or three years, and feeling security for such a period I gave myself little thought of the future, when a circumstance occurred which put an end to all my calculations.
I have stated that Caroline was the niece of Madame Bathurst; she was the daughter of a younger sister who had contracted an unfortunate marriage, having eloped with a young man who had not a shilling that he could call his own, and whose whole dependence was upon an uncle, without a family. This imprudent match had, however, raised the indignation of his relative, who from that moment told him he was to expect nothing from him either before or after his death. The consequence was that Madame Bathurst's sister and husband were in a state of great distress, until Madame Bathurst, by exerting herself in his behalf, procured for him a situation of 300 pounds per annum in the Excise. Upon this sum, and the occasional presents of Madame Bathurst, they contrived to live, but having two boys and a girl to educate, Madame Bathurst took charge of the latter, who was Caroline, promising that she would either establish her in life, or leave her a sufficiency at her death. Madame Bathurst had a very large jointure, and could well afford to save up every year for Caroline, which she had done ever since she had taken charge of her, at seven years old. At the time that I have been speaking of, it appeared that the uncle of the father of Caroline died, and notwithstanding his threat bequeathed to his nephew the whole of his large property, by which he became even more wealthy than Madame Bathurst. The consequence was that Madame Bathurst received a letter announcing this intelligence, and winding up with a notification that Caroline was to be immediately taken back to her father's house. In the letter--which I read, for Madame Bathurst, who was in great distress, handed it to me, observing at the time, "This concerns you as well as me and Caroline." --There were not any expressions of gratitude for the great kindness which they had received from her hands; it was an unkind, unfeeling letter, and I was disgusted when I had gone through it.
"Is this all the return that you receive for what you have done for your sister and her husband?" observed I; "the more I see of this world, the more I hate it."
"It is indeed most selfish and unfeeling," replied Madame Bathurst: "Caroline has been so long with me, that I have looked upon her as my own child, and now she is to be torn from me, without the least consideration of my feelings. It is very cruel and very ungrateful."
Madame Bathurst, after this remark, rose and left the room. As I afterwards discovered, she replied to the letter, pointing out how long she had had charge of Caroline, and now considered her as her daughter, and requesting her parents to allow her to return to her after she paid them a visit; pointing out how unkind and ungrateful it was of them to take her away, now that their circumstances were altered, and how very painful it would be for her if they did so. To this appeal on her part she received a most insulting answer, in which she was requested to make out an account of the expenses incurred for the education and maintenance of her niece, that they might be reimbursed forthwith. On this occasion, for the first time, I saw Madame Bathurst really angry, and certainly not without good cause. She sent for Caroline, who as yet had only been informed that her father and mother had succeeded to a large inheritance, and put the letter into her hands with a copy of her own, requesting that she would read them, watching her countenance with the severest scrutiny as she complied with the injunction, as if to discover if she inherited the ingratitude of her parents. Such was not the case, for poor Caroline sunk, covered her face with her hands, and then rushing to Madame Bathurst, fell on her knees before her, and burying her face in her aunt's lap, cried as if her heart would break. After a few minutes, Madame Bathurst raised up her niece, and kissed her, saying, "I am satisfied; my dear Caroline at least is not ungrateful. Now, my child, you must do your duty and obey your parents--as we must part, the sooner we part the better. Valerie, will you see that everything is ready for Caroline's going away to-morrow morning?"
Saying this, Madame Bathurst disengaged herself from Caroline and quitted the room. It was a long while before I could reason the poor girl into anything like composure. I could not help agreeing with her that the conduct of her parents was most ungracious towards Madame Bathurst, but at the same time I pointed out to her how natural it was, that having but one daughter, her parents should wish for her return to their own care; that the resigning her to Madame Bathurst must have been a severe trial to them, and that it could only be from consulting her advantage that they could have consented to it; but notwithstanding all that I could urge, Caroline's indignation against her parents, of whom she knew but little, was very great, and her dislike to return home as strong. However, there was no help for it as Madame Bathurst had decided that she was to go, and I persuaded her to come with me and prepare her clothes ready for packing up. We did not meet at dinner that day, Madame Bathurst sending an excuse that she was too much out of spirits to leave her room; Caroline and I were equally so, and we remained where we were. In the evening, Madame Bathurst sent for me; I found her in bed and looking very ill.
"Valerie," said she, "I wish Caroline to start early to-morrow morning, that, as you accompany her, you may be able to return here before night. I shall not be able to see her to-morrow morning. I must, therefore, bid her farewell this night; bring her here, and the sooner it is over the better."
I went for Caroline, and a bitter parting it was; I hardly know which of the three cried the most, but after half-an-hour Madame Bathurst signed to me to take Caroline away, which I did, and afterwards put her into bed as soon as I could. Having remained with her till she had sobbed herself to sleep, I went down to the servants and gave Madame Bathurst's directions for the next morning, and then retired myself. Worn out as I was with such a day of anxiety and distress, I could not close my eyes for some time, reflecting upon what might be the issue of this breaking up of the connection to myself. I had been engaged as governess to Caroline, and I could not well expect that Madame Bathurst would wish to retain me now that Caroline was removed from her care; neither, indeed, would my pride permit me to accept such an offer if made, as I should become a mere dependent on her bounty, with no services to offer in return. That I must leave Madame Bathurst was certain, and that I must look out for some other situation. I took it for granted that Madame Bathurst would not permit me to leave immediately, but allow me a short time to look out for a suitable situation; but whether I should decide upon taking the situation of a governess after what Madame Bathurst had told me, or what situation I should seek was the cause of much thought and indecision. At last I could make no mind up, and decided that I would trust to Providence, and having so far come to a conclusion, I fell asleep.
After an early breakfast, I set off in the carriage with Caroline in charge, and before noon, we arrived at her father's house. The servants dressed in very gaudy liveries, ushered us into the library, where we found her father and mother waiting to receive her. A first glance satisfied me that they were swelled with pride at the change in their fortunes. Caroline was not received with great cordiality. There was a stiffness on the part of her parents which would have checked any feelings of affection on her part, had she been inclined to show them, which I was sorry to perceive she did not; indeed, her feelings appeared rather those of resentment for the conduct they had shown to her aunt. After the salutation of meeting, Caroline sat down on a sofa, opposite to her father and mother. I remained standing, and when the pause took place I said, "I was deputed by Madame Bathurst to convey your daughter safe to you, and as soon as the horses are baited, I am to return home."
"Who may this person be, Caroline?" demanded her mother.
"I must apologise to Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf for not having introduced her," replied Caroline, blushing with annoyance. "She is a very dear friend of mine and my aunt's."
"Latterly I have been the governess of your daughter, madame," said I. "Oh!" said the lady. "Will somebody ring the bell?"
I presumed by this somebody it was intended to convey to me that I was to perform that office; but as they had not had the common civility to ask me to take a chair I took no notice.
"Will you ring the bell, my dear," said the lady to her husband.
The gentleman complied; and when the servant entered the lady said, "Show the governess into the small breakfast-room, and tell the coachman to put up his horses and bait them. He must be round again in an hour."
The man stood with the door in his hand waiting for me to follow him. Not a little indignant, I turned to Caroline, and said to her, "I had better wish you good-bye now."
"Yes, indeed, Valerie, you had," replied Caroline rising from the sofa, "for I am ashamed to look you in the face, after such treatment as you have received. Will you," continued she, with great spirit, "accept my apology for the behaviour of my parents towards one who is of a much higher family, and much higher breeding than they can boast of."
"Hush! Caroline," said I; "recollect--" "I do recollect, and shall continue to recollect, the insults to my dear aunt in the first place, and now the insult to you, my dear Valerie," retorted Caroline, who then put her arms round my neck and kissed me several times; having so done she darted from me, threw herself on the sofa and burst into tears, while I hastened to follow the servant, to escape from such an unpleasant scene.
I was shown into a small room, where I remained some little time, thinking how true were Madame Bathurst's observations as to what I might expect in the position of a governess, when a servant came in, and in a condescending manner asked if I did not wish to have some lunch. I replied in the negative.
"You can have a glass of wine if you choose," continued he.
"You may leave the room," I replied, calmly, "I wish for nothing."
The man went out, slamming the door, and I was again alone. I reflected upon the scene I had just been witness to, and I own that I was surprised at Caroline's conduct, who had always appeared so mild and amiable; but the fact appeared to me to be, that when parents give up their children to the care of another, they surrender at the same time all those feelings which should exist between parent and child to the party who undertakes the charge of them. The respect and love which by nature belonged to them were now transferred to her aunt, to whom Caroline was always obedient and attached. The insult to me was resented by Caroline as if it had been offered by perfect strangers to her; Caroline not feeling herself at all checked by filial duty. There appeared to be little prospect of any addition to the happiness of either of the parties by the return of Caroline to her father's house, and how it would end I could not surmise.
At last my reverie was interrupted by the servant coming in and telling me that the carriage was at the door. I immediately followed him and set off on my return, during which I resolved that I would not leave my own expectations any longer in doubt, but come immediately to an understanding with Madame Bathurst.
As it was late when I arrived, I did not see Madame Bathurst that evening, but she came down to breakfast the next morning, when I informed her of all that had occurred at her sister's, and the unceremonious manner in which I had been treated, and having done so, I then observed, that of course I did not expect to remain with her now that Caroline was gone, and begged she would give me her advice and assistance in procuring another situation.
"At all events, do not be in a hurry, Valerie," replied Madame Bathurst; "I trust you will not refuse to be my visitor until you are suited to your liking. I will not ask you to stay with me, as I know you will refuse, and I do not pay unnecessary compliments. And yet, why should you not? I know you well, and am attached to you. I shall feel the loss of Caroline severely. Why not remain?"
"Many thanks, my dear madame," replied I, "for your kind wishes and expressions, but you know my resolution has been made to earn my own livelihood."
"I know that; but a resolution may be altered when circumstances demand it. Madame d'Albret was no more related to you than I am, and yet you accepted her offer."
"I did, madame," replied I, bitterly, "and you know the result. I would have staked my life upon her sincerity and affection, and yet how was I cast away? With every feeling of gratitude, my dear madame, I cannot accept your offer, for I never will put myself in a similar position a second time."
"You do not pay me a very great compliment by that remark, Valerie," said Madame Bathurst somewhat harshly.
"Indeed, my dear madame, I should be sorry if anything I have said should annoy one who has been so kind and considerate to me as you have been; but I know that I should be miserable and unhappy if not independent, and I never can risk a second shock, like that I received from the conduct of Madame d'Albret. I entreat as a favour that you will not continue the subject."
"Well, Valerie, I will not; perhaps had I been treated as you have been, I might feel the same. What then do you propose to seek? Is it the situation of a governess?"
"Anything in preference, my dear madame; I was sufficiently humiliated yesterday. I should prefer that of a lady's-maid, although I hope not to descend quite so low."
"There are so few situations for a person educated as you have been. There is a companion for a lady, which I believe is anything but pleasant. There is that of amanuensis, but it is seldom required. You might certainly go out and give lessons in music, and singing, and in the French language; but there are so many French masters and mistresses, and for music and singing a master is always preferred, why, I do not exactly know. However, I think something may be done when we go to town, but till then all that we can do is to talk the matter over. Perhaps something may turn up when we least expect it. I will, however, now that I know your decision, make every inquiry, and give you all the assistance in my power."
I expressed my thanks and gratitude, and the conversation ended.
I did not, however, trust altogether to Madame Bathurst. I wrote a letter to my acquaintance, Madame Gironac, in Leicester Square, stating what had occurred, and what my ideas and intentions were, requesting her to give me her advice and opinion as to the best plan I could follow. In a few days I received from her the following reply, which I insert as characteristic of the party.
"My dear Mademoiselle, "Your letter gave great pain to me; and as for my husband, he was quite furious, and declared that he would not live a minute longer in such an abominable world. However, to oblige me, he has not yet made away with himself. It really is dreadful to see a young lady-like you in such an awkward position, from the weakness and follies of others; but we must submit to what the _bon Dieu_ disposes, and when things come to the worst, hope that a change will take place, as any change must then be for the better. I have consulted my husband about what you propose, but he negatives everything. He says you are too good for a governess; would be thrown away as a companion to a lady; that you must not be seen in a cab, going about giving lessons--in fact, he will listen to nothing except that you must come and live with us. I can only say, my dear mademoiselle, that I join in the latter request, and that it would make me perfectly happy, and that the honour and pleasure of your company would be more than a compensation. Still, it is but a poor home to offer to you, but at all events one that you might condescend to take advantage of rather than remain to be mortified by those who think, as they do in this country, that money is everything. Do, pray, then come to us, if you feel inclined, and then we can talk over things quietly, and wait upon Providence. My husband has now hardly time to eat his dinner, he has so many pupils of one kind and the other; and I am happy to say that I have also most of my time occupied; and if it pleases God to continue us in good health, we hope to be able to put by a little money for a rainy day, as they say in this country, where it is always raining. Assure yourself, my dear mademoiselle, of our love, respect, consideration.
"Annette Gironac."
We went to town earlier than usual, Madame Bathurst feeling lonely in the country after the departure of Caroline, from whom she had not received a line since her quitting her. This of course was to be ascribed to her parents, who thus returned all Madame Bathurst's kindness, as soon as they no longer required her assistance. I know not how it was, but gradually a sort of coolness had arisen between Madame Bathurst and me. Whether it was that she was displeased at my refusing her offer to remain with her, or thought proper to wean herself from one who was so soon to quit her, I know not. I did nothing to give offence: I was more quiet and subdued, perhaps, than before, because I had become more reflective; but I could not accuse myself of any fault or error, that I was aware of.
We had been about a week in London, when an old acquaintance of Madame Bathurst's, who had just returned from Italy, where she had resided for two years, called upon her. Her name was Lady R--: she was the widow of a baronet, not in very opulent circumstances, although with a sufficiency to hire, if not keep, a carriage. She was, moreover, an authoress, having written two or three novels, not very good I was told, but still, emanating from the pen of a lady, they were well paid. She was very eccentric, and rather amusing. When a woman says everything that comes into her head, out of a great deal of chaff there will drop some few grains of wheat; and so sometimes, more by accident than otherwise, she said what is called a good thing. Now, a good thing is repeated, while all the nonsense is forgotten; and Lady R--was considered a wit as well as an authoress. She was a tall woman; I should think very near, if not past, fifty years of age, with the remains of beauty in her countenance: apparently, she was strong and healthy, as she walked with a spring, and was lively and quick in all her motions.
"Cara mia," exclaimed she, as she was announced, running up to Madame Bathurst, "and how have you been all this while--my biennial absence in the land of poetry--in which I have laid up such stores of beauteous images and ideas in my mind, that I shall make them last me during my life. Have you read my last? It's surprising, every one says, and proves the effect of climate on composition--quite new--an Italian story of thrilling interest. And you have something new here, I perceive," continued she, turning to me; "not only new, but beautiful--introduce me: I am an enthusiast in the sublime and beautiful. Is she any relation? No relation! --Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf! --what a pretty name for a novel. I should like to borrow it, and paint the original from nature. Will you sit for your likeness?"
That Lady R--allowed no one to talk but herself was evident. Madame Bathurst, who knew her well, allowed her to run on; and I, not much valuing the dose of flattery so unceremoniously bestowed upon me, took an opportunity, when Lady R--turned round to whisper something to Madame Bathurst, to make my escape from the room. The following morning, Madame Bathurst said to me, "Valerie, Lady R--was very much pleased with your appearance when she made her visit yesterday; and as she told me, after you had left the room, that she wanted just such a person as yourself as a companion and amanuensis, I thought it right to say that you were looking out for something of the kind, and that you were remaining under my protection until you could procure it. We had more conversation on the subject, and she said before she left, that she would write to me on the subject. Her note has just been put into my hands; you can read it. She offers you a salary of one hundred pounds per annum, all your expenses paid, except your dress. As far as salary goes, I think her terms liberal. And now, as to Lady R--. My opinion of her is in few words. You saw her yesterday, and I never knew her otherwise; never more or less rational. She is an oddity; but she is good-natured; and, I am told, more liberal and charitable than many others who can afford it better. Now you know all I can tell you about her, and you must decide for yourself. Here is her note; you need not give me an answer till to-morrow morning."
I made one or two observations, and then left the room. The note was very kind, certainly, but it was as flighty as her manners. I hastened to my own bedchamber, and sat down to reflect. I felt that I was not exactly comfortable with Madame Bathurst, and certainly was anxious to be independent; but still, I could not exactly make up my mind to accept the offer of Lady R--. She was so different from those I had been accustomed to live with. I was still deliberating, when Mrs Bathurst's maid came into my room, telling me it was time to change my dress for dinner. As she was assisting me, she said, "And so, Miss Chatenoeuf, you are about to quit us, I find. I am so sorry--first, Miss Caroline-- now you. I hoped you would stay with us, and I should soon have become an expert milliner under your directions."
"Who told you, Mason, that I was going to leave you?"
"Mrs Bathurst told me so, and not a quarter of an hour ago," replied the woman.
"Well," replied I, "she told you truly, Mason; such is the case;" for this information of Mason's decided me upon accepting the offer of Lady R--; for Madame Bathurst, it appeared to me, had certainly decided it for me, by making such a premature communication to her servant.
The reader may suppose, that when I made this discovery, I felt little pain at the idea of parting with Madame Bathurst; and the following morning I coolly announced my intention of accepting the offer of Lady R--. Madame Bathurst looked at me very hard, as if surprised at not hearing from me any regrets at leaving her, and expressions of gratitude for all favours; but I could not express what I really did not feel at the time. Afterwards I thought that I had been wrong, as, to a certain degree, I was under obligations to her; not that I think, had she been ever so inclined to get rid of me, she could have well turned me out of the house, although I had been foisted upon her in such a way by Madame d'Albret. Still I was under obligations to her, and should have expressed myself so, if it had not been for the communication made to me by the maid, which proved that her expressions to me were not sincere.
"Well, then," replied Madame Bathurst, at last, "I will write to Lady R--immediately. I presume I may say that you are at her commands as soon as she can receive you."
"Yes, madame, at an hour's notice," replied I. "You really appear as if you were anxious to quit me, mademoiselle," said Madame Bathurst, biting her lip.
"I certainly am," replied I. "You informed Mason that I was to go, previous to having my decision; and therefore I gladly withdraw myself from the company of those who have made up their minds to get rid of me."
"I certainly did tell Mason that there was a prospect of your quitting me," replied Madame Bathurst, colouring up; "but--however, it's no use entering into an investigation of what I really said, or catechising my maid: one thing is clear, we have been mutually disappointed with each other, and therefore it perhaps is better that we should part. I believe that I am in your debt, Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf. Have you reckoned how long you have been with me?"
"I have reckoned the time that I instructed Caroline." " _Miss_ Caroline, if you please, Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf."
"Well, then, madame, Miss Caroline, since you wish it; it is five months and two weeks," replied I, rising from my chair.
"You may sit down, mademoiselle, while I make the calculation," said Madame Bathurst.
"It is too great an honour for a Chatenoeuf to sit in your presence," replied I, quietly, remaining on my feet.
Madame Bathurst made no reply, but calculating the sum of money due to me on a sheet of note paper, handed it to me and begged me to see if it was correct.
"I have no doubt of it, madame," replied I, looking at it and then laying it down on the desk before her.
Madame Bathurst put the sum in bank-notes and sovereigns down before me, and said, "Do me the favour to count it, and see if it is correct;" and then rising, said, "your wishes will be complied with by my servants as usual, mademoiselle, as long as you remain under my roof. I wish you farewell."
The last words were accompanied with a low courtesy, and she then quitted the room.
I replied with a salute as formal as her own, and mortified at the treatment I had received, I sat down, and a few tears escaped, but my pride came to my assistance, and I soon recovered myself.
This scene was, however, another proof to me of what I must in future expect; and it had the effect of hardening me and blunting my feelings. " _Miss_ Caroline!" said I to myself, "when the _protegee_ of Madame d'Albret, and the visitor of Madame Bathurst, it was Caroline and dear Valerie. She might have allowed me to quit her without pointing out to me in so marked a manner how our relative positions have been changed. However, I thank you, Madame Bathurst; what obligations I may have been under to you are now cancelled, and I need not regret the weight of them as I might have done. Ah! Madame d'Albret, you took me from my home that I might not be buffeted by my mother, and now you have abandoned me to be buffeted by the whole world; well, be it so, I will fight my way, nevertheless;" and as I left the room to pack up my trunks, I felt my courage rise from this very attempt on the part of Madame Bathurst to humiliate me.
The letter of Madame Bathurst to Lady R--, brought the latter to the house that afternoon. I was up in my room when I was informed by the servants that she waited below to see me. When I entered she was alone, Madame Bathurst having gone out in her carriage, and as soon as she saw me, she rushed into my arms almost, taking me by both hands, and saying how happy she was that she had acquired such a treasure as a friend and companion; wished to know whether I could not come with her immediately, as her carriage was at the door, and went on for nearly ten minutes without a check, asking fifty questions, and not permitting me to answer one. At last I was able to reply to the most important, which was, that I would be happy to come to her on the following morning, if she would send for me. She insisted that I should come to breakfast, and I acceded to her request, as Madame Bathurst, who was not an early riser, would not be down at the hour mentioned, and I wished to leave the house without seeing her again, after our formal adieux. Having arranged this, she appeared to be in a great hurry to be off, and skipped out of the room before I could ring the bell to order her carriage.
I completed my preparations for departure, and had some dinner brought into my own room, sending down an excuse for not joining Madame Bathurst, stating that I had a bad headache, which was true enough. The next morning, long before Madame Bathurst was up, I was driven to Baker Street, Portman Square, where Lady R--resided. I found her ladyship in her _robe de chambre_.
"Well," said she, "this is delightful. My wishes are crowned at last. I have passed a night of uncertainty, rolling about between hopes and fears, as people always do when they have so much at stake. Let me show you your room."
I found a very well-furnished apartment prepared for me, looking out upon the street.
"See, you have a front view," she said, "not extensive, but still you can rise early and moralise. You can see London wake up. First, the drowsy policeman; the tired cabman and more tired horse after a night of motion, seeking the stable and repose; the housemaid, half awake, dragging on her clothes; the kitchen-wench washing from the steps the dirt of yesterday; the milkmaid's falsetto and the dustman's bass; the baker's boys, the early post delivery, and thus from units to tens, and from tens to tens of thousands, and London stirs again. There is poetry in that, and now let us down to breakfast. I always breakfast in my _robe de chambre_; you must do the same, that is if you like the fashion. Where's the page?"
Lady R--rang the bell of the sitting-room, which she called a boudoir, and a lad of fourteen, in a blue blouse and leather belt made his appearance.
"Lionel, breakfast in a moment. Vanish, before the leviathan can swim a league--bring up hot rolls and butter."
"Yes, my lady," replied the lad, pertly, "I'll be up again before the chap can swim a hundred yards," and he shot out of the room in a second.
"There's virtue in that boy, he has wit enough for a prime minister or a clown at Astley's. I picked him up by a mere chance; he is one of my models."
What her ladyship meant by models I could not imagine, but I soon found out; the return of the lad with breakfast put an end to her talking for the time being. When we had finished, the page was again summoned.
"Now then, Lionel, do your spiriting gently."
"I know," said the boy, "I'm not to smash the cups and saucers as I did yesterday."
The lad collected the breakfast things on a tray with great rapidity, and disappeared with such a sudden turn round, that I fully anticipated he would add to yesterday's damage before he was down the stairs.
As soon as he was gone, Lady R--coming up to me, said, "And now let me have a good look at you, and then I shall be content for some time. Yes, I was not mistaken, you are a perfect model, and must be my future heroine. Yours is just the beauty that I required. There, that will do, now sit down and let us converse. I often have wanted a companion. As for an amanuensis that is only a nominal task, I write as fast as most people, and I cannot follow my ideas, let me scribble for life, as I may say; and as for my writing being illegible, that's the compositor's concern not mine. It's his business to make it out, and therefore I never have mine copied. But I wanted a beautiful companion and friend--I wouldn't have an ugly one for the world, she would do me as much harm as you will do me service."
"I am sure I hardly know how I am to do you service, Lady R--, if I do not write for you."
"I daresay not, but when I tell you that I am more than repaid by looking at you when I feel inclined, you will acknowledge that you do me service; but we will not enter into metaphysics or psychological questions just now, it shall all be explained by-and-bye. And now the first service I ask of you is at once to leap over the dull fortnight of gradual approaching, which at last ends in intimacy. I have ever held it to be a proof of the suspiciousness of our natures and unworthy. You must allow me to call you Valerie at once, and I must entreat of you to call me Sempronia. Your name is delightful, fit for a first-class heroine. My real baptismal name is one that I have abjured, and if my godfathers and godmothers did give it to me, I throw it back to them with contempt. What do you think it was? --Barbara. Barbara, indeed. `My mother had a _maid_ called Barbara,' Shakespeare says, and such a name should be associated with brooms and yellow soap. Call me Sempronia from this time forward, and you confer a favour on me. And now I must write a little, so take a book and a seat on the sofa, for, at the opening of this chapter my heroine is exactly in that position, `in maiden meditation, fancy free.'"
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{
"id": "23952"
}
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7
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Lady R--sat down before her writing materials, and I took my seat on the sofa, as she had requested, and was soon occupied with my reading. I perceived that, as she wrote, her ladyship continually took her eyes off her paper, and fixed them upon me. I presumed that she was describing me, and I was correct in my idea, for, in about half-an-hour, she threw down her pen, and cried: "There, I am indebted to you for the best picture of a heroine that I ever drew! Listen."
And her ladyship read to me a most flattering description of my sweet person, couched in very high-flown language.
"I think, Lady R--," said I, when she had finished, "that you are more indebted to your own imagination than to reality in drawing my portrait."
"Not so, not so, my dear Valerie. I may have done you justice, but certainly not more. There is nothing like having the living subject to write from. It is the same as painting or drawing, it only can be true when drawn from nature; in fact, what is writing but painting with the pen?"
As she concluded her sentence, the page, Lionel, came in with a letter on a waiter, and hearing her observation, as he handed the letter, he impudently observed: "Here's somebody been painting your name on the outside of this paper; and as there's 7 pence to pay, I think it's rather dear for such a smudge."
"You must not judge from outside appearance, Lionel," replied Lady R--: "the contents may be worth pounds. It is not prepossessing, I grant, in its superscription, but may, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wear a precious jewel in its head. That was a vulgar error of former days, Lionel, which Shakespeare has taken advantage of."
"Yes, that chap painted with a pen at a fine rate," replied the boy, as Lady R--opened the letter and read it.
"You may go, Lionel," said she, putting the letter down.
"I just wanted to know, now that you've opened your toad, if you have found the jewel, or whether it's a vulgar error?"
"It's a vulgar letter, at all events, Lionel," replied her ladyship, "and concerns you; it is from the shoemaker at Brighton, who requests me to pay him eighteen shillings for a pair of boots ordered by you, and not paid for."
"Well, my lady, I do owe for the boots, true enough; but it's impossible for me always to recollect my own affairs, I am so busy with looking after yours."
"Well, but now you are reminded of them, Lionel, you had better give me the money, and I will send it to him."
At this moment Lady R--stooped from her chair to pick up her handkerchief. There were some sovereigns lying on the desk, and the lad, winking his eye at me, took one up, and, as Lady R--rose up, held it out to her in silence.
"That's right, Lionel," said Lady R--; "I like honesty."
"Yes, madame," replied the impudent rogue, very demurely; "like most people who tell their own stories, I was born of honest, but poor parents."
"I believe your parents were honest; and now, Lionel, to reward you, I shall pay for your boots, and you may keep your sovereign."
"Thank your ladyship," replied the lad. "I forgot to say that the cook is outside for orders."
Lady R--rose, and went out of the room; and Mr Lionel, laughing at me, put the sovereign down with the others.
"Now, I call that real honesty. You saw me borrow it, and now you see me pay it."
"Yes; but suppose her ladyship had not given you the sovereign, how would it have been then?" said I. "I should have paid her very honestly," replied he. "If I wished to cheat her, or rob her, I might do so all day long. She leaves her money about everywhere, and never knows what she has; besides, if I wanted to steal, I should not do so with those bright eyes of yours looking at me all the time."
"You are a very saucy boy," replied I, more amused than angry.
"It's all from reading, and it's not my fault, for her ladyship makes me read, and I never yet read any book about old times in which the pages were not saucy; but I've no time to talk just now--my spoons are not clean yet," so saying he quitted the room.
I did not know whether I ought to inform her ladyship of this freak of her page's; but, as the money was returned, I thought I had better say nothing for the present. I soon found out that the lad was correct in asserting that she was careless of her money, and that, if he chose, he might pilfer without chance of discovery; and, moreover, that he really was a good and honest lad, only full of mischief and very impudent; owing, however, to Lady R--'s treatment of him, for she rather encouraged his impudence than otherwise. He was certainly a very clever, witty boy, and a very quick servant; so quick, indeed, at his work, that it almost appeared as if he never had anything to do, and he had plenty of time for reading, which he was very fond of.
Lady R--returned, and resumed her writing.
"You sing, do you not? I think Mrs Bathurst told me you were very harmonious. Now, Valerie, do me a favour: I want to hear a voice carolling some melodious ditty. I shall describe it so much better, if I really heard you sing. I do like reality; of course, you must sing without music, for my country girl cannot be crossing the mead with a piano in one hand, and a pail of water in the other."
"I should think not," replied I, laughing; "but am not I too near?"
"Yes, rather; I should prefer it on the stairs, or on the first floor landing, but I could not be so rude as to send you out of the room."
"But I will go without sending," replied I; and I did so, and having arrived at my station, I sang a little French refrain, which I thought would answer her ladyship's purpose. On my return her ladyship was writing furiously, and did not appear to notice my entrance. I took my seat quietly, and in about ten minutes she again threw down the pen, exclaiming: "I never wrote so effective a chapter! Valerie, you are more precious to me than fine gold; and as Shylock said of his ring, `I would not change thee for a wilderness of monkeys.' I make the quotation as expressive of your value. It was so kind-hearted of you to comply with my wish. You don't know an author's feelings. You have no idea how our self-love is flattered by success, and that we value a good passage in our works more than anything else in existence. Now, you have so kindly administered to my ruling passion twice in one morning, that I love you exceedingly. I daresay you think me very odd, and people say that I am so; I may ask you to do many odd things for me, but I shall never ask you to do what a lady may not do, or what would be incorrect for you to do, or for me to propose; that you may depend upon, Valerie: and now I close my manuscript for the present, being well satisfied with the day's work."
Lady R--rang the bell, and on Lionel making his appearance, she desired him to take away her writing materials, put her money into her purse--if he knew where the purse was--and then asked him what were her engagements for the evening.
"I know _we_ have an engagement," replied the boy; "I can't recollect it, but I shall find it in the drawing-room."
He went out, and in a minute returned.
"I have found it, my lady," said he. "Here's the ticket; Mrs Allwood, at home, nine o'clock."
"Mrs Allwood, my dear Valerie, is a literary lady, and her parties are very agreeable."
The page looked at me from behind Lady R--'s chair, and shook his head in dissent.
"Shall we go?" continued Lady R--.
"If you please, madame," replied I. "Well, then, we will take a drive before dinner, and the evening after dinner shall be dedicated to the feast of reason and the flow of soul. Dear me, how I have inked my fingers, I must go upstairs and wash them."
As soon as Lady R--left the room, Master Lionel began.
"Feast of reason and flow of soul; I don't like such entertainment. Give me a good supper and plenty of champagne."
"Why, what matter can it make to you?" said I, laughing.
"It matters a good deal. I object to literary parties," replied he. "In the first place, for one respectable carriage driving up to the door, there are twenty cabs and jarveys, so that the company isn't so good; and then at parties, when there is a good supper, I get my share of it in the kitchen. You don't think we are idle down below. I have been to Mrs Allwood's twice, and there's no supper, nothing but feast of reason, which remains upstairs, and they're welcome to my share of it. As for the drink, it's negus and cherry-water; nothing else, and if the flow of soul is not better than such stuff, they may have my share of that also. No music, no dancing, nothing but buzz, buzz, buzz. Won't you feel it stupid!"
"Why, one would think you had been upstairs instead of down, Lionel."
"Of course I am. They press all who have liveries into the service, and I hand the cakes about rather than kick for hours at the legs of the kitchen-table. I hear all that's said just as well as the company, and I've often thought I could have given a better answer than I've heard some of your great literaries. When I hand the cakes to-night, take them I point out to you: they'll be the best."
"Why, how can you tell?"
"Because I try them all before I come in the room."
"You ought to be ashamed to acknowledge it."
"All comes of reading, miss," replied he. "I read that in former times great people, kings and princes and so on, always had their victuals tasted first, lest there should be poison in them: so I taste upon that principle, and I have been half-poisoned sometimes at these cheap parties, but I'm getting cunning, and when I meet a suspicious-looking piece of pastry, I leave it for the company; but I can't wait to talk any longer, miss, I must give coachman his orders."
"I never asked you to talk, Mr Lionel," said I. "No, you didn't, but still I know you like to hear me: you can't deny that. Now to use my lady's style, I am to tell the coachman to put a girdle round the park in forty minutes;" so saying, the lad vanished, as he usually did, in a second.
The lad was certainly right when he said that I did like to hear him talk, for he amused me so much, that I forgave his impudence and familiarity. Shortly afterwards, we went out in the carriage, and having driven two or three times round the park, returned home to dinner. At ten o'clock, we went to Mrs Allwood's party. I was introduced to a great many great literary stars, whom I had never before heard of; but the person who attracted the most attention was a Russian Count, who had had his ears and nose cut off by the Turks. It certainly did not add to his beauty, however it might have to his interest. However, Lionel was right. It was a very stupid party to me: all talking at once and constantly on the move to find fresh listeners; it _was_ all buzz, buzz, buzz, and I was glad when the carriage was announced. Such were the events of the first day which I passed under the roof of Lady R--.
Indeed, this first day may be taken as a sample of most others, and a month passed rapidly away. Each day, however, was marked with some peculiar eccentricity on her part, but these diverted me. I was often requested to do strange things in my position as a model, but with all her oddities Lady R--was a gentlewoman in manner and in feeling, and what I should certainly have refused to anyone else, I did for her without reluctance. I now called her Sempronia, as she requested, and, moreover, I became very intimate with Master Lionel, who would be intimate, whether or no, and who, like Lady R--, was a source of great amusement. At times, when I was alone and communed with myself, I could not help surveying my peculiar position. I was engaged at a large salary--for what? to look handsome, to put myself in attitudes, and to do nothing. This was not flattering to my talents (such as I had), but still I was treated with kindness and confidence; was the companion of her ladyship; was introduced and taken to all the parties to which she was asked, and never made to feel my dependence. I had already imbibed a strong friendship for Lady R--, and I was, therefore, content to remain. One morning she said to me, "My dear Valerie, do me the favour to tighten the laces of my stays."
She was, as usual, writing in her dressing-gown.
"Oh, tighter yet; as tight as you can draw them. That will do nicely."
"Why you can hardly breathe, Sempronia."
"But I can write, my dear child, and, as I before observed, the mind and the body influence each other. I am about to write a strictly moral dialogue, and I never could do it unless I am strait-laced. Now I feel fit for the wife of Cato and of Rome."
A few days afterwards she amused me still more. After writing about half-an-hour, she threw down her pen-- "I never can do it; come upstairs, my dear Valerie, and help me off with my stays. I must be _a l'abandon_."
I followed her, and having removed these impediments we returned to the boudoir.
"There," said she, sitting down, "I think I shall manage it now: I feel as if I could."
"Manage what?" inquired I. "My dear, I am about to write a love scene, very warm and impassioned, and I could not do it, confined as I was. Now that I am loose, I can give loose to the reins of my imagination, and delineate with the arrow of Cupid's self. My heroine is reclining, with her hand on her cheek; put yourself in that attitude, my dear dear Valerie, as if you were meditating upon the prolonged absence of one dear to you. Exactly-- beautiful--true to nature--but I forgot, a page enters--don't move, I'll ring the bell."
Lionel answered quickly, as usual.
"Here, Lionel, I want you to play the page."
"I've no time for play, my lady; I'm page in earnest. There's all the knives to clean."
"Never mind the knives just now. Observe, Lionel, you are supposed to be sent a message to that lovely girl, who is sitting absorbed in a soft reverie. You enter her presence unperceived, and are struck with her beauty; you lean against a tree, in a careless but graceful attitude, with your eyes fixed upon her lovely features. Now lean against the door, as I have described, and then I shall be able to write."
I could not help smiling at the absurdity of this scene, the more so as Lionel, just passing his fingers through his hair, and then pulling up his shirt collar, took his position, saying, "Now, Miss Valerie, we'll see who performs best: I think you will be sooner tired of sitting than I shall be of looking at you."
"Excellent, Lionel! --exactly the position that I wished," said Lady R--, scribbling as fast as she could; "that stare of yours is true to nature--Cymon and Iphigenia--a perfect tableau! --don't move, I beg; I only require ten minutes."
I looked up at Master Lionel, and he made such a grimace, that I could hardly keep my countenance, and I did not exactly feel satisfied at thus performing, as it were, with a servant; but still, that servant was Lionel, who was very unlike other servants. In ten minutes, as promised, we were released, much to my satisfaction. Lionel went off to clean his knives, and I took up my book, and really when I perceived the delight of Lady R--, at what she called her success, I no longer felt anything like annoyance at having complied with her wishes.
One morning, when Lady R--had walked out, and the page Lionel was in the room, I entered into conversation with him, and asked how it was that he had been so much better educated than were lads in his position in general?
"That's a question that I often ask myself, Miss Valerie," replied he, "as they say in some autobiographies. The first recollection I have of myself was finding myself walking two-and-two, in a suit of pepper-and-salt, along with about twenty other very little boys, at a cheap preparatory school, kept by the Misses Wiggins. There I remained--nobody came to see me: other boys talked of their papas and mammas--I had none to talk about: they went home at the holidays, and brought back toys and plum-cakes; I enjoyed my holidays alone, scraping holes in the gravel, for want of better employment, between my meals, and perhaps not opening my mouth, or hearing the sound of my own voice, more than three or four times in the twenty-four hours. As I had plenty of time for reflection during the vacations, as I grew bigger I began to imagine that somehow or another I must have had a father and mother, like the other boys, and began to make very impertinent (as I was told) inquiries about them. The Misses Wiggins gave me a good wigging, as they call it, for my unwarranted curiosity, pointing out the indelicacy of entering upon such subjects, and thus was my mouth stopped.
"At last I grew up too big for the school, and was not to be managed by two old maids, and I presume it was through their representations that I was at last honoured by a visit from an old housekeeper, a woman above fifty, whom I never saw before. I ventured to put the forbidden questions to her, and she replied that I had neither father nor mother, that they were both dead, and that I was educated by the kindness of a great lady, whose dependents they had been, and that the great lady would call and see me perhaps, or if she did not, would send for me and do something for me. Well, about four years ago (I was then twelve years old, I was told, but my idea is that I am older than they say), I was sent for by Lady R--, and at first I was dressed in a turban and red jacket, and sat on the floor. I was told that I was to be her page, and I liked it very much, as I did nothing but run messages and read books, which I was very fond of; and Lady R--took some pains with me; but as I grew bigger, so did I fall off from my high estate, and by degrees descended from the drawing-room to the kitchen.
"My finery was not renewed; at first I had a plain suit and did my work under the footman, and two years ago, when the footman was sent away, rather than be under the orders of another, I volunteered to do the work, which I have done ever since, and now receive high wages, and wear sugar-loaf buttons, as you perceive. Now, Miss Valerie, that's all I know of _myself_; but I suspect that Lady R--knows more; still it may be that what the old woman told me was correct, and that I was the child of one of her favourite dependents, and was educated by her in the manner that I was, for you know how many odd things she does."
"What is your other name, Lionel?"
"Bedingfield, I am told, is my name," replied he.
"Have you ever spoken to Lady R--," inquired I, "relative to your parents?"
"I once did; but she said they were Sir Richard's people, not hers (that is, her father's, the late baronet's), and that she knew nothing about them, except that my father was a steward or bailiff to him in the country, and that he had left directions that she should do something for me. Her ladyship did not appear to be inclined to talk about them much, and sent me away as soon as she had told me what I now repeat to you; however, I have found out something since that--but there's her ladyship's knock"--so saying, Lionel vanished.
Soon after her ladyship's return, Madame Gironac, who had called upon me two or three times, was announced. I went out of the room, and when I met her in the dining-parlour, she told me that she had brought some of her imitations of flowers on wax, to show them to her ladyship. I immediately went up, and asked Lady R--if she would like to see them, to which proposal she assented. When Madame Gironac displayed her performances, which were very natural and beautiful, her ladyship was delighted, and purchased several of them, after which I again went downstairs, and had a long conversation with my warm-hearted little friend.
"I don't like this situation of yours, mademoiselle," said she, "nor does my husband. Now I was thinking, Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, that it would not be a bad plan if you were to learn how to make those flowers. I will teach you for nothing; and I will teach you what I never teach my pupils, which is how to prepare the wax, and a great many other little secrets which are worth knowing."
"I shall be very glad to learn, my dear madame," replied I, "but I can afford to pay you for your time and trouble, and must insist upon doing so; if not, I will not be your pupil."
"Well, well, we must not quarrel about that. I know that no one likes to be under an obligation, especially one like you--but learn you must-- so let us arrange for the lessons."
I did so; and from that day until I quitted Lady R-- I applied myself so assiduously to the art, that, with the unreserved communications of Madame Gironac, I became a proficient, and could equal her own performances--Madame Gironac declared that I excelled her, because I had more taste--but to return.
After I had parted with Madame Gironac, I went upstairs, and found Lady R--sitting at the table, looking at the purchases she had made.
"My dear Valerie," cried she, "you don't know how you have obliged me by introducing that little woman and her flowers. What a delightful and elegant employment for a heroine to undertake--so lady-like! I have determined that mine shall support herself by imitating flowers in wax. I am just at the point of placing her in embarrassed circumstances, and did not well know how she was to gain her livelihood, but, thanks to you, that is selected, and in a most charming and satisfactory manner. It is so hard to associate poverty with clean hands."
About a fortnight afterwards, after some other conversation, Lady R-- said, "My dear Valerie, I have a surprise for you. The season is nearly over, and, what is more important, my third volume will be complete in a fortnight. Last night as I was wooing Somnus in vain, an idea came into my head. I proposed going to pass the autumn at Brighton, as you know, but last night I made up my mind that we would go over the water; but whether it is to be Havre, or Dieppe, or Paris, or anywhere else I cannot say, but certainly La Belle France. How do you like the idea? I think of making a sort of sentimental journey. We will seek adventures. Shall we go like Rosamond and Celia? I with `gallant curtal axe,' dressed as a youth. Shall we be mad, Valerie? What say you?"
I hardly knew what to say. Lady R--appeared to have a most unusual freak in her head, and to be a little more odd than usual. Now I had no wish to go to France, as I might fall in with people whom I did not wish to see; and moreover, from what I had heard of her ladyship's adventures in Italy, I was convinced that she was one of many, I may say, who fancy that they may do as they please out of their own country, and I certainly did not wish to figure in her train; I therefore replied, "I know my own country well, Lady R--, and there cannot be a less eligible one for a masquerade. We should meet with too many _desagremens_, if unprotected by male society, and our journey would be anything but sentimental. But if you do go to France, does Lionel accompany you?"
"Well, I do not know, but I should like him to learn the language. I think I shall take him. He is a clever boy."
"Very," replied I; "where did you pick him up?"
"He is a son of my late father's"--(`a son of--' exclaimed I)--"tenant, or something I was going to say," continued Lady R--, colouring; "but I could not recollect exactly what the man was. Bailiff, I think. I know nothing about his father, but he was recommended to me by Sir Richard before he died."
"Recommended as a servant?" replied I; "he appears to me to be too good for so menial a position."
"I have made him above his position, Valerie; not that he was recommended as a servant, but recommended to my care. Perhaps some day I may be able to do more for him. You know that we are to go to Lady G--'s ball to-night. It will be a very brilliant affair. She gives but one during the season, and she always does the thing in good style. Bless me, how late it is! The carriage will be round in two minutes; I've a round of visits to pay."
"Will you excuse me? I have promised to take a lesson of Madame Gironac."
"Very true; then I must enter upon my melancholy task alone. What can be so absurd as a rational and immortal soul going about distributing pasteboard!"
We went to Lady G--'s ball, which was very splendid. I had been dancing, for although I was not considered probably good enough among the young aristocrats to be made a partner for life, as a partner in a waltz or quadrille I was rather in request, for the odium of governess had not yet been attached to my name, having never figured in that capacity in the metropolis, where I was unknown. I had but a short time taken my seat by Lady R--, when the latter sprang off in a great hurry, after what I could not tell, and her place was immediately occupied by a lady, who I immediately recognised as a Lady M--, who had, with her daughters, composed a portion of the company at Madame Bathurst's country seat.
"Have you forgotten me, Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf?" said Lady M--, extending her hand.
"No, my lady, I am glad to see you looking so well. I hope your daughters are also quite well?"
"Thank you; they look very well in the evening, but rather pale in the morning. It is a terrible thing a London season, very trying to the constitution, but what can we do? We must be out and be seen everywhere, or we lose caste--so many balls and parties every night. The fact is, that if girls are not married during the three first seasons after they come out, their chance is almost hopeless, for all the freshness and charm of youth, which are so appetising to the other sex, are almost gone. No constitution can withstand the fatigue. I've often compared our young ladies to the carriage horses--they are both worked to death during the season, and then turned out to grass in the country to recover themselves, and come up fresh for the next winter. It really is a horrible life, but girls must be got off. I wish mine were, for what with fatigue and anxiety I'm worn to a shadow. Come, Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, let us go into the next room. It is cooler, and we shall be more quiet; take my arm: perhaps we shall meet the girls."
I accepted her ladyship's invitation, and we went into the next room, and took a seat upon a sofa in a recess.
"Here we can talk without being overheard," said Lady M--; "and now, my dear young lady, I know that you have left Madame Bathurst, but why I do not know. Is it a secret?"
"No, my lady; when Caroline went away I was of no further use, and therefore I did not wish to remain. You may perhaps know that I went to Madame Bathurst's on a visit, and that an unforeseen change of circumstances induced me to remain for some time as instructress to her niece."
"I heard something of that sort, a kind of friendly arrangement, at which Madame Bathurst had good cause to be content. I'm sure I should have been, had I been so fortunate; and now you are residing with Lady R--, may I inquire, without presuming too much, in what capacity you are with Lady R--."
"I went there as an amanuensis, but I have never written a line. Lady R--is pleased to consider me as a companion, and I must say that she has behaved to me with great kindness and consideration."
"I have no doubt of it," replied Lady M--; "but still it appears to me (excuse the liberty I take, or ascribe it to a feeling of good-will), that your position with Lady R--is not quite what those who have an interest in you would wish. Everyone knows how odd she is, to say the least of it, and you may not be perhaps aware, that occasionally her tongue outruns her discretion. In your presence she of course is on her guard, for she is really good-natured, and would not willingly offend anyone or hurt their feelings, but when led away by her desire to shine in company, she is very indiscreet. I have been told that at Mrs W--'s dinner-party the other day, to which you were not invited, on your name being brought up, she called you her charming model, I think was the phrase; and on an explanation being demanded of the term, she said you stood for her heroines, putting yourself in postures and positions while she drew from nature, as she termed it; and that, moreover, on being complimented on the idea, and some of the young men offering, or rather intimating, that they would be delighted to stand or kneel at your feet, as the hero of the tale, she replied that she had no occasion for their services, as she had a page or footman, I forget which, who did that portion of the work. Surely this cannot be true, my dear Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf?"
Oh! how my blood boiled when I heard this.
How far it was true, the reader already knows; but the manner in which it was conveyed by Lady M--, quite horrified me. I coloured up to the temples, and replied, "Lady M--, that Lady R--has very often, when I have been sitting, and she has been writing, told me that she was taking me as a model for her heroine, is very true, but I have considered it as a mere whim of hers, knowing how very eccentric she is. I little thought from my having good-naturedly yielded to her caprice, that I should have been so mortified as I have been by what you have communicated to me. That she must have been indiscreet, is certain, for it was known only to herself and me."
"And the footman."
"Footman, my lady? There is a boy--a sort of page there."
"Exactly; a lad of fifteen or sixteen, a precocious, pert boy, who is much indulged by Lady R--, and, if report says true, is nearer related to her than she is willing to acknowledge. Did you never observe that there is a strong likeness?"
"Good heavens, my lady, you surprise me."
"And, I fear, have also annoyed you; but," continued Lady M--, laying her hand on mine, "I thought it kinder to let you know your peculiar position than to sneer and ridicule, as others do, behind your back. This is a sad world in one respect; if there is any scandal or false report spread against us, it is known to everyone but ourselves. We cannot find, but rarely, a friend who is so really our friend as to tell us of it. The poison is allowed to circulate without the power being given to us of applying an antidote--so hollow is friendship in this world. My dear mademoiselle, I have done otherwise; whether you thank me for it or not, I cannot tell; perhaps not, for those who communicate unpleasant intelligence, are seldom looked kindly upon."
"Lady M--," replied I, "I do thank you most heartily. I do consider that you have acted a friendly part. That I have been dreadfully shocked and mortified, I admit," continued I, wiping away the tears that forced their passage; "but I shall not give an opportunity for future unjust insinuations or remarks, as I have made up my mind that I shall leave Lady R--as soon as possible."
"My dear mademoiselle, I did not venture to make you acquainted with what I knew would, to a person of your sensitive mind, be the cause of your quitting the protection of Lady R--without having considered whether an equivalent could not be offered to you; and I am happy to say that I can offer you a home, and I trust comfort and consideration, if you will accept of them. The fact is, that had I known that you had any idea of quitting Madame Bathurst, I should have made the offer then--now I do so with all sincerity;--but at present you are agitated and annoyed, and I will say no more. If I send the carriage for you to-morrow at two o'clock, will you do me the favour to come and see me? I would call upon you, but of course the presence of Lady R--would be a check to our free converse. Say, my dear, will you come?"
I replied in the affirmative, and Lady M--then rose, and giving me her arm, we walked back to the bench which I had left, where I found Lady R--in a hot dispute with a member of Parliament. I sat down by her unnoticed, and Lady M--having smiled an adieu, I was left to my own reflections, which were anything but agreeable. My head ached dreadfully, and I looked so ill that Lady R--'s warm antagonist perceived it, and pointed it out to her, saying, "Your _protegee_ is not well, I fear, Lady R--."
I replied to Lady R--, "that I had a violent headache, and wished to get home if it were possible."
She immediately consented, and showed great concern. As soon as we were home, I need hardly say, that I hastened to my room.
I sat down and pressed my forehead with my hands: my knowledge of the world was increasing too fast. I began to hate it--hate men, and women even more than men. What lessons had I learnt within the last year. First Madame d'Albret, then Madame Bathurst, and now Lady R--. Was there no such thing as friendship in the world--no such thing as generosity? In my excited state it appeared to me that there was not. All was false and hollow. Self was the idol of mankind, and all worshipped at its altar. After a time I became more composed, I thought of little Madame Gironac, and the recollection of her disinterested kindness put me in a better frame of mind. Mortified as I was, I could not help feeling that it was only the vanity of Lady R--and her desire to shine, to which I had been made a sacrifice, and that she had no intention of wounding my feelings. Still, to remain with her after what had been told to me by Lady M--was impossible.
And then I reflected upon what steps I should take. I did not like to tell Lady R--the real grounds of my leaving her. I thought it would be prudent to make some excuse and part good friends. At last it occurred to me that her intention of going to France would be a good excuse. I could tell her that I was afraid of meeting my relatives.
Having decided upon this point, I then canvassed the words of Lady M--. What could she offer me in her house? She had three daughters, but they were all out, as the phrase is, and their education supposed to be completed. This was a mystery I could not solve, and I was obliged to give up thinking about it, and at last I fell asleep. The next moment I woke up, jaded in mind, and with a bad headache, but I dressed and went down to breakfast. Lady R--asked after my health, and then said, "I observed you talking very confidentially with Lady M--. I was not aware that you knew her. Between ourselves, Valerie, she is one of my models."
"Indeed," replied I, "I do not think that her ladyship is aware of the honour conferred upon her."
"Very likely not, but in the last work she was portrayed to the life. Lady M--is a schemer, always plotting; her great object now is to get her three daughters well married."
"I believe that most mothers wish that, Lady R--."
"I grant it, and perhaps manoeuvre as much, but with more skill than she does, for every one sees the game that she is playing, and the consequence is, that the young men shy off, which they probably would not if she were quiet, for they are really clever, unaffected, and natural girls, very obliging, and without any pride; but how came you to be so intimate with Lady M--?"
"Lady M--and her eldest daughter were staying for some time with Madame Bathurst in the country when I was there."
"Oh, I understand, that accounts for it."
"I am going to call upon Lady M--, if she sends her carriage for me," replied I. "She told me that she would, if she could, at two o'clock. She has proposed my paying her a visit; I presume it will be after she leaves town."
"But that you will not be able to do, Valerie; you forget our trip to France."
"I did not think that you were serious," replied I; "you mentioned it as the resolution of a night, and I did not know that you might not think differently upon further consideration."
"Oh no, my resolutions are hastily formed, but not often given up. Go to Paris we certainly shall."
"If you are determined upon going, Lady R--, I am afraid that I cannot accompany you."
"Indeed!" exclaimed her ladyship, in surprise. "May I ask why not?"
"Simply because I might meet those I am most anxious to avoid; there is a portion of my history that you are not acquainted with, Lady R--, which I will now make known to you."
I then told her as much as I thought necessary relative to my parents, and stated my determination not to run the risk of meeting them. Lady R--argued, persuaded, coaxed, and scolded, but it was all in vain; at last she became seriously angry, and left the room. Lionel soon afterwards made his appearance, and said to me, in his usual familiar way, "What's the matter, Miss Valerie? The governess is in a rage about something; she gave me a box on the ear."
"I suppose you deserved it, Lionel," replied I. "Well, there may be differences of opinion about that," replied the boy. "She went on scolding me at such a rate that I was quite astonished, and all about nothing. She blew up cook--didn't she--blew her half up the chimney--and then she was at me again. At last I could bear it no longer, and I said, `Don't flare up, my lady.'" " `Don't my lady me,' cried she, `or I'll box your ears.'"
"Well, then, as she is always angry if you call her my lady, I thought she was angry with me for the same reason, so I said, `Sempronia, keep your temper,'--and didn't I get a box on the ear."
I could not help laughing at this recital of his cool impudence, the more so as he narrated it with such an air of injured innocence.
"Indeed, Lionel," said I at last, "you well deserved the box on the ear. If you ever quit the service of Lady R--, you will find that you must behave with proper respect to those above you; if not, you will not remain an hour in any other house. Lady R--is very odd and very good-tempered, and permits more liberties than any other person would. I will, however, tell you why Lady R--is displeased. It is because she wishes me to go to France with her and I have refused."
"Then you are going to leave us?" inquired Lionel, mournfully.
"I suppose so," replied I. "Then I shall go, too," said the boy. "I'm tired of it."
"But why should you go, Lionel? You may not find another situation half so comfortable."
"I shall not seek one. I have only stayed here with the hope that I may find out from her ladyship who and what my parents were, and she will not tell me. I shall live by my wits, never fear; `the world's my oyster,' as Shakespeare says, and I think I've wit enough to open it."
I had not forgotten the observations of Lady M--relative to Lionel, and what the lad now said made me surmise that there was some mystery, and, on examination of his countenance, there _was_ a family likeness to Lady R--. I also called to mind her unwillingness to enter upon the subject when I brought it up.
"But, Lionel," said I, after a pause, "what is it that makes you suppose that Lady R--conceals who were your parents--when we last talked on the subject, you said you had found out something--she told me that your father was a bailiff, or steward to Sir Richard."
"Which I have proved to be false. She told me that my father was Sir Richard's butler; that I have also discovered to be false, for one day the old housekeeper, who called upon me at school, came here, and was closeted with Lady R--for half-an-hour. When she went away, I called a hackney-coach for her, and getting behind it, went home with her to her lodgings. When I found out where she lived, I hastened back immediately that I might not be missed, intending to have made a call upon her. The next day Lady R--gave me a letter to put in the twopenny-post; it was directed to a Mrs Green, to the very house where the hackney-coach had stopped, so I knew it was for the old housekeeper. Instead of putting the letter in the post, I kept it till the evening, and then took it myself. " `Mrs Green,' said I, for I found her at home with another old woman, sitting over their tea, `I have brought you a letter from Lady R--.' This is about a year ago, Miss Valerie. " `Mercy on me,' said she, `how strange that Lady R--should send you here.' " `Not strange that she should send a letter by a servant,' said I, `only strange that I should be a servant.'
"I said this, Miss Valerie, as a random throw, just to see what answer she would make. " `Why, who has been telling you anything?' said she, looking at me through her spectacles. " `Ah,' replied I, `that's what I must keep to myself, for I'm under a promise of secrecy.' " `Mercy on me, it couldn't be--no, that's impossible,' muttered the old woman, as she opened the letter and took out a bank-note, which she crumpled up in her hand. She then commenced reading the letter; I walked a little way from her, and stood between her and the window. Every now and then she held the letter up to the candle, and when the light was strong upon it, I could read a line from where I stood, for I have been used to her ladyship's writing, as you know. One line I read was, `remains still at Culverwood Hall;' another was, `the only person now left in Essex.' I also saw the words `secrecy' and `ignorant' at the bottom of the page. The old woman finished the letter at last, but it took her a good while to get through it. " `Well,' says she, `have you anything more to say?' " `No,' says I; `you are well paid for your secrecy, Mrs Green.' " `What do you mean?' said she. " `Oh, I'm not quite so ignorant as you suppose,' replied I. "`Ignorant,' said she, confused, `ignorant of what?' " `When were you last in Essex?' said I. "`When, why? what's that to you, you impudent boy?' " `Nay, then, I'll put another question to you. How long is it since you were at Culverwood Hall?' " `Culverwood Hall! What do you know about Culverwood Hall? the boy's mad, I believe; go away, you've done your message; if you don't, I'll tell her ladyship.' " `Certainly, Mrs Green,' said I. `I wish you a good-night.'
"I left the room, slamming the door, but not allowing the catch to fall in, so that I held it a little ajar, and then I heard Mrs Green say to the other woman, "`Somebody's been with that boy; I wonder who it can be? He's put me in such a flurry. Well, these things will out.' " `Yes, yes, it's like murder,' replied the other; `not that I know what it's all about, only I see there's a secret--perhaps you'll tell me, Mrs Green?' " `All I dare tell you is that there is a secret,' replied Mrs Green, `and the boy has got an inkling of it somehow or another. I must see my lady--no, I had better not,' added she; `for she is so queer that she'll swear that I've told him. Now there's only one besides myself and her ladyship who knows anything, and I'll swear that he could not have been with the boy, for he's bedridden. I'm all of a puzzle, and that's the truth. What a wind there is; why the boy has left the door open. Boys never shut doors.'
"Mrs Green got up and slammed the door to, and I walked off; and now, Miss Valerie, that's all that I know of the matter; but why I should be sent to a good school and wear pepper and salt, and to be taken away to be made first a page, and now a footman, I can't tell; but you must acknowledge that there is some mystery, after what I have told you."
"It certainly is strange, Lionel," replied I, "but my advice is that you remain patiently till you can find it out, which by leaving Lady R--you are not likely to do."
"I don't know that, Miss Valerie; let me get down to Culverwood Hall, and I think I would find out something, or my wits were given me to no purpose. But I hear her ladyship coming upstairs: so good-bye, Miss Valerie."
And Lionel made a hasty retreat.
Lady R--slowly ascended the stairs, and came into the room. Her violence had been exhausted, but she looked sullen and moody, and I could hardly recognise her; for I must do her the justice to say, that I had never before seen her out of temper. She sat down in her chair, and I asked her whether I should bring her her writing materials.
"A pretty state I am in to write," replied she, leaning her elbows on the table, and pressing her hands to her eyes. "You don't know what a rage I have been in, and how I have been venting it upon innocent people. I struck that poor boy--shame on me! Alas! I was born with violent passions, and they have been my curse through life. I had hoped that years had somewhat subdued them, but they will occasionally master me. What would I not give to have had your placid temper, Valerie! How much unhappiness I should have been spared! How much error should I have avoided! I was going to say, how much crime."
Lady R--was evidently more talking to herself than to me when she said the last words, and I therefore made no reply. A silence of more than a quarter of an hour followed, which was broken by Lionel coming in, and announcing the carriage of Lady M--.
"That woman is the cause of all this," said Lady R--; "I am sure that she is. Pray do not wait, Valerie. Go and see her. I shall be better company when you come back."
I made no reply, but left the room, and putting on my bonnet, was driven to Lady M--'s. She received me with great cordiality, and so did her daughters, who were in the room; but they were dismissed by their mother, who then said, "I told you last night, my dear Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, that I wished you to reside with me. You may say in what capacity, and I acknowledge that I hardly know what answer to give. Not as governess, certainly, for I consider it an odious position, and one that I could not offer you; indeed, my girls do not require teaching, as they have finished their studies; in only one thing you could be of advantage to them in that respect, which is in music and singing. But I wish you to come as their companion, as I am convinced that they will gain much by your so doing. I wish you, therefore, to be considered by others as a visitor at the house, but at the same time I must insist that from the advantages my girls will derive from your assisting them in music and singing, you will accept the same salary per annum which you have from Lady R--. Do you understand me: I wish you to remain with me, not as a model after the idea of Lady R--, but as a model for my girls to take pattern by. I shall leave it to yourself to act as you please. I am sure my girls like you already, and will like you better. I do not think that I can say more, except that I trust you will not refuse my offer."
There was a delicacy and kindness in this proposal on the part of Lady M--which I felt gratefully; but it appeared to me that after all it was only an excuse to offer me an asylum without any remuneration on my part, and I stated my feeling on that point.
"Do not think so," replied Lady M--. "I avoided saying so, because I would not have you styled a music-mistress; but on that one point alone you will more than earn your salary, as I will prove to you by showing you the annual payments to professors for lessons; but you will be of great value to me in other points, I have no doubt. May I, therefore, consider it as an _affaire arrangee_?" After a little more conversation, I acquiesced, and having agreed that I would come as soon as Lady R--went to the continent, or at all events in three weeks, when Lady M--quitted London, I took my leave, and was conveyed back to Lady R--, in the carriage which had been sent for me.
On my return, I found Lady R--seated where I had left her.
"Well," said she, "so you have had your audience; and I have no doubt but that you were most graciously received. Oh! I know the woman; and I have been reflecting upon it during your absence, and I have discovered what she wants you for; but this she has not mentioned, not even hinted at. She knows better; but when once in her house, you will submit to it, rather than be again in search of a home."
"I really do not know what you mean, Lady R--," said I. "Has not Lady M--asked you to come as a visitor, without specifying any particular employment?"
"No, she has not. She has proposed my staying in the house to give lessons to her daughters in music, and to be their companion; but there is nothing stated as to a fixed residence with her."
"Well, Valerie, I know that I am odd; but you will soon find out whether you have gained by the change."
"Lady R--, I really do not consider you should be so sarcastic or unkind towards me. I do not like to go to France with you for reasons which I have fully explained, at the expense of disclosing family affairs, which I had much rather not have mentioned. You leave me by myself, and I must seek protection somewhere. It is kindly offered by Lady M--, and in my unfortunate position I have not to choose. Be just and be generous."
"Well, well, I will," said Lady R--, the tears starting in her eyes; "but you do not know how much I am annoyed at your leaving me. I had hoped, with all my faults, that I had created in you a feeling of attachment to me--God knows, that I _have tried_. If you knew all my history, Valerie, you would not be surprised at my being strange. That occurred when I was of your age which would have driven some people to despair or suicide. As it is, it has alienated me from all my relations, not that I have many. My brother, I never see or hear from, and have not for years. I have refused all his invitations to go down to see him, and he is now offended with me; but there are causes for it, and years cannot wipe away the memory of what did occur."
"I assure you, Lady R--, I have been very sensible of your kindness to me," replied I, "and shall always remember it with gratitude; and if you think I have no regard for you, you are mistaken; but the subject has become painful--pray let us say no more."
"Well, Valerie, be it so; perhaps it is the wisest plan--" To change the conversation, I said--"Is not your brother the present baronet?"
"Yes," replied Lady R-- "And where does he reside?"
"In Essex, at Culverwood Hall, the seat of all my misfortunes."
I started a little at the mention of the place, as it was the one which the reader may remember was spoken of by Lionel. I then turned the conversation to other matters, and by dinner-time Lady R--had recovered herself, and was as amiable as ever.
From that day until Lady R--set off for Paris, there was not a word said relative to Lady M--. She was kind and polite, but not so warm and friendly as she had been before, and in her subdued bearing towards me was more agreeable. Her time was now employed in making preparations for her tour. Lionel was the only one who was to accompany her except her own maid. At last she fixed the day of her departure, and I wrote to Lady M--, who returned an answer that it suited her exactly, as she would go to the country the day after. The evening before Lady R--was to start was passed very gloomily.
I felt great sorrow at our separation, more than I could have imagined; but when you have been associated with a person who is good-tempered and kind, you soon feel more for them than you would suppose until you are about to quit them.
Lady R--was very much dispirited, and said to me, "Valerie, I have a presentiment that we never shall meet again, and yet I am anything but superstitious. I can truly say that you are the only person to whom I have felt real attachment since my youth, and I feel more than I can describe. Something whispers to me, `Do not go to France,' and yet something impels me to go. Valerie, if I do come back I trust that you will consider my house your home, if at any time you cannot place yourself more to your satisfaction; I will not say more, as I know that I am not exactly a lovable person, and my ways are odd; but do pray look upon me as your sincere friend, who will always be ready to serve you. I have to thank you for a few happy months, and that is saying much. God bless you, my dear Valerie."
I was moved to tears by what Lady R--said, and I thanked her with a faltering voice.
"Come now," said she, "I shall be off too early in the morning to see you: let us take our farewell."
Lady R--put a small packet into my hand, kissed me on the forehead, and then hastened up to her own room.
That people love change is certain, but still there is a mournfulness connected with it; even in a change of residence, the packing up, the litter attending it, the corded trunks and packages, give a forlorn appearance to the house itself. To me it was peculiarly distressing; I had changed so often within the last year, and had such a precarious footing wherever I went, I felt myself to be the sport of fortune, and a football to the whims and caprices of others. I was sitting in my bedroom, my trunks packed but not yet closed down, thinking of Lady R--'s last conversation, and very _triste_. The packet was lying on the table before me, unopened, when I was roused by a knock at the door. I thought it was Lady R--'s maid, and I said, "Come in."
The door opened, and Lionel made his appearance.
"Is it you, Lionel? What do you want?"
"I knew that you were up, and I recollected as we leave before you do, to-morrow, that you would have no one to cord your luggage, so I thought I would come up and do it for you to-night, Miss Valerie, if it is ready."
"Thank you, Lionel, it is very considerate of you. I will lock the trunks up, and you can cord them outside."
Lionel took out the trunks and corded them in the passage. When he had finished he said to me, "Good bye, Miss Valerie. You will see me again very soon."
"See you very soon, Lionel! I am afraid there is no chance of that, for Lady R--intends to stay abroad for six months."
"I do not," replied he.
"Why, Lionel, it would be very foolish for you to give up such a good situation. You have such unusual wages: twenty pounds a year, is it not?"
"Yes, Miss Valerie. I should not get half that in another situation, but that is one reason why I am going to leave. Why should she give me twenty pounds a year. I must find out why, and find out I will, as I said to you before. She don't give me twenty pounds for my beauty, although she might give you a great deal more, and yet not pay you half enough."
"Well, Lionel, I think you have been here long enough. It is too late to sit up to pay compliments. Fare you well."
I shut my door upon him gently, and then went to bed. As usual after excitement, I slept long and soundly. When I awoke the next morning, I found it was broad day, and nearly ten o'clock. I rang the bell, and it was answered by the cook, who told me that she and I were the only people in the house. I rose, and as I passed by my table, I perceived another package lying by the side of the one which Lady R--had given me. It was addressed to me and I opened it. It contained a miniature of Lady R--when she was about my age, and very beautiful she must have been. It was labelled "Sempronia at eighteen. Keep it for my sake, dear Valerie, and do not open the paper accompanying it until you have my permission, or you hear of my being no more."
I laid the miniature down and opened the first packet given me by Lady R--. It contained bank-notes to the amount of one hundred pounds, nearly double the salary due to me. The contents of both these packets only made me feel more melancholy, and I sighed heavily as I put them in my dressing-case; but time ran on, and I had agreed to be at Lady M--'s at one o'clock, when the carriage would be sent for me. I therefore hastened my toilet, closed the remainder of my luggage, and went down to the breakfast which the cook had prepared for me. While I was at breakfast a letter was brought by the post. It had been directed to Madame Bathurst, and was redirected to Lady R--'s address. It was from Madame Paon, and as follows:-- "My dear Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf,-- "As I take it for granted that you do not see the French papers, I write to tell you that your predictions relative to Monsieur G--, have all proved correct. A month after the marriage, he neglected madame, and spent his whole time at the gaming-table, only returning home to obtain fresh supplies from her. These were at last refused, and in his rage he struck her. A suit for separation of person and property was brought into court last week, and terminated in favour of Madame d'Albret, who retains all her fortune, and is rid of a monster. She came to me yesterday morning, and showed me the letter which you had written to her, asking me whether I did not correspond with you, and whether I thought, that after her conduct you could be prevailed upon to return to her. Of course I could not give any opinion, but I am convinced that if you only say that you forgive her, that she will write to you and make the request. I really do not well see how you can do otherwise, after the letter which you wrote to her, but of course you will decide for yourself. I trust, mademoiselle, you will favour me with a speedy answer, as Madame d'Albret is here every day, and is evidently very impatient,--I am, my dear mademoiselle, yours, "Emile Paon.
"Nee Merce."
To this letter I sent the following reply by that day's post:-- "My dear Madame Paon, "That I sincerely forgive Madame d'Albret is true; I do so from my heart; but although I forgive her, I cannot listen to any proposal to resume the position I once held. Recollect that she has driven all over Paris, and accused me among all her friends of ingratitude and slander. How then, after having been discarded for such conduct, could I again make my appearance in her company. Either I have done as she has stated, and if so, am unworthy of her patronage, or I have not done so, and therefore have been cruelly used: made to feel my dependence in the bitterest way, having been dismissed and thrown upon the world with loss of character. Could I ever feel secure or comfortable with her after such injustice? or could she feel at her ease on again presenting one as her _protegee_, whom she had so ill-treated? would she not have to blush every time that she met with any of our former mutual friends and acquaintances? It would be a series of humiliations to us both. Assure her of my forgiveness and good-will, and my wishes for her happiness; but to return to her is impossible. I would rather starve. If she knew what I have suffered in consequence of her hasty conduct towards me, she would pity me more than she may do now; but what is done is done. There is no remedy for it. Adieu, Madame Paon. Many thanks for your kindness to one so fallen as I am.
"Yours truly and sincerely, "Valerie."
I wrote the above under great depression of spirits, and it was with a heavy heart that I afterwards alighted at Lady M--'s residence in St James's Square. If smiles, however, and cordial congratulations, and shakes of the hand could have consoled me, they were not wanting on the part of Lady M--and her daughters. I was shown all the rooms below, then Lady M--'s room, the young ladies' rooms, and lastly my own, and was truly glad when I was at last left alone to unpack and arrange my things.
The room allotted to me was very comfortable, and better furnished than those in which the young ladies slept, and as far as appearances went, I was in all respects treated as a visitor and not as a governess. The maid who attended me was very civil, and as she assisted and laid my dresses in the wardrobe, made no attempt to be familiar. I ought to have informed the reader that Lady M--was a widow, Lord M--having died about two years before. Her eldest son, the present Lord M--, was on the continent. Dinner was announced; there were only two visitors, and I was treated as one of the company. In fact, nothing could be more gratifying than the manner in which I was treated. In the evening, I played and sang. The young ladies did the same; their voices were good, but they wanted expression in their singing, and I perceived that I could be useful.
Lady M--asked me, when we were not overheard, "what I thought of her daughters' singing?"
I told her frankly.
"It is impossible to doubt the truth of what you say, my dear Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, after having heard your performance. I knew that you were considered a good performer, but I had no idea of the perfection which you have arrived at."
"If your daughters are really fond of music, they would soon do as well, my lady," replied I. "Impossible," exclaimed her ladyship; "but still they must gain something from listening to you. You look fatigued. Do you wish to go to bed? Augusta will go up with you."
"I have a nervous headache," replied I, "and I will accept your ladyship's considerate proposal."
Augusta, the eldest daughter, lighted a chamber-candle, and went up with me into my room. After a little conversation, she wished me good-night, and thus passed the first day in St James's Square.
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{
"id": "23952"
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8
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As arranged by Lady M--, the next day we went to Harking Castle, the family seat, in Dorsetshire, and I was not sorry to be again quiet, after the noise and bustle of a London season. As Lady M--had observed, the young ladies were sadly jaded with continual late hours and hot rooms, but they had not been a week in the country before they were improved in appearance and complexion. They certainly were amiable, nice girls; clever, and without pride, and I soon became attached to them. I attended to their music, and they made great progress. I also taught them the art of making flowers in wax, which I had so lately learned myself. This was all I could do, except mildly remonstrating with them when I saw what did not appear to me to be quite correct, in their conduct and deportment. Lady M--appeared quite satisfied, and treated me with great consideration, and I was in a short time very happy in my new position.
For the first month, there were no visitors in the house; after that, invitations were sent out. Lady M--had said that she would have a month's quiet to recover herself from the fatigues of the season, and I had no doubt but that she also thought her daughters would be much benefited, as they really were, by a similar retirement. It was on the Monday that company was expected, and on Friday Lady M--desired Augusta, the eldest daughter, to put on a new dress which had just been made by the two lady's-maids, and come down in it that she might see it on. When Augusta made her appearance, and her mother had surveyed the dress, she said, "I do not quite like it, Augusta, and yet I do not exactly know where it's wrong; but something requires to be altered: it does not hang gracefully."
As she said this, I was reading a book, and I naturally looked up, and immediately perceived the alteration which the dress required. I pointed it out, and with a few pins made the dress sit well.
"Why this is a new talent, my dear Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, one that I had no idea that you possessed; although I admit that no one dresses more elegantly than you do," said Lady M--. "How much I am obliged to you for taking so much trouble."
"I am most happy to be of any service, Lady M--, and you may always command me," replied I. "I have the credit of being a very good milliner."
"I believe you can do anything," replied Lady M--.
"Augusta, go up to Benson and show her the alterations that are required, and tell her to make them directly.
"After all," continued Lady M--, to me, "it is bad economy making dresses at home, but I really cannot afford to pay the extravagant prices charged by Madame Desbelli. My bills are monstrous, and my poverty, but not my will, consents. Still it does make such a difference in the appearance, being well-dressed, that if I could, I never would have a dress made at home; but the saving is astonishing-- nearly two-thirds, I assure you."
"If you will allow me to interfere a little, my lady," replied I, "I think you can have them as well made at home as by Madame Desbelli. I think I can be useful."
"You are very kind, Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, but it will be taxing you too much."
"Not at all, Lady M--, if I have your sanction."
"You shall do just as you please, my dear," replied Lady M--; "I give you full authority over the whole household, if you wish it; but indeed I think Benson will be much obliged to you for any slight hint that you may give her, and I am sure that I shall; but the carriage is at the door--do you drive to-day?"
"Not to-day, I thank you, Lady M--," replied I. "Well, then, I will take Hortense and Amy with me, and leave Augusta with you."
After Lady M--'s departure, I went up to the room where the maids were at work. I altered the arrangement of Augusta's dress so as to suit her figure, and cut out the two others for Hortense and Amy. Wishing to please Lady M--, I worked myself at Augusta's dress, and had it completed before Lady M--had returned from her drive. It certainly was now a very different affair, and Augusta looked remarkably well in it. She was delighted herself, and hastened down to her mother to show it to her. When I came down to dinner, Lady M--was profuse in her acknowledgments; the two other dresses, when finished, gave equal satisfaction, and from that time till the period of my quitting Lady M--, all the dresses, not only of the young ladies, but those of Lady M--, were made at home, and my taste and judgment invariably appealed to and most cheerfully given. I felt it my duty to be of all the use that I could be, and perhaps was not a little gratified by the compliments I received upon my exquisite taste. Time passed on; during the shooting season, Augusta, the eldest daughter, received a very good offer, which was accepted; and at the Christmas festivities, Hortense, the second girl, accepted another proposal, which was also very favourable. Lady M--was delighted at such success.
"Is it not strange, my dear Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, that I have been fagging two seasons, night and day, to get husbands for those girls, and now alone here, in solitude and retirement almost, they have both obtained excellent establishments. I do really declare that I believe it is all owing to you, and the delightful manner in which you have dressed them."
"I should rather think that it is owing, in the first place, to their having so much improved in personal appearance since they have been down in the country," replied I; "and further, to the gentlemen having now an opportunity of discovering their truly estimable qualities, which they were not likely to do at Almack's or other parties during a London season."
"You may think so," replied Lady M--, "but it is my conviction that all is owing to their being so tastefully-dressed. Why every one admires the elegance of their costume, and requests patterns. Well, now I have only Amy on my hands, and I think that her sister's high connections will assist in getting her off."
"She is a sweet girl, Amy," replied I, "and were I you Lady M--, I should be in no hurry to part with her."
"Indeed, but I am," replied Lady M--, "you don't know the expense of girls, and my jointure is not so very large; however, I must not complain. Don't you think Amy looks better in lilac than any other colour?"
"She looks well in almost any colour," replied I. "Yes, with your taste, I grant," replied Lady M--. "Are you aware that we go to town in a fortnight? We must look after the _trousseaux_. It was arranged last night that both marriages shall take place in February. Amy will, of course be one of the brides'-maids, and I trust to you, my dear Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, to invent something very _distingue_ for her on that occasion. Who knows but that it may get her off? but it's late, so good-night."
I could not admire Lady M--'s apparent hurry to get rid of her daughters, but it certainly was the one thing needful which had occupied all her thoughts and attention during the time that I had been with her. That it was natural she should wish that her children were well established, I granted, but all that she appeared to consider was good connection, and the means of living in good style, every other point as to the character of the husbands being totally overlooked.
A fortnight after Christmas we all went to London, and were, as Lady M-- had observed, very busy with the _trousseaux_, when one day the butler came to say that a young gentleman wished to see me, and was waiting in the breakfast parlour below. I went down, wondering who it could be, when to my surprise, I found Lionel, the page of Lady R--, dressed in plain clothes, and certainly looking very much like a gentleman. He bowed very respectfully to me when he entered, much more so than he had ever done when he was a page with Lady R--, and said, "Miss Valerie, I have ventured to call upon you, as I thought when we parted, that you did me the honour to feel some little interest about me, and I thought you would like to know what has taken place. I have been in England now four months, and have not been idle during that time."
"I am certainly glad to see you, Lionel, although I am sorry you have left Lady R--, and I hope you have been satisfied with the result of your inquiries."
"It is rather a long story, Miss Valerie, and, if you wish to hear it, you will oblige me by sitting down while I narrate it to you."
"I hope it will not be too long, Lionel, as I shall be wanted in an hour or so, to go out with Lady M--, but I am ready to hear you," continued I, sitting down as he requested.
Lionel stood by me, and then commenced--"We arrived at Dover the evening of the day that we left, Miss Valerie; and Lady R--, who had been in a state of great agitation during the journey, was so unwell, that she remained there four or five days. As soon as she was better, I thought it was advisable that she should settle my book, and pay me my wages before we left England, and I brought it to her, stating my wish, as the sum was then very large. " `And what do you want money for?' said she, rather angrily. " `I want to place it in safety, my lady,' replied I. "`That's as much as to say that it is not safe with me.' " `No, my lady,' replied I. `But suppose any accident were to happen to you abroad, would your executors ever believe that you owed more than 25 pounds, besides a year's wages to a page like me; they would say that it could not be, and would not pay me my money; neither would they believe that you gave me such wages.' " `Well,' she replied, `there is some truth in that, and it will, perhaps, be better that I do pay you at once, but where will you put the money, Lionel?' " `I will keep the check, my lady, if you please.' " `Then I will write it to order and not to bearer,' replied she, `and then if you lose it, it will not be paid, for it will require your own signature.' " `Thank you, my lady,' replied I. "Having examined my accounts and my wages due, she gave me a check for the full amount. The next morning, the packet was to sail at nine o'clock. We were in good time, and as soon as Lady R--was on board she went down into the cabin. Her maid asked me for the bottle of salts which I had purposely left under the sofa pillow at the Ship Hotel. I told her that I had left it, and as there was plenty of time would run and fetch it. I did so, but contrived not to be back until the steamer had moved away from the pier, and her paddles were in motion. I called out `Stop, stop,' knowing of course that they would not, although they were not twenty yards away. I saw Lady R--'s maid run to the captain and speak to him, but it was of no use, and thus I was left behind, without Lady R--having any suspicion that it was intentional on my part.
"I waited at the pier till the packet was about two miles off, and then walked away from the crowd of people who were bothering me with advice how to proceed, so that I might join my mistress at Calais. I returned to the hotel for a portion of my clothes which I had not sent on board of the packet, but had left in charge of the boots, and then sat down in the tap to reflect upon what I should do. My first object was to get rid of my sugar-loaf buttons, for I hated livery, Miss Valerie; perhaps it was pride, but I could not help it. I walked out till I came to a slop-seller's, as they call them at seaports, and went in; there was nothing hanging up but seamen's clothes, and on reflection, I thought I could not do better than to dress as a sailor; so I told the man that I wanted a suit of sailor's clothes. " `You want to go to sea, I suppose,' said the man, not guessing exactly right, considering that I just refused to embark.
"However, I bargained first for a complete suit, and then sold him my liveries, exchanging my dress in the back parlour. I then returned to the tap, obtained my other clothes, and as soon as the coach started, got outside and arrived in London. I called upon you at this house, and found that you were in the country, and then I resolved that I would go down to Culverwood Hall."
"And now you must leave off, Lionel, for the present," said I, "for I must go out with Lady M--. Come to-morrow, early, and I shall have leisure to hear the rest of your story."
The following morning Lionel returned and resumed his history.
"Miss Valerie, little things often give you more trouble than greater; and I had more difficulty to find out where Culverwood Hall was than you may imagine. I asked many at the inn where I put up, but no one could tell me, and at such places I was not likely to find any book which I could refer to. I went to the coach offices and asked what coaches started for Essex, and the reply was, `Where did I want to go?' and, when I said Culverwood Hall, no one could tell me by which coach I was to go, or which town it was near. At last, I did find out from the porter of the Saracen's Head, who had taken in parcels with that address, and who went to the coachman, who said that his coach passed within a mile of Sir Alexander Moystyn's, who lived there. I never knew her ladyship's maiden name before. I took my place by the coach, for I had gone to the banker's in Fleet Street, and received the money for my check, and started the next morning at three o'clock.
"I was put down at a village called Westgate, at an inn called the Moystyn Arms. I kept to the dress of a sailor, and when the people spoke to me on the coach, kept up the character as well as I could, which is very easy to do when you have to do with people who know nothing about it. I shivered my timbers, and all that sort of thing, and hitched up my trousers, as they do at the theatres. The coachman told me that the inn was the nearest place I could stop at, if I wanted to go to the hall, and taking my bundle, I got down and he drove off. A sailor-boy is a sort of curiosity in a country village, Miss Valerie, and I had many questions put to me, but I answered them by putting others. I said that my friends were formerly living at the hall in the old baronet's time, but that I knew little about them, as it was a long while ago; and I asked if there were any of the old servants still living at the place. The woman who kept the inn told me that there was one, Old Roberts, who still lived in the village, and been _bedridden_ for some years. This of course was the person I wanted, and I inquired what had become of his family. The reply was, that his daughter, who had married Green, was somewhere in London, and his son, who had married Kitty Wilson of the village, had gone to reside as gamekeeper somewhere near Portsmouth, and had a large family of children. " `You're right enough,' replied I, laughing, `we are a large family.' " `What, are you old Roberts' grandson?' exclaimed the woman. `Well, we did hear that one of them, Harry, I think, did go to sea.' " `Well, now, perhaps you'll tell me where I am to find the old gentleman?' replied I. "`Come with me,' said she, `he lives hard-by, and glad enough he'll be, poor man, to have any one to talk with him a bit, for it's a lonesome life he leads in bed there.'
"I followed the woman, and when about a hundred yards from the inn, she stopped at the door of a small house, and called to Mrs Meshin, to `go up and tell old Roberts that one of his grandsons is here.' A snuffy old woman made her appearance, peered at me through her spectacles, and then stumped up a pair of stairs which faced the door. Shortly afterwards I was desired to come up, and did so. I found an old man with silver hair lying in bed, and the said Mrs Meshin, with her spectacles, smoothing down the bed-clothes, and making the place tidy. " `What cheer, old boy?' said I, after T.P. Cooke's style. " `What do you say? I'm hard of hearing, rather,' replied the old man. " `How do you find yourself, sir?' said I. "`Oh, pretty well for an old man; and so you're my grandson, Harry; glad to see you. --You may go, Mrs Meshin, and shut the door, and do you hear, don't listen at the key-hole.'
"The stately lady, Mrs Meshin, growled, and then left the room, slamming the door. " `She is very cross, grandson,' said the old man, `and I see nobody but her. It's a sad thing to be bedridden this way, and not to get out in the fresh air, and sadder still to be tended by a cross old woman, who won't talk when I want her, and won't hold her tongue when I want her. I'm glad to see you, boy. I hope you won't go away directly, as your brother Tom did. I want somebody to talk to me, sadly; and how do you like being at sea?' " `I like the shore, better, sir.' " `Ay, so all sailors say, I believe; and yet I would rather go to sea than lie here all day long. It's all owing to my being out as I used to do, night after night, watching for poachers. I had too little bed then, and now I've too much of it. But the sea must be grand. As the Bible says, "They who go upon the great waters, they see the wonders of the deep."'
"I was glad to find that the old man was so perfect in all his mental faculties, and after having listened to, rather than replied to, observations about his son and my supposed brothers and sisters, by which I obtained a pretty accurate knowledge of them, I wished him good-bye, and promised to call and have a long talk in the morning.
"On my return to the inn, I was able to reply to all the interrogatories which were put to me relative to my supposed relations, thanks to the garrulity of old Roberts, and put many questions relative to the family residing at the hall, which were freely answered. As the evening advanced, many people came in, and the noise and smoking were so disagreeable to me, that I asked for a bed, and retired. The next morning I repaired to old Roberts, who appeared delighted to see me. " `You are a good boy,' said he, `to come and see a poor bedridden old man, who has not a soul that comes near him perhaps in a week. And now tell me what took place during your last voyage.' " `The last vessel I was on board of,' replied I, `was a packet from Dover to Calais.' " `Well, that must be pleasant; so many passengers.' " `Yes, sir; and who do you think I saw on board of the packet the other day--somebody that you know.' " `Ay, who?' " `Why Lady R--,' replied I, `and that young gentleman who, I heard say, once lived with her as her servant.' " `Ay!' said the old man, `indeed! then she has done justice at last. I'm glad on it, Harry, glad on it, for it's a relief to my mind. I was bound to the secret, and have kept it; but when a man is on the brink of the grave, he does not like to have a secret like that upon his mind, and I've more than once talked to my daughter about--' "`What, aunt Green?' " `Yes, your aunt Green; but she would never listen to me. We both took our oath, and she said it was binding; besides, we were paid for it. Well, well, I thank God, for it's a great load off my mind.' " `Yes, sir,' replied I, `you need not keep the secret any longer now.' " `And how has he grown up?' said the old man; `is he good-looking?' " `Very much so, sir,' replied I, `and looks very much like a gentleman.'"
I could not help laughing at this part of Lionel's story, although I could not but admit the truth. Lionel observed it, and said, "You cannot be surprised at my giving myself a good character, Miss Valerie, for, as they say in the kitchen, it's all that a poor servant has to depend upon."
"Go on," replied I. "`He was a very fine child while he lived with us; but he was taken away at six years old, and I have never seen him since.' " `Some people say that he is very like Lady R--.' " `Well, why should he not be? ay, she was once a very beautiful young person.' " `Well, grandfather, I have never heard the rights of that story,' said I, `and now that you are at liberty to tell it, perhaps you will let me have the whole history.' " `Well,' said the old man, `as there is no longer a secret, I do not know but that I may. Your aunt Green, you know, was nurse to Lady R--, and remained in the family for years afterwards; for old Sir Alexander Moystyn was confined to his room for years with gout and other complaints, and your aunt Green attended him. It was just as Sir Alexander had recovered from a very bad fit, that Miss Ellen, who was Lady R--'s sister, and years younger than she was, made her runaway match with Colonel Dempster, a very fashionable, gay young man, who had come down here to shoot with the present baronet. Everyone was much surprised at this, for all the talk was that the match would be with the eldest sister, Lady R--, and not the youngest. They went off somewhere abroad. Old Sir Alexander was in a terrible huff about it, and was taken ill again; and Lady R--, who was then Miss Barbara, appeared also much distressed at her sister's conduct. Well, a year or more passed away, when, one day, Miss Barbara told your aunt Green that she wished her to go with her on a journey, and she set off in the evening with four post-horses, and travelled all night till she arrived at Southampton. There she stopped at a lodging, and got out, spoke to the landlady, and calling my daughter out of the chaise, desired her to remain below while she went upstairs. My daughter was tired of staying so long, for she remained there for five hours, and Miss Barbara did not make her appearance, but they appeared to be very busy in the house, running up and downstairs. At last a grave person, who appeared to be a doctor, came into the parlour, followed by the landlady--in the parlour in which my daughter was sitting.' " `It's all over, Mrs Wilson,' said he, `nothing could save her; but the child will do well, I have no doubt.' " `What's to be done, sir?' " `Oh,' replied the doctor, `the lady above stairs told me that she was her sister, so of course we must look to her for all future arrangements.'
"After giving a few directions about the infant, the doctor left the house, and soon after that Miss Barbara came downstairs. " `I'm quite worn out, Martha,' said she, `let us go to the hotel as fast as we can. You sent away the carriage, of course. I would it had remained, for I shall hardly be able to walk so far.'
"She took her arm, and as the landlady opened the door, she said, `I will call to-morrow, and give directions about the infant, and everything which is necessary.' --`I never went through such a trying scene,' said Miss Barbara; `she was an old school-fellow of mine, who entreated me to come to her in her distress. She died giving birth to her infant, and it was, I presume, with that presentiment, that she sent for me and entreated me, on her death-bed, to protect the unfortunate child, for she has been cast away by her relations in consequence of her misconduct. You have never had the small-pox, Martha, have you?' " `No, miss,' she replied, `you know I never have.' " `Well, it was having the small-pox at the same time that she was confined, that has caused her death, and that was the reason why I did not send for you to come up and assist.' " `My daughter made no answer, for Miss Barbara was of a haughty temper, and she was afraid of her; but she did not forget that the doctor had told the landlady that Miss Barbara had stated the lady to be her sister. My daughter had thought it very odd that Miss Barbara had not told her, during their journey, where she was going, and who she was going to see, for Miss Barbara had wrapped herself up in her cloak, and pretended to be asleep during the whole time, only waking up to pay the post-boys; but Miss Barbara was of a very violent temper, and had, since her sister's marriage, been much worse than before; indeed, some said that she was a little mad, and used to walk at moonlights. " `When they arrived at the hotel, Miss Barbara went to bed, and insisted upon my daughter sleeping in the same room, as she was afraid of being alone in an hotel. My daughter thought over the business as she lay in bed, and at last resolved to ascertain the truth; so she got up early the next morning, and walked to the lodging-house, and when the door was opened by the landlady, pretended to come from her mistress to inquire how the infant was. The reply was that it was doing well; and then a conversation took place, in which my daughter found out that the lady did not die of the small-pox, as Miss Barbara had stated. The landlady asked my daughter if she would not like to come up and look at the corpse. My daughter consented, as it was what she was about to request, and when she went up, sure enough it was poor Mrs Dempster, Miss Ellen that was, who had run away with the colonel. " `An't it a pity, ma'am,' said the landlady, `her husband died only two months ago, and they say he was so handsome a man; indeed, he must have been, for here's his picture, which the poor lady wore round her neck.' " `When your aunt had satisfied herself, and cried a little over the body, for she was very fond of Miss Ellen, she went back to the hotel as fast as she could, and getting a jug of warm water from the kitchen, she went into Miss Barbara's room, and had just time to throw off her bonnet and shawl, when Miss Barbara woke up and asked who was there. " `It's me, miss,' replied my daughter, `I've just gone down for some warm water for you, for it's past nine o'clock, and I thought you would like to be up early.' " `Yes, I must get up, Martha, for I intend to return home to-day. It's no use waiting here. I will have breakfast, and then walk to the lodgings and give directions. You may pack up in the meantime, for I suppose you do not wish to go with me.' " `Oh, no, miss,' replied your aunt, `I am frightened out of my wits at having been in the house already, now that I know that the lady died of the small-pox.'
"Well, Miss Barbara went away after breakfast and remained for two or three hours, when she returned, a servant bringing the baby with her. My daughter had packed up everything, and in half-an-hour they were on the road back, the baby with them in my daughter's arms. Now, you see, if it had not been for the accidental remark of the doctor's in your aunt's presence, she would have been completely deceived by Miss Barbara, and never would have known whose child it was; but your aunt kept her own counsel; indeed, she was afraid to do otherwise. " `As they went home, Miss Barbara talked a great deal to your aunt, telling her that this Mrs Bedingfield was a great friend of hers, with whom she had corresponded for years after they had left school; that her husband had been killed in a duel a short time before, that he was a gambler, and a man of very bad character, nevertheless she had promised Mrs Bedingfield before she died, that she would take care of the child, and that she would do so. She then said, "Martha, I should like your mother to take charge of it, do you think that she would? but it must be a secret, for my father would be very angry with me, and besides, there might be unpleasant reports." Your aunt replied, "that she thought that her mother would," and then Miss Barbara proposed that your aunt should get out of the chaise when they stopped to change horses at the last stage, when it was dark, and no one could perceive it, and walk with the infant until she could find some conveyance to my house. " `This was done, the child was brought to your grandmother, who is now in heaven, and then your aunt made known to us what she had discovered, and whose child it was. I was very angry, and if I had not been laid up at the time with the rheumatism, would have gone right into Sir Alexander's room, and told him who the infant was, but I was over-ruled by your grandmother and your aunt, who then went away and walked to the hall. So we agreed that we would say exactly what Miss Barbara said to us when she came over to us on the next day.'"
"Well, then, Lionel, I have to congratulate you on being the son of a gentleman, and the nephew of Lady R--. I wish you joy with all my heart," said I, extending my hand.
"Thank you, Miss Valerie. It is true that I am so, but proofs are still to be given; but of that hereafter."
"Lionel, you have been standing all this while. I think it would be most uncourteous if I did not request you to take a chair." Lionel did so, and then proceeded with the old man's narrative. " `About a month after this, Sir Richard R--came down, and after three weeks was accepted by Miss Barbara. It was a hasty match everyone thought, especially as the news of Mrs Dempster's death had, as it was reported, been received by letter, and all the family had gone into mourning. Poor old Sir Alexander never held up his head afterwards, and in two months more he was carried to the family vault. Your aunt then came home to us, and as you have heard, married poor Green, who was killed in a poaching business about three months after his marriage. Then came your poor grandmother's death of a quinsy, and so I was left alone with your aunt Green, who then took charge of the child, who had been christened by the name of Lionel Bedingfield. There was some talk about the child, and some wonders whose it could be; but after the death of Sir Alexander, and Miss Barbara had gone away with her husband, nothing more was thought or said about it. And now, boy, I've talked enough for to-day, to-morrow I'll tell you the rest of the history.
"Perhaps, Miss Valerie, you think the same of me, and are tired with listening," observed Lionel.
"Not at all; and I have leisure now which I may not have another time; besides your visits, if so frequent, may cause inquiries, and I shall not know what to say."
"Well, then, I'll finish my story this morning, Miss Valerie. The next day, old Roberts continued: `It was about three months after Sir Alexander's death, when her brother, the new baronet, came down to Culverwood Hall, that Miss Barbara made her appearance again as Lady R--. Your grandmother was just buried, and poor Green had not been dead more than a month. Your aunt, who was much afflicted at the loss of her husband, and was of course very grave and serious, began to agree with me that it would be very wicked of us, knowing whose child it was, to keep the secret. Moreover, you aunt had become very fond of the infant, for it in a manner consoled her for the loss of her husband. Lady R-- came to the cottage to see us, and we then both told her that we did not like to keep secret the child's parentage, as it was doing a great injustice, if injustice had not been done already. Lady R--was very much frightened at what we said, and begged very hard that we would not expose her. She would be ruined, she said, in the opinion of her husband, and also of her own relations. She begged and prayed so hard, and made a solemn promise to us, that she would do justice to the child as soon as she could with prudence, that she overcame our scruples, and we agreed to say nothing at present. She also put a bank-note for 50 pounds into my daughter's hands to defray expenses and pay for trouble, and told her that the same amount would be paid every year until the child was taken away. " `I believe this did more to satisfy our scruples than anything else. It ought not to have done so, but we were poor, and money is a great temptation. At all events, we were satisfied with Lady R--'s promise, and with her liberality; and from that time till the child was seven years old we received the money, and had charge of the boy. He was then taken away and sent to school, but where we did not know for some time. Lady R--was still very liberal to us, always stating her intention of acknowledging the child to be her nephew. At last my daughter was summoned to London, and sent to the school for the boy; Lady R--stating it to be her intention of keeping him at her own house, now that her husband was dead. This rejoiced us very much; but we had no idea that it was as a servant that he was to be employed, as your aunt afterwards found out, when she went up to London and called unexpectedly upon Lady R--. However, Lady R--said that what she was doing was for the best, and was more liberal than usual; and that stopped our tongues. " `Three years back your aunt left this place to find employment in London, and has resided there ever since as a clear-starcher and getter-up of lace; but she often sends me down money, quite sufficient to pay for all the few comforts and expenses required by a bedridden old man. There, Harry, now I've told you the whole story; and I am glad that I am able to do so, and that at last she has done justice to the lad, and there is no further a load upon my conscience, which often caused me to lay down my Bible, when I was reading, and sigh.' " `But,' said I, `are you sure that she has acknowledged him as her nephew?' " `Am I sure! Why, did not you say so?' " `No; I only said that he was with her, travelling in her company.' " `Well, but--I understood you that it was all right.' " `It may be all right,' replied I, `but how can I tell? I only saw them together. Lady R--may still keep her secret, for all I can say to the contrary. I don't wonder at its being a load on your mind. I shouldn't be able to sleep at nights; and, as for my reading my Bible, I should think it wicked to do so, with the recollection always before me, that I had been a party in defrauding a poor boy of his name, and, perhaps fortune.' " `Dear me! dear me! I've often thought as much, Harry.' " `Yes, grandfather, and, as you say, on the brink of the grave. Who knows but you may be called away this very night?' " `Yes, yes, who knows, boy,' replied the old man, looking rather terrified; `but what shall I do?' " `I know what I would do,' replied I. `I'd make a clean breast of it at once. I'd send for the minister and a magistrate, and state the whole story upon affidavit. Then you will feel happy again, and ease your mind, and not before.' " `Well, boy, I believe you are right, I'll think about it. Leave me now.' " `Think about your own soul, sir--think of your own danger, and do not mind Lady R--. There can be but a bad reason for doing such an act of injustice. I will come again in an hour, sir, and then you will let me know your decision. Think about what the Bible says about those who defraud the widow and _orphan_. Good-bye for the present.' " `No, stop, boy, I've made up my mind. You may go to Mr Sewell, the clergyman, he often calls to see me, and I can speak to him. I'll tell him.'
"I did not wait for the old man to alter his mind, but hastened as fast as I could to the parsonage-house, which was not four hundred yards distant. I went to the door and asked for Mr Sewell, who came out to me. I told him that old Roberts wanted to see him immediately, as he had an important confession to make. " `Is the old man going, then? I did not hear that he was any way dangerously ill?' " `No, sir, he is in his usual health, but he has something very heavy on his conscience, and he begs your presence immediately that he may reveal an important secret.' " `Well, my lad, go back to him and say that I will be there in two hours. You are his grandson, I believe?' " `I will go and tell him, sir,' replied I, evading the last question.
"I returned to old Roberts, and informed him that the clergyman would be with him in an hour or two, but I found the old man already hesitating and doubting again:-- "`You didn't tell him what it was for, did you? for perhaps--' "`Yes, I did. I told him you had an important secret to communicate that lay heavy on your conscience.' " `I'm sadly puzzled,' said the old man, musing. " `Well,' replied I, `I'm not puzzled; and if you don't confess, I must. I won't have my conscience loaded, poor fellow that I am; and if you choose to die with the sin upon you of depriving the orphan, I will not.' " `I'll tell--tell it all--it's the best way,' replied old Roberts, after a pause. " `There now,' said I, `the best thing to be done is for me to get paper and pen, and write it all down for Mr Sewell to read when he comes; then you need not have to repeat it all again.' " `Yes, that will be best, for I couldn't face the clergyman.' " `Then how can you expect to face the Almighty?' replied I. "`True--very true: get the paper,' said he.
"I went to the inn and procured writing materials, and then returned and took down his confession of what I have now told you, Miss Valerie. When Mr Sewell came, I had just finished it, and I then told him that I had written it down, and handed it to him to read. Mr Sewell was much surprised and shocked, and said to Roberts, `You have done right to make this confession, Roberts, for it may be most important; but you must now swear to it in the presence of a magistrate and me. Of course, you have no objection?' " `No, sir; I'm ready to swear to the truth of every word.' " `Well, then, let me see. Why, there is no magistrate near us just now but Sir Thomas Moystyn; and as it concerns his own nephew, there cannot be a more proper person. I will go up to the Hall immediately, and ask him to come with me to-morrow morning.'
"Mr Sewell did so; and the next day, he and Sir Thomas Moystyn came down in a phaeton, and went up to old Roberts. I rather turned away, that my uncle, as he now proves to be, might not, when I was regularly introduced to him, as I hope to be, as his nephew, recognise me as the sailor lad who passed off as the grandson of old Roberts."
"Then, you admit that you have been playing a very deceitful game?"
"Yes, Miss Valerie. I have a conscience; and I admit that I have been playing what may be called an unworthy game; but when it is considered how much I have at stake, and how long I have been defrauded of my rights by the duplicity of others, I think I may be excused if I have beat them at their own weapons."
"I admit that there is great truth in your observations, Lionel; and that is all the answer I shall give."
"I remained outside the door while old Roberts signed the paper, and the oath was administered. Sir Thomas put many questions afterwards. He inquired the residence of his daughter, Mrs Green, and then they both went away. As soon as they were gone, I went in to old Roberts, and said, `Well now, sir, do you not feel happier that you have made the confession?' " `Yes,' replied he, `I do, boy; but still I am scared when I think of Lady R--and your aunt Green; they'll be so angry.' " `I've been thinking that I had better go up to Mrs Green,' I said, `and prepare her for it. I can pacify her, I'm sure, when I explain matters. I must have gone away the day after to-morrow, and I'll go up to London to-morrow.' " `Well, perhaps it will be as well,' replied old Roberts, `and yet I wish you could stay and talk to me--I've no one to talk to me now.'
"Thinks I, I have made you talk to some purpose, and have no inclination to sit by your bed-side any longer; however, I kept up the appearance to the last, and the next morning set off for London. I arrived three days before I saw you first, which gave me time to change my sailor's dress for the suit I now wear. I have not yet been to Mrs Green, for I thought I would just see you, and ask your advice. And now, Miss Valerie, you have my whole history."
"I once more congratulate you, with all my heart," replied I, offering my hand to Lionel. He kissed it respectfully, and as he was in the act, one of the maids opened the door, and told me that Lady M--had been some time waiting to see me. I believe I coloured up, although I had no cause for blushing; and wishing Lionel good-bye, I desired him to call on Sunday afternoon, and I would remain at home to see him.
It was on Thursday that this interview took place with Lionel, and on the Saturday I received a letter from Lady R--'s solicitor, by which I was shocked by the information of her ladyship having died at Caudebec, a small town on the river Seine; and begging to know whether I could receive him that afternoon, as he was anxious to communicate with me. I answered by the person who brought the letter, that I would receive him at three o'clock; and he made his appearance at the hour appointed.
He informed me that Lady R--had left Havre in a fishing boat, with the resolution of going up to Paris by that strange conveyance; and having no protection from the weather, she had been wet for a whole day, without changing her clothes; and, on her arrival at Caudebec, had been taken with a fever, which, from the ignorance of the faculty in that sequestered place, had proved fatal. Her maid had just written the intelligence, enclosing the documents from the authorities substantiating the fact.
"You are not, perhaps, aware, miss, that you are left her executrix."
"I her executrix!" exclaimed I, with astonishment.
"Yes," replied Mr Selwyn. "Before she left town, she made an alteration in her will; and stated to me that you would be able to find the party most interested in it, and that you had a document in your hands which would explain everything."
"I have a sealed paper which she enclosed to me, desiring I would not open it, unless I heard of her death, or had her permission."
"It must be that to which she refers, I presume," replied he. "I have the will in my pocket: it will be as well to read it to you, as you are her executrix."
Mr Selwyn then produced the will, by which Lionel Dempster, her nephew, was left her sole heir; and by a codicil, she had, for the love she bore me, as she stated in her own handwriting, left me 500 pounds as her executrix, and all her jewels and wearing apparel.
"I congratulate you on your legacy, Miss de Chatenoeuf," said he; "and now, perhaps, you can tell me where I can find this nephew; for I must say it is the first that I ever heard of him."
"I believe that I can point him out, sir," replied I; "but the most important proofs, I suspect, are to be found in the paper which I have not yet read."
"I will then, if you please, no longer trespass on you," said Mr Selwyn, "when you wish me to call again, you will oblige me by sending word, or writing by post."
The departure of Mr Selwyn was quite a relief to me. I longed to be alone, that I might be left to my own reflections, and also that I might peruse the document which had been confided to me by poor Lady R--. I could not help feeling much shocked at her death--more so, when I considered her liberality towards me, and the confidence she reposed in one with whom she had but a short acquaintance. It was like her, nevertheless; who but Lady R--would ever have thought of making a young person so unprotected and so unacquainted as I was with business--a foreigner to boot--the executrix of her will; and her death occasioned by such a mad freak--and Lionel now restored to his position and his fortune--altogether it was overwhelming, and after a time I relieved myself with tears. I was still with my handkerchief to my eyes when Lady M--came into the room.
"Crying, Miss Chatenoeuf," said her ladyship, "it is at the departure of a very dear friend."
There was a sort of sneer on her face as she said this; and I replied-- "Yes, my lady, it is for the departure of a dear friend, for Lady R--is dead."
"Mercy, you don't say so; and what are these gentlemen who have been calling upon you?"
"One is her solicitor, madam," replied I, "and the other is a relative of hers."
"A relation; but what has the solicitor called upon you for? if it is not an intrusive question."
"No, my lady; Lady R--has appointed me her executrix."
"Executrix! well, I now do believe that Lady R--was mad!" exclaimed Lady M--. "I wanted you to come up to my boudoir to consult you about the pink satin dress, but I fear your important avocation will not allow you at present, so I will leave you till you are a little recovered."
"I thank you, my lady," said I, "I will be more myself to-morrow, and will then be at your disposal."
Her ladyship then left the room. I was not pleased at her manner, which was very different from her usual courtesy towards me, but I was not in a state of mind to weigh well all that she said, or how she said it. I hastened to my room to look for the paper which Lady R--had enclosed to me previous to her departure. I will give the whole contents to my readers.
"My dear Valerie, "I will not attempt to account for the extreme predilection which I, an old woman in comparison, immediately imbibed for you before we had been an hour in company. Some feelings are unaccountable and inexplicable, but I felt a sympathy, a mesmeric attraction, if I may use the term, which was uncontrollable at our first meeting, and which increased every day during our residence together. It was not the feeling of a mother towards a child--at least I think not, for it was mingled with a certain degree of awe and presentiment of evil if ever we parted again. I felt as if you were my _fate_, and never has this feeling departed from me. On the contrary, now that we separate, it has become stronger than ever. How little do we know of the mysteries of the mind as well as of the body! We know that we are fearfully and wonderfully made, and that is all. That there are influences and attractions uncontrollable and unexplained I feel certain. Often have I reflected and wondered on this as I have lain in bed and meditated `even to madness,' but have been unable to remove the veil. (Alas, poor Lady R--, thought I, I doubt it not, you were madder than I thought you were.) Imagine, then, my grief and horror when I found that you were determined to leave me, dear Valerie. It was to me as the sentence of death; but I felt that I could not resist; it was my fate, and who can oppose its decrees? It would indeed have pained your young and generous heart if you knew how I suffered, and still suffer from your desertion; but I considered it as a judgment on me--a visitation upon me for the crimes of my early years, and which I am now about to confide to you, as the only person in whom I feel confidence, and that justice may be done to one whom I have greatly injured. I would not die without reparation, and that reparation I entrust to you, as from my own pen I can explain that without which, with all my good intentions towards the party, reparation might be difficult. But I must first make you acquainted with the cause of crime, and to do this you must hear the events of my early life.
"My father, Sir Alexander Moystyn, had four children, two sons and two daughters. I was the first-born, then my two brothers, and afterwards, at an interval, my sister, so that there was a difference of eight years between me and my sister, Ellen. Our mother died in giving birth to Ellen; we grew up, my brothers went to Eton and college. I remained the sole mistress of my father's establishment. Haughty by nature, and my position, the power it gave me, the respect I received--and if you will look at the miniature I enclose with this, I may, without vanity, add, my beauty, made me imperious and tyrannical. I had many advantageous offers, which I rejected, before I was twenty years of age. My power with my father was unbounded, his infirmities kept him for a long time a prisoner in his room, and my word was law to him, as well as to the whole household. My sister Ellen, still a child, I treated with harshness--first, I believe, because she promised to rival me in good looks; and secondly, because my father showed greater affection towards her than I liked. She was meek in temper, and never complained. Time past--I refused many offers of marriage. I did not like to resign my position for the authority of a husband, and I had reached my twenty-fifth year, and my sister, Ellen, was a lovely girl of seventeen, when it was fated that all should be changed.
"A Colonel Dempster came down with my eldest brother, who was a captain in the same regiment of guards--a more prepossessing person I never beheld, and for the first time I felt that I would with pleasure give up being at the head of my father's establishment to follow the fortunes of another man. If my predilection was so strong, I had no reason to complain of want of attention on his part. He courted me in the most obsequious manner, the style more suited to my haughty disposition, and I at once gave way to the feelings with which he had inspired me. I became fervently in love with him, and valued one of his smiles more than an earthly crown. Two months passed, his original invitation had been for one week, and he still remained. The affair was considered as arranged, not only by myself, but by everybody else. My father, satisfied that he was a gentleman by birth, and being able to support himself by his own means in so expensive a regiment, made no inquiries, leaving the matter to take its own course. But, although two months had passed away, and his attentions to me were unremitting, Colonel Dempster had made no proposal, which I ascribed to his awe of me, and his diffidence as to his success. This rather pleased me than otherwise; but my own feelings now made me wish for the affair to be decided, and I gave him every opportunity that modesty and discretion would permit. I saw little of him during the mornings, as he went out with his gun with the other gentlemen, but in the evenings he was my constant and devoted attendant. I received many congratulations from female acquaintances (friends I had none) upon my having conquered one who was supposed to be invulnerable to the charms of our sex, and made no disclaimer when spoken to on the subject. Every hour I expected the declaration to be made, when, imagine my indignation and astonishment, at being informed one morning when I arose, that Colonel Dempster and my sister Ellen had disappeared, and it was reported that they had been seen in a carriage driving at furious speed.
"It was but too true. It appeared that Colonel Dempster, who had been informed by my brother of my temper and disposition, and who was aware that without paying court to me, his visit would not be extended, and who had fallen in love with Ellen almost as soon as he saw her, had practised this dissimulation towards me to enable him, without my knowledge, to gain my sister's affections; that his mornings were not spent in shooting with my brother, as was supposed, but in my sister Ellen's company; my brother, to whom he had acknowledged his attachment, conniving with him to deceive me. A letter from the colonel to my father, excusing himself for the step he had taken, and requesting him to pardon his daughter, was brought in the same morning and read by me. `Very foolish of him,' said my father; `what is the use of stealing what you may have for asking. He might have had Ellen if he had spoken to me; but I always thought that he was courting you, Barbara.'
"This letter, proving the truth of the report, was too much for me; I fell down at my father's feet in a violent fit, and was carried to my bed. The next day I was seized with a brain fever, and it was doubtful if ever my reason would return. But it did gradually, and, after a confinement to my room of three months, I recovered both health and reason; partially, I may say, for I doubt not but that the shock I then received has had a lasting effect upon me, and that it has caused me to be the unsettled, restless, wandering thing that I now am, only content when in motion, and using my pen to create an artificial excitement. I believe most people are a little cracked before they begin to write. I will not assert that it is a proof of madness, but it is a proof that a very little more would make them mad. Shakespeare says `the lover, the lunatic, and the poet, are of an imagination all compact.' It matters little whether it is prose or poetry; there is often more imagination and more poetry in prose than in rhyme. But to proceed-- "I arose with but one feeling--that of revenge; I say but one feeling, alas! I had forgotten to mention hatred, the parent of that revenge. I felt myself mortified and humiliated, cruelly deceived and mocked. My love for him was now turned to abhorrence, and my sister was an aversion. I felt that I never could forgive her. My father had not replied to the colonel's letter; indeed, the gout in his hand prevented him, or he would probably have done so long before I left my room. Now that I was once more at his side, he said to me, "`Barbara, I think it is high time to forgive and forget. I would have answered the colonel's letter before, but I could not. Now we must write and ask them to come and pay us a visit.'
"I sat down and wrote the letter, not according to his dictation, which was all kindness, but stating that my father would never forgive him or my sister, and requested all correspondence might cease, as it would be useless. " `Read what you have said, Barbara.'
"I read the letter as if it was written according to his wishes. " `That will do, dearest--they'll come back fast enough. I long to have Ellen in my arms again--she was very precious to me that child, for she cost the life of your dear mother. I want to ask her why she ran away. I really believe that it was more from fear of your anger than of mine, Barbara.'
"I made no reply, but folded the letter and sealed it. As I always opened the post-bag, I prevented my father from ever receiving the many letters written by my poor sister, imploring his forgiveness, and did all I could to excite his anger against her. At last I found out from her letters, that they had gone to the continent. Months passed. My poor father fretted sadly at the silence of Ellen, and the supposed rejection of his kind overtures. His unhappy state of mind had evidently an effect upon his body; he grew weaker and more querulous every day. At last a letter arrived from Ellen, which I now blush to say, gave me inexpressible joy. It announced the death of her husband-- a trifling wound on the thumb having terminated in locked-jaw and death. " `He is dead, then,' thought I; `if I lost him, she has no longer possession of him.'
"Alas! what a demon had taken possession of me! The letter further said, that she was coming over directly, and that she expected to be shortly confined. This letter was addressed to me, and not to my father. The death of her husband did not diminish my hatred against my sister; on the contrary, I felt as if I had her now in my power, and that my revenge upon her was about to be accomplished. After meditating upon what course I should pursue, I determined to write to her. I did so, stating that my father's anger was not to be appeased; that I had tried all I could to soften his wrath, but in vain; that he was growing weaker every day, and I thought her rash conduct had been the cause of it; that I did not think that he could last much longer, and I would make another appeal to him in her favour, which the death of her husband would probably occasion to be more successful.
"In a fortnight I had a reply, in which my poor sister invoked blessings on my head for my supposed kindness, and told me that she was in England, and expected every hour to be confined; that she was ill in body and in spirits, and did not think that she could get over it. She begged me, by the remembrance of our mother, who died giving her birth, that I would come to her. Surely I might have forgiven my enmity after all that the poor girl had suffered; but my heart was steeled.
"On consideration, I now thought proper to tell my father that Colonel Dempster was dead, and my sister returned to England,--adding her request that I would attend her in her confinement, and my willingness so to do. My poor father was much shocked, and begged me in a tremulous voice to set off immediately. I promised so to do, but requested that he would not say a word to anyone as to the cause of my absence until he heard from me, as it would occasion much talk among the servants, and perhaps ill-natured remarks might be made. He promised, and I departed, with a maid who had been my nurse, and upon whose secrecy I thought I could rely. What my intentions were, I can hardly say; all I knew was, that my revenge was not satiated, and I would leave no opportunity of wreaking it that offered.
"I found my sister in the very pangs of labour, heartbroken at the supposed resentment of my father, and his refusal of his forgiveness. I did not alleviate her misery by telling her the truth, which I might have done. I was indeed a demon, or possessed by one.
"She died giving birth to a boy. I then felt sorrow, until I looked at the child, and saw that it was the image of the colonel--the man who had caused me such misery. Again my passions were roused, and I vowed that the child should never know his father. I made my maid believe that the lady I visited was an old school-fellow, and never mentioned my sister's name, at least I thought so at the time, but I afterwards found that I had not deceived her. I persuaded her to take the child to her father's, saying that I had promised my friend on her death-bed that I would take care of it, but that it must be a secret, or invidious remarks would be made. I then returned to Culverwood Hall, dropping my nurse and the child on my way, and reported to my father my sister's death, of course concealing that the child was living. Sir Alexander was much affected, and wept bitterly; indeed, from that day he rapidly declined.
"I had now satiated my revenge, and was sorry when I had done so. Until then I had been kept up by excitement, now all excitement was over, and I had time for reflection; I was miserable, and in a state of constant warfare with my conscience; but, in vain, the more I reflected, the more I was dissatisfied with myself, and would have given worlds that I could recall what I had done.
"At this time, Sir Richard R--came down on a visit. He admired me, proposed, and was accepted, chiefly that I might remove from the hall, than for any other cause. I thought that new scenes and change of place would make me forget, but I was sadly mistaken. I went away with my husband, and as soon as I was away, I was in a constant fright lest my nurse should betray me to my father, and begged Sir Richard to shorten his intended tour and allow me to return to the hall, as the accounts of my father's health were alarming. My husband consented, and I had not been at the hall more than a fortnight, when my father's death relieved me from further anxiety on that score.
"Another fear now possessed me; I saw by my father's will that he had left 5,000 pounds to me, and also to my sister, in case of one dying, the survivor to have both sums, but the same cause of alarm was in my great aunt's will. My great aunt had left 10,000 pounds to me, and 10,000 pounds to my sister Ellen, to be settled upon us at our marriage, and in case of either dying without issue, the survivor to be legatee. Thus in two instances, by concealing the birth of the child, I was depriving it of its property, and obtaining it for myself. That I was ignorant of these points is certain, and unfortunate it was that it was so, for had I known it, I would not have dared to conceal the birth of the child, lest I should have been accused of having done so for pecuniary considerations, and I well knew, that if betrayed by my nurse, such would be the accusation made against me. I would willingly even now, have acknowledged the child as my nephew, but knew not how to do so, as my husband had possession of the money, and I dared not confess the crime that I had been guilty of. If ever retribution fell upon any one, it fell upon me. My life was one of perfect misery, and when I found that my nurse and her father objected to keeping the secret any longer, I thought I should have gone distracted. I pointed out to them the ruin they would entail upon me, and gave my solemn promise that I would see justice done to the child. This satisfied them. For several years I lived an unhappy life with my husband, until I was at last relieved by his death. You may ask how it was that I did not acknowledge the child at his death; the fact was, that I was afraid. I had put him to school, and he was then twelve or thirteen years old. I removed him to my own house, with the intention of so doing, and because my nurse and her father reminded me of my promise; but when he was in my house, I could not see my way, or how I could tell the story without acknowledging my guilt, and this pride prevented.
"I remained thus irresolute, every day putting off the confession, till the boy, from first being allowed to remain in the drawing-room, sank down into the kitchen. Yes, Valerie, Lionel, the page, the lacquey, is Lionel Dempster, my nephew. I said that I could not bear to make the avowal, and such is the case. At last I satisfied myself that what I did was for the boy's good. Alas! how easy we satisfy ourselves when it suits our views. I had left him my property, I had educated him, and I said, by being brought up in a humble position, he will be cured of pride, and will make a better man. Bad reasoning, I acknowledge.
"Valerie, I have left you my executrix, for even after my death I would as much as possible avoid exposure. I would not be the tale of the town, even for a fortnight, and it certainly will not help Lionel, when it is known to all the world that he has served as a footman. My solicitor knows not who my nephew is, but is referred to you to produce him. In a small tin box in the closet of my bedroom, you will find all the papers necessary for his identification, and also the names and residence of the parties who have been my accomplices in this deed; also all the intercepted letters of my poor sister's. You must be aware that Lionel is not only entitled to the property I have left him, but also to his father's property, which, in default of heirs, passed away to others. Consult with my solicitor to take such steps as are requisite, without inculpating me more than is necessary; but if required, let all be known to my shame, rather than the lad should not be put in possession of his rights.
"You will, I am afraid, hate my memory after this sad disclosure; but in my extenuation recall to mind how madly I loved, how cruelly I was deceived. Remember, also, that if not insane, I was little better at the time I was so criminal; and may it prove to you a lesson how difficult it is, when once you have stepped aside into the path of error ever to recover the right track.
"You now know all my sufferings, all my crimes. You now know why I have been, not without truth, considered as a person eccentric to folly, and occasionally on the verge of madness. Forgive me and pity me, for I have indeed been sufficiently punished by an ever torturing conscience!
"Barbara R--."
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{
"id": "23952"
}
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9
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I put the papers down on the table as soon as I had finished them, and for a long while was absorbed in meditation.
"Is it possible," thought I, "that love disappointed can turn to such fury--can so harden the heart to all better feelings--induce a woman to shorten the days of her parent--to allow a sister to remain in painful error on her death-bed, and wreak vengeance upon an innocent being, regardless of all justice? Grant, then, that I may never yield to such a passion! Who would have ever imagined, that the careless, eccentric Lady R--had such a load of crime weighing her down, and daily and hourly reminded of it by the presence of the injured party? How callous she must have become by habit, to still delay doing an act of justice--how strange that the fear of the world and its opinion should be greater than the fear of God!"
This last remark proved how little I yet knew of the world, and then my thoughts went in a different direction. As I have already said, I had been brought up as a Catholic; but, after my grandmother's death, I had little encouragement or example shown me in religious duties. Now, having been more than two years in England, and continually with Protestants, I had gone to the established Protestant church with those I resided with at first; because I considered it better to go to that church, although I knew it to be somewhat at variance with my own, rather than go to no church at all, and by habit I was gradually inclining to Protestantism; but now the idea came across my mind, if Lady R--had confessed as we Catholics do, this secret could not have been kept so long; and, if she withheld herself from the confessional, had her agents been Catholics, the secret would have been divulged to the priest by them, and justice would have been done to Lionel; and, having made this reflection, I felt as it were, that I was again a sincere Catholic.
After a little more reflection, I put away the papers, wrote a letter to Mr Selwyn, the solicitor, requesting that he would call upon me the following morning, and then went down to Lady M--.
"I suppose that we shall not have much of the pleasure of your company, Miss de Chatenoeuf," said her ladyship, "now that you have such a novel occupation?"
"It is a very distressing one," replied I, "and I wish Lady R--had not paid me such a compliment. Might I trespass upon your ladyship's kindness to request the loan of the carriage for half-an-hour to obtain some papers from Lady R--'s house in Baker Street?"
"Oh, certainly," replied her ladyship. "Pray have you seen Lady R--'s will?"
"Yes, madame."
"And how has she disposed of her property?"
"She has left it all to her nephew, Lady M--."
"Nephew! I never heard her speak of a nephew before. Sir Richard had no nephews or nieces, for he was an only son, and the title has now gone into the Vivian branch, and I never heard of her having a nephew. And what has she left you, mademoiselle, if it is not asking too much?"
"Lady R--has left me 500 pounds, my lady."
"Indeed! well then, she pays you for your trouble. But really, Miss de Chatenoeuf, I do wish you could put off this business until after the marriages. I am so hurried and worried that I really do not know which way to turn, and really I have felt your loss these last two days more than you can imagine. You are so clever, and have so much taste, that we cannot get on without you. It's all your own fault," continued her ladyship, playfully, "you are so good-natured, and have made us so dependent upon you, that we cannot let you off now. Nothing in the _trousseaux_ is approved of, unless stamped by the taste of Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf. Now, a week cannot make a great difference, and lawyers love delay: will you oblige me, therefore, by leaving Lady R--'s affairs for the present?"
"Certainly, Lady M--," replied I. "I will stop a letter I was about to send to her solicitor, and write another to the effect you wish, and I will not repeat my request for the carriage until after the marriages have taken place."
"Many thanks," replied her ladyship, and I went out, took my letter from the hall table, and wrote another to Mr Selwyn, stating that I could not enter into any business until the following week, when I should be prepared to receive him.
I wrote another to the same effect to Lionel, requesting him not to call again, but that I would write and let him know where to meet me as soon as I was more at leisure.
Indeed I was glad that Lady M--had made the request, as the trouble and chattering and happy faces which were surrounding the trousseaux, and the constant employment and appeals made to me, drove away the melancholy which Lady R--'s affairs had occasioned me. I succeeded to a great degree in recovering my spirits, and exerted myself to my utmost, so that everything was complete and satisfactory to all parties two days before the wedding was to take place.
At last, the morning came. The brides were dressed and went down into the drawing-room, frightened and perplexed, but their tears had been shed above. The procession of carriages moved on to Hanover Square; there was a bishop of course, and the church was filled with gay and tastefully-dressed women. The ceremony was performed, and the brides were led into the vestry-room to recover, and receive kisses and congratulations. Then came the banquet, which nobody hardly tasted except the bishop, who had joined too many couples in his lifetime to have his appetite at all affected by the ceremony, and some two or three others who were old stagers on the road of life, and who cared little whether it was a wedding-breakfast, or refreshments after a funeral.
At last, after a most silent entertainment, the brides retired to change their dresses, and, when they re-appeared, they were handed into the carriages of their respective bridegrooms as soon as they could be torn away from the kisses and tears of Lady M--, who played the part of a bereaved mother to perfection. No one to have seen her then, raving like another Niobe, would have imagined that all her thoughts and endeavours and manoeuvres, for the last three years, had been devoted to the sole view of getting them off; but Lady M--was a perfect actress, and this last scene was well got up.
As her daughters were led down to the carriages, I thought that she was going to faint; but it appeared, on second thoughts, that she wished first to see the girls depart in their gay equipages; she therefore tottered to the window, saw them get in, looked at Newman's greys and gay postillions--at the white and silver favours--the dandy valet and smart lady's-maid in each rumble. She saw them start at a rattling pace, watched them till they turned the corner of the square, and then-- and not till then--fell senseless in my arms, and was carried by the attendants into her own room.
After all, the poor woman must have been very much worn out, for she had been for the last six weeks in a continual worry lest any _contre-temps_ should happen, which might have stopped or delayed the happy consummation.
The next morning her ladyship did not leave her room, but sent word down that the carriage was at my service; but I was fatigued and worn out, and declined it for that day. I wrote to Lionel and to Mr Selwyn, desiring them to meet me in Baker Street, at two o'clock the next day; and then passed the day quietly, in company with Amy, the third daughter of Lady M--, whom I have before mentioned. She was a very sweet, unaffected girl; and I was more partial to her than to her sisters, who had been just married. I had paid great attention to her, for she had a fine voice, and did credit to my teaching, and there was a great intimacy between us, arising on my part from my admiration of her ingenuous and amiable disposition, which even her mother's example to the contrary could not spoil.
After some conversation relative to her sisters and their husbands, she said, "I hardly know what to do, Valerie. I love you too well to be a party to your being ill-treated, and yet I fear that you will be pained if I tell you what I have heard about you. I know also that you will not stay, if I do tell you, and that will give me great pain; but _that_ is a selfish feeling which I could overcome. What I do not like is hurting your feelings. Now, tell me candidly, ought I to tell you, or not?"
"I will give you my opinion candidly," replied I. "You have said too little or too much. You speak of my being ill-treated; certainly, I should wish to guard against that, although I cannot imagine who is my enemy."
"Had I not heard it, I could not have believed it either," replied she. "I thought that you had come here on a visit as a friend; but what makes me think that I ought to tell you is, that there will be something said against your character, which I am sure, must be false."
"Now, indeed, I must request that you will tell me everything, and soften nothing down, but tell me the whole truth. Who is it that intends to attack my character?"
"I am sorry--very sorry to say, it is mamma," replied she, wiping away a tear.
"Lady M--!" exclaimed I. "Yes," replied she; "but now you must listen to all I have to say. I am sure that I am doing right in telling you, and therefore nothing shall prevent me. I love my mother--what a sad thing it is that I cannot respect her! I was in the dressing-room, when my mother was lying on the sofa in her bedroom this morning, when her great friend, Mrs Germane, came up. She sat talking with my mother for some time, and they appeared either to forget or not to care if I heard them; for at last your name was mentioned. " `Well, she does dress you and your girls beautifully, I must say,' said Mrs Germane. `Who is she? They say that she is of a good family; and how came she to live with you as a milliner?' " `My dear Mrs Germane, that she does live with me as a milliner is true, and it was for that reason only I invited her to the house; but she is not aware that I retain her in that capacity. She is, I understand from Mrs Bathurst, of a noble family in France, thrown upon the world by circumstances, very talented, and very proud. Her extreme taste in dress I discovered when she was living with Mrs Bathurst; and, when I found that she was about, through my management, to leave Lady R--, I invited her here as a sort of friend, and to stay with my daughters--not a word did I mention about millinery; I had too much tact for that. Even when her services were required, I made it appear as her own offer, and expressed my thanks for her condescension, and since that, by flattery and management, she has continued to dress my daughters for me; and, I must say, that I do believe it has been owing to her exquisite taste that my daughters have gone off so well.' " `Well, you have managed admirably,' replied Mrs Germane; `but, my dear Lady M--, what will you do with her now?' " `Oh,' replied Lady M--, `as Amy will now come out, I shall retain her in my employ until she is disposed of; and then--' "`Yes, then will be the difficulty,' replied Mrs Germane; `after having allowed her to live so long with you as a visitor, I may say, how will you get rid of her?' " `Why, I was puzzling myself about that, and partly decided that it should be done by mortifying her, and wounding her feelings, for she is very proud; but, fortunately, I have found out something which I shall keep to myself, until the time comes, and then I can dismiss her at a moment's warning.' " `Indeed!' said Mrs Germane, `what could you have found out?' " `Well, I will tell you; but you must not mention it again. My maid entered the room the other day, when mademoiselle was receiving a young man who called upon her, and she found them kissing.' " `You don't say so!' " `Yes, a kiss was given, and my maid saw it. Now, I can easily make it appear that my maid never mentioned it to me till the time that it may be convenient to make use of it, and then I can send her away; and if any questions are asked, hint at a little impropriety of conduct.' " `And very properly too,' replied Mrs Germane. `Had I not better hint a little beforehand to prepare people?' " `Why, it may be as well, perhaps; but be cautious, very cautious, my dear Mrs Germane.'
"Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, I am sorry that I am obliged, in doing my duty to you, to expose mamma," said Amy, rising up from her chair; "but I am sure that you could not be guilty of any impropriety, and I will not allow you to be accused of it, if it is to be prevented."
"Many thanks," replied I. "My dear Amy, you have behaved like a kind friend. I have only, in duty to myself, to clear up the charge against me, of impropriety. You must not imagine me guilty of that. It is true that your mother's maid did come in when a young lad of seventeen, who was grateful to me for the interest I took in his welfare, and who was taking leave of me at the time, did raise my hand to his lips and kiss it, and, had he done so before your mother, I should not have prevented it. This was the kiss which, as your mother asserts, passed between us, and this is the only impropriety that took place. Oh, what a sad, treacherous, selfish, wicked world this is!" cried I, throwing myself on the sofa, and bursting into tears.
Amy was making every attempt to console me, and blaming herself for having made the communication, when Lady M--came downstairs into the room.
"What is all this--what a scene!" exclaimed she. "Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, have you had any bad news?"
"Yes, my lady," replied I, "so bad that I am under the necessity of leaving you directly."
"Indeed! may I inquire what has happened?"
"No, my lady, it is not in my power to tell you. I have only to repeat, that I must, with your permission, leave this house to-morrow morning."
"Well, mademoiselle," replied her ladyship, "I do not want to pry into your secrets, but this I must say, that where there is concealment, there must be wrong; but I have lately discovered so much, that I do not wonder at concealment--nor am I, indeed, surprised at your wish to leave me."
"Lady M--," replied I, haughtily, "I have never done anything during the time that I have been under your roof which I have to blush for--nor indeed anything that requires concealment. This I can proudly say. If I conceal now, it is to spare others, and, I may add, to spare you. Do not oblige me to say more in presence of your daughter. It will be sufficient for me to hint to you, that I am now aware why I was invited to your house, and what are your plans for dismissing me when it suits you."
"Eaves-dropping, then, is a portion of your character, mademoiselle," cried Lady M--, colouring up to the temples.
"No, madam, such is not the case, and that is all the answer I shall give; it is sufficient for you that you are exposed, and I do not envy your present feelings. I have only to repeat, that I shall leave this house to-morrow morning, and I will not further trouble your ladyship with my company."
I then walked out of the room, and as I passed Lady M--, and observed her confusion and vexation, I felt that it was she who was humiliated, and not me. I went up to my room and commenced my preparations for immediate departure, and had been more than an hour busy in packing up, when Amy came into my room.
"Oh, Valerie, how sorry I am--but you have behaved just as I think that you ought to have done; and how very kind of you not to say that I told you. My mother was so angry after you left; said that the maids must have been listening, and declares she will give them all warning; but I know that she will not do that. She spoke about your meeting a young man, and kissing going on; but you have already explained all that."
"Amy," replied I, "after I am gone, take an opportunity of saying to Lady M--, that you mentioned this to me, and tell her that my reply was, if Lady M--knew who that young man was, how he is connected, and how large a fortune he will inherit, she would be very glad to see him kiss one of her daughter's hands with a different feeling from that which induced him to kiss mine."
"I will, depend upon it," said Amy, "and then mamma will think that she has lost a good husband for me."
"She will meet him some of these days," replied I; "and what is more, he will defend me from any attack made on that score."
"I will tell her that, also," said Amy, "it will make her careful of what she says."
One of the servants then knocked at the door, and said, that Lady M-- wished to see Miss Amy.
"Wish me good-bye now," said I, "for you may not be permitted to see me again."
The dear girl embraced me cordially, and, with tears in her eyes, left the room. I remained till I had finished packing, and then sat down. Shortly afterwards her ladyship's maid came in, and delivered me an envelope from her ladyship, enclosing the salary due to me, with Lady M--'s compliments written outside.
I saw no more of Lady M--or her daughter that evening. I went to bed, and, as in my former changes, I reflected what steps I should take. As for the treatment I had received, I was now to a certain degree hardened to it, and my feelings certainly were not so acute as when, the first time, I had received a lesson of what I might expect through life from the heartlessness and selfishness of the world; but in the present case there was a difficulty which did not exist in the former--I was going away without knowing where I was to go. After a little thought, I determined that I would seek Madame Gironac, and ascertain whether she could not receive me until I had decided upon my future plans.
My thoughts then recurred to other points. I recollected that I had to meet Mr Selwyn and Lionel in Baker Street, and I resolved that I would go there with my effects early the next morning and leave them in charge of the cook, who was taking care of the house. I calculated also the money that I had in possession and in prospect. I had such a good stock of clothes when I came to England with Madame Bathurst, that I had no occasion, during the two years and more that I had now been in England, to make any purchases of consequence--indeed, I had not expended more than the twenty pounds I had brought with me. I had received some few presents from Lady M--and Madame Bathurst, and a great many from Lady R--. Altogether, I calculated that I had about two hundred and sixty pounds in my desk, for Lady R--had given me one hundred pounds for only a portion of the year; then there was the five hundred pounds which she had left me, besides her wearing apparel and trinkets, which last I knew to be of value. It was a little fortune to one in my position, and I resolved to consult Mr Selwyn as to the best way of disposing of it. Having wound up my meditations with the most agreeable portion of them, I fell asleep, and in the morning woke up refreshed.
Lady M--'s maid, who had always been partial to me, for I had taught her many things valuable to a lady's-maid, came in early, and said that she knew that I was going away, which she regretted very much. I replied that I should leave as soon as possible, but I wanted some breakfast. This she brought up to my room.
I had not finished when Amy came in the room and said, "I have permission to come and wish you good-bye, Valerie. I told mamma what you said about the person who was seen to kiss your hand. She acknowledges now that it was your hand that was kissed, and she was so astonished, for she knows that you never tell stories; and, what do you think, she desired me to find out what was the young gentleman's name that had so large a fortune. I said I would if I could, and so I will, by asking you outright, not by any other means. I don't want to know his name," continued she, laughing, "but I'm sure mamma has in her mind fixed upon him for a husband for me, and would now give the world that you were not going away, that through you he might be introduced to her."
"I cannot tell you, my dear," replied I. "I am not at liberty to mention it at present, otherwise I would with pleasure. I am going now. May God bless you, my dearest, and may you always continue to be the same frank and amiable creature that you are now! I leave you with regret, and I pray earnestly for your happiness. You have made me very happy by telling me that your mamma acknowledges that it was my hand that was kissed, after that, she will hardly attempt to injure me, as she proposed."
"Oh no, Valerie, I think she is afraid to do so now. This young man of fortune has made her think differently. He would, of course, protect you from slander, and expose her, if she attempted it. Then, good-bye."
We embraced, and then I ordered a hackney-coach to be called, and drove with my luggage to Baker Street. The cook welcomed me, saying that she expected my coming, as Mr Selwyn had called to tell her of Lady R--'s death, and that when she asked to whom she was to look for her wages, he had told her that I was the person who was to settle all her ladyship's affairs, as everything was left on my hands. She showed me a letter from Martha, Lady R--'s maid, by which I found that they would probably arrive in Baker Street that very day, with all her ladyship's effects.
"I suppose you will sleep here, miss?" said the cook, "I have aired your bed, and your room is all ready."
I replied that I wished to do so for a night or two, at all events, as I had a good deal to attend to, but that Mr Selwyn would call at one o'clock, and that I would speak to him on the subject.
I had requested Lionel to call at twelve, an hour previous to Mr Selwyn, that I might make him acquainted with the contents of Lady R--'s papers addressed to me. He was punctual to the time, and I shook hands with him, saying, "Lionel, I congratulate you, at now having proofs of your being the nephew of Lady R--, and also at her having left you considerable property. You will be surprised to hear that she has appointed me her executrix."
"I am not at all surprised," replied Lionel; "I am sure she has done a wise thing at last."
"That is more than I am," replied I, "but I appreciate the compliment. But, Lionel, there is no time to be lost, as Mr Selwyn, the lawyer, is coming here at one o'clock, and before he comes I wish you to read over Lady R--'s confession, if I may so call it, which will explain the motives of her conduct towards you. I am afraid that it will not extenuate her conduct, but recollect that she has now made all the reparation in her power, and that we must forgive as we hope to be forgiven. Sit down and read these papers, while I unpack one or two of my boxes upstairs."
"The last time that we were here, I corded them up for you, Miss Valerie; I hope that you will allow me to assist you again."
"Thank you, but you will have no time to read what Lady R--has said, and the cook and I can manage without you."
I then left the room and went upstairs. I was still busy in my room when a knock at the street door announced the arrival of Mr Selwyn, and I went down into the drawing-room to meet him. I asked Lionel, who was walking up and down the room, whether he had finished the papers, and he replied by a nod of the head. The poor lad appeared very miserable, but Mr Selwyn entered, and I could not say more to him.
"I hope I have not kept you waiting, Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf," said he.
"No, indeed. I came here at ten o'clock, for I have left Lady M--, and I may as well ask at once whether there is any objection to my taking a bed in this house for a few nights?"
"Objection! Why, mademoiselle, you are sole executrix, and everything is at present yours in fact, for the time. You have, therefore, a right to take possession until he appears, and the will is proved."
"The hero is before you, Mr Selwyn. Allow me to introduce you to Mr Lionel Dempster, the nephew of Lady R--" Mr Selwyn bowed to Lionel, and congratulated him upon his accession to the property.
Lionel returned the salute, and then said, "Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf I am convinced that in this case Mr Selwyn must have been made a party to all that has occurred. The reading of these papers has rather disturbed me, and it would be painful to me to hear everything repeated in my presence. With your permission, I will walk out for an hour, and leave you to explain everything to Mr Selwyn, for I am sure that I shall need his advice. Here is the confession of old Roberts which I shall leave for his perusal. Good-morning, then, for the present."
So saying, Lionel took up his hat and quitted the room.
"He is a very prepossessing young man," observed Mr Selwyn. "What a fine eye he has!"
"Yes," replied I, "and now that he has so large a property, others will find out that he is a prepossessing young man with fine eyes; but sit down, Mr Selwyn, for you have to listen to a very strange narrative."
When he had finished it, he laid it down on the table, saying, "This is perhaps the strangest history that has ever come to my knowledge during thirty years of practice. And so she brought him up as a footman. I now recognise him again as the lad who has so often opened the door for me, but I confess I never should have done so if I had not heard what you have now communicated."
"He was always much above his position," replied I. "He is very clever and very amusing; at least I found him so when he served me in his menial capacity, and certainly was much more intimate with him than I ever thought I could be with a servant. At all events, his education has not been neglected."
"Strange! very strange!" observed Mr Selwyn, "this is a curious world; but I fear that his history cannot be kept altogether a secret, for you must recollect, mademoiselle, that his father's property must be claimed, and no doubt it will be disputed. I must go to Doctor's Commons and search out the will at once of Colonel Dempster; he intends, as I presume he does by what he said just now, to employ me. After all, it will, if known, be but a nine days' wonder, and do him no harm, for he proves his birth by his appearance, and his breeding is so innate as to have conquered all his disadvantages."
"When I knew him as a servant, I thought him an intelligent and witty lad, but I never could have believed that he would have become so improved in such a short time: not only his manners, but his language is so different."
"It was _in_ him," replied Mr Selwyn; "as a domestic the manners and language of a gentleman would have been out of place, and he did not attempt them; now that he knows his position, he has called them forth. We must find out this Mrs Green, and have her testimony as soon as possible. Of course, after the deposition of old Roberts, Sir Thomas Moystyn will not be surprised when I communicate to him the confession of Lady R--, and the disposition of her property. In fact, the only difficulty will be in the recovery of the property of his father, Colonel Dempster, and--" A knock at the street door announced the return of Lionel. When he entered the room, Mr Selwyn said, "Mr Dempster, that you are the nephew of Lady R--, to whom she has bequeathed her property, and what was your own, is sufficiently established in my opinion. I will, therefore, with your permission, read her ladyship's will."
Lionel took a seat, and the will was read. When it was finished, Mr Selwyn said, "Having been Lady R--'s legal adviser for many years I am able to tell you, within a trifle, what property you will receive. There are 57000 three per cents; this house and furniture, which I purchased the lease of for her, and which is only saddled with a ground-rent for the next forty years; and I find, a balance of 1200 pounds at the banker's. Your father's property, Mr Dempster, of course, I know nothing about, but will ascertain this to-morrow by going to Doctors' Commons. I think I may venture to assure the executrix, that she will run no risk in allowing you to take any sum of money you may require from the balance in the bank, as soon as the will is proved, which had better be done to-morrow, if it suits Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf."
"Certainly," replied I; "I am anxious to get rid of my trust as soon as possible, and give Mr Dempster possession. There is a tin box of papers, Mr Selwyn, which I cannot get at till the return of Lady R--'s maid, as the keys are with Lady R--'s effects which she is bringing home with her."
"Yes, they will no doubt be important," replied Mr Selwyn: "and now, Mr Dempster, if you are in want of any ready cash, I shall be your banker with pleasure till you can have possession of your own."
"I thank you, sir, I am not in want of any," replied Lionel, "for the present; but, as soon as I may be permitted to have money from the bank I shall be glad, as it is not my intention to remain in England."
"Indeed!" exclaimed I. "No, Mademoiselle Valerie," said Lionel. "I am but too well aware of many deficiencies which must arise from the position I have been so long in, not to wish to remedy them as soon as possible, and, before I appear as the heir of Lady R--, it is my intention, as soon as I can, to go to Paris, and remain there for two years, or, perhaps, until I am of age; and I think in that time to improve myself, and make myself more what the son of Colonel Dempster should be. I am young yet, and capable of instruction."
"You propose a very proper step, Mr Dempster," said Mr Selwyn; "and during your absence all legal proceedings will be over, and, if the whole affair is made public, it will be forgotten again by the time that you propose to return. I am sure that the executrix will be most happy to forward such very judicious arrangements. I will now take my leave, and beg Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf to meet me at Doctors' Commons at three o'clock to-morrow; that will give me time to look for Colonel Dempster's will. Good-morning, mademoiselle; good-morning, Mr Dempster."
Mr Selwyn went out, and left us alone.
"May I ask, Miss Valerie, whether you have left Lady M--?"
"Yes," replied I; and I told him what had passed, adding, "I stay here for a night or two, and shall go then to Madame Gironac's."
"Why not stay here altogether? I hope you will. I shall go abroad as soon as possible."
"Yes, and you are right in so doing; but, Lionel, you forget that my duty as executrix will be to make the best of the estate for you until you are of age, and this house must be let furnished; Mr Selwyn told me so, while you were away; besides, I am not a young lady of fortune, but one most unfortunately dependent upon the caprices of others, and I must submit to my fate."
Lionel made no reply for some little while, and then he said, "I am very glad that Lady R--has showed the high opinion she had of you, but I cannot forgive her treatment of my mother. It was too cruel; but I had better not talk any more about it; and I am sure, Miss Valerie, you must be anxious to be alone. Good afternoon, Miss Valerie."
"Good-bye, Lionel, for the present," replied I. "By-the-bye, did the cook recognise you?"
"Yes; and I told her that I had given up going out to service."
"I think that you had better not come here, Lionel, till I have dismissed Lady R--'s maid, which I shall do the day after her arrival. I will meet you at Mr Selywn's office--it will be better."
To this Lionel agreed, and we parted.
The next day the will was proved, and Mr Selwyn then informed us that he had found the will of the late Colonel Dempster, which had left his property to his child unborn, as might be supposed, with a jointure on the estate, which was entailed. The will, in consequence of the supposed non-existence of Lionel, had been proved by the next of kin, a gentleman of large property, and of whom report spoke highly. It was the intention of Mr Selwyn to communicate with him directly. The probate-duty, etcetera, had required a large portion of the 1200 pounds left in the bank, but there was still enough to meet all Lionel's wants for a year, if he wished to go abroad immediately, and another dividend would be due in a month, so that there could be no difficulty. Mr Selwyn explained all this as we drove to his chambers, where I signed some papers at his request, and Lionel received a check on the bank, and I sent, by Mr Selwyn, instructions to meet his drafts for the future.
This affair being arranged, Lionel stated his intention of quitting immediately for Paris. He said that he would go for his passport that afternoon, as there was time enough left for him to give in his name at the office; and that he would call to-morrow afternoon to bid me farewell. He then took his leave, and left me with Mr Selwyn, with whom I had a long conversation, during which I stated to him that I had some money of my own, as well as what had been left me by Lady R--, which I wished to put in safety. He recommended that I should lodge what I then had at a banker's, and, as soon as I had received the rest, he would look out for a good mortgage for me. He then handed me into a coach, and bade me farewell, stating that he would call on the day after the morrow, at three o'clock, as by that time Lady R--'s maid must have arrived, and I should have obtained possession of the key of the tin box, the papers in which he was anxious to examine.
On my return to Baker Street, I found that Lady R--'s maid had arrived, and I, of course, immediately took possession of everything. I then paid her her wages, and dismissed her, giving her permission to remain and sleep in the house, and promising her a character. It appeared very summary to dismiss her so soon, but I was anxious she should not see Lionel, and I told her that, as executrix, I was not warranted in keeping her a day longer than was necessary, as I was answerable for all expenses. Having now the keys, I was able to examine everything. I first found the tin box, with various papers in it; among others a packet, on which was written, "Papers relative to my sister Ellen and her child." I thought I would not open them till Mr Selwyn was present, as it might appear as if I was curious, so I laid them aside. I then despatched the cook with a note to Madame Gironac, requesting that she would come and spend the evening with me, as I had much to communicate to her. Indeed, I felt dull alone in such a large house, and I also felt the want of a sincere friend to talk with.
Having nothing better to do, I opened the various drawers and cupboards which contained the apparel, etcetera, of Lady R--, and found such a mass of things that I was astonished. In her whimsical way, she had at times purchased silks and various jewels, which she had never made use of, but thrown on one side. There were more stuffs for making up dresses than dresses made up,--I should say nearly double. I found one large bundle of point-lace, some of it of great beauty, which I presume had belonged to her mother; and of other laces there was a great quantity. The jewels which she had taken abroad with her were very few, and such as she wore in common; her diamonds, and all that was of value, I knew she had sent to her banker's a day or two previous to her departure, and I thought I would wait till I had seen Mr Selwyn again before I claimed them.
Madame Gironac came as requested, and I then communicated to her all that had taken place. She was delighted at my good fortune, and said she hoped that I would now come and live with them, as I had the means of living, without being subject to the caprices of others, but I could give no answer till I knew what my property might amount to. All I could promise was, to go to her as soon as I had finished my business in Baker Street, and then I would afterwards decide what steps it would be advisable for me to take.
After a long conversation, during which Madame Gironac was as lively as ever, we separated, Madame Gironac promising to come and pass the next day with me, and assist me in looking over Lady R--'s wardrobe. During the afternoon, I had selected a good many of Lady R--'s dresses, and some which did not please my taste, or had been much worn, I gave to her maid, on the following morning, before her departure. This pleased her very much, as she knew that her mistress's wardrobe had been bequeathed to me, and did not expect to obtain any portion of it; but the drawers and closets were so loaded, that I could well afford to be generous. Madame Gironac came to breakfast the next morning, accompanied by her husband, who was delighted to see me, and having as usual quarrelled, after their fashion, he bounced out of the room, declaring that he never would see that odious little woman any more.
"Oh, Monsieur Gironac, you forget you promised to come and dine here."
"Well, well, so I did; but, Mademoiselle Valerie, that promise has prevented a separation."
"It is very unlucky that you asked him, Mademoiselle Valerie," replied his wife, "all my hopes are destroyed. Good-bye, Monsieur Gironac, and be grateful that you have been prevented from committing a folly; now go, we are to be very busy, and don't want you."
"I will go, madame; and hear me," said Monsieur Gironac, with mock solemnity; "as I live, I will not return--till dinner-time."
He then bounced out of the room. We then proceeded to sort and arrange. Madame Gironac, who was a good judge, stated the laces to be worth at least 200 pounds, and the other articles, such as silks, etcetera, with the dresses and lace, at about 100 pounds more. The laces and silks not made up she proposed selling for me, which she said that she could to various customers, and the dresses and lace she said could be disposed of to a person she knew, who gained her livelihood by re-making up such things.
We were thus employed, when Lionel called. He had obtained his passport, and had come to wish me good-bye. When he rose to say farewell, he said, "Miss Valerie, I can hardly say what my feelings are towards you. Your kindness to me when I was a supposed footman, and the interest you always took in anything concerning me, have deeply impressed me with gratitude, but I feel more. You are much too young for my mother, but I feel the reverence of a son, and if I did dare to use the expression, I feel towards you, what I think are the feelings that a brother should have towards a sister."
"I am flattered by your saying so, Lionel," replied I. "You are now in a much higher position, or rather soon will be, than I shall ever obtain in this world, and that you have such feelings towards me for any little kindness I have shown to you, is highly creditable to your heart. Have you any letters of introduction to anyone in Paris? but now I think of it, you cannot well have."
"No," replied he; "I may have by and bye, but how could I possibly obtain one at present?"
A thought struck me.
"Well, Lionel, you do not know my history; but I was once very intimate with a lady at Paris, and, although we parted bad friends, she has since written kindly to me, and I believe her to have been sincere in so doing. I will give you a letter of introduction to her, but do not blame me if I have been deceived in her a second time."
I went to the table and wrote the following short note-- "My dear Madame D'Albret,-- "This letter will be presented to you by a Mr Lionel Dempster, a young Englishman of fortune, and a great friend of mine. He is going to reside at Paris to improve himself, until he comes of age; and I give him this introduction to you for two reasons; the first, because I want to prove to you that, although my feelings would not permit me to accept your last kind offer, I have long forgotten and forgiven any little injustice you did me: and the second, because I feel convinced that in your society, and that which you keep, he will gain more advantage than perhaps in any other in Paris. --Yours with esteem,-- "Valerie de Chatenoeuf."
"There, Lionel, this may be of use to you; if not, write and let me know. You will of course let me hear from you occasionally?"
"May Heaven preserve you, Miss Valerie!" replied Lionel. "I only hope the time may arrive when I may be able to prove my gratitude."
Lionel kissed my hand, and the tears rolled down his cheeks as he quitted the room.
"He is a charming young man," said Madame Gironac, as soon as the door was shut.
"He is a very superior young man in my opinion," replied I; "and I am most anxious that he should do well. I did not think it possible that I ever could have written again to Madame d'Albret, but my good-will towards him induced me. There is Monsieur Gironac's knock, so now for a quarrel, or a reconciliation, which is it to be?"
"Oh, we must reconcile first, and then have a quarrel afterwards: that is the established rule."
Monsieur Gironac soon joined us. We passed a very lively evening, and it was arranged that I should in three days take up my quarters at their house.
The next day Mr Selwyn called at the time appointed, and I made over to him the box and papers. He told me that he had seen Mrs Green, and had had her full confession of what took place, in corroboration of all that was stated by Lady R--and old Roberts, and that he had written to Mr Armiger Dempster, who had succeeded to the property of Lionel's father.
I then told him that I wished to go with him to the bank, to lodge the money I then had, and to obtain Lady R--'s jewel-case which was deposited there.
"Nothing like the time present," said Mr Selwyn; "my carriage is at the door. I will have the pleasure of taking you there and then returning with you. But I have another appointment, and must be so impolite as to request that you will hurry your toilet as much as possible."
This was done, and in an hour I had lodged my money and obtained the jewel-case.
Mr Selwyn took me back again, and, having put the tin box into the carriage, wished me farewell.
I told him that I was about to take up my residence with the Gironacs, gave him their address, and then we parted.
That evening I opened the jewel-case and found it well stocked. The value of its contents I could not possibly be acquainted with, but that so many diamonds and other stones were of value I knew well. I placed the other caskets of Lady R--in the case, and then proceeded to make up my packages ready for transportation to Madame Gironac's, for there were a great many trunks full. I occupied myself with this for the remainder of the time that I was in Baker Street, and when Monsieur Gironac and his wife called, according to promise, to take me to their home, it required two coaches, and well loaded, to take all the luggage; a third conveyed Monsieur and Madame Gironac, myself, and the jewel-case. I found a very cheerful room prepared for me, and I had the pleasant feeling, as we sat down to our small dinner, that I had a home.
Madame Gironac was indefatigable in her exertions, and soon disposed of all the laces and wardrobe that I had decided upon parting with, and I paid the sum that they realised, viz., 310 pounds, into the banker's. The disposal of the jewels was a more difficult affair, but they were valued by a friend of Monsieur Gironac's, who had once been in the trade, at 630 pounds. After many attempts to dispose of them more favourably, I succeeded in obtaining for them the sum of 570 pounds.
Mr Selwyn had called upon me once or twice, and I had received my legacy with interest; deducting the legacy duty of 50 pounds, it came to 458 pounds. I had, therefore, the following sums in all: 230 pounds of my savings; 310 pounds for the wardrobe and laces, 570 pounds for the jewels, and 458 pounds for the legacy, amounting in all to 1568 pounds. Who would have imagined three months before, that I should ever have possessed such a sum? I did not, certainly.
Mr Selwyn, as soon as he knew what sum I had to dispose of, viz., 1500 pounds, for I had retained the 68 pounds for my expenses, procured me a mortgage at five per cent, on excellent landed security; and thus did the poor forlorn Valerie possess an income of 75 pounds per annum.
As soon as this was all arranged, I felt a tranquillity I had not known before. I was now independent. I could work, it is true, if I felt inclined, and had an opportunity. I could, however, do without work. The Gironacs, finding that I insisted upon paying for my board, and knowing that I could now afford it, agreed to receive forty pounds per annum--more they would not listen to. Oh! what a balm to the feelings is the consciousness of independence, especially to one who had been treated as I had been. There were two situations to which I had taken a violent abhorrence--that of a governess, and now that of a milliner; and I thanked Heaven that I was no longer under any fear of being driven into either of those unfortunate employments. For the first month that I remained with the Gironacs, I absolutely did nothing but enjoy my emancipation; after that, I began to talk over matters with Monsieur Gironac, who pointed out to me, that now that I could live upon my own means, I should endeavour to increase them, so as to be still more at my ease.
"What do you propose that I should do, then, monsieur," replied I. "I should propose that you establish yourself as a music-mistress, and give lessons on the pianoforte and singing. By degrees, you will get a connection, and you will still be your own mistress."
"And when you have nothing else to do, mademoiselle, you must make flowers in wax," said Madame Gironac. "You make them so well, that I can always sell yours when I cannot my own."
"I must not interfere with you, Elise," said I; "that would be very ungrateful on my part."
"Pooh--nonsense--there are customers enough for us both."
I thought this advice to be very good, and made up my mind to follow it. I had not money sufficient to purchase a piano just then, as it would be five months before the half-year's interest of the mortgage would be due; so I hired one from a dealer with whom Monsieur Gironac was intimate, and practised several hours every day. Fortune appeared inclined to favour me, for I obtained employment from four different channels.
The first and most important was this: I went every Sunday to the Catholic Chapel with Madame Gironac, and of course I joined in the singing. On the third Sunday as I was going out, I was touched on the arm by one of the priests, who requested to speak with me in the vestry. Madame Gironac and I followed him, and he requested us to sit down.
"Who have I the pleasure of addressing?" said he to me.
"Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, sir," replied I. "I am not aware of your circumstances, mademoiselle," said he, "but the name is one well known in France. Still those who hold our best names are very often not in affluent circumstances in this country. I trust, let it be as it may, that you will not be offended, but the fact is, your singing has been much admired, and we would wish for your service, gratuitous, if you are in good circumstances, but well paid for, if you are not, in the choir."
"Mademoiselle Chatenoeuf is not, I am sorry to say, in good circumstances, monsieur," replied Madame Gironac.
"Then I will promise that she shall be well rewarded for her exertions, if she will consent to sing in the chapel--but do you consent?"
"I have no objection, sir," replied I. "Allow me, then, to call the gentleman who presides over the choir," said the priest, going out.
"Accept by all means, Mademoiselle Valerie. It will be an introduction for you as a music-mistress, and very advantageous."
"I agree with you," replied I, "and I like singing sacred music."
The priest returned with a gentleman, who told me that he had listened with great pleasure to my singing, and begged, as a favour, that I would sing him a solo, which he had brought with him.
As I could sing at sight, I did so. He was satisfied, and it was agreed that I should come on Saturday, at twelve, to practice with the rest of the choir. The following Sunday I sang with them, and also sang the solos. After the service was over, I received three guineas for my performance, and was informed that a similar sum would be given to me every Sunday on which I sang. My voice was much admired; and, when it was known that I gave lessons, I very soon had engagements from many Catholic families. My charges to them were moderate, five shillings a lesson of one hour.
The next channel was through Monsieur and Madame Gironac. He recommended me to a gentleman whom he taught, as a music-mistress for his sisters and daughters, and she to all her various customers and employers. I soon obtained several pupils by her exertions. The third was from an intimacy I had formed with an acquaintance of Madame Gironac, with a Mademoiselle Adele Chabot, who was of a good French family, but earning her livelihood as a French teacher in one of the most fashionable schools in Kensington.
Through her recommendation, I obtained the teaching of the young ladies at the school, but of her more hereafter. The fourth channel was through the kindness of Mr Selwyn, the lawyer, to whom I shall now again revert. I had several visits from Mr Selwyn after I had left Baker Street, and on one of these he informed me, that upon the proofs of Lionel Dempster's identity being examined by the legal advisers of Mr Dempster, of Yorkshire, they were considered so positive that the aforenamed gentleman immediately came to terms, agreeing to give up the property to Lionel, provided, in consequence of the great improvements he had made, he was not come upon for arrears of income arising from it. That Mr Selwyn advised this offer to be accepted, as it would prevent any exposure of Lady R--, and the circumstances under which Lionel had been brought up, from being made public. Lionel had written to say that he was anxious that any sacrifice should be made rather than the affair should be exposed; and the terms were consented to, and Lionel came into possession of further property, to the amount of 900 pounds per annum. As we became more intimate, Mr Selwyn asked me many particulars relative to myself, and, by his habit of cross-examining, soon gained the best portion of my history; only one point I did not mention to him,--that my family supposed that I was dead.
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One day he came, accompanied by Mrs Selwyn, who joined him very earnestly in requesting me to pass a day or two with them at their country house at Kew. I accepted the invitation, and they called for me in their carriage on their way down. It was summer time, and I was very glad to be out of London for a day or two. I found a charming family of two sons and three daughters, grown up, and who appeared very accomplished. Mr Selwyn then, for the first time, asked me whether I was settled or not.
I told him no,--that I was giving lessons in music--that I sang at the chapel, and that I was laying by money.
He said I was right, and that he hoped to be able to procure me pupils; "But now," said he, "as I did not know that you had a voice, I must be permitted to hear it, as otherwise I shall not be able to make my report."
I sat down immediately and sang, and he and Mrs Selwyn, as well as the daughters, were highly pleased with my performance. During my stay, Mr Selwyn treated me in, I may say, almost a parental manner, and extracted something more from me relative to my previous life, and he told me that he thought I had done wisely in remaining independent, and not again trusting to Lady M--or Madame d'Albret. I went afterwards several times to their town house, being invited to evening parties, and people who were there and heard my singing, sent for me to teach their daughters.
In six months after I had taken up my residence with the Gironacs, I was in flourishing circumstances. I had twenty-eight pupils, ten at five shillings per lesson, and eight at seven shillings, and they took lessons twice a week. I had also a school for which I received about five guineas per week, and the singing at the chapel, for which I received three. In fact, I was receiving about eighteen pounds a week during the winter season; but it must be confessed that I worked hard for it, and expended two or three pounds a week in coach hire. Nevertheless, although I now spent more money on my appearance, and had purchased a piano, before the year was over I had paid 250 pounds into Mr Selwyn's hands to take care of for me. When I thought of what might have still been my position had it not been for the kindness of poor Lady R--; when I reflected how I had been cast upon the world, young and friendless, by Madame d'Albret, and that I was now making money rapidly by my own exertions, and that at such an early age (for I was but little past twenty years old), had I not reason to be grateful? I was so, and most truly so, and moreover, I was happy, truly happy. All my former mirth and vivacity, which had been checked during my sojourn in England, returned. I improved every day in good looks, at least so everybody told me but Mr Selwyn; and I gained that, which to a certain degree my figure required, more roundness and expansion. And this was the poor Valerie, supposed to have been drowned in the river Seine!
I forgot to say, that about three weeks after Lionel went to Paris, I received a letter from Madame d'Albret, in which she thanked me warmly for my having introduced the young Englishman to her, as she took it as a proof of my really having forgiven her what she never should forgive herself. She still indulged the hope that she might one day embrace me. With respect to Lionel, she said that he appeared a modest, unassuming young lad, and that it should not be her fault if he did not turn out an accomplished gentleman; that he had already the best fencing and music-masters, and was working very hard at the language. As soon as he could speak French tolerably, he was to commence German and Italian. She had procured him a _pension_ in an excellent French family, and he appeared to be very happy.
I could not help reflecting, as I read the contents of this letter, upon the change which had taken place in Lionel Dempster, as soon as he found himself established in his rights. From an impudent, talkative page, he at once became a modest, respectful, and silent young man. What could have caused this change? Was it because, when a page, he felt himself above his condition; and now, that he had gained a name and fortune, that he felt himself beneath it? I decided, when I remembered how anxious he was to improve himself, that such was the case; and I further inferred that it showed a noble, generous, and sensitive mind. And I now felt very glad that I had written to Madame d'Albret, and all my objections to seeing her again were removed; why so? because I was independent. It was my dependence that made me so proud and unforgiving. In fact, I was on better terms with the world, now that I had somewhat raised myself in it. I was one day talking over my life with Mr Selwyn, and after pointing out how I had been taken in by my ignorance and confidence, how much wiser I had become already from experience, and my hopes that I should one day cease to be a dupe, he replied, "My dear Miss Valerie, do not say so. To have been a dupe is to have lived; we are dupes when we are full of the hope and warmth of youth. I am an old man; my profession has given me great knowledge of the world; knowledge of the world has made me cautious and indifferent, but this has not added to my happiness, although it may have saved my pocket. No, no; when we arrive at that point, when we warm before no affection, doubting its truth; when we have gained this age-bought experience, which has left our hearts as dry as the remainder biscuits after a long voyage--there is no happiness in this, Valerie. Better to be deceived, and trust again. I almost wish that I could now be the dupe of a woman or a false friend, for I should then feel as if I were young again."
"But, sir," replied I, "your conduct is at variance with your language; why else such kindness shown to me, a perfect stranger, and one without claims upon you?"
"You over-rate my little attention, my dear Valerie; but that proves that you have a grateful heart. I speak of myself as when in contact with the world. You forget that I have domestic ties to which the heart is ever fresh. Were it not for home and the natural affections, we men would be brutes indeed. The heart, when in conflict with the world, may be compared to a plant scorched by the heat of the sun; but, in the shade of domestic repose, it again recovers its freshness for the time."
I have stated, that through the recommendation and influence of a Mademoiselle Adele Chabot, I taught music at an establishment for young ladies at Kensington. It was what is called a finishing-school. The terms were very high, and the young ladies did not always sit down to boiled mutton; but, from what I learnt from Adele, in other points it was not better than schools in general; but it had a reputation, and that was sufficient.
One day, I was informed by Mrs Bradshaw, the proprietress of the establishment, that I was to have a new pupil the next quarter, which was very near; and when it did arrive, and the young lady was brought in, who should it be but Caroline, my former companion and pupil at Madame Bathurst's?
"Valerie!" exclaimed she, rushing into my arms.
"My dear Caroline, this is an unexpected pleasure," said I; "but how came you here?"
"I will tell you some day," replied Caroline, not wishing to talk about her family while the teacher, who came in with her, was present.
"I hope Madame Bathurst is well?" inquired I. "Quite well, when I saw her last," said Caroline.
"Well, my dear, we must work, and not talk, for my time is valuable," said I; "so sit down, and let me hear whether you have improved since I last gave you a lesson."
The teacher then left the room, and Caroline, having run over a few bars, stopped, and said, "I never can play till I have talked to you, Valerie. You asked me how I came here. At my own request; or, if a girl may use such language, because I insisted upon it. I was so uncomfortable at home, that I could bear it no longer. I must speak against my father and mother--I cannot help it; for it is impossible to be blind; they are so strange, so conceited, so spoiled by prosperity, so haughty and imperious, and so rude and uncouth to any whom they consider beneath them, that it is painful to be in their company. Servants will not remain a month in the house--there is nothing but exchange, and everything is uncomfortable. After having lived with my aunt Bathurst, who you will acknowledge to be a lady in every respect, I really thought that I was in a _Hopital de Fous_. Such assumption, such pretension, such absurdities, to all which they wished to make me a party. I have had a wilderness of governesses, but not one would or could submit to the humiliations which they were loaded with. At last, by rebelling in every way, I gained my point, and have escaped to school. I feel that I ought not to speak disparagingly of my parents, but still I must speak the truth to you, although I would say nothing to others; so do not be angry with me, Valerie."
"I am more sorry that it is so, than that you should tell me of it, Caroline; but from what I saw during my short visit, I can fully give credit to all you have said."
"But is it not a hard case, Valerie, when you cannot respect your parents?" replied Caroline, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.
"It is, my dear; but still on the whole, it is perhaps for the best. You were taken from your parents, and were well brought up; you return to them, and find them many degrees below you in the scale of refinement, and therefore you cannot respect them. Now, if you had never left them, you would, of course, have remained down at their level, and would have respected them, having imbibed the same opinions, and perceiving nothing wrong in their conduct. Now which of the two would you prefer, if you had the power to choose?"
"Most certainly to be as I am," replied Caroline, "but I cannot but grieve that my parents should not have been like my aunt Bathurst."
"I agree with you in that feeling, but what is--is, and we must make the best of it. You must excuse your parents' faults as much as you can, since your education will not permit you to be blind to them, and you must treat them with respect from a sense of duty."
"That I have always done," replied Caroline; "but it too often happens that I have to decide between the respect I would show to my parents, and a sense of justice or a love of truth opposed to it--that is the greatest difficulty."
"Very true," replied I, "and in such cases you must act according to the dictates of your own conscience."
"Well," replied Caroline, "I think I have done wisely in getting away altogether. I have seen little of my aunt Bathurst, since you took me to my father's house; for, although some advances were made towards a reconciliation, as soon as my aunt was told that my father and mother had stated that I had been most improperly brought up by her, she was so angry at the false accusation, that all intercourse is broken off, I fear, for ever. Oh, how I have longed to be with my aunt again! But Valerie, I never heard why you left her. Some one did say that you had gone, but why was not known."
"I went away, Caroline, because I was no longer of any use in the house after you had been removed, and I did not choose to be an incumbrance to your aunt. I preferred gaining my livelihood by my own exertions, as I am now doing, and to which resolution on my part, I am indebted for the pleasure of our again meeting."
"Ah, Valerie, I never loved you so much as I did after I had lost you," said Caroline.
"That is generally the case, my dear," replied I; "but now if you please, we will try this sonata. We shall have plenty of time for talking, as we shall meet twice a week."
Caroline played the sonata, and then dropping her fingers on the keys, said, "Now, Valerie, do you know what was one of my wild dreams which assisted in inducing me to come here? I'll tell you. I know that I shall never find a husband at my father's house. All well-bred people, if they once go there, do not go a second time, and, whatever may be the merits of the daughter, they have no time to find them out, and leave the house, with the supposition that she, having been educated in so bad a school, must be unworthy of notice. Now I mean, if I can, to elope from school, that is if I can find a gentleman to my fancy--not to Gretna Green but as soon as I am married, to go to my aunt Bathurst direct, and you know that once under a husband's protection, my father and mother have no control over me. Will you assist my views, Valerie? It's the only chance I have of happiness."
"A very pretty confession for a young lady, not yet eighteen," replied I; "and a very pretty question to put to me, who have been your governess, Caroline. I am afraid that you must not look to me for assistance, but consider it, as you termed it at first, a wild dream."
"Nevertheless, dreams come true sometimes," replied Caroline, laughing; "and all I require is birth and character: you know that I must have plenty of money."
"But, my dear Caroline, it is not people of birth and character who prowl round boarding-schools in search of heiresses."
"I know that; and that was why I asked you to help me. At all events, I'll not leave this place till I am married, or going to be married, that's certain, if I stay here till I'm twenty-five."
"Well, do not make rash resolutions; but surely, Caroline, you have not reason to complain of your parents' treatment; they are kind and affectionate towards you."
"Indeed they are not, nor were they from the time that I returned to them with you. They try by force to make me espouse their own incorrect notions of right and wrong, and it is one scene of daily altercation. They abuse and laugh at aunt Bathurst, I believe on purpose to vex me; and, having never lived with them from my infancy, of course, when I met them I had to learn to love them. I was willing so to do, notwithstanding their unkindness to my aunt, whom I love so dearly, but they would not let me; and now I really believe that they care little about me, and would care nothing, if I were not their only daughter, for you know, perhaps, that both my brothers are now dead?"
"I knew that one was," replied I. "The other, William, died last year," replied Caroline; "his death was a release, poor fellow, as he had a complaint in the spine for many years. Do you know what I mean to do? I shall write to aunt Bathurst, to come and see me."
"Well, I think you will be right in so doing; but will not your father and mother come to you?"
"No, for they are very angry, and say, that until I come to my senses, and learn the difference between people, who are somebodies, and people who are nobodies, they will take no notice of me; and that I may remain here till I am tired; which they think I shall soon be, and write to come back again. The last words of my father, when he brought me here and left me, were,--`I leave you here to come to your senses.' He was white with anger: but I do not wish to talk any more about them."
"And your time is up, Caroline; so you must go and make room for another pupil. Miss Greaves is the next."
Shortly after my meeting with Caroline, I received a letter from Lionel, stating that it was his intention to come over to England for a fortnight, and asking whether he could execute any commissions for me in Paris, previous to his departure. He also informed me that he had received a very kind letter, from his uncle the baronet, who had had several interviews with Mr Selwyn, and who was fully satisfied with his identity, and acknowledged him as his nephew. This gave me great pleasure. I replied to his letter, stating that I should be most happy to see him, but that as for commissions I was too poor to give him any. Madame d'Albret had sent her kind souvenirs to me in Lionel's letter, and I returned them in my reply. Indeed, now that I was earning a livelihood, and by my own exertions, I felt that I was every day adding to my means and future independence, a great change, I may safely say for the better, took place in me. My pride was lessened, that is, my worst pride was superseded by a more honest one. I had a strange revulsion in feeling towards Madame d'Albret, Madame Bathurst and Lady M--, and I felt that I could forgive them all. I was no longer brooding over my dependent position, fancying, perhaps, insults never intended, or irritated by real slights. Everything was _couleur de rose_ with me, and that _couleur_ was reflected upon everything.
"Ah, Mademoiselle Valerie," said Madame Gironac to me one day, "I had no idea when I first made your acquaintance that you were so witty. My husband and all the gentlemen say that you have _plus d'esprit_ than any woman they ever conversed with."
"When I first knew you, Annette, I was not happy, now I am happy, almost too happy, and that is the reason I am so gay."
"And I don't think you hate the men so much as you did," continued she.
"I am in a humour to hate nobody," replied I. "That is true; and, Mademoiselle Valerie, you will marry one of these days; mind," continued she, putting up her finger, "I tell you so."
"And I tell you, no," replied I. "I think there is only one excuse for a woman marrying, which is, when she requires some one to support her; that is not my case, for I thank Heaven I can support myself." " _Nous verrons_" replied Madame Gironac.
Caroline did, however, find the restraint of a school rather irksome, and wished very much to go out with me. When the holidays arrived, and the other young ladies had gone home, I spoke to Mrs Bradshaw, and as she was very partial to me, and knew my former relations with Caroline, she gave her consent. Shortly afterwards, Mrs Bradshaw accepted an invitation to pass three weeks with some friends, and I then proposed that Caroline should pass the remainder of the holidays with me, to which Mrs Bradshaw also consented, much to Caroline's delight. Madame Gironac had made up a bed for her in my room, and we were a very merry party.
A few days after Caroline came to the house, Lionel made his appearance. I should hardly have believed it possible that he could have so improved in appearance in so short a time. He brought me a very kind letter from Madame d'Albret, in which she begged, as a proof of my having forgiven her, that I would not refuse a few presents she had sent by Lionel. They were very beautiful and expensive, and, when I had had some conversation with Lionel, I made up my mind that I would not return them, which certainly I at first felt more inclined to do than to keep them. When Lionel took leave, promising to come to dinner, Caroline asked me who that gentlemanly young man was. I replied, "that it was a Mr Lionel Dempster, the nephew of Lady R--," but further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of young Mr Selwyn, who came with a message from his father inviting me to Kew. I declined the invitation, on the plea of Caroline being with me. Mr Selwyn remained some time conversing with me, and at last inquired if I should like to go to the next meeting at the Horticultural Gardens, at the same time offering me two tickets. As I was anxious to see the gardens, I accepted them. He told me that his father would call for us, and his mother and sisters were to be there, and then he took leave.
"Who is Mr Selwyn?" inquired Caroline.
I told her.
"Well," said she, "I have seen two nice young men this morning; I don't know which I like best, but I think Mr Selwyn is the more manly of the two."
"I should think so, too, Caroline," replied I; "Mr Selwyn is twenty-four years old, I believe, and Mr Dempster is younger, I think, than you are."
"I did not think he was so young; but, Valerie, are we not to go to the National Gallery?"
"Yes, when Monsieur Gironac comes home to escort us; we may as well put on our bonnets, for he will be here in a few minutes."
"Oh, Valerie, how fortunate it was that I came to Mrs Bradshaw's," said Caroline, "and that I met you! I should have been moped, that is certain, if I had not, but now I'm so happy--that's Monsieur Gironac's knock, I'm sure."
But Caroline was wrong, for it was Mademoiselle Chabot, of whom I have before spoken, who made her appearance. Mademoiselle Chabot was an acquaintance of Madame Gironac, and it was through my having become intimate with her, that I obtained the teaching of Mrs Bradshaw's. Adele Chabot was a very pretty person, thoroughly French, and dressed with great taste. She was the resident French teacher in Mrs Bradshaw's establishment; and, although twenty-five years old, did not look more than eighteen; she was very amusing and rather wild, although she looked very demure. I never thought that there was anything wrong in Adele, but, at the same time, I did not consider that Caroline would derive any good from her company, as Caroline required to be held in check as it was. But, as is usually the case, the more I attempted to check any intimacy between them, the more intimate they became. Adele was of a good family; her father had fallen at Montmartre, when the allies entered Paris after the Battle of Waterloo: but the property left was very small to be divided among a large family, and consequently Adele had first gone out as a governess at Paris, and ultimately accepted the situation she now held. She spoke English remarkably well, indeed, better than I ever heard it spoken by a Frenchwoman, and everybody said so as well as me.
"Well, Adele, I thought you were at Brighton," said Caroline.
"I was yesterday, and I am here to-day; I am come to dine with you," replied Adele, taking off her bonnet and shawl, and smoothing her hair before the glass. "Where's Madame Gironac?"
"Gone out to give a lesson in flower-making," replied I. "Yes, she is like the little busy bees, always on the wing, and, as the hymn says, `How neat she spread her wax!' and Monsieur, where is he?"
"Gone out to give a lesson, also," replied I. "Yes, he's like the wind, always blowing, one hour the flute, another the French horn, then the bassoon or the bugle, always blowing and always shifting from one point to the other; never a calm with him, for when he comes home there's a breeze with his wife, _a l'aimable_, to be sure."
"Yes," replied Caroline, "always blowing, but never coming to blows."
"You are witty, Mademoiselle Caroline," said Adele, "with your paradox. Do you know that I had an adventure at Brighton, and I am taken for you, by a very fashionable young man?"
"How can you have been taken for me?" said Caroline. "The gentleman wished to find out who I was, and I would not tell him. He inquired of the chambermaid of the lodging-house, and bribed her, I presume, for the next day she came up to my room and asked me for my card, that her mistress might write my name down correctly in the book. I knew that the mistress had not sent her, as I had, by her request, entered my own name in the book three days before, and I was therefore certain that it was to find out who I was for the gentleman who followed me everywhere. I recollected that I had a card of yours in my case, and I gave it to her very quietly, and she walked off with it. The next day, when I was at the library, the gentleman addressed me by your name; I told him that it was not my name, and requested that he would not address me again. When I left Brighton yesterday, I discovered the chambermaid copying the addresses I had put on my trunks, which was your name, at Mrs Bradshaw's; so now I think we shall have some fun."
"But, my dear Adele, you have not been prudent; you may compromise Caroline very much," said I; "recollect that men talk, and something unpleasant may occur from this want of discretion on your part."
"Be not afraid, Valerie; I conducted myself with such prudery that an angel's character could not suffer."
"I do not mean to hint otherwise, Adele, but still you must acknowledge that you have done an imprudent thing."
"Well, I do confess it, but, Valerie, every one has not your discretion and good sense. At all events, if I see or hear any more of the gentleman I can undo it again,--but that is not very likely."
"We have had two gentlemen here to-day, Adele," said Caroline, "and one dines with us."
"Indeed; well, I'm in _demi-toilette_, and must remain so, for I cannot go all the way back to Mrs Bradshaw's to dress."
"He is a very handsome young man, is he not, Valerie?"
"Yes," replied I, "and of large fortune, too."
"Well, I shall not have a fair chance, then," said Adele, "for go back I cannot."
"Now, Adele, you know how much more becoming the _demi-toilette_ is to you than the evening dress," replied Caroline, "so don't pretend to deny it."
"I deny nothing and I admit nothing," replied Adele, laughing, "except that I am a woman, and now draw your own inferences and conclusions--_ce m'est egal_."
We had a very pleasant dinner-party. Adele tried to flirt with Lionel, but it was in vain. He had no attentions to throw away, except upon me; once he whispered, "I should not feel strange at being seated with others, but to be by _your_ side does make me awkward. Old habits are strong, and every now and then I find myself jumping up to change your plate."
"It's a great pleasure to me, Lionel, to find you in the position you are entitled to from your birth. You will soon sit down with people of more consequence than Valerie de Chatenoeuf."
"But never with anyone that I shall esteem or respect so much, be they who they may," replied Lionel.
During dinner, I mentioned that Mr Selwyn had called and engaged Caroline and me to go to the Horticultural fete.
"I wish Madame Gironac was going," continued I, "she is so fond of flowers."
"Never mind, my dear Valerie, I will stay at home and earn some money."
"Madame," cried Monsieur Gironac, pretending to be very angry, and striking with his fist on the table so as to make all the wine glasses ring, "you shall do no such thing. You shall not always oppose my wishes. You shall not stay at home and earn some money. You shall go out and spend money. Yes, madame, I will be obeyed; you shall go to the Horticultural fete, and I invite Monsieur Lionel, and Mademoiselle Adele to come with us that they may witness that I am the master. Yes, madame, resistance is useless. You shall go in a _remise de ver_, or glass-coach, as round as a pumpkin, but you shall not go in glass slippers, like Cinderella, because they are not pleasant to walk in. How Cinderella danced in them has always been a puzzle to me, ever since I was a child, and of what kind of glass they were made of."
"Perhaps isinglass," said Lionel.
"No, sir, not isinglass; it must have been fairy glass; but never mind. I ask you, Madame Gironac, whether you intend to be an obedient wife, or intend to resist my commands?" " _Barbare_," replied Madame Gironac, "am I then to be forced to go to a fete! ah, cruel man, you'll break my heart; but I submit to my unhappy destiny. Yes, I will go in the _remise de ver_: pity me, my good friends, but you don't know that man."
"I am satisfied with your obedience, madame, and now I permit you to embrace me."
Madame Gironac, who was delighted at the idea of going to the fete, ran to her husband, and kissed him over and over again. Adele and Lionel accepted Monsieur Gironac's invitation, and thus was the affair settled in Monsieur Gironac's queer way.
The day of the Horticultural fete arrived. It was a lovely morning. We were all dressed and the glass-coach was at the door, when Mr Selwyn arrived in his carriage, and Caroline and I stepped in. I introduced Caroline, who was remarkably well-dressed, and very pretty. Mr Selwyn had before told me that he was acquainted with Madame Bathurst, having met her two or three times, and sat by her at a dinner-party. He appeared much pleased with Caroline, but could not make out how she was in my company. Of course, he asked no questions before her.
On our arrival at the gardens, we found young Mr Selwyn waiting at the entrance to take us to Mrs Selwyn and his sisters, who had come from their house at Kew. About half-an-hour afterwards, we fell in with Monsieur Gironac, madame, Adele, and Lionel. Mr Selwyn greeted Lionel warmly, introducing him to his family; and, on my presenting the Gironacs and Adele, was very polite and friendly, for he knew from me how kind they had been. Adele Chabot never looked so well; her costume was most becoming; she had put on her _air mutine_, and was admired by all that passed us. We were all grouped together close to the band, when who should appear right in front of us but Madame Bathurst. At that time, Caroline was on the one arm of Mr Selwyn, and I on the other.
"Caroline!" exclaimed Madame Bathurst, "and you here!" turning to me.
While she remained in astonishment, Caroline ran up and kissed her.
"You recollect, Mr Selwyn, aunt, do you not?"
"Yes," said Madame Bathurst, returning the salute of Mr Selwyn, "but still I am surprised."
"Come with me, aunt, and I will tell you all about it."
Caroline then walked to a seat at a little distance, sat down, and entered into conversation with Madame Bathurst. In a few minutes, Madame Bathurst rose, and came up to our party, with Caroline on her arm.
She first thanked Mr Selwyn for his kindness in bringing her niece to the fete, and then turning to me, said with some emotion, as she offered her hand, "Valerie, I hope we are friends. We have mistaken each other."
I felt all my resentment gone, and took her offered hand.
She then led me aside and said, "I must beg your pardon, Valerie, I did not--" "Nay," replied I, interrupting her, "I was too hasty and too proud."
"You are a good kind-hearted girl, Valerie--but let us say no more about it. Now introduce me to your friends."
I did so. Madame Bathurst was most gracious, and appeared very much struck with Adele Chabot, and entered into conversation with her, and certainly Adele would not have been taken for a French teacher by her appearance. There was something very aristocratic about her. While they were in converse, a very gentlemanlike man raised his hat to Madame Bathurst, as I thought, and passed on. Adele coloured up, I observed, as if she knew him, but did not return the salute, which Madame Bathurst did.
"Do you know that gentleman, Mademoiselle Chabot?" inquired Caroline. "I thought he bowed to you, and not to aunt."
"I have seen him before," replied Adele, carelessly, "but I forget his name."
"Then I can tell you," added Madame Bathurst, "It is Colonel Jervis, a very fashionable man, but not a very great favourite of mine, not that I have any thing to accuse him of, particularly, except that he is said to be a very worldly man."
"Is he of good family?" inquired Adele.
"Oh, yes, unexceptionable on that point; but it is time for me to go. There it my party coming down the walk. Caroline, dear, I will call upon you to-morrow at three o'clock, and then we will make our arrangements."
Madame Bathurst then bade adieu to Mr Selwyn, and the rest, saying to me, "_Au revoir_, Valerie."
Shortly afterwards, we agreed to leave. As Mr Selwyn was returning to Kew, I would not accept the offer of his carriage to take Caroline and me to London, the glass-coach, round as a pumpkin, would hold six, and we all went away together.
I was very much pleased at thus meeting with Madame Bathurst, and our reconciliation, and quite as much so for Caroline's sake; for, although she had at first said that she would write to her aunt, she had put it off continually for reasons which she had never expressed to me. I rather think that she feared her aunt might prove a check on her, and I was, therefore, very glad that they had met, as now Madame Bathurst would look after her.
During the evening, I observed that Adele and Caroline had a long conversation _sotto voce_. I suspected that the gentleman, at whose appearance she had coloured up, was the subject of it. The next day Madame Bathurst called, and heard a detailed account of all that had passed from Caroline and from me since we had parted. She said that as Caroline was put to the school by her father, of course she could not remove her, but that she would call and see her as often as she could. She congratulated me upon my little independence, and trusted that we should ever be on friendly terms, and that I would come and visit her whenever my avocations would permit me. As there were still three weeks of the holidays remaining, she proposed that we should come and pass a portion of the time with her at a villa which she had upon the banks of the Thames.
She said that Caroline's father and mother were down at Brighton, giving very gay parties. Having arranged the time that the carriage should come for us on the following day, she kissed us both affectionately, and went away.
The next day we were at Richmond in a delightful cottage _ornee_; and there we remained for more than a fortnight. To me it was a time of much happiness, for it was like the renewal of old times, and I was sorry when the visit was over.
On my return, I found a pressing invitation for Caroline and me to go to Kew, and remain two or three days; and, as we had still time to pay the visit, it was accepted; but, before we went Adele came to see us, and, after a little general conversation, requested that she might speak to me in my own room.
"Valerie," said Adele, as soon as we were seated, "I know that you think me a wild girl, and perhaps I am so; but I am not quite so wild as I thought myself, for now that I am in a critical position, I come to you for advice, and for advice against my own feelings, for I tell you frankly, that I am very much in love--and moreover--which you may _well_ suppose, most anxious to be relieved from the detestable position of a French teacher in a boarding-school. I now have the opportunity, and yet I dread to avail myself of it, and I therefore come to you, who are so prudent and so sage, to request, after you have heard what I have to impart, you will give me your real opinion as to what I ought to do. You recollect I told you a gentleman had followed me at Brighton, and how for mere frolic, I had led him to suppose that I was Caroline Stanhope, I certainly did not expect to see him again, but I did three days after I came up from Brighton. The girl had evidently copied the address on my trunk for him, and he followed me up, and he accosted me as I was walking home. He told me that he had never slept since he had first seen me, and that he was honourably in love with me. I replied that he was mistaken in supposing that I was Caroline Stanhope; that my name was Adele Chabot, and that now that I had stated the truth to him he would alter his sentiments. He declared that he should not, pressed me to allow him to call, which I refused, and such was our first interview."
"I did not see him again until at the horticultural fete, when I was talking to Madame Bathurst. He had told me that he was an officer in the army, but he did not mention his name. You recollect what Madame Bathurst said about him, and who he was. Since you have been at Richmond, he has contrived to see me every day, and I will confess that latterly I have not been unwilling to meet him, for every day I have been more pleased with him. On our first meeting after the fete, I told him that he still supposed me to be Caroline Stanhope, and that seeing me walking with Caroline's aunt had confirmed him in his idea, but I assured him that I was Adele Chabot, a girl without fortune, and not, as he supposed a great heiress. His answer was that any acquaintance of Madame Bathurst's must be a lady, and that he had never inquired or thought about my fortune. That my having none would prove the disinterestedness of his affection for me, and that he required me and nothing more. I have seen him every day almost since then; he has given me his name and made proposals to me, notwithstanding my reiterated assertions that I am Adele Chabot, and not Caroline Stanhope. One thing is certain, that I am very much attached to him, and if I do not marry him I shall be very miserable for a long time," and here Adele burst into tears.
"But why do you grieve, Adele?" said I, "You like him, and he offers to marry you. My advice is very simple,--marry him."
"Yes," replied Adele, "if all was as it seems. I agree with you that my course is clear; but, notwithstanding his repeated assertions that he loves me as Adele Chabot, I am convinced in my own mind that he still believes me to be Caroline Stanhope. Perhaps he thinks that I am a romantic young lady who is determined to be married _pour ses beaux yeux_ alone, and conceals her being an heiress on that account, and he therefore humours me by pretending to believe that I am a poor girl without a shilling. Now, Valerie, here is my difficulty. If I were to marry him, as he proposes, when he comes to find out that he has been deceiving himself, and that I am not the heiress, will he not be angry, and perhaps disgusted with me--will he not blame me instead of himself, as people always do, and will he not ill-treat me? If he did, it would break my heart, for I love him--_love_ him dearly. Then, on the other hand, I may be wrong, and he may be, as he says, in love with Adele Chabot, so that I shall have thrown away my chance of happiness from an erroneous idea. What shall I do, Valerie? Do advise me."
"Much will depend on the character of the man, Adele. You have some insight into people's characters, what idea have you formed of his?"
"I hardly can say, for when men profess to be in love they are such deceivers. Their faults are concealed, and they assume virtues which they do not possess. On my first meeting with him, I thought that he was a proud man--perhaps I might say a vain man--but, since I have seen more of him, I think I was wrong."
"No, Adele, depend upon it you were right; at that time you were not blinded as you are now. Do you think him a good-tempered man?"
"Yes, I firmly believe that he is. I made a remark at Brighton: a child that had its fingers very dirty ran out to him, and as it stumbled printed the marks of its fingers upon his white trousers, so that he was obliged to return home and change them. Instead of pushing the child away, he saved it from falling, saying, `Well, my little man, it's better that I should change my dress than that you should have broken your head on the pavement.'"
"Well, Adele, I agree with you that it is a proof of great good temper."
"Well, then, Valerie, what do you think?"
"I think that it is a lottery; but all marriages are lotteries, with more blanks than prizes. You have done all you can to undeceive him, if he still deceives himself. You can do no more. I will assume that he does deceive himself, and that disappointment and irritation will be the consequence of his discovery that you have been telling the truth. If he is a vain man, he will not like to acknowledge to the world that he has been his own dupe. If he is a good-hearted man, he will not long continue angry; but, Adele, much depends upon yourself. You must forbear all recrimination--you must exert all your talents of pleasing to reconcile him to his disappointment; and, if you act wisely, you will probably succeed: indeed, unless the man is a bad-hearted man, you must eventually succeed. You best know your own powers, and must decide for yourself."
"It is that feeling--that almost certain feeling that I shall be able to console him for his disappointment, that impels me on. Valerie, I will make him love me, I am determined."
"And when a woman is determined on that point, she invariably succeeds in the end, Adele. This is supposing that he is deceiving himself, which may not be the case, Adele, for I do think you have sufficient attractions to make a man love you for yourself alone; and recollect that such may be the case in the present instance. It may be that at first he followed you as an heiress, and has since found out that if not an heiress, you are a very charming woman, and has in consequence been unable to resist your influence. However, there is only one to whom the secrets of the heart are known. I consider that you have acted honourably, and if you choose to risk the hazard of the die, no one can attach blame to you."
"Thank you, Valerie, you have taken a great load off my heart. If you think I am not doing wrong, I will risk every thing."
"Well, Adele, let you decide how you may, I hope you will prosper. For my part, I would not cross the street for the best man that ever was created. As friends, they are all very well; as advisers in some cases they are useful; but, when you talk of marrying one, and becoming his slave, that is quite another affair. What were you and Caroline talking about so earnestly in the corner?"
"I will confess the truth, it was of love and marriage, with an episode about Mr Charles Selwyn, of whom Caroline appears to have a very good opinion."
"Well, Adele, I must go down again now. If you wish any advice at any future time, such as it is, it is at your service. You are making `A Bold Stroke for a Husband' that's certain. However, the title of another play is `All's Well that Ends Well.'"
"Well, I will follow out your playing upon plays, Valerie, by saying that with you `Love's Labour's Lost.'"
"Exactly," replied I, "because I consider it `Much Ado About Nothing.'"
The next day, Lionel came to bid me farewell, as he was returning to Paris. During our sojourn at Madame Bathurst's, he had been down to see his uncle, and had been very kindly received. I wrote to Madame d'Albret, thanking her for her presents, which, valuable as they were, I would not return after what she had said, and confided to Lionel a box of the flowers in wax that I was so successful in imitating, and which I requested her to put on her side table in remembrance of me. Mr Selwyn sent the carriage at the time appointed, and we went down to Kew, where I was as kindly received as before.
What Adele told me of the conversation between Caroline and her made me watchful, and before our visit was out I had made up my mind that there was a mutual feeling between her and young Mr Selwyn. When we were going away, this was confirmed, but I took no notice. But, although I made no remark, this commencement of an attachment between Caroline and him occupied my mind during the whole of our journey to town.
In Caroline's position, I was not decided if I would encourage it and assist it. Charles Selwyn was a gentleman by birth and profession, a very good-looking and very talented young man. All his family were amiable, and he himself remarkably kind-hearted and well-disposed. That Caroline was not likely to return to her father's house, where I felt assured that she was miserable, was very evident, and that she would soon weary of the monotony of a school at her age was also to be expected. There was, therefore, every probability that she would, if she found an opportunity, run away, as she stated to me she would, and it was ten chances to one that in so doing she would make an unfortunate match, either becoming the prey of some fortune-hunter, or connecting herself with some thoughtless young man.
Could she do better than marry Mr Selwyn? Certainly not. That her father and mother, who thought only of dukes and earls, would give their consent, was not very likely. Should I acquaint Madame Bathurst? That would be of little use, as she would not interfere. Should I tell Mr Selwyn's father? No. If a match at all, it must be a runaway match, and Mr Selwyn, senior, would never sanction any thing of the kind. I resolved, therefore, to let the affair ripen as it might. It would occupy Caroline, and prevent her doing a more foolish thing, even if it were to be ultimately broken off by unforeseen circumstances. Caroline was as much absorbed by her own thoughts as I was during the ride, and not a syllable was exchanged between us till we were roused by the rattling over the stones.
"My dear Caroline, what a reverie you have been in," said I. "And you, Valerie."
"Why I have been thinking; certainly, when I cannot have a more agreeable companion, I amuse myself with my own thoughts."
"Will you tell me what you have been thinking about?"
"Yes, Caroline, provided you will be equally confiding."
"I will, I assure you."
"Well, then, I was thinking of a gentleman."
"And so was I," replied Caroline.
"Mine was a very handsome, clever young man."
"And so was mine," replied she.
"But I am not smitten with him," continued I. "I cannot answer that question," replied Caroline, "because I do not know who you were thinking about."
"You must answer the question as to the gentleman you were thinking of, Caroline. I repeat that I am not smitten with him, and that his name is Mr Charles Selwyn."
"I was also thinking of Mr Charles Selwyn," replied Caroline.
"And you are not smitten with him any more than I am, or he is with you?" continued I, smiling, and looking her full in the face.
Caroline coloured, and said, "I like him very much from what I have seen of him, Valerie; but recollect our acquaintance has been very short."
"A very proper answer, my dear Caroline, and given with due maidenly decorum--but here we are; and there is Madame Gironac nodding to us from the window."
The next day, Caroline went back to Mrs Bradshaw's, and I did not see her till the music-lesson of Wednesday afterwards. Caroline, who had been watching for me, met me at the door.
"Oh! Valerie, I have a great deal to tell. In the first place, the establishment is in an uproar at the disappearance of Adele Chabot, who has removed her clothes, and gone off without beat of drum. One of the maids states that she has several times seen her walking and talking with a tall gentleman, and Mrs Bradshaw thinks that the reputation of her school is ruined by Adele's flight. She has drunk at least two bottles of eau-de-Cologne and water to keep off the hysterics, and is now lying on the sofa, talking in a very incoherent way. Miss Phipps says she thinks her head is affected."
"I should think it was," replied I. "Well, is that all?"
"All! why, Valerie, you appear to think nothing of an elopement. All! why is it not horrible?"
"I do not think it very horrible, Caroline; but I am glad to find that you have such correct ideas on that point, as it satisfies me that nothing would induce you to take such a step."
"Well," replied Caroline, quickly, "what I had also to communicate is, that I have seen my father, who informed me that on their return from Brighton in October, they expect that I will come home. He said that it was high time that I was settled in life, and that I could not expect to be married if I remained at a boarding-school."
"Well, and what did you say?"
"I said that I did not expect to be married, and I did not wish it; that I thought my education was far from complete, and that I wished to improve myself."
"Well?"
"Then he said that he should submit to my caprices no longer, and that I should go back in October, as he had decided."
"Well?"
"Well, I said no more, and he went away."
Having received all this intelligence, I went up stairs. I found Mrs Bradshaw crying bitterly, and she threw herself into my arms.
"Oh, Mademoiselle Chatenoeuf! --the disgrace! --the ruin! --I shall never get over it," exclaimed she.
"I see no disgrace or ruin, Mrs Bradshaw. Adele has told me that a gentleman had proposed marriage to her, and asked my advice."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs Bradshaw.
"Yes."
"Well, that alters the case; but still, why did she leave in this strange way?"
"I presume the gentleman did not think it right that she should marry out of a young ladies' establishment, madam."
"Very true: I did not think of that."
"After all, what is it? Your French teacher is married--surely that will not injure your establishment?"
"No, certainly--why should it? --but the news came upon me so abruptly, that it quite upset me. I will lie down a little, and my head will soon be better."
Time went on; so did the school. Miss Adele, that was, sent no wedding-cake, much to the astonishment of the young ladies; and it was not till nearly three weeks afterwards that I had a letter from Adele Chabot, now Mrs Jervis. But, before I give the letter to my readers, I must state, that Mr Selwyn, junior, had called upon me the day before Caroline went to school, and had had a long conversation with her, while I went out to speak with Madame Gironac on business: further, that Mr Selwyn, junior, called upon me a few days afterwards, and after a little common-place conversation, _a l'anglaise_, about the weather, he asked after Miss Caroline Stanhope, and then asked many questions. As I knew what he wished, I made to him a full statement of her position, and the unpleasant predicament in which she was placed. I also stated my conviction that she was not likely to make a happy match, if her husband were selected by her father and mother; and how much I regretted it, as she was a very amiable, kind-hearted girl, who would make an excellent wife to anyone deserving of her. He thought so, too, and professed great admiration of her; and having, as he thought, pumped me sufficiently, he took his leave.
A few days afterwards, he came upon some pretended message from his father, and then I told him that she was to be removed in October. This appeared to distress him; but he did not forget to pull out of his pocket a piece of music, sealed up, telling me that, by mistake, Caroline had left two pieces of music at Kew, and had taken away one belonging to his sister Mary; that he returned one, but the other was mislaid, and would be returned as soon as it was found; and would I oblige him so far as to request Miss Stanhope to send him the piece of music belonging to his sister, if she could lay her hand upon it?
"Well, I will do your bidding, Mr Selwyn," replied I; "it is a very proper message for a music-mistress to take; and I will also bring back your sister's music, when Caroline gives it me, and you can call here for it. If I am out, you can ask Madame Gironac to give it to you." Upon which, with many thanks and much gratitude for my kindness, Mr Selwyn withdrew.
Having made all this known to the reader, he shall now have the contents of Adele's letter.
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{
"id": "23952"
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We must now read Adele's letter.
"My dear Valerie,--The die is cast, and I have now a most difficult game to play. I have risked all upon it, and the happiness of my future life is at stake. But let me narrate what has passed since I made you my confidante. Of course, you must know the day on which I was missing. On that day I walked out with him, and we were in a few minutes joined by a friend of his, whom he introduced as Major Argat. After proceeding about one hundred yards farther we arrived at a chapel, the doors of which were open, and the verger looking out, evidently expecting somebody. " `My dear angel,' said the Colonel, `I have the licence in my pocket; I have requested the clergyman to attend, he is now in the chapel, and all is ready. My friend will be a witness, and there are others in attendance. You have said that you love me, trust yourself to me. Prove now that you are sincere, and consent at once that our hands as well as our hearts be united.'
"Oh! how I trembled. I could not speak. The words died away upon my lips. I looked at him imploringly. He led me gently, for my resistance was more in manner than in effect, and I found myself within the chapel, the verger bowing as he preceded us, and the clergyman waiting at the altar. To retreat appeared impossible; indeed I hardly felt as if I wished it, but my feelings were so excited that I burst into tears. What the clergyman may have thought of my conduct, and my being dressed so little like a bride, I know not, but the Colonel handed the licence to his friend, who took it to the clergyman while I was recovering myself. At last we went up to the altar, my head swam, and I hardly knew what was said, but I repeated the responses, and I was--a wife. When the ceremony was over, and I was attempting to rise from my knees, I fell, and was carried by the Colonel into the vestry, where I remained on a chair trembling with fear. After a time, the colonel asked me if I was well enough to sign my name to the marriage register, and he put the pen in my hand. I could not see where to sign, my eyes were swimming with tears. The clergyman guided my hand to the place, and I wrote Adele Chabot. The knowledge what the effect of this signature might possibly have upon my husband quite overcame me, and I sank my head down upon my hands upon the table. " `I will send for a glass of water, sir,' said the clergyman leaving the vestry to call the verger, or clerk, `the lady is fainting.'
"After he went out, I heard the Colonel and his friend speaking in low tones apart. Probably they thought that I was not in a condition to pay attention to them,--but I had too much at stake. " `Yes,' replied the Colonel, `she has signed, as you say, but she hardly knows what she is about. Depend upon it, it is as I told you.'
"I did not hear the Major's reply, but I did what the Colonel said. " `It's all the better; the marriage will not be legal, and I can bring the parents to my own terms.'
"All doubt was now at an end. He had married me convinced, and still convinced that I was Caroline Stanhope, and not Adele Chabot, and he had married me supposing that I was an heiress. My blood ran cold, and in a few seconds I was senseless, and should have fallen under the table had they not perceived that I was sinking, and ran to my support. The arrival of the clergyman with the water recovered me. My husband whispered to me that it was time to go, and that a carriage was at the door. I do not recollect how I left the church; the motion of the carriage first roused me up, and a flood of tears came to my relief. How strange is it, Valerie, that we should be _so_ courageous and such cowards at the same time. Would you believe when I had collected myself, with a certain knowledge that my husband had deceived himself--a full conviction of the danger of my position when he found out his mistake, and that my future happiness was at stake--I felt glad that the deed was done, and would not have been unmarried again for the universe. As I became more composed, I felt that it was time to act. I wiped away my tears and said, as I smiled upon my husband, who held my hand in his, `I know that I have behaved very ill, and very foolishly, but I was so taken by surprise.' " `Do you think that I love you the less for showing so much feeling, my dearest?' he replied, `no, no, it only makes you still more dear to me, as it convinces me what a sacrifice you have made for my sake.'
"Now, Valerie, could there be a prettier speech, or one so apparently sincere, from a newly-married man to his bride, and yet recollect what he said to his friend not a quarter of an hour before, about having my parents in his power by the marriage not being legal? I really am inclined to believe that we have two souls, a good and an evil one, continually striving for the mastery; one for this world, and the other for the next, and that the evil one will permit the good one to have its influence, provided that at the same time it has its own or an equal share in the direction of us. For instance, I believe the colonel was sincere in what he said, and really does love me, supposing me to be Caroline Stanhope, with the mundane advantages to be gained by the marriage, and that these better feelings of humanity are allowed to be exercised, and not interfered with by the adverse party, who is satisfied with its own Mammon share. But the struggle is to come when the evil spirit finds itself defrauded of its portion, and then attempts to destroy the influence of the good. He does love me now, and would have continued to love me, if disappointment will not tear up his still slightly-rooted affections. Now comes my task to cherish and protect it, till it has taken firm root, and all that woman can do shall be done. I felt that all that I required was time. " `Where are we going?' said I. "`About twenty miles from London,' replied my husband, `after which, that is to-morrow, you shall decide upon our future plans.' " `I care not where,' replied I, `with you place is indifferent, only do not refuse me the first favour that I request of you.' " `Depend upon it I will not,' replied he. " `It is this, dearest, take me where you will, but let it be three months before we return or come near London. You must feel my reason for making this request.' " `I grant it with pleasure,' replied he, `for three months I am yours, and yours only. We will live for one another.' " `Yes, and never let us mention any thing about future prospects, but devote the three months to each other.' " `I understand you,' replied the colonel, `and I promise you it shall be so. I will have no correspondence even--there shall be nothing to annoy you or vex you in any way.' " `For three months,' said I, extending my hand. " `Agreed,' said he, `and to tell you the truth, it would have been my own feeling, had it not been yours. When you strike iron, you should do it when it is hot, but when you have to handle it, you had better wait till it is cool; you understand me, and now the subject is dropped.'
"My husband has adhered most religiously to his word up to the present time, as you will see by the date of this letter. We are now visiting the lakes of Cumberland. Never could a spot be better situated for the furtherance of my wishes. The calm repose and silent beauty of these waters must be reflected upon the mind of any one of feeling, which the colonel certainly does not want, and when you consider that I am exerting all the art which poor woman has to please, I do hope and pray to heaven that I may succeed in entwining myself round his heart before his worldly views are destroyed by disappointment. Pray for me, dear Valerie--pray for one who loves you dearly, and who feels that the whole happiness of her life is at stake. --Yours,-- "Adele."
"So far all goes well, my dear Adele," thought I, "but we have yet to see the end. I will pray for you with all my heart, for you deserve to be happy, and none can be more fascinating than you, when you exert yourself. What is it in women that I do not feel which makes them so mad after the other sex? Instinct, certainly, for reason is against it. Well, I have no objection to help others to commit the folly, provided that I am not led into it myself." Such were my reflections, as I closed the letter from Adele.
A few days afterwards I received a note from Mr Selwyn, junior, informing me that his father had been made a puisne judge. What that was I did not know, except that he was a judge on the bench, of some kind. He also stated his intention of calling upon me on the next day.
"Yes," thought I, "to receive the music from Caroline. Of course, she will return it to me when I give her a lesson to-day."
I was right in my supposition. Caroline brought me a piece of music with a note, saying, "Here is the music belonging to Miss Selwyn, Valerie; will you take an opportunity of returning it to her? Any time will do; I presume she is in no hurry," and Caroline coloured up, when her eyes met mine.
"To punish her," I replied, "Oh, no, there can be no hurry; I shall be down at Kew in a fortnight or three weeks, I will take it with me then."
"But my note, thanking Mr Selwyn, will be of very long date," replied Caroline, "and I want the other piece of music belonging to me which I left at Kew."
"Well, Caroline, you cannot expect me to be carrying your messages and going to the chambers of a handsome young Chancery-barrister. By-the-bye, I had a note from him this morning, telling me that his father is advanced to the bench. What does that mean?"
"That his father is made a judge. Is that all he said?" replied Caroline, carelessly.
"Why, now I think of it, he said that he would call upon me to-morrow, so I can give him this music when he calls."
At this intelligence Caroline's face brightened up, and she went away. Mr Selwyn called the next day, and I delivered the music and the note. He informed me that he had now all his father's private as well as Chancery business, and wished to know whether he was to consider himself my legal adviser. I replied, "Certainly; but that he could not expect the business of a teacher of music to be very profitable."
"No, nor do I intend that it shall be, but it will be a great pleasure," replied he, very gallantly. "I hope you have some money to put by."
"Yes," replied I, "I have some, but not quite enough; by the end of the year I hope to have 500 pounds."
"I am glad that you have told me, as a profitable investment may occur before that time, and I will secure it for you."
He asked permission to read Caroline's note, and then said that he would find the other piece of music, and leave it at Monsieur Gironac's in the course of a day or two--after which he took his leave. I received that evening a letter from Lionel, which had a great effect upon me. In it, he stated that at the fencing-school he had made acquaintance with a young officer, a Monsieur Auguste de Chatenoeuf,--that he had mentioned to him that he knew a lady of his name in England; that the officer had asked him what the age of the lady might be, and he had replied.
"Strange," said the officer; "I had a very dear sister, who was supposed to be drowned, although the body was never found. Can you tell me the baptismal name of the lady you mention?"
"It then occurred to me," continued Lionel, "that I might be imprudent if I answered, and I therefore said that I did not know, but I thought you had been called by your friends, Annette." " `Then it cannot be she,' replied he, `for my sister's name was Valerie. But she may have changed her name--describe to me her face and figure.'
"As I at once felt certain that you were the party, and was aware, that the early portion of your life was never referred to by you, I thought it advisable to put him off the scent, until I had made this communication. I therefore replied, `That' (excuse me) `you were very plain, with a pug nose, and very short and fat.' " `Then it must be somebody else,' replied the officer. `You made my heart beat when you first spoke about her, for I loved my sister dearly, and have never ceased to lament her loss.'
"He then talked a great deal of you, and gave me some history of your former life. I took the opportunity to ask whether your unnatural mother was alive, and he said, `Yes, and that your father was also alive and well.'
"I did not dare to ask more. Have I done right or wrong, my dear Mademoiselle Chatenoeuf? If wrong, I can easily repair the error. Your brother, for such I presume he is, I admire very much. He is very different from the officers of the French army in general, quite subdued, and very courteous, and there is a kind spirit in all he says, which makes me like him more. You have no idea of the feeling he showed, when he talked about you--that is, if it is you--which I cannot but feel almost certain that it is. One observation of his, I think it right to make known to you, which is, that he told me that since your supposed death, your father had never held up his head; indeed, he said that he had never seen him smile since."
The above extract from Lionel's letter created such a revulsion, that I was obliged to retire to my chamber to conceal my agitated feelings from Madame Gironac. I wept bitterly for some time. I thought of what my poor father must have suffered, and the regrets of poor Auguste at my supposed death; and I doubted whether I was justified in the act I had committed, by the treatment I had received from my mother. If she had caused me so much pain, was I right in having given so much to others who loved me? My poor father, he had never smiled since! Should I permit him to wear out his days in sorrowing for my loss--oh, no! I no longer felt any animosity against others who had ill-treated me. Surely, I could forgive even my mother, if not for love of her, at all events for love of my father and my brother. Yes, I would do so, I was now independent of my mother and all the family. I had nothing to fear from her; I could assist my family, if they required it.
Such were my first feelings--but then came doubts and fears. Could not my mother claim me? insist upon my living with her? prevent my earning my livelihood? or if I did employ myself, could she not take from me all my earnings? Yes, by the law of France, I thought she could. Then again, would she forgive me the three years of remorse? the three years during which she had been under the stigma of having, by her barbarity, caused her child to commit self-destruction? the three years of reproach which she must have experienced from my father's clouded brow? Would she ever forgive me for having obtained my independence by the very talents which she would not allow me to cultivate? No, never, unless her heart was changed.
After many hours of reflection, I resolved that I would make known my existence to Auguste, and permit him to acquaint my father, under a promise of secrecy, but that I would not trust myself in France, or allow my mother to be aware of my existence, until I could ascertain what her power might be over me. But before I decided upon any thing, I made up my mind that I would make a confidant, and obtain the opinion of Judge Selwyn. By the evening's post I wrote a note to him, requesting that he would let me know when I might have an interview.
An answer arrived the next day, stating, that Judge Selwyn would call and take me down with him to Kew, where I should sleep, and return to town with him on the following morning. This suited me very well, and, as soon as the carriage was off the stones, I said that I was now about to confide to him that portion of my life with which he was unacquainted, and ask his advice how I ought to proceed, in consequence of some intelligence lately communicated by Lionel. I then went into the whole detail, until I arrived at my being taken away from the barracks by Madame d'Albret; the remainder of my life he knew sufficient of, and I then gave him Lionel's letter to read, and when he had done so, I stated to him what my wishes and what my fears were, and begged him to decide for me what was best to be done.
"This is an eventful history, Valerie," said the old gentleman. "I agree with you on the propriety of making your existence known to your brother, and also to your father, who has been sufficiently punished for his cowardice. Whether your father will be able to contain his secret, I doubt very much; and from what you have told me of your mother, I should certainly not trust myself in France. I am not very well informed of the laws of the country, but it is my impression that children are there under the control of their parents until they are married. Go to France I therefore would not, unless it were as a married woman: then you will be safe. When does Lionel come over?"
"He will come at any time if I say I wish it."
"Then let him come over, and invite your brother to come with him, then you can arrange with him. I really wish you were married, Valerie, and I wish also that my son was married; I should like to be a grandfather before I die."
"With respect to my marrying, sir, I see little chance of that; I dislike the idea, and, in fact, it would be better to be with my mother at once, for I prefer an old tyranny to a new one."
"It does not follow, my dear Valerie; depend upon it there are many happy marriages. Am I a tyrant in my own house? Does my wife appear to be a slave?"
"There are many happy exceptions, my dear sir," replied I. "With respect to your son's marrying, I think you need not despair of that; for it is my opinion that he very soon will be--but this is a secret, and I must say no more."
"Indeed," replied the judge, "I know of no one, and he would hardly marry without consulting me."
"Yes, sir, I think that he will, and I shall advise him so to do--as it is necessary that nothing should be known till it is over. Trust to me, sir, that if it does take place, you will be quite satisfied with the choice which he makes; but I must have your pledge not to say one word about it. You might spoil all."
The old judge fell back in his carriage in a reverie, which lasted some little while, and then said, "Valerie, I believe that I understand you now. If it is as I guess, I certainly agree with you that I will ask no more questions, as I should for many reasons not wish it to appear that I know any thing about it."
Soon afterwards we arrived at Kew, and, after a pleasant visit, on the following morning early, I returned to town with the judge. I then wrote to Lionel, making known to him as much as was necessary, under pledge of secrecy, and stating my wish that he should follow up my brother's acquaintance, and the next time that he came over, persuade him to accompany him, but that he was not to say any thing to him relative to my being his sister, on any account whatever.
Young Selwyn called the same day that I came from Kew, with the piece of music which was missing. I made no remarks upon the fact, that the music might have been delivered to me by his sister, because I felt assured that it contained a note more musical than any in the score; I gave it to Caroline, and a few days afterwards, observing that she was pale and restless, I obtained permission for her to go out with me for the day. Mr Selwyn happened to call a few minutes after our arrival at Madame Gironac's, and that frequently occurred for nearly two months, when the time arrived that she was to be removed from the school.
The reader will, of course, perceive that I was assisting this affair as much as I could. I admit it; and I did so out of gratitude to Mr Selwyn's father, for his kindness to me. I knew Caroline to be a good girl, and well suited to Mr Selwyn; I knew that she must eventually have a very large fortune; and, provided that her father and mother would not be reconciled to their daughter after the marriage, that Mr Selwyn had the means, by his practice, of supporting her comfortably without their assistance. I considered that I did a kindness to Caroline and to Mr Selwyn, and therefore did not hesitate; besides, I had other ideas on the subject, which eventually turned out as I expected, and proved that I was right.
On the last day of September, Caroline slipped out, and followed me to Madame Gironac's; Mr Selwyn was ready with the licence. We walked to church, the ceremony was performed, and Mr Selwyn took his bride down to his father's house at Kew. The old judge was somewhat prepared for the event, and received her very graciously. Mrs Selwyn and his sisters were partial to Caroline, and followed the example of the judge. Nothing could pass off more quietly or more pleasantly. For reasons which I did not explain, I requested Mr Selwyn, for the present, not to make known his marriage to Caroline's parents, as I considered it would be attended with great and certain advantage; and he promised me that he would not only be silent upon the subject, but that all his family should be equally so.
If Mrs Bradshaw required two bottles of eau-de-Cologne and water to support her when she heard of the elopement of Adele Chabot, I leave the reader to imagine how many she required, when an heiress entrusted to her charge had been guilty of a similar act.
As Caroline had not left with me, I was not implicated, and the affair was most inscrutable. She had never been seen walking, or known to correspond with any young man. I suggested to Mrs Bradshaw that it was the fear of her father removing her from her protection which had induced her to run away, and that most probably she had gone to her aunt Bathurst's. Upon this hint, she wrote to Mr Stanhope, acquainting him with his daughter's disappearance, and giving it as her opinion that she had gone to her aunt's, being very unwilling to return home. Mr Stanhope was furious; he immediately drove to Madame Bathurst's, whom he had not seen for a long time, and demanded his daughter. Madame Bathurst declared that she knew nothing about her. Mr Stanhope expressed his disbelief, and they parted in high words.
A few days afterwards, the Colonel and Adele came to town, the three months acceded to her wishes having expired; and now I must relate what I did not know till some days afterwards, when I saw Adele, and who had the narrative from her husband.
It appeared, that as soon as the Colonel arrived in London, still persuaded that he had married Caroline Stanhope, and not Adele Chabot, without stating his intention to her, he went to Grosvenor Square, and requested to see Mr Stanhope. This was about a fortnight after Caroline's elopement with Mr Selwyn. He was admitted, and found Mr and Mrs Stanhope in the drawing-room. He had sent up his card, and Mr Stanhope received him with great hauteur.
"What may your pleasure be with me, sir?" (looking at the card). "Colonel Jervis, I think you call yourself?"
Now, Colonel Jervis was a man well known about town, and, in his own opinion, not to know him argued yourself unknown; he was, therefore, not a little angry at this reception, and being a really well-bred man, was also much startled with the vulgarity of both parties.
"My name, Mr Stanhope, as you are pleased to observe," said the Colonel, with hauteur, "is Jervis, and my business with you is relative to your daughter."
"My daughter, sir?"
"Our daughter! Why, you don't mean to tell us that _you_ have run away with our daughter?" screamed Mrs Stanhope.
"Yes, madam, such is the fact; she is now my wife, and I trust that she is not married beneath herself."
"A Colonel! --a paltry Colonel! --a match for my daughter! Why, with her fortune she might have married a Duke," screamed Mrs Stanhope. "I'll never speak to the wretch again. A Colonel, indeed! I suppose a Militia-Colonel. I daresay you are only a Captain, after all. Well, take her to barracks, and to barracks yourself. You may leave the house. Not a penny--no, not a penny do you get. Does he, Stanhope?"
"Not one half a farthing," replied Mr Stanhope, pompously. "Go, sir; Mrs Stanhope's sentiments are mine."
The Colonel, who was in a towering passion at the treatment he received, now started up, and said, "Sir and Madam, you appear to me not to understand the usages of good society, and I positively declare, that had I been aware of the insufferable vulgarity of her parents, nothing would have induced me to marry the daughter. I tell you this, because I care nothing for you. You are on the stilts at present, but I shall soon bring you to your senses; for know, Sir and Madam, although I did elope with and married your daughter, the marriage is not legal, as she was married under a false name, and that was her own act--not mine. You may, therefore, prepare to receive your daughter back, when I think fit to send her--disgraced and dishonoured; and then try if you can match her with a Duke. I leave you to digest this piece of information, and now wish you good-morning. You have my address, when you feel inclined to apologise, and do me the justice which I shall expect before a legal marriage takes place."
So saying, the Colonel left the house; and it would be difficult to say which of the three parties was in the greatest rage.
The Colonel, who had become sincerely attached to Adele, who had well profited by the time which she had gained, returned home in no very pleasant humour. Throwing himself down on the sofa, he said to her in a moody way, "I'll be candid with you, my dear; if I had seen your father and mother before I married you, nothing would have persuaded me to have made you my wife. When a man marries, I consider connexion and fortune to be the two greatest points to be obtained, but such animals as your father and mother I never beheld. Good Heaven! that I should be allied to such people!"
"May I ask you, dearest, to whom you refer, and what is the meaning of all this? My father and mother! Why, Colonel, my father was killed at the attack of Montmartre, and my mother died before him."
"Then who and what are you," cried the Colonel, jumping up; "are you not Caroline Stanhope?"
"I thank Heaven I am not. I have always told you that I was Adele Chabot, and no other person. You must admit that. My father and mother were no vulgar people, dearest husband, and my family is as good as most in France. Come over with me to Paris, and you will then see who my relatives and connexions are. I am poor, I grant, but recollect that the revolution exiled many wealthy families, and mine among the rest, although we were permitted eventually to return to France. What can have induced you to fall into this error, and still persist (notwithstanding my assertions to the contrary), that I am the daughter of those vulgar upstarts, who are proverbial for their want of manners, and who are not admitted into hardly any society, rich as they are supposed to be?"
The Colonel looked all amazement.
"I'm sorry you are disappointed, dearest," continued Adele, "if you are so. I am sorry that I'm not Caroline Stanhope with a large fortune, but if I do not bring you a fortune, by economy I will save you one. Let me only see that you are not deprived of your usual pleasures and luxuries, and I care not what I do or how I live. You will find no exacting wife in me, dearest, troubling you for expenses you cannot afford. I will live but to please you, and if I do not succeed, I will die--if you wish to be rid of me."
Adele resumed her caresses with the tears running down her cheeks, for she loved her husband dearly, and felt what she said.
The Colonel could not resist her: he put his arms round her and said, "Do not cry, Adele, I believe you, and, moreover, I feel that I love you. I am thankful that I have not married Caroline Stanhope, for I presume she cannot be very different from her parents. I admit that I have been deceiving myself, and that I have deceived myself into a better little wife than I deserve, perhaps. I really am glad of my escape. I would not have been connected with those people for the universe. We will do as you say: we will go to France for a short time, and you shall introduce me to your relations."
Before the next morning, Adele had gained the victory. The Colonel felt that he had deceived himself, that he might be laughed at, and that the best that could be done was to go to Paris and announce from thence his marriage in the papers. He had a sufficiency to live upon, to command luxury as well as comforts, and on the whole he was now satisfied, that a handsome and strongly-attached wife, who brought him no fortune, was preferable to a marriage of mere interest. I may as well here observe, that Adele played her cards so well, that the Colonel was a happy and contented man. She kept her promise, and he found with her management that he had more money than a married man required, and he blessed the day in which he had married by mistake. And now to return to the Stanhopes.
Although they were too angry at the time to pay much heed to the Colonel's parting threats, yet when they had cooled, and had time for reflection, Mr and Mrs Stanhope were much distressed at the intelligence that their daughter was not legally married. For some days, they remained quiet, at last they thought it advisable to come to terms to save their daughter's honour. But during this delay on their part, Adele had called upon me, and introduced her husband and made me acquainted with all that had passed. They stated their intention of proceeding to Paris immediately, and although I knew that Adele's relations were of good family, yet I thought an introduction to Madame d'Albret would be of service to her. I therefore gave her one, and it proved most serviceable, for the Colonel found himself in the first society in Paris, and his wife was well received and much admired. When, therefore, Mr Stanhope made up his mind to call upon the Colonel at the address of the hotel where they had put up, he found they had left, and nobody knew where they had gone. This was a severe blow, and Mr and Mrs Stanhope were in a state of the utmost uncertainty and suspense. Now was the time for Mr Selwyn to come forward, and I despatched a note to him, requesting him to come to town. I put him in possession of Adele's history, her marriage with the Colonel, and all the particulars with which the reader is acquainted, and I pointed out to him how he should act when he called upon Mr Stanhope, which I advised him to do immediately. He followed my advice, and thus described what passed on his return.
"I sent up my card to Mr and Mrs Stanhope, and was received almost as politely as the Colonel. I made no remark, but taking a chair, which was not offered to me, I said, `You have my card, Mr Stanhope, I must, in addition to my name, inform you that I am a barrister, and that my father is Judge Selwyn, who now sits on the King's Bench. You probably have met him in the circles in which you visit, although you are not acquainted with him. Your sister, Madame Bathurst, we have the pleasure of knowing.'
"This introduction made them look more civil, for a Judge was with them somebody. " `My object in coming here is to speak to you relative to your daughter.' " `Do you come from the Colonel, then?' said Mrs Stanhope, sharply. " `No, madam. I have no acquaintance with the Colonel.' " `Then how do you know my daughter, sir?' " `I had the pleasure of meeting her at my father's. She stayed a short time with my family at our country seat at Kew.' " `Indeed!' exclaimed Mrs Stanhope, `well I had no idea of that. I'm sure the Judge was very kind; but, sir, you know that my daughter has married very unfortunately.' " `That she has married, madam, I am aware, but I trust not unfortunately.' " `Why, sir, she has married a colonel,--a fellow who came here and told us it was no marriage at all!' " `It is to rectify that mistake, madam, which has induced me to call. The Colonel, madam, did hear that your daughter was at Mrs Bradshaw's establishment, and wished to carry her off, supposing that she was a very rich prize, but, madam, he made a slight mistake--instead of your daughter, he has run away and married the French teacher, who has not a sixpence. He has now found out his mistake, and is off to Paris to hide himself from the laughter of the town.'
"This intelligence was the cause of much mirth and glee to Mr and Mrs Stanhope; the latter actually cried with delight, and I took care to join heartily in the merriment. As soon as it had subsided, Mrs Stanhope said-- "`But Mr Selwyn, you said that my daughter was married. How is that?' " `Why, madam, the fact is, that your daughter's affections were engaged at the time of this elopement of the Colonel's, and it was her intention to make known to you that such was the case, presuming that you would not refuse to sanction her marriage; but, when the elopement took place, and it was even reported that she had run away, her position became very awkward, and the more so, as some people declared (as the Colonel asserted), that she was not legally married. On consulting with the gentleman of her choice, it was argued thus: If Miss Stanhope goes back to her father's house after this report that she is not legally married, it will be supposed that the Colonel, finding that he was disappointed in his views, had returned her dishonoured upon her parents' hands, and no subsequent marriage would remove the impression. It was therefore considered advisable, both on her parents' account and on her own, that she also should elope, and then it would be easily explained that it was somebody else who had eloped with the Colonel, and that Miss Stanhope had married in a secret way. Miss Stanhope, therefore, was properly married in church before respectable witnesses, and conducted immediately afterwards by her husband to his father's house, who approved of what was done, as now no reflection can be made, either upon Miss Stanhope or her respectable parents.' " `Well, let us all know the person to whom she is married.' " `To myself, madam, and your daughter is now at Judge Selwyn's, where she has been ever since her marriage, with my mother and sisters. My father would have accompanied me, to explain all this, but the fact is, that his lordship is now so much occupied that he could not. He will, however, be happy to see Mr Stanhope, who is an idle man, either at his town house, or at his country seat. I trust, madam, as I have the honour to be your son-in-law, you will permit me to kiss your hand?' " `Caroline may have done worse, my dear,' said the lady to her husband, who was still wavering. `Mr Selwyn may be a judge himself, or he may be a Lord Chancellor, recollect that. Mr Selwyn you are welcome, and I shall be most happy to see his lordship, and my husband shall call upon him when we know when he will be at leisure. Oh! that Colonel, but he's rightly served, a French teacher. Ha, ha, ha!' and Mrs Stanhope's mirth was communicated to her husband, who now held out his hand to me in a most patronising manner. " `Well, sir, I give you joy. I believe you have saved my daughter's character, and my dear,' added he, very pompously, `we must do something for the young people.' " `I trust, sir, I bear your forgiveness to Caroline.' " `Yes, you do, Mr Selwyn,' said the lady. `Bring her here as soon as you please. Oh that Colonel! ha, ha, ha! and it is capital. A French teacher. Ha, ha, ha.'"
Such was the winding up of this second marriage. Had not Mr and Mrs Stanhope been much subdued by the intelligence received from the Colonel of the marriage being illegal, and had they not also been much gratified at the mistake of the Colonel, things might not have gone off so pleasantly. I have only to add, that Mr Stanhope, who appeared to obey his wife in every thing, called upon the Judge, and their interview was very amicable. Mr Stanhope, upon the Judge stating that his son had sufficient income, immediately became profuse, and settled 2000 pounds per annum upon his daughter, during his life, with a promise of much more eventually. Caroline was graciously received by her mother, and presented with some splendid diamonds. The Judge told me that he knew the part I had taken in the affair, and shook his finger at me.
Thus ended this affair, and Madame Gironac, when she heard how busy I had been in the two elopements, said, "Ah, Valerie, you begin by marrying other people. You will end in finding a husband for yourself."
"That is quite another thing, madam," I replied. "I have no objection in assisting other people to their wishes, but it does not follow that therefore I am to seek for myself what I do not wish."
"Valerie, I am a prophetess. You will be married some time next year. Mark my words."
"I will not forget them, and at the end of the year we shall see who is right, and who is wrong."
After all this bustle and turmoil, there was a calm, which lasted the whole winter. I followed up my usual avocations. I had as many pupils as I could attend to, and saved money fast. The winter passed away, and in the spring I expected Lionel with my brother Auguste. I looked forward to seeing my brother with great impatience; not a day that he was out of my thoughts. I was most anxious to hear of my father, my brothers, and sisters, and every particular connected with the family; even my mother was an object of interest, although not of regard, but I had forgiven all others who had ill-treated me, and I felt that I forgave and forgot, if she would behave as a mother towards me. I had received kind letters from Madame d'Albret and Adele; the letters of the latter were most amusing. Madame Bathurst had called upon me several times. I was at peace with all the world and with myself. At last, I received a letter from Lionel, stating that he was coming over in a few days; that he had great difficulty in persuading my brother to come with him, as he could not afford the expense out of his own means, and did not like to lie under such an obligation. At last, he had been over-ruled, and was coming with him.
"Then I shall see you again, dear Auguste!" thought I; "you who always loved me, always protected me and took my part, and who so lamented my supposed death;" and my thoughts turned to the time when he and I were with my grandmother in the palace, and our early days were passed over in review. "My poor grandmother, how I loved you! and how you deserved to be loved!" And then I calculated what I might have been, had I been left with my grandmother, and had inherited her small property; and, on reflection, I decided that I was better off now than I probably should have been, and that all was for the best. I thought of the future, and whether it was likely I ever should marry, and I decided that I never would, but that if I ever returned to my family, I would assist my sisters, and try to make them happy.
"Yes," thought I, "marry I never will--that is _decided_--nothing shall ever induce me."
My reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger, who, apologising to me, stated that he had come to seek Monsieur Gironac.
I replied that he was not at home, and probably it would be half an hour before he returned to dinner.
"With your leave, mademoiselle," said he, gracefully bowing, "I will wait till he returns. I will not, however, trespass upon your time, if it is disagreeable; perhaps the servant will accommodate me with a chair elsewhere?"
I requested that he would be seated, as there was no fire in any other room, and he took a chair. He was a Frenchman, speaking good English, but he soon discovered that I was his countrywoman, and the conversation was carried on in French. He informed me that he was the Comte de Chavannes. But I must describe him. He was rather small in stature, but elegantly made; his features were, if anything, effeminate, but very handsome; they would have been handsome in a woman. The effeminacy, was, however, relieved by a pair of moustaches, soft, silky, and curling. His manners were peculiarly fascinating, and his conversation lively and full of point. I was much pleased with him during the half hour that we were together, during which we had kept up the conversation with much spirit. The arrival of Monsieur Gironac put an end to our _tete-a-tete_, and having arranged his business with him, which was relative to some flute-music which the Comte wished to be published, after a few minutes more conversation, he took his leave.
"Now there's a man that I would select for your husband, Valerie," said Monsieur Gironac, after the Comte had left. "Is he not a very agreeable fellow?"
"Yes he is," I replied, "he is very entertaining and very well-bred. Who is he?"
"His history is told in few words," replied Monsieur Gironac. "His father emigrated with the Bourbons; but, unlike most of those who emigrated, he neither turned music-teacher, dancing-master, hair-dresser, nor teacher of the French language. He had a little money, and he embarked in commerce. He went as super-cargo, and then as travelling partner in a house to America, the Havannah, and the West Indies; and, after having crossed the Atlantic about twenty times in the course of the late war, he amassed a fortune of about 40,000 pounds. At the restoration, he went to Paris, resumed his title, which he had laid aside during his commercial course, was well received by Louis XVIII, and made a Colonel of the Legion of Honour. He returned to this country to settle his affairs, previous to going down to Brittany, and died suddenly, leaving the young man you have just seen, who is his only son and heir, alone on the wide world, and with a good fortune as soon as he came of age. At the time of his father's death, he was still at school. Now he is twenty-four years old, and has been for three years in possession of the property, which is still in the English funds. He appears to like England better than France, for most of his time is passed in London. He is very talented, very musical, composes well, and is altogether a most agreeable young man, and fit for the husband of Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf. Now you have the whole history, the marriage is yet to take place."
"Your last observation is correct; or rather it is not, for the marriage will never take place."
"Mais, que voulez-vous Mademoiselle?" cried Monsieur Gironac, "must we send for the angel Gabriel for you?"
"No," replied I, "he is not a marrying man any more than I am a marrying woman. Is it not sufficient that I admit your Count to be very agreeable? --that won't content you. You want me to marry a man whom I have seen for one half hour. Are you reasonable, Monsieur Gironac?"
"He has rank, wealth, good looks, talent, and polished manners; and you admit that you do not dislike him; what would you have more?"
"He is not in love with me, and I am not in love with him."
"Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf, you are _une enfant_. I will no longer trouble myself with looking out for a husband for you. You shall die a sour old maid," and Monsieur Gironac left the room, pretending to be in a passion.
A few days after the meeting with Count de Chavannes, Lionel made his appearance. My heart beat quick as I welcomed him.
"He is here," said he, anticipating my question, "but I called just to know when we should come, and whether I was to say any thing to him before he came."
"No, no, tell him nothing--bring him here directly--how long will it be before you return?"
"Not half an hour; I am at my old lodgings in Suffolk Street, so good-bye for the present," and Lionel walked away again.
Monsieur and Madame Gironac were both out, and would not return for an hour or two. I thought the half hour would never pass, but it did at last, and they knocked at the door. Lionel entered, followed by my brother Auguste. I was surprised at his having grown so tall and handsome.
"Madame Gironac is not at home, mademoiselle," said Lionel.
"No, Monsieur Lionel."
"Allow me to present to you Monsieur Auguste de Chatenoeuf, a lieutenant in the service of his Majesty the King of the French."
Auguste bowed, and, as I returned the salute, looked earnestly at me and started.
"Excuse me, mademoiselle," said he, coming up to me, and speaking in a tremulous voice, "but--yes, you must be Valerie."
"Yes, dear Auguste," cried I, opening my arms.
He rushed to me and covered me with kisses, and then staggering to a chair, sat down and wept. So did I, and so did Lionel, for sympathy and company.
"Why did you conceal this from me, Lionel?" said he after a time; "see how you have unmanned me."
"I only obeyed orders, Auguste," replied Lionel; "but, now that I have executed my commission, I will leave you together, for you must have much to say to each other. I will join you at dinner-time."
Lionel went out and left us together; we renewed our embraces, and after we were more composed, entered into explanations. I told him my history in as few words as possible, promising to enter into details afterwards, and then I inquired about the family. Auguste replied, "I will begin from the time of your disappearance. No one certainly had any suspicion of Madame d'Albret having spirited you away; indeed, she was, as you know, constantly at the barracks till my father left, and expressed her conviction that you had destroyed yourself. The outcry against your mother was universal; she dared not show herself, and your father was in a state to excite compassion. Four or five times a day did he take his melancholy walk down to the Morgue to ascertain if your body was found. He became so melancholy, morose, and irritable, that people were afraid lest he would destroy himself. He never went home to your mother but there was a scene of reproaches on his part, and defence on hers, that was a scandal to the barracks. All her power over him ceased from that time, and has ceased for ever since, and perhaps you know that he has retired."
"How should I know, Auguste?"
"Yes; he could not bear to look the other officers in the face; he told me that he considered himself, from his weakness and folly, to have been the murderer of his child, that he felt himself despicable, and could not longer remain with the regiment. As soon as the regiment arrived at Lyons, he sent in his retirement, and has ever since been living at Pau, in the south of France, upon his half-pay and the other property which he possesses."
"My poor father!" exclaimed I, bursting into tears.
"As for me, you know that I obtained leave to quit the regiment, and have ever since been in the 51st of the line. I have obtained my grade of lieutenant. I have seen my father but once since I parted with him at Paris. He is much altered, and his hair is grey."
"Is he comfortable where he is, Auguste?"
"Yes, Valerie; I think that he did wisely, for it was ruinous travelling about with so many children. He is comfortable, and, I believe, as happy as he can be. Oh, if he did but know that you were alive, it would add ten years to his life."
"He shall know it, my dear Auguste," exclaimed I, as the tears coursed down my cheeks. "I feel now that I was very selfish in consenting to Madame d'Albret's proposal, but I was hardly in my senses at the time."
"I cannot wonder at your taking the step, nor can I blame you. Your life was one of torture, and it was torture to others to see what you underwent."
"I pity my father, for weak as he was, the punishment has been too severe."
"But you will make him happy now, and he will rejoice in his old days."
"And now, Auguste, tell me about Nicolas--he never liked me, but I forgive him--how is he?"
"He is, I believe, well; but he has left his home."
"Left home!"
"You know how kind your mother was to him--I may say, how she doted upon him. Well, one day he announced his intention of going to Italy, with a friend he had picked up, who belonged to Naples. His mother was frantic at the idea, but he actually laughed at her, and behaved in a very unfeeling manner. Your mother was cut to the heart, and has never got over it; but, Valerie, the children who are spoiled by indulgence, always turn out the most ungrateful."
"Have you heard of him since?"
"Yes; he wrote to me, telling me that he was leading an orchestra in some small town, and advancing rapidly--you know his talent for music-- but not one line has he ever written to his mother."
"Ah, me!" sighed I, "and that is all the return she has for her indulgence to him. Now tell me about Clara."
"She is well married, and lives at Tours: her husband is an _employe_, but I don't exactly know what."
"And Sophie and Elisee?"
"Are both well, and promise to grow up fine girls, but not so handsome as you are, Valerie. It was the wonderful improvement in your person that made me doubt for a moment when I first saw you."
"And dear little Pierre, that I used to pinch that I might get out of the house, poor fellow?"
"Is a fine boy, and makes his father very melancholy, and his mother very angry, by talking about you."
"And now, Auguste, one more question. On what terms are my father and mother, and how does she conduct herself?"
"My father treats her with ceremony and politeness, but not with affection. She has tried every means to resume her empire over him, but finds it impossible, and she has now turned _devote_. They sleep in separate rooms, and he is very harsh and severe to her at times, when the fit comes on him. Indeed, Valerie, if you sought revenge, which I know you do not do, you have had sufficient, for her brow is wrinkled with care and mortification."
"But do you think she is sorry for what she has done?"
"I regret to say I do not. I think she is sorry for the consequences, but that her animosity against you would be greater than ever if she knew that you were alive, and if you were again in her power she would wreak double vengeance. Many things have occurred to confirm me in this belief. You have overthrown her power, which she never will forgive; and, as for her religion, I have no faith in that."
"It is then as I feared, Auguste; and if I make known my existence to my father, it must be concealed from my mother."
"I agree with you that it will be best; for there is no saying to what point the vengeance of an unnatural mother may be carried. But let us quit this subject, for the present at least, and now tell me more about yourself."
"I will--but there is Lionel's knock: so I must defer it till another opportunity. Dear Auguste, give me one more kiss, while we are alone."
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{
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In a few minutes after Lionel's return, which he had considerably postponed, until Monsieur Gironac's dinner hour had all but arrived, my good host first, and then kind, merry little madame, made their appearance, and a little while was consumed in introductions, exclamations, admirations, and congratulations, all tinctured not a little by that national vivacity, which other folks are in the habit of calling extravagance, and which, as my readers well know already, the good Gironacs had by no means got rid of, even in the course of a long _sejour_ in the matter-of-fact metropolis of England.
Fortunately, my friends were for the most part, _au fait_ to the leading circumstances of my life, so that little explanation was needed.
And more fortunately yet, like tide and time, dinner waits for no man; nor have I ever observed, in all my adventurous life, that the sympathy of the most sentimental, the grief of the most woe-begone, or the joy of the happiest, ever induces them to neglect the summons of the dinner-bell, and the calls of the responsive appetite.
In the midst of the delight of madame, at having at last to receive the brother of _cette chere Valerie_, and that brother, too, _si bel homme et brave officier, et d'une ressemblance si parfaite a la charmante soeur_, dinner was luckily announced; and the torrent-tide of madame's hospitality was cut short, by her husband's declaration that we were all, like himself, dying of hunger; and that not a word more must be spoken, touching sympathies or sentiments, until we had partaken of something nutritious _de quoi soutenir l'epuisement des emotions si dechirantes_.
Madame laughed, declared that he was _un barbare, un malheureux sans grandeur de l'ame_, and taking possession of Auguste, led him away into the dining-room: where, though she told me afterwards that she was _au comble de desespoir_ at having to sit us down to so everyday a meal, we found an excellent dinner, and spent a very pleasant hour, until coffee was served; when, with it, not a little to my surprise, nor very much to my delight, Monsieur de Chavannes made his appearance.
There was a quizzical look on Monsieur Gironac's face, and a roguish twinkle in his eye, which led me to believe that what was really a matter of surprise to me, was none to my worthy host; for the Count de Chavannes had never visited the house before, in the evening; nor, from what I had understood, was he on terms of particular intimacy with the Gironacs.
I was foolish enough to be, at first, a little put out at this; and, having manifested some slight embarrassment on his first entrance, which I learned afterwards, did not escape his eye, though he was far too well-bred to show it, I made the matter worse by calling my pride to my aid, incited thereto by Madame Gironac's glance and smile at my blushing confusion, and certainly in no respect contributed to the gaiety of the evening. Nothing, however, I must admit, could have been more gentlemanly or in better taste, than the whole demeanour of Monsieur de Chavannes, and I could not help feeling this, and comparing it mentally with the inferior bearing of others I had seen, even in the midst of my fit of _hauteur_ and frigidity.
He neither immediately withdrew himself on learning that my brother, whom I had not seen for many years, had but just arrived as any half-bred person would have done under the like circumstances, with an awkward apology for his presence, tending only to make every one else more awkward yet; nor made set speeches, nor foolish compliments, on a subject too important for such trifling.
He did not trouble me with any attentions, which he perceived would be at that moment distasteful, but exhibited the most marked desire to cultivate the acquaintance of Auguste, to whom he showed a degree of deference, though himself somewhat the senior, as to a military man, that flattered his _esprit de corps_, mingled with a sort of frank cordiality, which except from countryman to countryman in a foreign land, would perhaps have been a little overdone: but, under the actual circumstances, it could not have been improved.
For the short time he remained, he conversed well, and wittily; yet with a strain of fancy and feeling, blended with his wit, which rendered it singularly original and attractive; and perfectly succeeded, though I know not whether he intended it or not, in directing the attention of the company from my altered and somewhat unamiable mood.
Among other things I remember, that in the course of conversation, while tendering some civilities to Auguste, the use of his riding horses, his cabriolet, or his services in showing him some of the lions of London, he observed that Monsieur de Chatenoeuf must not consider such an offer impertinent on his part, since he believed, if our genealogy were properly traced, some sort of cousinship could be established; as more than one of the De Chavannes had intermarried in old times with the Chatenoeufs of Gascony, when both the families, like their native provinces, had been acting in alliance with the English Plantagenets, against the French kings of the house of Valois.
A few words were said, in connexion with this, touching the singularity of the fact, that it would seem as if England had something to do with the associations of the two families; but I do not think the remark was made by De Chavannes, and whatever it was, it was not sufficiently pointed to be in any way offensive or annoying.
On the whole, hurt as I was in some sort by the idea which had taken hold of me, that the Gironacs, through a false and indelicate idea of advancing my welfare, were endeavouring to promote a liking between myself and the Count, I cannot deny, that the evening on the whole, was a pleasant one, and that, if at first it had been my impression that De Chavannes was agreeable, entertaining, and well-bred, I was now prepared to admit he had excellent taste, and delicate feelings into the bargain.
Still I felt that I did not like him, or perhaps I should rather say his attentions--though in fact he had paid me none--and was rather relieved when he made his bow and retired.
Shortly afterwards, Auguste observed that I seemed dull and tired, and Madame Gironac followed suit by saying that it was no wonder if the excitement and interest created by the unexpected arrival of so dear a brother had proved too much for my nerves.
Thereupon, after promising to return early in the morning, so that we might have a long talk about the past, and a long consultation about the future, Lionel and Auguste bade us good-night also; but not before Lionel had said to me as he was taking leave, "I think, Mademoiselle, that it will be no more than proper, that I should drive down to Kew, to-morrow morning, and wait upon Judge Selwyn, who has always been so kind to me--have you any message for him?"
"Oh! yes. I beg you will tell him that Auguste has come, and that I request he will let me know when we may wait on him? --" "And the answer will be, Mademoiselle, his waiting upon you. Is that what you desire? --" "I only desire what I state--to know when and how we may see him, for I know very little of Auguste's heart, if he does not wish to return thanks to one who, except our dear friends here, has been poor Valerie's surest confidant and protector. But you will find the Judge's family increased since you saw him. His son has persuaded my pretty little friend, Caroline Stanhope, to become his wife, and she is living with the Judge's family at present."
Lionel expressed his surprise and pleasure at the news, but I thought at the moment that the pleasure was not real, though I have since had reason to believe that the gravity which came over his face as he spoke, was the gravity of thought, rather than that, as I fancied at the time, of disappointment.
Nothing more passed worthy of record, and, after shaking hands with Lionel, and kissing my long-lost brother, I was left alone with the Gironacs, half expectant of a playful scolding.
"Well, Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf," began Monsieur, as soon as the gentlemen had left us, "is it because you have found out that you have got a handsome brother, that you are determined to drive all other handsome young men _au desespoir_? --or is it that you wish to break the heart especially of this _pauvre Monsieur de Chavannes_, that you have treated us all with an air _si hautaine, si hautaine_, that if you had been the Queen of France, it could not have been colder?"
"I told you once before, Monsieur Gironac," I replied, "that your Count de Chavannes does not care a straw how I treat him, or with what air. And if he did, I do not. --He is simply a civil, agreeable gentleman, who looks upon me as he would upon any other young lady, whom he is glad to talk to when she is in the humour to talk; and whom, when she is not, he leaves to herself, as all well-bred men do. But, I repeat, I do not care enough about him, to think for one moment, whether he is _hautaine_ or not. And he feels just the same about me, I am certain."
"What brings him here then, eh? --where he never came before to-night? not for the _beaux yeux_ of Madame, I believe," with a quizzical bow to his wife, "or for the _grand esprit_ of myself. I have an eye, I tell you, as well as other people, and I can see one _petit peu_."
"I have no doubt you can, Monsieur," I answered, rather pettishly; "for I suppose you asked him yourself; and, if you did so on my account, I must beg you will omit that proof of kindness in future, for I do not wish to see him."
"Oh! Monsieur Gironac, for shame, you have made her very angry with your ridiculous badinage--you have made her angry, really, and I do not wonder. Who ever heard of teasing a young lady about a gentleman she has never seen, only three times, and who has never declared any preference?"
"Madame," replied her husband, in great wrath, either real or simulated, "_vous etes une ingrate,--une,--une_--words fail me, to express what I think of your enormous and unkind ingratitude. I am _homme incompris_, and Mademoiselle here--Mademoiselle is either _une enfant_, or she does not know her own mind. Shall I give the Comte Chavannes his conge, or shall I not? I shall not,--for if she be _une enfant_, it is fit her friends look after her; if she does not know her own mind, it is good she have some one who do! --_voila tout_. Here is why I shall not go _congedier monsieur le Comte_. Why rather I shall request him to dine with me to-morrow, the next day, the day after. If he do not, I swear by my honour, _foi de Gironac_, I will dine at home again never more."
I could not help laughing at this tirade of the kind-hearted little man, on the strength of which he patted me on the head, and said I was _bonne enfant_, if I were not _si diablement entetee_, and bade me go to bed, and sleep myself into a better humour; a piece of advice which appeared to me _so_ judicious, that I proceeded at once to obey it, and bidding them both a kind good-night, betook myself to my own room to ponder rather than to sleep. And, in truth, I felt that I had need of reflection, for with the return of Auguste, a tide of feelings, which had long lain dormant rather than dead within me had almost overwhelmed me; and the hardness which had its origin in the bitterness of conscious dependence, and which had gained strength from the pride of self-acquired independence, began to thaw in my heart, and to give way to milder and gentler feelings.
The thoughts of home, the desire for my country, the love for my father who, though weak and almost imbecile, had ever been kind to me in person, the craving affection for my brothers and my sisters, nay! something approaching to pity or regret for the mother who had proved herself but a step-mother towards me, all revived in increased and re-invigorated force.
By-and-bye, too, I began to feel that I should be very wretched after the parting with my beloved brother at the end of so brief a renewal of love and intimacy; to be aware of what I had scarcely felt before in the self-confidence of the position I had won--that it is a sad and lonely thing to be a sojourner in a foreign land, with no natural friends, no kind kindred on whom to rely in case of sickness or misfortune;--and, to consider, how dark and grave a thing must be solitary old age, and perhaps a solitary death-bed, far from the home of one's youth, the friends of one's childhood.
Then there arose another thought connected with the preceding, by that extraordinary and inexplicable chain, which seems to run through the whole mind of man, linking together things apparently as far asunder as the poles, which have, however, in reality, a kindred origin. That thought was, wherefore should my life be solitary? Why should I stand apart and alone from my race, relying on myself only, and depriving myself, for the sake of a perhaps imaginary independence, of all the endearments of social life, all the sweet ties of family?
Perhaps, the very presence of my brother had opened my eyes to the truth, that there is no such thing in the world as real independence. To realise that possession, most coveted, and most unattainable, one must be a Robinson Crusoe, alone on his desert island,--a sort of independence which no one, I should think, would practically desire to enjoy.
Before sleep came, I believe that I began to muse about Monsieur de Chavannes; but it was only to think that I did not care in the least about him, nor he about me; and that, so far as he was concerned, I had seen no cause to change my _decided_ resolution that I would never marry. All this was, perhaps, in reality, the best of proofs that I did already care something about him, and was very likely before long to care something more; for some one has said, and he, by the way, no ordinary judge of human nature, that if he desired to win a woman's fancy or affection, his first step would be to make her _think_ about him--even if it were to hate him! anything before the absence of all thought, the blank void of real absolute indifference.
Indeed, I believe it is nearly true, that a woman rarely begins to think _often_ of a man, even if it be as she fancies in dislike, but when, however she may deceive herself, she is on the verge of loving him.
Was such the case with me?
At least, if it were so, I was then so far from knowing it, that I did not even ask myself the question. But I remember that when I fell asleep, I dreamed that I was standing at the altar with the Count de Chavannes, when a band of all those who had ever wronged me, my mother, Madame d'Albret, Madame Bathurst, the Stanhopes, Lady M--, rushed between us, and tore us forcibly asunder,--and I wept so loud that my sorrow awoke me, and it was some time before I was sure it was a dream.
Early the next morning, Auguste came again to see me; and as Monsieur Gironac was abroad, giving lessons on the flute and guitar, while madame either was, or pretended to be, excessively busy with her wax-flowers, we had the whole day to ourselves until luncheon time, and we profited by it so well, that before we were interrupted, we had little to learn on either side concerning the passages of our lives, and the adventures, which both we and all our families had gone through. And if I had been a little inclined to be proud of myself before, and to give their full value to my energy and decision of character, I certainly now stood in no small danger of being spoiled by Auguste's praises.
For now half crying at my trials and troubles,--now laughing at Lady R--'s absurdities,--now bursting into vehement invective against my enemies,--he insisted that I was a perfect heroine--the bravest and most accomplished of women, as well as the dearest of sisters.
But when I had finished my own story, which I did not begin until I had extracted from him every particle of information about my family-- "Well, my little Valerie," he said caressingly, as he put his arm about my waist, "you have told me everything--all your little sorrows, and trials, and troubles--all your little pleasures and successes--all your little schemings and manoeuvrings in the love-affairs of other people-- and all about the great little fortune which you have accumulated--quite a millionaire, upon my word, with your twenty-five hundred _livres de rente_--but not one word have you told me about your own little _affaires de coeur_. I am afraid, little sister mine, you are either a very great hypocrite, or very cold-hearted, which is it, dearest Valerie?"
"Very cold-hearted, I believe, brother. At least I certainly have no _affaires de coeur_ to relate. I cannot pretend to say whether it is my fault or that of other people, but certainly no one ever fell in love with me, if it were not that odious Monsieur G--; and most certainly I have never fallen in love with any one at all."
Auguste gazed earnestly in my face for a moment, as if he would have read my heart, but I met his eyes with mine quite steadily and calmly, till at length I burst into a merry laugh, which I could not restrain.
"Quite true, little sister?" he said, at last, after my manner had in some sort convinced him.
"Quite true, Auguste, upon my honour," I replied.
"Well, Valerie, I suppose I must believe that earnest face, and that honest little laugh of yours."
"You may just as well do so, indeed," I replied; "for no one was ever in love with me, I assure you. And I do not think," I added, with a touch of the old pride, "that a de Chatenoeuf is likely to give away a heart that is not desired."
"It is all very strange," he added. "And this Monsieur Lionel Dempster?"
"Is a little older than poor Pierre, whom I used to pinch when I wanted to get out of my mother's reach, and regards me very much as he would a much elder sister--almost, indeed, as a mother."
"A mother, indeed, Valerie!"
"He once told me something of the kind! He is a very fine young man, certainly, full of talent and spirit, and will make you a very good and agreeable friend--but he is no husband for me, I assure you! He would do much better for Sophie, or Elisee, if he ever should see and like either of them."
"Always busy for others, Valerie! And for yourself--when will you think for yourself?"
"I think I _have_ thought, and done, too, for myself, pretty well. You forget my twenty-five hundred _livres de rente_."
"But twenty-five hundred _livres de rente_ are not a husband, Valerie."
"I am not so sure about that. I daresay they would buy one at a pinch," I replied, laughing; "at least, in our _poor_ country, where everyone you meet in society is not a millionaire, like those cold islanders."
"I think you have grown almost as cold yourself, little sister, and as calculating."
"To be sure I have," I made answer; "and to punish me, Monsieur Gironac swears that I shall die a sour old maid."
"And what do you say?"
"An old maid very likely; but not a sour one, at all events. But, hark! there is a carriage at the door--let me see who it is."
And I jumped up, and running to the window, saw the Selwyn liveries, and Lionel, _en cavalier_, beside the carriage-window.
In a moment, the steps were let down; and Caroline speedily made her appearance, commissioned, as she said, by her mother-in-law, to take immediate possession both of myself and Auguste, and to bring us down straightway to Kew. Her husband, she said, would certainly have called on Monsieur de Chatenoeuf, and the Judge also, but that the courts being all in session, they were both so completely occupied, that, except after dinner, they had not an hour of the twenty-four disengaged.
She was commanded, moreover, she added, to invite Monsieur and Madame Gironac to dine at Kew on the following day. Me, moreover, and Auguste she was to carry down forthwith in the carriage.
"So now," she said, "get you gone, Valerie, and pack up as quickly as possible all that you require to make yourself beautiful for a week, at least."
"And what do you say to all this, messieurs?" said I, laughingly, to my brother and Lionel; "for there is much more necessity to consult you lords of the creation, as you call yourselves, who are in reality vainer by half, and care five times as much about your toilettes as we much calumniated women--what do you say about this summary packing up and taking flight--can it be accomplished?"
"It _is_ accomplished," replied Lionel; "in so far at least that I have promised on my own part, and for Monsieur Auguste de Chatenoeuf in the bargain, to overlook the preparation of his kit as well as my own, and to bring them down in a cabriolet, while you and your brother are rolling smoothly along in the Judge's venerable coach."
"All that is arranged, then," said I, "and I will not detain you above ten minutes, during which time, I will send Madame Gironac to amuse you, and you can deliver your own message to her."
And then, without waiting for any answer, I hurried upstairs to make my travelling toilette, and to put up things for a week's visit to my good friends.
In the meantime, Madame Gironac, who had always been a great favourite of Caroline's, had taken my place; and by the merriment which I could hear going on, I could not doubt that, on the whole, the party had been a gainer by the exchange.
Before I was quite ready to make my reappearance, there came a smart double knock at the door; and then, after a minute or two, I could distinguish a gentleman's footstep ascending the staircase to the dining-room.
My own room looked towards the back of the house, so that I had no means of seeing for myself who the new comer was; and I did not choose to ask any questions of the servant girl, who was bustling in and out of the door with trunks and travelling-cases innumerable.
So I finished my toilette with a heart that beat, I must confess, a little faster than usual, though I should certainly have been puzzled to explain why; put on my hat and shawl, perhaps a little coquettishly, and went down stairs, half impatient, half embarrassed, yet fully persuaded in my own mind that I had not the least expectation of seeing anybody in particular.
I found all the company assembled round the luncheon-table when I entered, and busily engaged with the _cotelettes a la Maintenon_ and green peas. Among those present was Monsieur le Comte de Chavannes, whom I certainly did not expect to see.
He rose immediately from the table as I entered, and advanced a step or two to meet me, with a graceful inclination, and a few well-chosen words, to the intent that he had called in order to invite Monsieur de Chatenoeuf to go out and take a _promenade a cheval_ with him, in order to see the parks and the beauty of London.
All this was said with the utmost frankness, and in the most unaffected manner in the world; and assuredly there was nothing either in the words, or in the manner in which they were uttered, which should have thrown me into a confusion of blushes, and rendered me for a moment almost incapable of answering him.
It must be remembered, however, that I had been rallied very much concerning him of late by Monsieur Gironac, and I could scarcely avoid perceiving that this exceeding assiduity in doing the honours to Auguste could not but be attributed to some more potent cause than mere civility to a fellow-countryman.
My confusion produced, for a second or two, a slight similar embarrassment in the Count, and the blood mounted highly to his forehead. Our eyes met, too, at the same instant; and though the encounter was but momentary, from that time a sort of secret consciousness was established between us.
This scene passed in less time than it takes to describe it; and, becoming aware that every one's eyes were upon us, I rallied instinctively, replied by a few civil words of thanks, and took a place at the table, which had been left vacant for me, between my brother and Lionel Dempster. This little interruption at an end, the conversation returned to the course it had taken before I came in, and there was a good deal of very agreeable talk; as is sure to be the case whenever four or five pleasant and clever people are thrown together under circumstances which create a sudden and unexpected familiarity, each person desirous of amusing and rendering himself pleasant to his companions of an hour; but not so anxious to make an impression, as to become stiff, stilted, or affected.
Lionel, as I have said long ago, was remarkably witty and clever by nature, and had profited greatly by his opportunities in France; so much so, that I have rarely seen a young man of his age at all comparable to him. The Count was likewise a person of superior abilities and breeding, with a touch of English seriousness and soundness engrafted on the stock of French vivacity; and my brother Auguste was a young, ardent soldier, full of gay youth, high hopes, and brilliant aspirations, all kindled up by the excitement of thus visiting a foreign country, and finding himself in the company of a long-lost and much-beloved sister.
Caroline Selwyn was quick, bright, and lively; Madame Gironac was a perfect mine of life and vivacity; and I, desirous of atoning for my folly of the past evening, did my best to be agreeable.
I suppose I was not wholly unsuccessful, and every time I raised my eyes, I was sure to find those of Monsieur de Chavannes riveted on my face with a deep, earnest gaze, which, though it was instantly averted even before our glances met, showed that he was in some sort interested either in myself, or in my words.
Before luncheon was finished, Monsieur Gironac made his _entree_, and it was finally arranged that he and Madame should join us at Kew on the following evening; and, before we set off, Caroline expressed a hope to the Count de Chavannes that he would call upon his friend, Monsieur de Chatenoeuf, while he was staying at the Judge's, explaining that it was impossible for Mr Selwyn or the Judge to wait on him for some days, until the courts had done sitting, when she assured him that they would do so without fail.
He promised immediately, without a moment's hesitation, that he would do so; and I believe a riding party was made up on the spot between himself, Lionel, and Auguste, for the second or third day.
As soon as everything was settled, Caroline hurried us away, saying that her mother-in-law would think she had run off; and a short, agreeable drive carried us down to the Judge's pleasant villa, where I was received almost as one of the family; and Auguste, rather as an old friend, than as a stranger and a foreigner.
The time passed away pleasantly, for it was the height of the loveliest spring weather; the situation of the villa on the banks of the Thames was in itself charming; and for once the English month of May was what its poets have described it--that is to say, what it is once in every hundred years.
Every one wished to please and to be pleased, and the Selwyns were of that very rare class of people, whom you like the more, the more you see of them--the very reverse of the world, in general--nothing could be more delightful than the week which we passed there.
From the Judge I had no concealments; and regarding him almost in the light of a second father, while Auguste was prepared to love him for his love to me, we had many long conversations and consultations concerning my affairs, and the propriety of disclosing my existence to my father.
This I was resolved upon, and both the Judge and Auguste approving, it was decided that it should be done.
The only question then, which remained to be disposed of, was how far my disclosures should be carried, and whether it would be practicable, and if practicable, safe, that I should return to France at present, or indeed at all, while in my present condition.
Auguste gave me his opinion, as he had done repeatedly, that my mother never had laid aside, and never would lay aside, her rancour towards me; and that she would grasp at the first opportunity of taking any vengeance upon me, which my presence should afford her.
He did not believe, he said, that my father would be able long to preserve from her the secret of my being alive, and of my having raised myself to a condition of comparative affluence; nor did he feel by any means assured that, while labouring under the revulsion of feelings which the happy tidings would work upon his mind, my mother would not recover her ascendancy over him.
Beyond this, he could say nothing; for as a young Frenchman, and more especially a young French soldier, he knew even less about the laws of France, and the rights of parents over children, than did Judge Selwyn; only, like the Judge, he was inclined to the opinion that I had better not trust myself within the limits of any jurisdiction which might be called upon to hand me over to the parental authority, until such time as I should be completely my own mistress as regarded them, which probably could only be effected by ceasing to be my own mistress as regarded some one else.
"For be assured, Valerie," he added, "that the possession of your person for the purpose of annoying you, and avenging herself on you for all the sufferings she has undergone in consequence of your supposed suicide, will become the darling object of her life, so sure as she learns that you are in the land of the living; and the fact of your having secured to yourself a little fortune will not act as a check upon her inclinations."
I sighed deeply; for, although I felt and knew the truth of all he said, and expected that he would say it, his words seemed to extinguish the last spark of hope in my heart; and it is a bitter and painful thing in any case for a daughter to feel that she shall in all probability never again be permitted to see the authors of her life, or the companions and scenes of her childhood; but it is doubly so when she feels it to be the fault of the wickedness or weakness of those whom she would fain love and esteem, but cannot.
The good Judge marked my emotion, and, laying his hand kindly on my shoulder, said, "You must not give way, my dear girl; you have done all that is right and true and honest; and the course which you have taken has been forced upon you. To yield now, and return home to be tortured and despoiled of the little all, which your own good sense and your own good conduct have procured you--for, apart from good sense and good conduct, there is no such thing in the world as good fortune--would not only be positive insanity, but positive ingratitude to the Giver of all good. My advice to you, therefore, is to remain altogether passive, to pursue the career which you have chosen, and, without yourself taking any steps to disclose your present situation, to authorise your brother fully to reveal to your father so much of it, as shall appear necessary and desirable to him when on the spot. I should not recommend that your place of residence, or exact circumstances should be communicated even to him, at least for the present; and should he desire to write to you, the letters should pass through your brother's hands, and be forwarded under cover to me, which will prevent the gaining of intelligence through the post-office. The rest we must leave to the effects of time, and of that Providence, which has been displayed so singularly in your behalf already, and which never deserts those who believe humbly, and endeavour sincerely to deserve Divine favour. So this," he added with a smile, "is the end and sum total of an old lawyer's counsel, and an old man's sermon. And now, think over what I have said between you; for I believe you will find it the best course, although it may now hardly suit your excited feelings, and, in the meantime, let us go on the lawn and join the ladies, who seem to have got some new metal of attraction."
"Indeed, Judge," I replied, "I am quite convinced of the wisdom of what you propose, and I thank you sincerely for your advice as for all your other goodness towards me. No father could be kinder to an only daughter, than you have been to me; and God will bless you for it; but, to say the truth, I do feel very sad and downcast just at this moment, and am not equal to the joining that gay party. I will go up to my own room," I added, "for a little while, and come down again so soon as I can conquer this foolish weakness."
"Do not call it foolish, Valerie," returned the old man with a benignant smile. "Nothing that is natural can be foolish--least of all, anything of natural and kindly feeling. But do not yield to it--do not yield to it. The feelings are good slaves, but wretchedly poor masters. Do as you will, my dear child, but come to us again as soon as you can. In the meantime, Monsieur de Chatenoeuf, let us go and see who are these new comers."
And with these words, he turned away, leaning familiarly upon my brother's arm, and left me to collect myself, and recover from the perturbation of my feelings as well and as soon as I could; which was not perhaps the more quickly that I had easily recognised in the new arrival, the person of the Count de Chavannes.
I have entered perhaps more fully into the detail of my sentiments at this period of my life, for two reasons--one, because of an eventful life, this was upon the whole the most eventful moment--the other, that having hitherto recorded facts and actions rather than feelings or principles, I am conscious that I have represented myself as a somewhat harder and more worldly person, than I feel myself in truth to be.
But the hardness and the worldliness were produced, if they existed at all, by the hardness of the circumstances into which I was thrown, and the worldliness of the persons with whom I was brought into contact.
Adversity had hardened my character, and perhaps in some sort my heart also. At least, it had aroused my pride to the utmost, had set me as it were upon the defensive, and led me to regard every stranger with suspicion, and to look in him for a future enemy.
Good fortune had, however, altered all this. All who had been my enemies, who had injured, or misrepresented me, were disarmed, or subdued, or repentant; I had forgiven all the world--was at peace with all the world. I had achieved what to me was a little competence; I was loved and esteemed by those whom I could in return love and esteem, and of whose regard I could be honestly proud. I had recovered my brother-- I still hoped to be reconciled to my parents--and--and--why should I conceal it--I was beginning to think it by far less improbable that I should one day marry--in a word, I was beginning to like, if not yet to love.
All these things had been by degrees effecting a change in my thoughts and feelings. I had been gradually thawing, and was now completely melted, so that I felt the necessity of being alone--of giving way--of weeping.
I went to my own chamber, threw myself on my bed, and wept long, and freely.
But these were not tears of agony such as I shed when I first learned Madame d'Albret's cruel conduct towards me--nor tears of injured pride such as Madame Bathurst had forced from me, by her effort to humiliate me in my own eyes--nor yet tears of wrathful indignation, such as burst from me when I detected Lady M--, in her base endeavour to destroy my character.
These were tears of affection, of softness, almost of joy. They flowed noiselessly and gently, and they relieved me, for my heart was very full; and, when I was relieved, I bathed my face, and arranged my hair, and descended the staircase almost merrily to join the merry company in the garden.
I found on my joining them, that the Count de Chavannes had already completely gained the good graces, not only of Caroline and her young sisters-in-law, but of Mr Selwyn and the Judge also.
He had come down to Kew with the particular purpose of engaging my brother and Lionel to accompany him, on the next day but one, to Wormwood Scrubs, where there was to be a grand review, in honour of some foreign prince or other, of two or three regiments of light cavalry, with horse-artillery and rockets. It was to conclude with a sham fight, and which he thought would interest Auguste as a military man, and especially one who had commenced his service in the hussars, though he had been subsequently transferred into the line.
This plan had been discussed and talked over, until the ladies, having expressed a laughing desire to see the _spectacle_, it was decided that Caroline, the two Miss Selwyns and myself, escorted by Lionel, in the rumble, should go down to the review in the Judge's carriage, Auguste and the Count accompanying us _en cavalier_, and that after the order of the day should be concluded, the whole party, including the Count, should return to dinner at Kew.
On the day following, as I did not think it either wise or correct to neglect my pupils, my chapel, or Mrs Bradshaw's school, although I had sent satisfactory reasons for taking one week's leave of absence, we were all to return to town; I to good Monsieur Gironac's, Auguste and Lionel to the lodgings of the latter in Suffolk Street.
Monsieur de Chavannes did not stay long after I made my appearance, not wishing either to be, or to appear, _de trop_ on a first visit; nor had he any opportunity of addressing more than a few common-place observations to me, had he desired to do so. Still I observed the same peculiarity in his manner towards me, as distinct as possible from the sort of proud humility, half badinage, half earnest, which he put on in talking with other ladies.
To me he observed a tone of serious softness, with something of earnest deference to everything that fell from my lips, however light or casual, for which he seemed to watch with the utmost eagerness.
He never joked with _me_, though he was doing so continually with the others; not that he was in the least degree grave or formal, much less stiff or affected; but rather that he seemed desirous of proving to me that he was not a mere butterfly of society, but had deeper ideas, and higher aspirations, than the every day world around us.
When he was going away, he for the first time put out his hand to me _a l'anglaise_, and as I shook hands with him, our eyes met once more, and I believe I again blushed a little; for though he dropped his gaze instantly, and bowed low, taking off his hat, he pressed my fingers very gently, ere he let them fall, and then turning to take his leave of the Judge and Mr Selwyn, who had just joined us, mounted his horse--a very fine hunter, by the way, which he sat admirably--again bowed low, and cantered off, followed by his groom, as well mounted as himself.
He was not well out of sight, before, as usual, he became the topic of general discussion.
"What a charming person," said Caroline. "So full of spirit and vivacity, and yet so evidently a man of mind and good feeling. Where did you pick him up, Valerie?"
"He is an old friend, I told you, of Monsieur Gironac's, and was calling there by accident when he met Auguste, and since that he has been exceedingly kind and civil to him. That is the whole I know about him."
"Well, he is very handsome," said Caroline; "don't you think so, Valerie?"
"Yes," I answered, quite composedly, "very handsome, a little effeminate-looking, perhaps."
"Oh! no, not in the least," said Caroline; "or if he is, so quick and clever and spirited-looking that it quite takes all that away."
"Caroline," said Selwyn, laughing, "you have no right to have eyes to see, or ears to hear, or mind to comprehend beauty, or wit, or any other good quality, in any one save me, your lord and master."
"You, you monster!" she replied, laughing gaily, "I never thought you one bit handsome, or witty, or dreamed that you had one good quality. I only married you, you know as well as I do, to get away from school, and from the atrocious tyranny of my music-mistress there. You need not look fie! at me, Valerie, for I'm too big to be put in the corner, now, and he won't let you whip me."
"I think he ought to whip you, himself, baby," replied the Judge, who had grown very fond of her; and, in truth, she was a very loveable little person in her way, and made her husband a very happy man.
"Now, Judge Selwyn," interposed I, "do you remember a conversation we once had together, in which you endeavoured to force me to believe that men in general, and you in particular, were not tyrants to your wives and families, and now do I hear you giving your son such advice as that? Alas! what can make women so insane?"
"Don't you know? Can't you guess? Mademoiselle Valerie?" asked the old Judge, smiling slily, and with the least possible wink of his eye, when some of the others were looking at us, and then he added in a lower voice, "perhaps it will be your turn soon. I think you will soon be able to go to France without much fear of your mother's persecution. Come," he continued, offering me his arm, as the others had now moved a little way apart, "come and take a turn with me in the cedar-walk till dinner's ready; I want to talk to you, for who knows when one will get another opportunity."
I took his arm without reply, though my heart beat very fast, and I felt uncomfortable, knowing as I did perfectly well beforehand what he was going to say to me.
We turned into the cedar-walk, which was a long shadowy aisle, or bower, overhung with magnificent cedars of Lebanon, running parallel with the banks of the noble river, and so still and secluded that no more proper place could be found for a private consultation.
"Well," said the old man, speaking gently, but not looking at me, perhaps for fear of embarrassing me by his eye, "you know I am in some sort, not only your legal adviser, but your self-constituted guardian, and father confessor--so now, without farther preamble, who is he, Valerie?"
"I will not affect to misunderstand you, Judge, though, upon my word, you are entirely mistaken in your conjecture."
"Upon your word! entirely mistaken! I think, not--I am sure, not."
"You are, indeed. I have not seen him above four times, nor spoken fifty words to him."
"Never mind, never mind--who is he?"
"An acquaintance of Monsieur Gironac's, Monsieur le Comte de Chavannes. His father emigrated hither during the revolution, engaged in commerce, and made a fortune of some 40,000 pounds. At the restoration, the old Count returned to France, and was made by Louis XVIII a Colonel of the Legion of Honour, and died shortly afterwards. There is an estate, I believe, in Brittany, but Monsieur de Chavannes, who was at school here, and has passed all his younger days in this country, is more an Englishman than a Frenchman, and only visits France at rare intervals. That is all I know about him, and that only by accident, Monsieur Gironac having told me, in his lively way, what I should not have dreamed of inquiring."
"Very proper, indeed--and very good so far, but one would like to know something definite about a man before taking him for one's husband."
"I should think so, indeed, Judge; but as I am not going to take him for my husband, I am quite contented with knowing what I do know of him."
"And what do you know? --of yourself,--I speak of your own knowledge? No hearsay evidence in the case."
"Nothing more than that he is lively and agreeable, that he has very good manners, and seems very good-natured--I might say, he has been very good-natured to Auguste, poor fellow."
"Poor fellow! Yes," answered the Judge. "But men are very apt to be good-natured to poor fellows, who have got nice sisters, with whom they are in love."
"I dare say, Judge. But to reply in your own phraseology--that is no case in point; for granting that Auguste's sister is _nice_, which I will not be so modest as to gainsay, Monsieur de Chavannes is not the least in love with her."
"Perhaps, not."
"Certainly, not."
"Well, be it so? What else do you know about him?"
"Nothing, Judge Selwyn."
"Nothing of his character, his principles, his morals, or his habits?"
"Really, Judge, one would think, to hear you, that I was going to hire a footman--which I am much too poor to do--and that Monsieur de Chavannes had applied for the place. What on earth have I to do with the young gentleman's character or principles? I know that he is very gentlemanlike, and is neither a coxcomb nor a pedant, which is refreshing in these days."
"And, as Caroline says, very handsome, eh?"
"Yes, I think he is handsome," I replied. "But that has nothing to do with it."
"Not much, truly," said the Judge drily. "And this is all you know?"
"Or desire to know. It seems to me quite enough to know of an acquaintance of a few days' standing."
"Well--well," he answered, shaking his head a little.
"Well. He _is_ all that you say. A very fine young man, he seems. I like him. Well, I will make inquiries."
"Not on my account, I intreat, Judge Selwyn,"--said I, interrupting him eagerly.
"Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf," he said drily, though half in jest, "my head is an old one, yours a very young one. I know young folks are apt to think old heads good for nothing."
"I do not, I am sure," interrupted I, again. "I do not, indeed."
"Nor I, Valerie,"--he answered, interrupting me in his turn, with a good-natured smile. "So you shall let me have my way in this matter. But, to relieve you, my dear, permit me to observe that I have two daughters of my own, and one young son, besides Charles, who is old enough to take care of himself; and, though I am very glad to ask a young man to dine in my house who has, as you observe, very good manners, and is neither a fool nor a coxcomb, I am not at all willing that he should become what you call an _habitue_, until I know something of his character and principles. And now, as the dressing-bell has rung these ten minutes, and it will take you at least half-an-hour to beautify your little person, I advise you to make the most of your time. And by all means, Valerie, stick to your resolution--never marry, my dear, never marry; for all men are tyrants."
One might be very sure that I profited by this dismissal, and ran across the lawn as fast as I could, glad to escape the far-sighted experience of the shrewd old lawyer.
"He has seen it, then," I thought to myself. "He has observed it even in this little space; even in this one interview, and he has read it, even as I read it. I wonder if he has read my heart, too. No, no," I continued, communing with myself, "that he cannot have done, for I know not yet myself how to interpret it."
Little thought I then, that whenever our feelings are deeply interested, or when strong passions are at work, even in embryo, we are for the most part the last persons who discover the secrets which are transparent enough, Heaven knows, to all persons but ourselves.
I do not know, nor did I inquire whether the Judge pursued his inquiries concerning the Count as he had promised to do; much less did I learn what was their result. But I do know that the following morning the young gentleman called again at the gate with a led horse for my brother; but did not ask if we were at home, merely sending his compliments to the ladies, and requesting Monsieur de Chatenoeuf to accompany him for a ride.
Lionel was absent in the city on business; so that Auguste and the Count rode out alone, and did not return until it was growing dark, when there was scarcely time to dress for dinner, the latter again sending in an apology for detaining my brother so long, and retiring without getting off his horse.
This gave me, I confess, more pleasure than it would have done to see him, though that would have given me pleasure, too; for I saw in it a proof of something more than mere tact, of mental delicacy, I mean; and an anxiety not to obtrude either upon the hospitality of the Selwyns, or upon my feelings.
Auguste, on his return, was in amazing spirits, and did nothing all dinner-time, but expatiate upon the companionable and amiable qualities of de Chavannes, whom he already liked, he said, more than any person he had ever seen for so short a time--so clever, so high-spirited, so gallant. Everything, in a word, that a man could desire for a friend, or a lady for a lover.
"Heyday!" said the Judge, laughing at this tirade. "This fine Count with his black moustaches seems to have made one conquest mighty quickly. I hope it will not run in the company, or we shall have more elopements,"--with a sly glance at Caroline. "Mademoiselle Valerie here," he continued, "is a terrible person for promoting elopements, too. But we must have none from my house."
We continued to be very gay all dinner-time. After dinner we had some music, and the Judge was just pressing me to sing, when Lionel's servant came into the room, having hurried down from London, in pursuit of his master, in consequence of the sudden arrival of a large package of letters from Paris, endorsed "immediate, and to be delivered with all speed."
This incident broke up the party for the moment; and indeed threw a chill over us all for the whole evening, when it appeared that the principal letter was one to my brother from the Commandant of Paris, of which city his regiment formed a part of the garrison, reluctantly revoking his leave of absence, in consequence of some expected _emeute_, and intimating that his presence would be expected at head-quarters on or before the third day of June; an order which it was, of course, impossible to think of neglecting or disobeying, while it would leave him at the furthest but a single week to give to us in London.
It was a bitter disappointment to be separated after so brief a communion, but we consoled ourselves by the recollection that the Straits of Dover are not the Pacific Ocean, and that Paris and London are not a thousand leagues asunder.
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{
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There never was a finer morning in the world than that appointed for the review. It was just the end of May, and all the scenery, even in the very suburbs of the great city, was brilliant with all the characteristic beauty of an English landscape.
The fine horse-chestnut trees and the thick hawthorn hedges were all in full bloom, and the air was perfectly scented with perfumes from the innumerable nursery grounds which hedge in that side of London with a belt of flowers.
The parks, and the suburban roads were crowded with neatly-dressed, modest-looking nurses and nursery-maids, leading whole troops of rosy-cheeked, brown-curled, merry boys and girls to enjoy the fresh morning air; and Auguste was never tired, as we drove along, of admiring everything that met his eyes in quick succession.
The trees, the flowery hedges, the gay parterres, the glimpses of the noble Thames white with the sails of innumerable craft, the beautiful villas with their small highly cultivated pleasure-grounds, the pretty nursery-maids, and happy English children, all came in for a share of his rapturous admiration; and so vivacious and original were his comments on all that he saw, that he in some sort communicated the infection of his merry humour to us also, and we were all as gay and joyous as the season and the scene.
When we came to the ground destined for the review, my brother was silent, and I saw his cheek turn pale for a moment; but his eye brightened and flashed as it ran over the splendid lines of the cavalry, which, at the moment we came upon the ground, were parading past the royal personage in honour of whom the review was given, and who was on horseback, by the side of a somewhat slender elderly gentleman, dressed in the uniform of a _field-marshal_, whose eagle eye and aquiline nose announced him, at a glance, the _vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre_. " _Magnifique, mais c'est vraiment magnifique_," muttered my brother to himself, as the superb life-guards swept along with their polished steel helmets and breast-plates glittering like silver in the sunshine, and their plumes and guidons flashing and twinkling in the breeze. " _Dieu de dieu! qu'ils sont geants les cavaliers, qu'ils sont colossaux les chevaux. Et les allures si lestes, si gracieuses, comme s'ils n'etaient que des juments. Mais c'est un spectacle magnifique_!"
A moment afterwards, a regiment of lancers passed at a trot, with their pennons fluttering in the breeze, and their lance-heads glimmering like stars above the clouds of dust which rose from under their horses' hoofs; and these were followed by several squadrons of hussars, with their crimson trousers and their gaily furred pelisses, and then troop after troop of horse-artillery clattering along, the high-bred horses whirling the heavy guns and caissons behind them as if they had been mere playthings.
It certainly was a beautiful and brilliant pageant, and the splendid military music of the cavalry-bands, the clash and clang of the silver cymbals, the ringing roll of the kettle-drums, and the symphonious cadences of the cornets, horns, and trumpets at the same time, delighted and excited me to the utmost.
But, I confess, that to me the calm old veteran, sitting unmoved amidst all that pomp and clangour, and evidently marking only every smallest minutiae of the men, the accoutrements, the movements, was a more interesting, a more moving sight, than all the pageantry of uniform, than all the thrill of music.
I thought how he had sat as cool and impassive under the iron hail of battle, with thousands and thousands of the best and bravest falling around him, the fate of nations hanging on a balanced scale in those fights of giants--I thought how he, alone of men, had faced undaunted and self-confident, that greater than Hannibal, or Alexander, that world-conqueror Napoleon--I thought how he had quelled the might of my own gallant land, and my blood seemed to thrill coldly in my veins, as it will at the recital of great deeds and noble daring--and I knew not altogether whether it was the shudder of dislike, or the thrill of admiration that so shook me.
Had he looked proud, or self-elate, or triumphant, I felt that I could have hated him; but so impassive, and withal now so frail and feeble, yet with an eye so calmly firm, an expression of rectitude so conscious, I could not but perceive that if an enemy of my _belle France_ was before me, it was an enemy who had been made such by duty, not by choice--an enemy who had done nought in hatred, all in honour.
I acknowledged to myself that I was in the presence of the greatest living man; and though I could neither love nor worship, I felt subdued and awed into a sort of breathless horror, as one might fancy humanity to be in the presence of some superior intelligence, some being of another world.
The girls observed my riveted and almost fascinated eye, as it dwelt on that mighty soldier, and began to whisper to one another with a sort of very natural pride at the evident interest which we took in their favourite hero.
Their tittering attracted my brother's attention, and following their eyes he was not long in discovering what it was that had excited their mirth, and he looked at me for a moment with something like a frown on his forehead. But it cleared away in a moment, and he smiled at his own vehemence, perhaps injustice.
At that moment, the different regiments began wheeling to and fro in long lines, and open columns of troops, and performing an infinity of manoeuvres, which, though I of course did not in the least degree comprehend them, were very fine and beautiful to look at, from the rapidity of the movements, the high spirit of the horses, and the gleam and glitter of the arms, half seen among the dust-clouds. My brother, however, began, as I could see, to be vehemently excited, and his constant comments and exclamations of surprise and admiration, bore testimony to the correctness with which every movement was executed.
Then came the roar of the artillery, as the guns retreated before the charging horse, and even I could comprehend and appreciate the marvellous celerity with which flash followed flash, and roar echoed roar, from the same piece, so speedily that it was scarcely possible to comprehend how the gun should have been loaded and re-loaded while the horses were at full gallop.
By this time all the gentlemen had become so much interested and excited by the scene, that, Lionel having got upon his horse which had been led down to the ground by his servant, they asked our permission to leave us for a short time, and ride nearer to the spot where the artillery were manoeuvring.
As we had several servants about us in the first place, and as in the second there is not the slightest danger of ladies being treated with incivility by an English crowd, unless through their own fault or indiscretion, of course no objection was made, and our cavaliers galloped away, promising to return within a quarter of an hour.
Scarcely were they out of sight, before I observed a tall, handsome, soldierly man, though in plain clothes, ride past the carriage on a very fine horse, followed by a groom in a plain dark frock, with a cockade in his hat.
It seemed to me on the instant that I had seen his face somewhere before, and that I ought to know him; for the features all seemed familiar, although had it been to save my life, I could not have said where I had met him.
I was torturing my memory on this head in vain--for he was evidently an Englishman, and I had no acquaintance with any English officer--when he rode past a second time, and seemed to be engaged in endeavouring to decipher the arms on our carriage, and his object appeared to be the discovery of who _I_ was; at least, I could not but observe that he looked at me from time to time with a furtive glance from under the brim of his hat, as if he, too, fancied that he knew or remembered me. The same thing happened yet a third time; and then he called his servant to his side, and I saw the man ride up a second afterwards to Judge Selwyn's footman, who was standing at a few yards' distance from the carriage, and ask him some question, which he answered by a word or two, when the groom rode away.
The gentleman, on receiving the reply, nodded his head quietly, as if he would have said, "I thought so," and then he looked at me steadily till he caught my eye, when he raised his hat, made a half military bow, and trotted slowly away.
Caroline's quick eye caught this action in an instant, and, turning to me suddenly, she cried quickly-- "Ah! Valerie, who is that? that handsome man who bowed to you? --Where have I seen him before?"
"The very question which I was asking myself, Caroline. I am quite sure that I have seen his face, and yet I cannot remember where. It is very strange."
"Very!" replied a strange, sneering voice, close to my ear, with a slightly foreign accent. "Can you say where you have seen mine, _Ingrate_?"
I turned my head as quick as lightning; for in answering Caroline, who sat on the side of the carriage next to the military spectacle, I had leaned a little inward; and there, with his effeminate features actually livid with rage, and writhing with impotent malignity, stood Monsieur G--, the infamous divorced husband of Madame d'Albret, and the first cause of almost all my misfortunes.
I looked at him steadily, and replied with bitter but calm contempt-- "Perfectly well, Monsieur G--. And very little did I suppose that I should ever see it again. I imagined, sir, that you were in your proper place,--the galleys!"
It was wrong, doubtless, in me so to answer him--unfeminine, perhaps, and too provocative of insult; but the blood of my race is hot, and vehement to repel insult; and when I thought of the sufferings I had endured, the trials I had encountered, and the contumely which I had borne on account of that man, my every vein seemed to overflow with passion.
"Ha!" he replied, grinding his teeth with rage, and becoming crimson from the rush of blood to his head, while he grasped my wrist hard with his hand, and shook it furiously. "Ha! to the galleys yourself--_Chienne! Ingrate! Perfide! Traitresse! c'est aux galeres que j'ai cru te rencontrer--ou plutot a la_--" What further atrocity the ruffian was about to utter, I know not, for while his odious voice was yet hissing in my ear these atrocious epithets, before the footman who was standing, as I have said, a few yards off at the other side of the carriage, had time to interfere, I heard the sound of a horse at full gallop, and, the next instant, he was dragged forcibly away, and I saw him quivering in the furious grasp of the Count de Chavannes, who had, it seems, been returning to join us, when the assault was committed.
To gallop to my side, to spring to the ground, to collar the ruffian, drag him from the carriage, and lash him with his whole strength with a rough jockey whip till he fairly screamed for mercy, were but the work of a moment.
And I could not but marvel afterwards to think how much power and nervous energy his indignant spirit had lent to his slight frame and slender limbs; for in size, he was by no means superior to G--, whom he nevertheless handled almost as if he had been a child of five years old.
Want of breath at last, rather than want of will, compelled him to pause in his exercise; and then turning towards us with an air as composed and smiling as if he had been merely dancing a quadrille, he took off his hat, saying:-- "I must implore your pardon, ladies, yours more especially, Mademoiselle Valerie, for enacting such a scene in your presence. _Mais c'etait plus fort que moi_!" he added, laughing. "I could not contain myself at seeing a lady so infamously insulted."
Caroline and the Misses Selwyn were so much frightened by the whole fracas, that they were really unable to answer, and I was for the moment so much taken by surprise, that I could not find words to reply. At this moment, covered with dust and blood, for the whip had cut his face in several places, without his hat, and with all his gay attire besmeared and rent, G--again came up towards the carriage.
He was very pale, nay white, even to the lips--but it was evidently not with terror but with rage, as his first words testified-- "_Monsieur le Comte de Chavannes_," he said, slowly, "_car je vous connais, et vous me connaitrez aussi, je vous le jure; vous m'avez frappe, vous me rendrez satisfaction, n'est-ce pas_?"
"Oh! no, no," I exclaimed, before he could answer, clasping my hands eagerly together, "oh, no, no! not on my account, I implore you, Monsieur le Comte--no life on my account--above all, not yours!"
He thanked me by one expressive glance, which spoke volumes to my heart, and perhaps read volumes in return, in my pale face and trembling lips, then turned with a calm smile to his late antagonist, and answered him in English. "I do not know in the least, sir, who you are, and I do not suppose that I ever shall know. I chastised you, five minutes since, for insulting this lady most grossly--" "Lady!" interrupted the ruffian, with a sneer. "Lady. Lady of plea--" But the Count went on without pausing or seeming to hear him--"which I should have done at all events, whether I had known you or not, and which I shall most assuredly do again, should you think fit to proceed further with your infamies. As for satisfaction, if I should be called upon in a proper way, I shall not refuse it to any person worthy to meet me."
"Which this person is not, sir," interposed yet a third voice; and, looking up, I recognised the officer who had bowed to me: "which this person is not, I assure you, and my word is wont to be sufficient in such cases--Lieutenant-Colonel Jervis,"--he added, with a half bow to me,--"late of His Majesty's--Light Dragoons. This person is the notorious Monsieur G--, who was detected cheating at ecarte at the `Travellers,' was a defaulter on the St Leger in the St Patrick's year, has been warned off every race-course in England, by the Jockey Club, besides being horsewhipped by half the Legs in England. He can get no gentleman to bring you a message, sir; and if he could, you must not meet him."
Gnashing his teeth with impotent rage, the detected impostor slunk away, while the Count, bowing to Colonel Jervis, replied quietly-- "I thank you very much, Colonel. I am Monsieur de Chavannes; and I have no doubt what you say is perfectly correct. No one but a low ruffian could have behaved as this fellow did. It was, I assure you, no small offence which caused me to strike a blow in the presence of ladies."
"I saw it, Monsieur le Comte," answered Jervis, "I saw it from a distance, and was coming up as fast as I could make my horse gallop, when you anticipated me. Then, seeing that I was not wanted, I stood looking on with intense satisfaction; for, upon my word! I never saw a thing better done in my life. No offence, Count, but by the way you use your hands, I think you ought to have been an Englishman rather than a Frenchman, which I suppose from your name--for you have no French accent--you are."
"I was at school in England, Colonel," answered the Count, laughing, "and so learned the use of my hands."
"That accounts for it--that accounts for it--for on my life, I never saw a fellow more handsomely horsewhipped--and I have seen a good many, too. Did you, Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf; for I believe it is you whom I have the honour of addressing?"
"I have been less fortunate than you, Colonel Jervis, for I never saw any one horsewhipped before, and sincerely hope I shall never see another."
"Don't say that, my dear lady, don't say that. I am sure it is a very pretty sight, when it is well and soundly done. Besides it seems ungrateful to the Count."
"I would not be ungrateful for the world," I replied; "and I am sure the Count needs no assurance of that fact. I am for ever obliged by his prompt defence of me--but it is nothing more than I should have expected from him."
"What, that he would fight for you, Valerie?" whispered Caroline, maliciously, in a tone which, perhaps, she did not intend to be overheard; but, if such was her meaning, she missed it, for all present heard her distinctly.
I replied, however, very coolly-- "Yes, Caroline, that he would fight for me, or you, or any lady who was aggrieved or insulted in his presence." " _Mille graces_ for your good opinions!" said de Chavannes, with a bow, and a glance that was far more eloquent than words.
"A truce to compliments, if you will not think me impertinent, Count," said the Colonel; "but I wish to ask this fair lady, if she will pardon me one question; had you ever a friend called--" "Adele Chabot!" I interrupted him; "and I shall be most enchanted to hear of her, or better still to see her, as Mrs Jervis."
"You have anticipated me; that is what I was about to say. We arrived in town last night; and she commissioned me at once to make out your whereabouts for her. The Gironacs told me that you were staying at Kew--" "Yes, at Judge Selwyn's. By the way," I added, a little mischievously, I confess, "allow me to make known to one another, Mrs Charles Selwyn, _once_ Caroline Stanhope, and Colonel Jervis."
Jervis bowed low, but his cheek and brow burned a little, and he looked sharply at me out of the corner of his eye; but I preserved such a demure face, that he did not quite know whether I was _au fait_ or not.
Caroline, to do her justice, behaved exceedingly well. Her character, indeed, which had been quite unformed before her marriage, had gained solidity, and her mind, judgment as well as tone, since her introduction to a family so superior as that of the Selwyns. And she now neither blushed nor tittered, nor, indeed, showed any signs of consciousness, although she gave me a sly pinch, while she was inquiring in her sweetest voice and serenest manner after Adele, whom she said she had always loved very much, and longed to see her sincerely in her new station, which she was so admirably qualified to fill. "I hear she was vastly admired in Paris, Colonel; and no wonder, for I really think she was the very prettiest creature I ever saw in my life. You are a fortunate man, Colonel Jervis."
"I am, indeed," said he, laughing. "Adele is a very good little creature, and the people were so good-natured as to be very civil to her in Paris, especially your friend Madame d'Albret, Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf. Nothing could exceed her attentions to us. We are very much indebted to you for her acquaintance. By the way, Adele has no end of letters, and presents of all sorts for you from her. When can you come and see Adele?"
"Where are you staying, Colonel Jervis?"
"At Thomas's Hotel, in Berkeley Square, at present, until we can find a furnished house for the season. In August we are going down to a little cottage of mine, in the Highlands. And I believe Adele has some plan for inducing you to come down and bear her company, while I am slaughtering grouse and black cock."
"Thanks, Colonel, both to you and Adele. But I do not know how that will be. August is two whole months distant yet, and one never knows what may happen in the course of two months. Do you know I was half thinking of paying a visit to France myself, when my brother who is on a visit to me now, returns to join his regiment."
"Were you, indeed?" asked de Chavannes, more earnestly than the subject seemed to warrant. "I had not heard of that scheme before. Is it likely to be carried into effect, Mademoiselle?"
"I hardly know. As yet it is little more than a distant dream."
"But you have not yet answered my question, Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf," said the Colonel. "You have not yet told me when you will come and see Adele."
"Oh! pardon me, Colonel. I return to town to-morrow, and I will not lose a moment. Suppose I say at one o'clock to-morrow, or two will be better. Caroline, the Judge was so good as to say that he would let his carriage take me home; I dare say it can drop me at Thomas's, can it not?"
"Certainly, _not_, Valerie! There, don't stare now, or look indignant or surprised. It served you perfectly right; what did you expect me to say? Or why do you ask such silly questions? Of course, it can take you wherever you please, precisely as if it were your own."
"Then at two o'clock, I will be at Thomas's to-morrow, Colonel; in the meantime, pray give Adele my best love."
"I will, indeed. And now I will intrude upon you no longer, ladies," he added, raising his hat. "In fact, I owe you many apologies for the liberty I have taken in introducing myself. I hope you will believe I would not have done so under any other circumstances."
We bowed, and, without any further remarks, he put spurs to his horse and cantered away.
"A very gentlemanly person," said Caroline, "I think Adele has done very well for herself."
"You had better not let Mr Charles Selwyn hear you say so, under all circumstances, or I think that very likely the whipping we were talking about in fun yesterday, will become real _cara mia_!"
"Nonsense! for shame, you mischievous thing!" said Caroline, blushing a little, but not painfully.
"Who is this Colonel Jervis?" asked the Count de Chavannes. "I was a little puzzled, or rather _not_ a little: for at first none of you seemed to know him; and, after a little while, you all appeared to know him quite well. Pray explain the mystery."
"He is a very gentlemanly person, Count, as Mrs Selwyn justly observes, and, as you can perceive, a very handsome man. Further than that, he was Colonel of one of his Majesty's _crack_ regiments, as they call them, and is now on half-pay. He is, moreover, a man of high fashion, and of the first standing in society. And, last of all, which is the secret of the whole, he is the husband of a very charming little Frenchwoman, a particular friend of Caroline's and mine, one of the prettiest and nicest persons on earth, with whom he ran away some six months since, fancying her to be--" "Valerie!" exclaimed Caroline, blushing fiery red.
"Caroline!" replied I, quietly.
"What _were_ you going to say?"
"Fancying her to be a very great heiress," I continued; "but finding her to be a far better thing, a delightful, beautiful, and excellent wife."
"Happy man!" said de Chavannes, with a half sigh.
"Why do you say so, Count?"
"To have married one for whom you vouch so strongly. Is that any common fortune?"
"It is rather common, Count, just of late I mean," said Caroline, laughing. "You do not know that among Valerie's other accomplishments she is the greatest little match-maker in existence. She marries off all her friends as fast--oh! you cannot think how fast."
"I _hope_, I mean to say I _think_," he corrected himself, not without some little confusion, "that she is not quite so bad as you make her out. She has not yet made any match for herself, I believe. No, no. I don't believe she is quite so bad."
"I would not be too sure, Count, were I you," she answered, desirous of paying me off a little for some of the badinage with which I had treated her. "These ladies, with so many strings to their bow--" It was now my time to exclaim "Caroline!" and I did so not without giving some little emphasis of severity to my tone, for I really thought she was going beyond the limits of propriety, if not of _persiflage_; and I will do her the justice to say that she felt it herself, for she blushed very much as I spoke, and was at once silent.
The awkwardness of this pause was fortunately broken by the return of Auguste and Lionel at a sharp canter; for the review was now entirely at an end, and they had now for the first moment remembered that, having promised to return in a quarter of an hour, they had suffered two hours or more to elapse, and that we were probably all alone.
Caroline immediately began to rally Lionel and Auguste; the former, with whom she was very intimate, pretty severely, for their want of gallantry in leaving us all alone and unprotected in such a crowd.
"Not the least danger--not the least!" replied Lionel hastily. "Had we not known that, we should have returned long ago."
"In proof of which _no_ danger, we have been all frightened nearly to death; Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf has been grievously affronted, and I am not sure but she would have been beaten by a French _Chevalier d'Industrie_, had it not been for the gallantry of the Count de Chavannes."
And thereupon out came the whole history of Monsieur G--, his horse-whipping, the opportune appearance of Colonel Jervis, and all the curious circumstances of the scene.
I never in my life saw anyone so fearfully excited as Auguste. He turned white as ashes, even to his very lips, while his eyes literally flashed fire, and his frame shivered as if he had been in an ague fit. " _Il me le paiera_!" he muttered between his hard-set teeth. " _Il me le paiera, le scelerat! Ma pauvre soeur--ma pauvre petite Valerie_!"
And then he shook the hand of Chavannes with the heartiest and warmest emotion. "I shall never forget this," he said, in a thick, low voice; "never, never! From this time forth, de Chavannes, we are friends for ever. But I shall never, never, be able to repay you."
"Nonsense, _mon cher_, nonsense," replied Chavannes. "I did nothing-- positively nothing at all. I should not have been a man, had I done otherwise."
This had, however, no effect at all in stopping Auguste's exclamations and professions of eternal gratitude; nor did he cease until Monsieur de Chavannes said quietly, "Well, well, if you will have it so, say no more about it; and one day or other I will ask a favour of you, which, if granted, will leave me your debtor." " _If_ granted! --it _is_ granted," exclaimed Auguste, impetuously. "What is it? --name it--I say it _is_ granted."
"Don't be rash, _mon cher_," replied the Count, laughing; "it is no slight boon which I shall ask."
"Do not be foolish, Auguste," I interposed; "you are letting your feelings get the better of you, strangely; and, Caroline, if you do not tell the people to drive home, you will keep the Judge waiting dinner--a proceeding to which you know he is by no means partial."
"You are right, as usual, Valerie; always thoughtful for other people. So we will go home."
But, just as we were on the point of starting, the groom with the cockade, whom we had seen following Colonel Jervis, trotted up, and, touching his hat, asked, "I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but is any one of you the Count de Chavannes?"
"I am," replied the Count; "what do you want with me, sir?"
"From Colonel Jervis, sir," replied the man, handing him a visiting card. "The Colonel's compliments, Count, and he begs you will do him the favour, in case you hear anything more from that fellow, as you horsewhipped, Count, to let him know at Thomas's at once, for you must not treat him as a gentleman, no how, the Colonel says; and if so be he gives you any trouble, the Colonel can get his flint fixed--the Colonel can!"
"Thank you, my man," replied the Count; "give my compliments to your master, and I am much obliged for his interest. I shall do myself the honour of waiting on the Colonel to-morrow. Be so good as to tell him so."
"I will, sir," said the man; and rode away without another word.
"You see, Monsieur de Chatenoeuf, you must not dream of noticing the fellow as a gentleman," said the Count.
"Impossible!" Lionel chimed in, almost in the same breath; and all the ladies followed suit with their absolute "Impossible!"
A rapid drive brought us to the Judge's house at Kew, where we found dinner nearly ready, though not waiting: and the events of the day were the topic, and the Count the hero of the evening.
The next morning, we returned to town--Auguste and myself, I mean; Monsieur de Chavannes having driven up from Kew in his own cabriolet after dinner.
I called, according to my promise, and found Adele alone, and delighted to see me, and in the highest possible spirits. She was the happiest of women, she said; and Colonel Jervis was everything that she could wish-- the kindest, most affectionate of husbands; and all that she now desired, as she declared, was to see me established suitably.
"You had better let matters take their course, Adele," I answered. "Though not much of a fatalist, I believe that when a person's time is to come, it comes. It avails nothing to hurry--nothing to endeavour to retard it. I shall fare, I doubt not, as my friends before me, dear Adele; and, if I can consult as well for myself as I seem to have done for my friends, I shall do very well. Caroline, by the way, is quite as happy as you declare yourself to be, and I doubt not are; for I like your Colonel amazingly."
"I am delighted to hear it. He also is charmed with you. But who is the Count de Chavannes, of whom he is so full just now? He says he is the only Frenchman he ever saw worthy to be an Englishman--which, though _we_ may not exactly regard it as a compliment, he considers the greatest thing he can say in any one's favour. Who is this Count de Chavannes, Valerie?"
I told her, in reply, all that I knew, and that you know, gentle reader, about the Count de Chavannes. " _Et puis? --Et puis_?" asked Adele, laughing. " _Et puis_, nothing at all," I answered.
"No secrets among friends, Valerie," said Adele, looking me earnestly in the face; "I had none with you, and you helped me with your advice. Be as frank, at least, with me, if you love me."
"I do love you dearly, Adele; and I have no secrets. There is nothing concerning which to have a secret."
"Nothing? --not this gay and gallant Count?"
"Not even he."
"And you are not about to become Madame la Comtesse?"
"I am not, indeed."
"Indeed--in very deed?"
"In very--very deed."
"Well, I do not understand it. By what Jervis told me, I presumed it was a settled thing."
"The Colonel was mistaken. There is nothing settled or unsettled."
"And do you, really, not like him?"
"I really _do_ like him, Adele, as a very pleasant companion for an hour or two, and as a very perfect gentleman."
"Yes, he told me all that. But, if you like him so well, why not like him better? Why not love him?"
"I will be plain and true with you, Adele. I do not choose to consider at all, whether I could or could _not_, love him. He has never asked me, has never spoken of love to me; and putting it out of the question that it is unmaidenly to love unasked, I am sure it is unwise."
"I understand, I understand. But he _will_ ask you, that is certain; and, when he does ask, what shall you say?"
"It will be time enough to consider when that time shall come."
"Another way of saying, `I shall say _yes_!' But come, Valerie, you must promise me that if you need my assistance, you will call upon me for it. You _know_ that anything I can do for you will be done without a thought but how I best may serve you; and Jervis will do likewise, since he, as I do, considers that under Heaven, we owe our happiness to you."
"I promise it."
"Enough; I will ask no more. Now come up to my room, and I will give you Madame d'Albret's letters, and some pretty presents she has sent you. Do you know, Valerie, nothing could exceed her kindness to us. I believe she repents bitterly her unkindness to you. I cannot repeat the terms of praise and admiration which she applied to you."
"And do you know, Adele, that it was her infamous and miserable husband, Monsieur G--, whom the Count horsewhipped this very day, for insulting me?"
"Indeed? was it indeed? That man's enmity to you will never cease, so long as he has life. No, Jervis did not tell me who it was, thinking, I fancy, that neither you nor I would have so much as known his name. But never care about the wretch. Here is Madame's letter."
It was as kind a letter as could be written, full of thanks for the favour I had shown her in introducing my friends to her, and of hopes that we should one day meet again, when all the past should be forgotten, and I should resume my own place and station in the society of my own land. She begged my acceptance of the pretty dresses she sent, which she said she had selected, not for their value, but because they were pretty; and, in her postscript, she added, what of course outweighed all the rest of her letter, both in interest and importance, that she had recently been informed through a strange channel, and, as it were, by accident, that my mother's health was failing, seriously, and that, although not attacked by any regular disorder, nor in any immediate danger, it was not thought probable that she could live much longer. "In that case, Valerie," she continued, "for, although no one could be so unnatural as to _wish_ for a mother's death, how cruel and unmotherly she might be soever, it cannot be expected that you should regard her decease with more than decent observation, and a proper seriousness, and I shall look to see you dwelling again among us, and spending the little fortune which I understand you have so bravely earned, in the midst of your friends, and in your own country."
"That I shall never do," I said, speaking aloud, though in answer partly to her letter, partly to my own words; "that I shall never do. Visit France I may, once and again; but in England I shall dwell. France banished and repudiated me like a step-mother--England received me, kinder than my own, like a mother. In England I shall dwell."
"Wait till you see the lord of your destinies; and learn where he shall dwell. You will have to say, like the rest of us, `Your country shall be my country, and your God my God,'"--observed Adele interrupting my musings.
"The first perhaps--the last never! never! Catholic I was born, Catholic I will die. I do _not_ say that I will never marry any but a Catholic, but I _do_ say that I will never marry but one who will approve my adoring my own God, according to my own conscience."
"Is the Count de Chavannes a Catholic?"
"Indeed, I know not. But he is a Breton, and the Bretons are a loyal race, both to their king and their God."
I now turned to finish my reading, which had been for the moment interrupted.
"Indeed, my dear Valerie," she concluded her letter, "I have long felt that although we were certainly justified by the circumstances of your situation, in taking the steps we did at that time, we have been hardly pardonable in persisting so long in the maintenance of a falsehood, which has certainly been the cause of great pain and suffering to both your parents, the innocent no less than the guilty. I know that your mother can never forgive me for aiding you in your escape from her authority; but for my part, I am willing to bear her enmity, rather than persist in further concealment, so that you need not in any degree consider me in any steps which you may think it wise or right to take towards revelation and reconciliation. Indeed I think, Valerie, that if it can be done with due regard to your own safety and happiness, you ought to discover yourself to both your parents, and, if possible, even to visit the most unhappy, because the guiltier of the two, before her dissolution, which I really believe to be now very near at hand. Everyone knows so well what you have undergone, that no blame will attach to you in the least degree. Allow me to add, that should you return to France, as I hope you will do, I shall never forgive you if you do not make my house your home."
This postscript, as will readily be believed, gave me more cause for thought than all the letter beside, and rendered me exceedingly uneasy. If I had felt ill-satisfied before with my condition and my concealment, much more was I now discontented with myself, and unhappy. I was almost resolved to return at all hazards with Auguste; and, indeed, when I consulted with Adele, she leaned very much towards the same opinion. I would not, however, do anything rashly, but determined to consult not only with my brother, but with the Judge, in whose wisdom I had no less confidence than I had in his friendship and integrity.
Things, however, were destined to occur, which in some degree altered and hastened all my proceedings, for that very evening when the Gironacs had retired, on my beginning to consult Auguste, "Listen to me a moment, before you tell me about your letters from France, or anything about returning, and I entreat you answer me truly, and let no false modesty, or little missish delicacy, prevent your doing so. Many a life has been rendered miserable by such foolishness, I have heard say; and being, as it were, almost alone in the world, as if an only brother with an only sister, to whom, if not to one another, should we speak freely?"
"You need not have made so long a preamble, dear Auguste," I replied with a smile; "of course, I will answer you; and, when I say that, of course I will answer truly."
"Well, then, Valerie, do you like this Count de Chavannes?"
"It is an odd question, but--Yes. I do like him."
"Do you love him, Valerie?"
"Oh! Auguste--that is not fair. Besides, he has never spoken to me of love. He has never--I do not know whether he loves me--I have no reason to believe that he does."
"No reason!" --he exclaimed, half surprised, half indignant--"no reason! I should think--but never mind--answer me this; if he did love you, do you love him or like him enough to take him for your husband?"
"He has spoken to you, Auguste--he has spoken to you!" I exclaimed, blushing very deeply, but unable to conceal my gratification.
"I am answered, Valerie, by the sparkle of those bright eyes. Yes, he has spoken to me, dearest sister; and asked my influence with you, and my permission to address you."
"And you replied--?"
"And I replied, that my permission was a matter of no consequence, for that you were entirely your own mistress, and that my influence would be exerted only to induce you to follow your own judgment and inclinations, and to consult for your own happiness."
"Answered like a good and wise brother. And then he--?"
"Asked, whether I could form any opinion of the state of your feelings. To which I replied, that I could only say that I had reason to suppose that your hand and heart were neither of them engaged, and that the field was open to him if he chose to make a trial. But that I had no opportunity of judging how you felt toward him. I also said, that I thought you knew very little of each other, and that his attachment must have grown up too rapidly to have taken a very strong root. But there I found I was mistaken. For he assured me that it was from esteem of your character, and admiration of your energy, courage, and constancy under adversity, not from the mere prettiness of your face, or niceness of your manners, that he first began to love you. And I since ascertained that there is scarce an incident of your life with which he has not made himself acquainted, and that in the most delicate and guarded manner. I confess, Valerie, that it has raised him greatly in my estimation to find that he looks upon marriage as a thing so serious and solemn, and does not rush into it from mere fancy for a pretty face and lady-like accomplishments."
"I think so too, Auguste," I replied. "But I wish we knew a little more about him. His character and principles, I mean."
Auguste looked at me for a moment, in great surprise. "What an exceedingly matter-of-fact girl you are, Valerie; I never knew any one in the least like you. Do you know I am afraid you are a little--" and he paused a moment, as if he hardly knew how to proceed.
"A little hard and cold, is it not, dear Auguste?" said I, throwing my arms about him. "No, no, indeed I am not; but I have been cast so long on my own sole resources, and obliged to rely only on my own energy and clear-sightedness, that I always try to look at both sides of the question, and not to let my feelings overpower me, until I have proved that it is good and wise to do so. Consider, too, Auguste, that on this step depends the whole happiness or misery of a girl's existence."
"You are right, Valerie, and I am wrong. But tell me, do you love him?"
"I do, Auguste. I like him better than any man I have ever seen. He is the only man of whom I could think as a husband--and I have for some time past been fearful of liking him--loving him, too much, not knowing, though I did believe and hope, that he reciprocated my feelings. And now, if I knew but a little more of his principles and character, I would not hesitate."
"Then you need not hesitate, dearest Valerie; for, as if to obviate this objection, he showed me, in the most delicate manner, private letters from his oldest and most intimate friends, and especially from Mr --, a most respectable clergyman, who lives at Hendon, by whom he was educated, and with whom he has maintained constant intercourse and correspondence ever since. This alone speaks very highly in his favour, and the terms in which he writes to his pupil, are such as prove them both to be men of the highest character for worth, integrity, and virtue. He has proposed, moreover, that I should ride down with him to-morrow to Hendon, to visit Mr --, and to hear from his own lips yet more of his character and conduct, that is to say, if I can give him any hopes of ultimate success."
"Well, Auguste," I replied, "I think with you, that all this speaks very highly in favour of your friend; and I think that the best thing you can do, is to take this ride which he proposes, and see his tutor. In the meantime, I will drive down to Kew, and speak with our good friend, Judge Selwyn, on the subject. To-morrow evening I will see the Count, and hear whatever he desires to say to me."
This was a very matter-of-fact way of dealing with the affair, certainly; but what Auguste had said, was in some sort true. I was in truth rather a matter-of-fact girl, and I never found that I suffered by it in the least; for I certainly was not either worldly or selfish, and the feelings do, as certainly, require to be guided and controlled by sober reason.
After coming to this conclusion, I showed Madame d'Albret's letter to Auguste, and we came to the decision, also, that, under the circumstances, Auguste should immediately, on his return, communicate the fact of my being alive and in good circumstances, to my father; leaving it at his discretion to inform my mother of the facts or not, as he might judge expedient.
At a very early hour next morning, I took a glass-coach and drove down to Kew, where I arrived, greatly to the astonishment of the whole family, just as they were sitting down to breakfast; and, when I stated that I had come to speak on very urgent business with the Judge, he desired my carriage to return to town, and proposed to carry me back himself, so that we might kill two birds, as he expressed it, with one stone, holding a consultation in his carriage, while on his way to court.
As soon as we got into the coach, while I was hesitating how to open the subject, which was certainly a little awkward for a young girl, the Judge took up the discourse-- "Well, Valerie," he said, "I suppose you want to know the result of the inquiries which you were so unwilling that I should make about the Count de Chavannes. Is not that true?"
"It is perfectly true, Judge--though I do not know how you ever have divined it."
"It is lucky, at least, that I consulted my own judgment, rather than your fancy; for otherwise I should have had no information to give you."
"But as it is, Judge?"
"Why as it is, Mademoiselle Valerie, you may marry him as soon as ever he asks you, and think yourself a very lucky young lady into the bargain. He has a character such as not one man in fifty can produce. He is rich, liberal without being extravagant, never plays, is by no means dissipated, and in all respects is a man of honour, ability, and character; such is what I have learned from a quarter where there can be no mistake."
I was a good deal affected for a moment or two, and was very near bursting into tears. The good Judge took my hand in his, and spoke soothingly and almost caressingly, bidding me confide in him altogether, and he would advise me, as if he were my own father.
I did so accordingly; and, while he approved highly of all that I had done, and of the delicate and gentlemanly manner in which the Count had acted, he fully advised me to deal frankly and directly with him. "You like him, I am sure, Valerie; indeed, I believe I knew that before you did yourself, and I have no doubt he will make you an admirable husband. Tell him all, show him this letter of your friend Madame d'Albret's, about your mother, and if he desires it, as I dare say he will, marry him at once, and set out together with Auguste, for France, when his leave of absence is expired, and go directly to Paris with your husband. As a married woman, your parents will have no authority of any kind over you, and I think it is your duty to do so."
I agreed with him at once; and, when in the evening Auguste returned with the Count from a visit to his former tutor, which had been in all respects satisfactory, and left me alone with Monsieur de Chavannes, everything was determined without difficulty.
Love-scenes and courtships, though vastly interesting to the actors, are always the dullest things in the world to bystanders; I shall therefore proceed at once to the end, merely stating that the Count _was_ all, and _did_ all, that the most _exigeante_ of women could have required--that from the first to the last he was full of delicacy, of tenderness, and honour, and that after twelve years of a happy life with him, I have never had cause to repent for a moment that I consented to give him the hand, which he so ardently desired.
The joy of Madame Gironac can be imagined better than described, as well as the manner in which she bustled about my _trousseau_ and my outfit for France, as it was determined that the Judge's plan should be adopted to the letter, and that we should start directly from St George's to Dover and Calais.
Never, perhaps, was a marriage more rapidly organised and completed. The law-business was expedited with all speed by Charles Selwyn; Madame Bathurst, the Jervises, the Gironacs, and the Selwyns were alone present at the wedding, and, though we were all dear friends, there was no affectation of tears or lamentable partings; for we knew that in heaven's pleasure, we should all meet again within a few months, as, after our wedding tour was ended, Monsieur de Chavannes proposed to take up his abode in England, the land of his choice, as of his education.
There was no bishop to perform the ceremony, nor any _duke_ to give away the bride. No long array of liveried servants with favours in their buttons and in their hats--no pompous paragraph in the morning papers to describe the beauties of the high-bred bride and the dresses of her aristocratic bridesmaids--but two hearts were united as well as two hands, and Heaven smiled upon the union.
A quick and pleasant passage carried us to Paris, where I was received with raptures by my good old friend, Madame Paon, and with sincere satisfaction by Madame d'Albret, who was proud to recognise her old protegee in the new character of the Comtesse de Chavannes, a character which she imagined reflected no small credit on her tuition and patronage.
The threatened _emeute_ having passed over, Auguste easily obtained a renewal of his leave of absence in order to visit his family at Pau, and, as he preceded us by three days, and travelled with the utmost diligence, he outstripped us by nearly a week, and we found both my parents prepared to receive us, and both _really_ happy at the prosperous tidings.
My poor mother was indeed dying; had we come two days later we should have been too late, for she died in my arms on the day following our arrival, enraptured to find herself relieved from the heinous crime of which she had so long believed herself guilty, and blessing me with her dying lips.
My father who had always loved me, and who had erred through weakness of head only, seemed never to weary of sitting beside me, of holding my hand in his, and of gazing in my face. With Monsieur de Chavannes' consent, the whole of my little earnings, amounting now to nearly 3500 pounds, was settled on him for his life, and then on my sisters, and the income arising from it, though a mere trifle in England, in that cheap region sufficed with what he possessed of his own, to render his old age affluent and happy.
Thus all my trials ended; and, if the beginning of my career was painful and disastrous, the cares and sorrows of Valerie de Chatenoeuf had been more than compensated by the happiness of Valerie de Chavannes.
I may as well mention here that a few years afterwards, Lionel Dempster married my second sister, Elisee, a very nice and very handsome girl, and has settled very close to the villa which the Count purchased on his return from France, near Windsor, on the lovely Thames, ministering not a little by their company to the bliss of our happy, peaceful life.
My eldest brother, Auguste, is now a Lieutenant-Colonel of the Line, having greatly distinguished himself in Algeria; Nicholas, who never returned to France, has acquired both renown and riches by his musical abilities, and all the younger branches of the family are happily provided for.
I have three sweet children, one boy, and two little girls, and the difficulties and sorrows I experienced, owing to an evil and injudicious course of education, have been so far of use, that they have taught me how to bring up my own children, even more to love and honour than to obey.
Perfect happiness is not allotted to any here below; but few and short have been the latter sorrows, and infinite the blessings vouchsafed by a kind Providence, to the once poor and houseless, but now rich, and honoured, and, better than all, _loved_ Valerie.
THE END.
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{
"id": "23952"
}
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1
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GLAD TIDINGS.
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"For when the heart of man shuts out, Straightway the heart of God takes in."
_James Russell Lowell_.
"Good lack, Agnes! Why, Agnes Stone! Thou art right well be-called Stone; for there is no more wit nor no more quickness in thee than in a pebble. Lack-a-daisy! but this were never good land sithence preaching came therein,--idle foolery that it is! --good for nought but to set folk by the ears, and learn young maids for to gad about a-showing of their fine raiment, and a-gossiping one with another, whilst all the work to be wrought in the house falleth on their betters. Bodykins o' me! canst not hear mass once i' th' week, and tell thy beads of the morrow with one hand whilst thou feedest the chicks wi' th' other? and that shall be religion enough for any unlettered baggage like to thee. Here have I been this hour past a-toiling and a-moiling like a Barbary slave, while thou, my goodly young damosel, wert a-junketing it out o' door; and for why, forsooth? Marry, saith she, to hear a shaven crown preach at the Cross! Good sooth, but when I tell lies, I tell liker ones than so! And but now come home, by my troth; and all the pans o' th' fire might ha' boiled o'er, whilst thou, for aught I know, wert a-dancing in Finsbury Fields with a parcel of idle jades like thyself. Beshrew thee for a lazy hilding [young person; a term applied to either sex] that ne'er earneth her bread by the half! Now then, hold thy tongue, Mistress, and get thee a-work, as a decent woman should. When I lack a lick o' th' rough side thereof, I'll give thee due note!"
Thus far Mistress Martha Winter poured out the vials of her wrath, standing with arms akimbo in the doorway, and addressing a slight, pale-faced, trembling girl of twenty years, who stood before her with bowed head, and made no attempt at self-defence. Indeed, she would have been clever who could have slipped in a sentence, or even have edged in a word, when Mistress Winter had pulled out of her wrath-bottle that cork which was so seldom in it, as Agnes Stone knew to her cost. Nor was it the girl's habit to excuse or defend herself. Mistress Winter's deprecation of that proceeding was merely a flourish of rhetoric. So Agnes, as usual, let the tempest blow over her, offering no attempt to struggle, but only to stand and endure.
Mistress Winter had made an excellent investment when, six years before, she adopted Agnes Stone, then an orphan, homeless and friendless; not by any means to be "treated as one of the family," but to be tyrannised over as drudge and victim in general. The transaction furnished her with two endless topics for gossip, on which she dilated with great enjoyment--her own surpassing generosity, and the orphan's intense unworthiness. The generosity was not costly; for the portion of food bestowed on Agnes consisted of the scraps usually given to a dog, while she was clothed with such articles as were voted too shabby for the family wear. All work which was dirty or disagreeable, fell to Agnes as a matter of course. The widow's two daughters, Joan and Dorothy, respectively made her the vent for ill-temper, and the butt for sarcasm; and if, in some rare moment of munificence, either of them bestowed on her a specked apple, or a faded ribbon, the most abject gratitude was expected in return. She was practically a bond slave; for except by running away, there was no chance of freedom; and running away, in her case, meant starvation.
It had not always been thus. For ten years, more or less, before her term of bondage to Martha Winter, Agnes had lived with an aunt, her only surviving relative. During this stage of her life, she had taken her fair share in the household work, had been fed and clothed--coarsely indeed, for her aunt was comparatively poor, but sufficiently--and she had been allowed a reasonable number of holidays, and had not been scolded, except when she deserved it. Though her aunt was an undemonstrative woman, who never gave her an endearing word or a caress, yet life with her was Elysium compared with present circumstances. But beyond even this, far back in early childhood, Agnes could dimly recollect another life again--a life which was love and sunshine--when a mother's hand came between her and hardship, a mother's heart brooded warmly over her, and a mother's lips called her by tender pet names, "as one whom his mother comforteth." That was long ago; so long, that to look back upon it was almost like recalling some previous state of existence; but the very memory of it, dim though it was, made the present bondage all the harder.
The offence which Agnes had committed on this occasion lay in having exceeded the time allowed her by six minutes. Out of respect to the day, which was the festival of Corpus Christi, she had been graciously granted the rare treat of a whole hour to spend as she pleased. She had chosen to spend it in hearing the latter half of a sermon preached at Paul's Cross. For, despite Mistress Winter's disdainful incredulity, the assertion was the simple truth; though that lady, being one of the numerous persons who cannot imagine the possibility of anything unpleasant to themselves being delightful to others, had been unable to give credence to the statement. As to the charge of dancing in Finsbury Fields, poor Agnes had never in her life been guilty of such a piece of dissipation. But she knew what to expect when she came in sight of the clock of Saint Paul's Cathedral, and became mournfully conscious that she would have to confess where she had been: for Mistress Winter had peculiar ideas about religion, and a particular horror of being righteous overmuch, which usually besets people who have no tendency in that direction. Anything in the shape of a sermon was her special abhorrence. Every Sunday morning Agnes was required to wait upon her liege lady to matins--that piece of piety lasting for the week: and three times in the year, without the faintest consideration of her feelings--always terribly outraged thereby--poor Agnes was dragged before the tribunal of the family confessor, and required to give a list of her sins since the last occasion. But anything beyond this, and sermons in particular, found no favour in the eyes of Mistress Winter.
Generally speaking, Agnes shrank from the mere _thought_ of a lecture from this terrible dame. But this time, beyond the unpleasant sensation of the moment, it produced no effect upon her. Her whole mind was full of something else; something which she had never heard before, and could never forget again; something which made this hard, dreary, practical world seem entirely changed to her, as though suddenly bathed in a flood of golden light.
God loved her. This was what Agnes had heard. God, who could do everything, who had all the universe at His command, loved her, the poor orphan, the unlettered drudge; penniless, despised, unattractive--God loved her, just as she was. She drank in the glad tidings, as a parched soil drinks the rain.
But this was not all. God wanted her to love Him. He sought for her love, He cared for it. Amid all the hearts laid at His feet, He would miss hers if she did not give it. The thought came upon her like a new revelation from Heaven, direct to herself.
The preacher at the Cross that day was a Black Friar--a tall spare man, whom some might call gaunt and ungainly; a man of quick intelligence and radiant eyes, of earnest gesture and burning words. No idle monastic reveller this, but a man of one object, of one idea, full of zeal and determination. His years were a little over forty, and his name was John Laurence. But of himself Agnes thought very little; her whole soul was concentrated upon the message which he had brought her from God. God loved her! Since her mother died, she had been unloved. God loved her! And she had never asked Him for His love--she had never loved Him.
It was just the blessed fact itself which filled the heart, and mind, and soul of Agnes Stone. As to how it had come about, she had very little idea. She had not heard enough of the Friar's sermon to win any clear notion on that point; it was enough for her that it was so.
It never occurred to her to doubt the fact, and demand vouchers. It never occurred to her to suppose that her own hard lot was any contradiction to the theory. And it never occurred to her to imagine, as some do, that God's love led to no result; that He could love, and not care; that He could love, and not be ready to save. Human love was better than that. The mother who, alone of all creatures, so far as she knew, had ever loved Agnes Stone, had shown her love by always caring, by always shielding from danger where it lay in her power. And surely the Fountain could be no weaker than the stream; the love of a weak, fallen, fallible human creature must be less, not more, than the love of Him who is, and who was, and who is to come; who is the same yesterday, and to-day, and for ever.
"Hie thee down this minute, thou good-for-nothing hussy!" thundered the voice of Mistress Winter up the garret stairs, as Agnes was hastily resuming her working garb. "I'll warrant thou didst ne'er set the foul clothes a-soaking as I bade thee ere thou wentest forth to take thy pleasure, and left me a-slaving hither! Get thee to thy work, baggage! Thou art worth but one half as many pence as there be shillings in a groat! [A fourpenny-piece.] I'll learn thee to gad hearing of sermons!"
"I set the clothes a-soaking ere I went forth, Mistress," said Agnes, coming quickly down stairs, and setting to work on the first thing she saw to need doing.
"Marry come up!" ejaculated Mistress Winter, looking at her. "Good lack! hast met with a fortune dropped from the clouds, that thou art all of a grin o' mirth?"
"I met with nought save that I went for," replied the girl quietly. But it struck her that the comparison of "a fortune dropped from the clouds" was a singularly happy one.
"Lack-a-daisy!" cried Dorothy. "The Friar must have told some merry tale belike. Prithee, give us the same, Agnes."
"Methinks it were scantly so merry for you, Mistress Doll," answered Agnes rather keenly. The stranger must not intermeddle with her joy. She held her new treasure with a tight, jealous grasp. Not yet had she learned that the living water flows the fuller for every streamlet that it fills; that the true riches are heaped the higher, the more lavish is the hand that transmits them.
"Hold thy silly tongue!" cried Mistress Winter, turning sharply round upon her daughter. "It were jolly work to fall of idle tale-telling, when all the work in the house gapeth for to be done! --Thou weary, dreary jade! what art thou after now? (Agnes was hastily mending a rent in the curtain.) To fall to dainty stitchery, like a gentlewoman born, when every one of the trenchers lacketh scraping, and not the touch of a mop have the walls felt this morrow! Who dost look to, to slave for thee, prithee, my delicate-fingered damsel? Thou shouldst like well, I reckon, to have a serving-maid o' thy heels, for to 'tend to all matter that was not sweet enough for thy high degree! _I_ go not about to sweep up the dirt off thy shoes, and so I tell thee plainly!"
Certainly there was not often any want of perspicuity in Mistress Winter's admonitions, though there might occasionally be a little lack of elegance and gentleness. But plainly told or not, Agnes remained silent, scraped the wooden trenchers, a process which answered to the washing of earthenware, and duly mopped the walls, and to the best of her power fulfilled the hard pleasure of her superior.
And here let us leave her for a moment, while we take a glance at the outer world, to discover where we are in the stream of time, and what sort of an England it is into which we have entered.
The day, the festival of Corpus Christi, is the first of June, 1553. King Edward the Sixth is on the throne--a white-faced, grave, reserved boy of fifteen years, whose life is to close about five weeks thereafter. But beside the throne, and on it in all but name--his hand firmly grasping the reins of power, his voice the living law of the State--stands John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland; a man whose steel-blue eyes are as cold as his heart, and whose one aim in every action of his life is the welfare and aggrandisement of John Dudley. He professes himself a Lutheran: at heart, if he care at all for religion of any kind, he is a Papist. But it will not be of service to John Dudley at the present moment to confess that little fact to the world. Grouped around these two are men of all types--Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, true Nature's gentleman, leal-hearted Gospeller, delicate in mind, clear in intellect, only not able, having done all, to stand; Ridley, Bishop of London, whose firm, intelligent, clear-cut features are an index to his character--perhaps a shade too severe, yet as severe to himself as any other; Hugh Latimer, blunt, warm-hearted old man, who calls a spade a spade in the most uncompromising manner, and spares not vice, though it flaunt its satin robes in royal halls; William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, the mean-spirited time-server who would cry long life to a dozen rival monarchs in as many minutes, so long as he thought it would advance his own interests; Henry Grey, Duke of Suffolk, who spends his life in a fog of uncertainty, wherein the most misty object is his own mind; William Paulet, Marquis of Winchester, who always remembers his motto, "I bend, but break not;" Richard Lord Rich, the sensual-faced, comfortable-looking, stony-hearted man who pulled off his gown the better to rack Anne Askew, of old time; and, behind them all, one of whom they all think but little--a young man of short stature, with good forehead, and small, wizened features--Mr Secretary Cecil, some day to be known as the great Earl of Burleigh, who holds in his clever hands, as he sits in the background with his silent face, the strings that move most of these puppets, and pulls them without the puppets knowing it, until, on the accession of Mary, the Tower gates will be opened, and Stephen Gardiner will walk forth, to take the reins into his hands, and to steep England in blood.
Of public events, there have been few since the general confiscation of church plate in the preceding month.
The Londoners, of whom our friends at Mistress Winter's form a part, are divided in opinion concerning this step; but neither party has been too much distressed to observe the usual dance round the Strand maypole, on the site of which Saint Mary-le-Strand will presently be built. At present, and for those five weeks yet to come, the march of events is dull and sleepy. It will be sufficiently lively and startling to please the most sensational, before many days of July have run out.
The Bible is now open in every parish church, chained to a desk, so that any one who pleases may read. The entire service is conducted in English. The roods and images have been pulled down; candles, ashes, and palms are laid aside; "the wolves are kept close" in Tower and Fleet and Marshalsea; masses, public and private, are contraband articles; the marriage of priests is freely allowed; the altar has been replaced by the table. It is still illegal to eat flesh in Lent; but this is rather with a view to encourage the fish trade than with any religious object.
To turn to minor matters, such as costume and customs, we find Government does not disdain to occupy itself in the regulation of the former, by making stringent sumptuary laws, and effectually securing their observance by heavy fines. The gentlemen dress in the Blue-Coat style, occasionally varying it by a short tunic-like coat instead of the long gown, and surmounting it by a low flat cap, which the nobles ornament by an ostrich feather. The ladies array themselves in long dresses, full of plaits, and often stiff as crinoline--plain for the commonalty, but heavily laden with embroidery, and deeply edged with fur, in the case of the aristocracy. Both sexes, if aspiring to fashion, puff and slash their attire in all directions. The ruff, shortly to become so fashionable, is only just creeping into notice, and as yet contents itself with very modest dimensions.
Needles are precious articles, of which she is a rich woman who possesses more than two or three. Glass bottles are unknown, and their place is supplied by those of leather, wood, or stone. Wooden bowls and trenchers for the poor, gold and silver plate for the rich, make up for the want of china. The fuel is chiefly wood, coal being considered unhealthy. Every now and then Government takes alarm at the prodigious size to which the metropolis is growing, and an Act is passed to restrain further building within a given distance from the City walls. Country gentlemen receive peremptory orders to reside on their estates, and not to visit London except by licence; for the authorities are afraid lest the influx of visitors should cause famine and pestilence. There is no drainage; for every householder pours his slops into the street, with a warning shout, that the passengers below may run out of the way. There are few watches, and fewer carriages; no cabs, no police, no post-office; no potatoes, tea, coffee, newspapers, brown paper, copper coinage, streetlamps, shawls, muslin or cotton goods. But there is at times the dreaded plague, which decimates wherever it comes; the terrible frequency of capital punishment for comparatively trivial offences; the pleasant probability of meeting with a few highwaymen in every country journey; the paucity of roads, and the extreme roughness of such as do exist; a lamentable lack of education, even in the higher classes, hardly atoned for by the exceptional learning of one here and there; and (though the list might be greatly enlarged) last, not least, the constant presence of vermin of the most objectionable sort, from which neither palace nor cottage is exempt. This, then, was the England of 1553.
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{
"id": "24105"
}
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2
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FATHER DAN.
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"Fasting is all very well for those Who have to contend with invisible foes: But I am quite sure that it does not agree With a quiet, peaceable man like me."
_Longfellow_.
Fortunately for Agnes Stone, she was too low down in the world for many things to affect her which sorely troubled the occupants of the upper strata. Sumptuary laws were of no consequence to a woman whose best gown was patched with pieces of different colours, and who had not a hood in her possession; taxes and subsidies, though they might press heavily on the rich, were no concern of hers, for she did not own a penny; while no want, however complete, of letters, books, and newspapers, distressed the mind of one who had never learned the alphabet.
Mistress Winter dwelt in Cowbridge Street, otherwise Cow Lane; now the site of crowded City thoroughfares, but then a quiet, pleasant, suburban lane, the calm of which was chiefly broken by the presence, on market-days, of numbers of the animal whence the street took its name, caused by the close proximity of Smithfield. Green fields lay at the back of the houses, through which, on its way to the Thames, ran the little Fleet River, anciently known as the River of the Wells; beyond it towered the Bishop of Ely's Palace, with its extensive walled garden, famous for strawberries; to the left was the pleasant and healthy village of Clerkenwell, whither the Londoners were wont to stroll on summer evenings, to drink milk at the country inn, and gossip with each other round the holy well. On the right hand, between Cow Lane and the Thames, lay the open, airy suburbs of Fleet and Temple, and the royal Palace of Bridewell, with its grounds. In front, Hosier Lane and Cock Lane gave access to Smithfield, beyond which was the sumptuous but now dissolved Priory of Saint Bartholomew, the once royal domain of Little Britain, and the walls and gates of the great city, with the grand tower of Saint Paul's Cathedral visible in the distance, over the low roofs of the surrounding houses.
The locality of Cow Lane was far from being a low neighbourhood, though its name was not particularly aristocratic in sound. In the old days before the dissolution, which Agnes could just remember, the Prior of Sempringham had his town house in Cow Lane; and the Earl of Bath lived on the further side of the Fleet River, with Furnival's Inn beyond, the residence of the Barons Furnival, now merged in the Earldom of Shrewsbury. Mistress Winter lived in the last house at the north end of the lane, next to Cow Cross, and almost in the country. There is no need to name her neighbours, with two exceptions, since these only are concerned in the story. But in Cow Lane every body knew every body else's business; and the mistress at the Fetterlock could not put on a new ribbon without the chambermaid at the Black Lion being aware of it. Do not rush to the conclusion, gentle modern reader, that Cow Lane was full of inns or public-houses. Streets were not numbered in those days; and in order to effect the necessary distinction between one house and another, every man hung out his sign, selecting a silent woman [Note 1], a blue cow, a griffin, or a rose, according as his fancy led him. Sign-painting must have been a profitable trade at that time, and a very necessary one, when scarcely one man in twenty knew his alphabet; and the cardinal figures were cabalistic signs to common eyes.
The two families previously alluded to lived at the southern end of Cow Lane, and their respective names were Flint and Marvell. Mistress Flint was a cheerful, good-tempered woman, with whom life went easily, and who had a large family of sons and daughters, the youngest but one, little Will, being a special favourite with Agnes. The Marvells were very quiet people, who kept their opinions and feelings to themselves; though their son Christie, a mischievous lad of some twelve years, was renowned in Cow Lane for the exact opposite.
The day was drawing towards evening, when Agnes, as she turned round from emptying a pail of dirty water into the common sewer of Cow Lane, detected the burly figure of Father Dan, the Cordelier Friar, who was Mistress Winter's family confessor, coming up from Seacoal Lane. Not without some fears of his errand, she waited till he came near, and then humbly louted--the ancient English reverence, now conventionally supposed to be restricted to charity children.
"Christ save all here!" said the priest, holding up three fingers in the style of benediction peculiar to his Order.
Taking no further notice of Agnes, he marched within, to be cordially welcomed, and his blessing begged, by Mistress Winter and Dorothy; for Joan was gone to see the bear-baiting in Southwark.
Father Dan was a priest of the popular type--florid, fat, and jovial. His penances were light and easy to those who had it in their power to ask him to dinner, or to make gifts to his Order. It might be that they were all the harder to those from whom such favours were not expected.
The Cordelier took his seat at the supper-table just laid by Dorothy, this being an easy and dainty style of work in which that young lady condescended to employ her delicate hands. Mistress Winter was busily occupied with a skillet containing some savoury compound, and the Friar's eyes twinkled with expectant gastronomic delight as he watched the proceedings of his hostess. Supper being at last ready, the three prepared to do justice to it, while Agnes waited upon them. A golden flood of buttered eggs was poured upon the dish in front of the Friar, a cherry pie stood before Dorothy, while Mistress Winter, her sleeves rolled up, and her widow's barb [Note 2] laid aside because of the heat, was energetically attacking some ribs of beef.
"Had Joan no purpose to be back for supper, Doll?" demanded her mother.
"Nay," said Dorothy; "Mall Whitelock bade her to supper in Long Lane. I heard them discoursing of the same."
"And what news abroad, Father?" asked Mistress Winter. "Pray you, give me leave to help you to another shive of the beef. Agnes, thou lither [wicked] jade, whither hast set the mustard?"
Father Dan's news was of a minute type. He was no intellectual philosopher, no profound conspirator; he was indeed slightly interested in the advancement of the Church, and much more deeply so in that of his own particular Order; but beyond this, his mind was one of those which dwell rather on the game season than the government of the country, and was likely to feel more pleasure in an enormous gooseberry, or a calf with two heads, than in the outbreak of a European war, or the discovery of an unknown continent. The great subject in his mind at the moment was starch. Somebody--Father Dan regretted that he was not able to name him--had discovered the means of manufacturing a precious liquid, which would impart various colours, and indescribable powers of standing alone, to any texture of linen, lawn, or lace.
"Good heart! what labour it shall save!" cried lazy Dorothy--who did assist in the more delicate parts of the household washing, but shirked as much of it as she could.
"Ay, and set you off, belike, Mistress Doll," added the complimentary Friar. "As for us, poor followers of Saint Francis, no linen alloweth us our Rule, so that little of the new matter is like to come our way. They of Saint Dominic shall cheapen well the same [buy plenty of it], I reckon," he added, with a contemptuous curl of his lip, intended for the rival Order.
"But lo' you, there is another wonder abroad, as I do hear tell," remarked Mistress Winter, "and 'tis certain matter the which, being taken--Agnes, thou dolt! what hast done wi' the salad? --being taken hendily [gently, delicately] off the top of ale when 'tis a-making, shall raise bread all-to [almost] as well as sour dough. I know not what folk call it. --Thou idle, gaping dizzard [fool]! and I have to ask thee yet again what is come of aught, it shall be with mine hand about thine ears! Find a spoon this minute!"
"Ha!" said Father Dan, helping himself to sack [Note 3], which had been brought out specially to do him honour. " _Yeast_ is it I have heard the same called. 'Tis said the bread is better tasted therewith, rather than sour dough."
"Pray you, good Father, to eat of this salad," entreated his hostess. "I had it of one of my Lord of Ely his gardeners; and there is therein the new endive, and the Italian parsley, that be no common matter."
That the Cordelier was by no means indifferent to the good things of this life might be seen in his face, as he drew the wooden salad bowl a little nearer.
"Have you beheld the strange bird that Mistress Flint hath had sent to her over seas?" inquired he. "I do hear that great lords and ladies have kept such like these fifty years or so; but never saw I one thereof aforetime. 'Tis bright yellow of plumage, and singeth all one as a lark: they do call his name canary."
"Nay, forsooth, I never see aught that should do me a pleasure!" said Mistress Winter crustily. "Gossip Flint might have told me so much. -- Take that, thou lither hussy! I'll learn thee to let fall the knives!"
And on the ear of the unfortunate Agnes, as she was stooping to recover the dropped knife, came Mistress Winter's hand, with sufficient heaviness to make her grow white and totter ere she could recover her balance.
Father Dan took no notice. He could not have afforded to quarrel with Mistress Winter, especially now when priests of the old style were at a discount; and in his eyes such creatures as Agnes were made to be beaten and abused. He merely saw in his hostess a notable housewife, and in Agnes a kind of animated machine, with just soul enough to be kept to the duty of confession, and require a careless absolution, three times in the year. Such people had no business, in Father Dan's eyes, to have thoughts or feelings of any sort. They were sent into the world to mop and cook and serve their betters. Of course, when the animated machines did take to thinking for themselves, and to showing that they had done so, the Cordelier regarded it as most awkward and inconvenient--a piece of insubordinate presumption that must be stamped out at once, and not suffered to infect others.
After further conversation in the same style, being unable to go on eating and drinking for ever, Father Dan rose to depart. It was not confession-time, and on all other occasions Father Dan's pastoral visits came very much under the head of revelling. There was not a syllable of religious conversation; that was considered peculiar to the confessional.
Mistress Winter and Dorothy, after a little needlework and some more scolding of Agnes, tramped upstairs to bed; and Joan, coming in half an hour later, excessively cross after her day's pleasuring, followed the example. Having put away the supper things, and laid every thing in readiness for the morrow's work. Agnes stood for a moment before she too lay down on her hard pallet in the one chamber above that served all four as bedroom. Through the uncurtained window high up in the room the June stars looked down upon her. She had no notion of prayer, except telling beads to Latin Paters and Aves; but the instinct of the awakened spirit rose in something like it.
"God, Thou lovest me!" she said in her heart. He was there, somewhere beyond those stars. He would know what she was thinking. "I know but little of Thee; I desire to know more. Thou, who lovest me, tell some one to teach me!"
It would have astonished her to be told that such unuttered longings for the knowledge of God could be of the nature of prayer. Brought up in intense formalism, it never occurred to her that it was possible to pray without an image, a crucifix, or a pair of beads. She crept to her poor straw pallet, and lay down. But the latest thought in her heart, ere she dropped asleep, was, "God loves me; God will take care of me, and teach me." She would have been startled to hear that this was faith. Faith, to her, meant relying on the priest, and obeying the Church. But was there no whisper--unheard even by herself-- "O woman, great is thy faith: be it unto thee even as thou wilt?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. This, I am sorry to say, was a lady without a head. It probably indicated the residence of an old bachelor.
Note 2. The barb was a plaiting of white linen, which was fastened at the chin, and entirely covered the neck.
Note 3. Sack appears to have been a general name for white wine, especially the sweeter kinds.
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{
"id": "24105"
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3
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MAKING PROGRESS.
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"I care not how lone in this world I may be, So long as the Master remembereth me."
_Helen Monro_.
"So sure as our sweet Lady, Saint Mary, worketh miracles at Walsingham, never was poor woman so be-plagued as I, with an ill, ne'er-do-well, good-for-nought, thankless hussy, picked up out of the mire in the gutter! Where be thy wits, thou gadabout? Didst leave them at the Cross yester-morrow? Go thither and seek for them! for ne'er a barley crust shalt thou break this even in this house, or my name is not Martha Winter!"
And, snatching up a broom, Mistress Winter hunted Agnes out of doors, and slammed the door behind her.
It was not altogether a new thing for Agnes to be turned out into the street for the night, and Mistress Winter reserved it as her most tremendous penalty. Perhaps, had she known how Agnes regarded it, she might have invented a new one. These occasions were her times of recreation, when she usually took refuge with good-natured Mistress Flint, who was always ready to give Agnes a supper and a share of her girls' bed. A few hours in the cheerful company of the Flints was a real refreshment to the hard-worked and ever-abused drudge. But this time she did not at once seek Mistress Flint. She walked, as Mistress Winter had amiably suggested, straight to the now deserted Cross, and sat down on one of its stone steps. It would not be dark yet for another hour, and until the gathering dusk warned her to return, Agnes meant to stay there. She was feeling very sad and perplexed. The glory in which the world had been steeped only yesterday had grown pale and grey. The cares of the world had come in. Poor Agnes had set out that morning with a firm determination to serve God throughout the day. Her idea of service consisted in the ceaseless mental repetition of forms of prayer. Busy with her Aves and Paternosters, she had forgotten to shut the oven door, and a baking of bread had been spoiled. She sat now mournfully wondering how any one in her position could serve God. If such mischances as this were always to happen, she could never get through her work. And the work must be done. Mistress Winter was one of the last people in the world to permit religion to take precedence of housewifery. How then was poor Agnes ever to "make her salvation" at all?
The mistake was natural enough. All her life she had walked in the mist of self-righteousness; her teachers had carefully led her into it. Starting from the idea that man had to merit God's favour, was it any wonder that, when told that God loved her already, she still fancied that, in order to retain that love, she must do something to deserve it? The new piece was sewn on the old garment, and the rent was made worse.
But now, must she give up the glad thought of being loved? If serving God, as she understood that service, made her neglect her every-day duties, what then? How was she ever to serve God? It was a misfortune for Agnes that she had heard only half of the Friar's sermon. The other half would have removed her difficulties.
She had reached this point in her perplexed thoughts, when she was startled by a voice inquiring-- "What aileth thee, my daughter?"
Agnes looked up, and beheld the same dark shining eyes which had flashed down upon her from the Cross yesterday morning.
"I scantly can tell," she said, speaking out her thoughts. "It seemeth not worth the while."
"What seemeth thus?" asked the Friar.
"Living," said the girl quietly. There was no bitterness in her tone, hardly even weariness; it was simply hopeless.
The Friar remained silent for a moment, and Agnes spoke again.
"Father," she faltered, in a low, shy voice, "I heard you preach here yester-morrow."
"I brought thee glad tidings," was the significant answer.
The tears sprang to her eyes. "O Father!" she said, "I thought them so glad--that God loved me, and would have me for to love Him; but now 'tis all to no good. I cannot serve God."
"What letteth?"
"That I am in the world, and must needs there abide."
"What for no? Serve God in the world."
"Good Father, if you did but know, you should not say the same!" said Agnes in the same hopeless tone in which she had spoken before.
"If I knew but what?"
In answer, Agnes told him her simple story; unavoidably revealing in it the hardships of her lot. "You must needs see, good Father," she concluded, "that I cannot serve God and do Mistress Winter's bidding."
"I see no such a thing, good daughter," replied the Friar. "Dost think the serving of God to lie in the saying of Paternosters? It is thine heart that He would have. Put thine heart in thy labour, and give Him both together."
"But how so, Father?" inquired Agnes in an astonished tone. "I pray you tell me how I shall give to God the baking of bread?"
"Who giveth thee thy daily bread?"
"That, no doubt, our Lord doth."
"Yet He giveth the same by means. He giveth it through the farmer, the miller, and the baker. It falleth not straight down from Heaven. When thou art the bakester, art not thou God's servant to give daily bread? Then thy work should be good and perfect, for He is perfect. By the servant do men judge of the master; and if thy work is to be offered unto God, it must be the best thou canst do. Think of this the next time thou art at work, and I warrant thee not to _forget_ the oven door. But again: Who hath set thee thy work? When this hard mistress of thine betook thee to her house, did not God see it? did not He order it? If so be, then every her order to thee (that is not sinful, understand thou) is God's order. Seek then, in the doing thereof, not to please her, but Him."
"O Father, if I could do that thing!"
"Child, when the Master went home for a season, and left His lodging here below, He appointed `to every man his work.' Some of us have hard work: let us press on with it cheerfully. If we be His, it is _His_ work. He knoweth every burden that we bear, and how hard it presseth, and how sore weary are His child's shoulders. Did He bear no burdens Himself in the carpenter's workshop at Nazareth; yea, and up the steep of Calvary? Let Him have thy best work. He hath given thee His best."
Never before, nor in so short a time, had so many new ideas been suggested to the mind of Agnes Stone. The very notion of Christ's sympathy with men was something strange to her. She had been taught to regard Mary as the tender human sympathiser, and to look upon Christ in one of two lights--either as the helpless Infant in the arms of the mother, or as the stern Judge who required to be softened by Mary's merciful intercession. But the one gush of confidence over, she was doubly shy. She shrank from clothing her vague thoughts with precise and distinct language.
"I would I might alway confess unto you, Father," she said gratefully, rising from her hard seat "I would have thee confess unto a better than I, my daughter," was the priest's answer. "There is no confessor like to the great Confessor of God. Christ shall make never a blunder; and He beareth no tales. Thine innermost heart's secrets be as safe with Him as with thyself."
"But must I not confess to a priest?" demanded Agnes in a surprised tone.
"There is one Priest, my daughter," said the Friar. "And `because He continueth ever, unchangeable hath He the priesthood.' There can be none other."
This was another new idea to Agnes--if possible, more strange than the former. She ventured a faint protest which showed the nature of her thoughts.
"But He, that is the Judge at the doomsday! how could such as I e'er confess to Him?"
A smile--which was sad, not mirthful--parted the grave lips of the Black Friar.
"Child!" he answered, "there is no man so lowly, there is no man so loving, as the Man Christ Jesus."
Agnes was so deep in thought that she did not hear his retreating steps. She looked up with a further remark on her lips, and found that he was gone.
It was nearly dark now, and there was only just time to reach the City gate before the hour when it would be closed. Agnes hurried on quickly, passed out of Newgate, and, afraid of being benighted, almost ran up Giltspur Street to the south end of Cow Lane. A hasty rap on Mistress Flint's door brought little Will to open it.
"Good lack!" said the child. "Mother, here is Mistress Agnes Stone."
"What, Agnes!" cried Mistress Flint's cheery voice from within. "Come in, dear heart, and welcome. What news to-night, trow?"
"The old news, my mistress," said Agnes, smiling, "that here is a supperless maid bereft of lodgment, come to see if your heart be as full of compassion as aforetime."
"Lack-a-daisy! hath Gossip Winter turned thee forth? Well, thank the saints, there is room to spare for thee here. Supper will be ready ere many minutes, I guess. Prithee take hold o' th' other end of Helen's work, and it shall be all the sooner."
Helen Flint, who was busy at the fire, welcomed the offered help with a bright smile like her mother's, and set Agnes to work at once. The latter was beginning to find herself very hungry, and Mistress Flint treated her guest to considerably better fare than Mistress Winter did her drudge. There were comparatively few of the household at home to supper; for the party consisted only of Mr and Mrs Flint, two daughters, Helen and Anne, and the little boys, Will and Dickon.
"What news abroad, Goodman?" demanded Mistress Flint, when her curiosity got the better of her hunger.
"Why, that 'tis like to rain," returned her husband, a quiet, unobtrusive man, with a good deal of dry humour.
"That I wist aforetime," retorted she; "for no sooner set I my foot out of the door this morrow than I well-nigh stepped of a black snail."
"I reckon," observed Mr Flint, calmly cutting into a pasty, "that black snails be some whither when there is no wet at hand."
"Gramercy, nay!" cried unphilosophical Mistress Flint.
"Oh, so?" said he. "Fall they from the sky, trow, or grow up out o' th' ground?"
"Dear heart [darling, beloved one], Jack Flint! how can I tell?" answered his wife.
"Then, dear heart, Mall Flint!" responded he, imitating her, "I'd leave be till I so could."
Mistress Flint laughed; for nothing ever disturbed her temper, and the banter was as good-humoured as possible.
"Well, for sure!" said she. "Is there ne'er a man put in the pillory, nor a woman whipped at the cart-tail, nor so much as a strange fish gone by London Bridge? Ha, Nan! yonder's a stranger in the bars. Haste thee, see what manner of man."
Anne left the form on which she was sitting, and peered intently into the grate. " 'Tis a dark man, Mother," said she, after careful investigation.
"Is he nigh at hand?" inquired Mistress Flint anxiously.
"I trow so," replied Anne, still occupied with the bars, "and reasonable rich to boot."
"Marry, yonder's a jolly hearing!" said her mother.
"How so," asked Mr Flint, pursing up his lips, "without he make us a gift of his riches?"
"Dear heart alive!" suddenly ejaculated Mistress Flint, turning round on Helen. "How many a score o' times must I tell thee, Nell, that to lay thy knife and spoon the one across the other is the unluckiest thing in all this world, saving only the breaking of a steel glass [looking-glass], and a winding-sheet in the candle? Lay them straight along this minute, child! Dear, dear; but to think of it!"
Helen, in some perturbation, altered her knife and spoon to the required positions.
"Now, Agnes, dear heart, prithee get some flesh o' thy bones!" said Mistress Flint, returning to her usual cheery manner. "Good lack! I love not to see a maid so like to a scarecrow as thou. Come now, another shive of mutton? well, then, a piece o' th' pasty--do! Eh, in good sooth, thou mayest well look white. Now, Will and Dickon, lads, 'tis time ye were abed."
Will and Dickon, thus addressed, promptly knelt down, one on each side of his mother, and Will proceeded to gabble over his prayers, followed by Dickon with articulate sounds which had no other merit than that of bearing some resemblance to the words in question.
The boys commenced by crossing themselves, then they raced through the Paternoster, the Angelical Salutation, and the Creed, all in Latin; of course without the faintest idea of any meaning. They then repeated a short prayer in English, entreating the Virgin, their guardian angels, and their patron saints, to protect them during the night. This done, Will rattled off half a dozen lines (carefully emphasising the insignificant words), which alone of all the proceeding had either interest or meaning in his eyes.
"Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Bless the bed that I lie on: Four corners to my bed, Four angels at their head-- One to read, and one to write, And two to guard my bed at night."
"Good lads!" said Mistress Flint, as she rose and restored the crucifix which she had been holding before the boys to its usual place.
"Mother!" said Will, who was inconveniently intelligent, "who be Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John? Doth it mean Luke Dobbs, and Father?"
Mr Flint indulged himself in a quiet laugh.
"Nay, dear heart!" answered his mother. "Those be the holy Apostles, that writ the Evangels."
"What be the Evangels, Mother?"
"Did ever one see such a lad to put questions?" demanded Mistress Flint. "Why, child, they be writ in the great Bible, that lieth chained in the Minster."
"What be they about, Mother?"
"Come, lad, if I tarry to answer all thy talk, thou shalt not be abed this even," responded Mistress Flint discreetly; for this was a query which she would have found it hard to answer; and with a playful show of peremptoriness, she drove Will and Dickon upstairs to the bedchamber, in which slept the five boys of the family.
There was a minute's silence, only broken by the movements of Helen and Anne, who were putting away the bowls, jugs, and trenchers which had been used at supper, when suddenly Mr Flint said--to nobody in particular-- "What _be_ they about?"
His daughters looked up, and then resumed their occupation, with a shake of the head from Anne, and a little laugh from Helen.
"Methinks, Master," said Agnes rather diffidently, "'tis about God, and His love to men."
"What thereabout?" replied he, continuing to look into the fire.
"Why, Master," said Agnes, "surely you do wit better than I." "Well, I wit nought thereabout, nor never want," said Anne a little pettishly. " 'Twill be time enough when I have the years o' my grandame, I guess, to make me crabbed and gloomsome."
Agnes looked at her in amazement.
"Nan," said her father, "I heard thee this morrow a-singing of a love-song."
"Well, so may you yet again," said she, laughing.
"That made thee not gloomsome, trow?" he asked.
"Never a whit! how should it?" replied Anne, still laughing.
"Let be! but 'tis queer," said he, rising. "Man's love is merry gear; but God's love is crabbed stuff. 'Tis a strange world, my maids."
Both Helen and Anne broke into a peal of laughter; but Mr Flint was grave enough. He walked through the kitchen, and out at the front door, without saying more.
"What hath come o'er Father of late?" said Helen. "He is fallen to ask as queer questions as Will."
"What know I?" replied Anne, "or care, for the matter of that. Come, Nell, let us sing a bit, to cheer us!"
It struck Agnes that there was not much want of cheer in that house; but Helen readily responded to her sister's wish, and they struck up a popular song.
"The hunt is up, the hunt is up, The hunt is up and away, And Harry our King is gone hunting, To bring his deer to bay.
"The east is bright with morning light, And darkness it is fled, And the merry horn wakes up the morn To leave his idle bed.
"Behold the skies with golden dyes Are glowing all around, The grass is green, and so are the treen, All laughing at the sound."
The sisters sang well, and Agnes enjoyed the music. This song was followed by others, and Mistress Flint, coming down, joined in; and the eldest son, Ned, made his appearance and did the same, till there was almost a concert. At last Mistress Flint stopped the harmony, by declaring that she could not keep awake five minutes longer; and all parties made the best of their way to bed.
Mistress Winter was found, on the following morning, to have recovered as much of her temper as she was usually in the habit of recovering. That Joan had lost hers was nothing new; it was rarely the case that both mother and daughter were in an amiable mood together. The former received Agnes with her customary amenities, merely suggesting, with pleasantry of her own kind, that of course 'twould be too heavy a toil for her gracious madamship to carry the water-pails to Horsepool--the spring in West Smithfield which supplied Cow Lane--and that so soon as she could hear tell of a gentlewoman lacking of a service, she would engage her at ten pound by the month to wait of her worshipfulness. Agnes made no answer in words; she only took up the pails quietly and went out. As she came up to Horsepool, she spied her friend Mistress Flint, bent on a similar errand, coming up Cock Lane.
"Dear heart, Agnes!" cried the latter. "Is there none save thee to bear those heavy pails of water? Methinks yon lazy Joan might lift one, and be none the worsen. She hath the strength of a horse, and thou barely so much as a robin."
Agnes smiled her thanks for her friend's sympathy, as she let down the water-pails.
"I am used to the same, Mistress Flint, I thank you."
"Go to,--wert thou at the Cross t' other morrow? Methought I saw thy face in the throng."
A light broke over the face, but Agnes only said, "Ay."
"How liked thee yon Friar's discourse?"
"It liked me well."
"Marry, thus said Cicely Marvell, that dwelleth by me. But for me, I saw none so much therein to make ado o'er. `God loveth men'--ay, to be sure He doth so: and `we should love God'--why, of course we so should, and do. Forsooth, what then, I pray you?"
"Why, then, much comfort, as meseemeth," answered Agnes.
"Comfort!" repeated Mrs Flint, looking at her. "Ay, poor soul, I dare say thou hast need. But I lack no comfort at this present, the blessed Sacrament be thanked! I have enough and to spare."
And, half laughing, with a farewell nod, Mrs Flint took up her full pail, and trudged away. With some surprise Agnes realised that to this cheerful, healthy, prosperous woman, the ray of light which was making her whole soul glad, was not worth opening the windows to behold; the wine of Paradise which brimmed her cup with joy, was only common water. Perhaps, before that light could make a happy heart glad, other lights must be put out; before the water could be changed to wine, other conduits must run dry. It was well for Agnes Stone that she had nothing wherewith to quench her thirst but the cup of salvation, and no light to shine upon her pathway but the light of life.
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{
"id": "24105"
}
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4
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THE ROOT OF THE MATTER.
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"My Christ He is the Heaven of Heavens-- My Christ what shall I call? My Christ is first, my Christ is last, My Christ is all in all."
_John Mason_.
As Agnes toiled home with her weary burden, she met her own special favourite, little Will.
"Look you, Mistress Agnes!" cried little Will, triumphantly holding up his horn-book.
"I can say all my Christ-Cross-Row [alphabet]--every letter!"
"Dear heart!" returned Agnes, sympathising in her little friend's pleasure.
"And as to-morrow I am to join the letters!" exclaimed little Will again, in high exultation.
"I trust thou wilt be a good lad, Will, and apply thee diligently."
"Oh, ay," said Will, dismissing that part of the question somewhat curtly. "And look you, I met, an half-hour gone, with the Black Friar that preached at the Cross th' other morrow; and he saw my horn-book, and asked at me if I knew the same. And when I said I so did, what did he, think you, but sat him down of a stone, and would needs have me for to say it all o'er unto him. And I made but one only blunder; I said, `Q, S, R,' in the stead of `Q, R, S.' And he strake mine head, and said I was a good lad, and he would I should go on with my learning till I might read in the great Bible that lieth chained in the Minster."
"Well-a-day! did he so?" responded Agnes.
"Ay, so did he. But wot you what Christie Marvell saith? He saith 'tis rare evil doing that any save a priest should read in yon big book, and he hath heard his father for to say the same. And he saith old Father Dan, the Cordelier, that is alway up and down hereabout, he said unto him that he would not for no money that he should learn to read the Evangel, for that it should do him a mischief. What think you, Mistress Agnes?"
"Methinks, Will, thou shalt do well to give good heed unto the Black Friar, and to thy master at the school, and leave Christie Marvell a-be with his idle talk."
"Nay, go to, Mistress Agnes! 'tis Father Dan's talk."
"Then tarry till Father Dan tell thee so much himself. It may well be that Christie took not his words rightly."
"Ay," said the child, doubtfully. "But what manner of mischief, think you, meant he? Should it cast a spell on me, or give me the ague?"
Little Will, as we have already seen, was the child of a superstitious mother. To hear the tap of a death-watch was sufficient to make Mistress Flint lose a night's sleep; and a person who disbelieved in fairies she would have considered next door to a reprobate. But Agnes was remarkably free from such ideas for her time, when few were entirely devoid of them; and she laughed at little Will's fancy.
"Well," said he, "any way, when I can read in the great Bible, Mistress Agnes, then will I read unto you, and you shall come to the Minster and hear me. Christie's mother saith there be right pretty stories therein."
Like many another in those days, into the household of Henry and Cicely Marvell, the Gospel had brought not peace, but a sword. The husband, a stern, morose man, was fondly attached to the beggarly elements of Roman ceremonials; while the wife had received and hidden the Word in her heart, and though too much afraid of her husband to venture far, contrived now and then to drop a word for Christ's Gospel. Christie, the troublesome boy, cared for none of these things, and made game of the views of each parent in turn.
Agnes smilingly bade good-bye to her ambitious little friend Will, for they had now reached Mistress Winter's door. A scolding awaited her, as usual, first for "dawdling," and then for spilling a few drops of water on the brick floor as she set down the heavy pails. But Agnes scarcely heeded it, for her mind was full of a new project. It would be some time before little Will could read, and longer still before he could see over the Minster desk, where the great Bible lay chained. But why should she wait for that? She dimly remembered, in long past days, when her aunt was living, having several times gone with her on Sunday afternoons to vespers in the Cathedral, and heard some one reading at the desk in the nave. Then she had not cared to listen. Why should she not go to hear it now?
Of political events Agnes knew little, and thought less. She could barely have told who was on the throne, had she been asked. She had watched alike tumult and pageant without any intelligent notion of what was passing. Nor had she any idea that during those past days, when such things had no interest for her, the opportunity of using them had been passing away; and that in a very few weeks the public reading of the Bible would be perilous to those who had the courage to dare it. Imprisonment would soon await any layman who should dare to read to another the Word of Life.
It often occurred that projects had to dwell in Agnes's mind for some time before she had an opportunity to put them into execution. That such should be the case with this one gave her no surprise. Generally speaking, after mass on Sunday, Joan and Dorothy donned their finest clothes, and went out on a merry-making expedition, while Mistress Winter, also in grand array, preferred to entertain her neighbours at home. She considered Agnes on these occasions as one too many, and usually contrived to send her on some errand to a distance; but now and then, when no errand was forthcoming, she had the Sunday afternoon to herself. Five Sundays passed after the project had taken shape in her mind, and no leisure had yet come to Agnes. The Saturday arrived, the eve of the sixth Sunday, and she was still in expectation of fulfilling her hopes in some happy future. The hope was communicated to Cicely Marvell, whom Agnes met in returning from the pump, with certainty of sympathy on her part.
The full pails were only just set down on the kitchen floor, when in bustled Mistress Flint, with a dish-cloth in her hand, which she had not waited to lay down, so eager was she to utter what she came to say.
"Go to, Gossip Winter! Heard you the news?"
"News, gramercy! Who e'er hath the grace to tell me a shred thereof?" returned Mistress Winter crustily. "What now, Gossip?"
"Forsooth, the King's Grace is departed."
"Alack the day! Who saith it?"
"Marry, my Lord Mayor himself hath proclaimed it at the Cross, and as Monday are my Lords of the Council to ride unto the Tower for to salute the new Queen."
"The new Queen! Who is she, belike?" demanded Mistress Winter, who did not usually trouble her head with politics. She was standing by the fire with a frying-pan in her hand, arrested in her occupation by surprise and curiosity, as Mistress Flint had been in hers.
"Why, what think you? Folk say that heard the same, that the King's Highness hath left the Crown by will to his cousin, my Lady Jane Dudley, and hath put by his own sisters; and she shall be proclaimed as to-morrow in Cheapside."
"Dear heart alive!" cried Mistress Winter. "And what say my Ladies the King's sisters, that be thus left out in the cold?"
"That is as it may be," replied Mistress Flint mysteriously. "My good man saith, if the Lady Mary suffer all tamely, then is she not the maid he took her to be."
"Lack-a-day! but I do verily hope siege shall be ne'er laid to London! It should go ill with us that dwell in the outskirts."
"You say well, Gossip, in very deed. The blessed saints have a care of us! as metrusteth they shall."
"Not they belike!" growled Mistress Winter, resuming her suspended proceedings with the frying-pan. "They shall be every one a-looking out for the Lady Jane."
Mistress Flint came nearer, and replied in a mysterious whisper.
"Scantly so, as methinks, Gossip, when she is of the new learning, if folk speak sooth touching her. The saints and angels shall trouble them rare little about her. Trust me, they shall go with the Lady Mary, every man of them."
"Say you so?" demanded Mistress Winter. "Why, then shall the old learning come in again, an' she win."
"Ay, I warrant you!" responded her neighbour.
Mistress Winter fried her rashers with a meditative face.
"Doll!" said she, when Mistress Flint and her dish-cloth had departed, "whither is become Saint Thomas of Canterbury?"
"Go to! what wis I?" returned Dorothy. "He was cast with yon old lumber in the back attic, when King Edward's Grace come in. He hath been o' no count this great while."
"Fetch him forth," said Mistress Winter; "and, Agnes, do thou cleanse him well. If my Lady Jane win, why, 'tis but that we love not to have no dirt in the house: but if my Lady Mary, then shall he go to the gilder, and I will set him of an high place, for to be seen. Haste thee about it."
Half an hour later, Agnes (to whom Dorothy deputed the dusty search) came down from the attic, carrying a battered wooden doll on a stand, which had once been gaudily painted, but was now worn and soiled, deprived of an arm, and gashed in sundry places, having been used as a chopping-block for a short time during the palmy days of the Reformation.
"He'll lack a new nose," remarked Mistress Winter, thoughtfully considering the poor ill-used article. "And an arm must he have, and be all fresh painted and gilt, belike. Dear heart! it shall be costly matter! Howbeit, we must keep up with the times, if we would swim and not sink."
Keeping up with the times is a very costly business. It costs many men their fortunes, many their reputations, and some their souls. Yet men and women are always to be found who will pay the full price, rather than miss doing it.
The struggle was sharp, but short. On the tenth of July, Lady Jane made her queenly entry into the Tower, in anticipation of that coronation which was never to be hers in this world; and on the twentieth, her nine days' reign was over, and Mary was universally acknowledged Queen of England. The first important prisoner made was the Duke of Northumberland, hurled down just as he touched the glittering prize to the winning of which he had given his life; the second was Bishop Ridley. Events followed each other with startling rapidity. The Lady Elizabeth, with her customary sagacity, kept quiet in the background until the succession of her sister was assured, and then came openly to London to meet the Queen. Peers were sent to the Tower in a long procession. Bonner was restored to the See of London, Gardiner sworn of the Council, Norfolk and Tunstal released from prison. The Queen made her triumphal entry into her metropolis, and the new order of things was secured beyond a doubt.
Business was very brisk, for some weeks afterwards, with the carver and gilder at the bottom of Hosier Lane. Quantities of idols, thrown six years before to the moles and to the bats, were now searched for, mended, cleaned, regilt, and set up in elevated niches. Every house showed at least one, except where those few dwelt who counted not their lives dear unto them for the Master's sake. Henry Marvell went to the expense of a new Virgin, which he set up on high in his kitchen; but Cicely did not put her hand to the accursed thing, and quietly ignored its existence. Christie, as usual, made himself generally disagreeable, by low reverences to the image in the presence of his mother, and making faces at it in that of his father--a state of things which lasted until he was well beaten by the latter, after which occurrence he reserved his grimaces for other company.
Mistress Flint was entirely indifferent to the question; but since every body else was setting up an idol, she followed in the crowd. If Mr Flint cared, he kept his own counsel. Little Dickon clapped his hands at the pretty colours and bright gilding; and Will innocently asked, "Mother, wherefore had we ne'er Saint Christopher aforetime?"
"Come now, be a good lad, and run to Gossip Hickman for a candle!" was his mother's convincing answer.
But this is anticipating, and we must retrace our steps to that sixth Sunday for which Agnes was waiting in patient hope. Very anxiously she watched to see whether, when dinner was over, she would be despatched to Aldgate or Bermondsey. But it happened at last as she desired; there was nowhere to send her. Mistress Winter, in her usual considerate style of language, gave Agnes to understand that she had no wish to see her again before dark; and, clad in the old patched serge which was her Sunday dress, the poor drudge crept timidly into Saint Paul's Cathedral.
From the Lady Chapel, soft and low, came the chant of the Virgin's Litany. The fashionable people, in rich attire, were promenading up and down the aisle known as "Paul's Walk." In the side chapels a few worshippers lingered before the shrines; and round a lectern, in one corner of the nave, were gathered a little knot of men and women, waiting there in the almost forlorn hope that some priest, more zealous than the rest, might come up and read to them. They could not now expect any layman to have the courage to do so. Agnes joined this group.
"I misdoubt there'll be no reading this day," said a grey-headed man.
"Ne'er a priest in Paul's careth to do the same," responded a forlorn-looking woman. "They be an idle set of wine-bibbers, every man Jack of them."
"Hush thee, Goody!" whispered a second woman, giving a friendly push to the first. "Keep a civil tongue in thine head, prithee, as whatso thy thoughts be."
"Thoughts make no noise," said the old man, smiling grimly.
All at once there was a little stir among the group, as the tall, gaunt figure of the Black Friar was seen climbing the steps of the desk.
"Brethren!" said the voice which Agnes so well remembered, "let us read together the word of God."
And, beginning just where he had opened the book, he read to them the story of the raising of Lazarus. He gave no word of comment till he reached the end; then he shut the book and spoke to them.
"Brethren!" said the ringing voice, "this day is come Christ unto you, that He may awake you out of sleep. And if ye have not heretofore heard His voice, your sleep, like Lazarus, is that of very death. Now, O ye dead, hear the voice of the Son of God, and live. No man cometh unto the Father but by Him. Ye must come at God neither by mass, nor by penance, nor by confessing, nor by alms-giving, but alonely by Christ. And him that cometh will Christ in nowise cast out. No thief will He turn away; no murderer shall hear that he hath overmuch sinned for pardon; no poor soul shall be denied the unsearchable riches; no weary heart shall seek for rest and find none. Yea, He is become Christ--that is, God and man together--for this very thing, that He might give unto every one of you that will have them, His pardon and His peace. Come ye, every one of you, this day, and put this Christ unto the test."
Without another word the Black Friar descended from the desk, and passed along the nave to the western door with long, rapid strides. And Agnes went home with her heart full.
Full--with what strange and new thoughts! No masses, no penances, no confessions, no alms-givings, to be the means of reconciliation with God; but only Christ. And was it possible that the Friar meant one other thing which, he had not said--no intercession of saints? If Christ were so ready to receive and bless all who would come--if He were Himself the Mediator for man with God--could He need a mediator in His turn?
Yet if not, thought Agnes with a feeling of sudden terror as the supposition came to her, what became of the intercession of Mary? She who was held up as the Lady of Sorrows--just as Isis, and Cybele, and Hertha had been before her, but of that Agnes knew nothing--she who was pictured by the Church as the fountain of mercy and compassion--the maiden who could sympathise with the griefs of womanhood, the mother who had influence with, yea, authority over, the divine Son--what place did Friar Laurence find for her in his teaching? The mere imagination of a religion without Mary, was like the thought of chaos. Hitherto she had been the motive-power of all piety to Agnes Stone. A sermon without our Lady! It was shocking even to think of it.
Had Agnes been in the regular habit of attendance at Saint Paul's Cross, she would have heard many such sermons during the reign of Edward the Sixth. But Mistress Winter's disapprobation, combined with her own indifference, had been enough to keep her away, and the half-discourse of John Laurence at the Cross had been the only sermon she remembered to have heard during the five years of her residence with that delectable dame. Many thoughts, therefore, now familiar to the church-going public, were quite new to her.
If she could but once again come across Friar Laurence!
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{
"id": "24105"
}
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5
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AGNES IS ASKED A QUESTION.
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"Whate'er I say, whate'er I syng, Whate'er I do, that hart shall se, That I shall serue with hart lovyng That lovyng hart that lovyth me."
Few things are more touching in their way than the fragment of paper containing the poem from which the motto to this chapter is a quotation. Among the dusty business manuscripts of the Dean and Chapter of Canterbury, in the oldest division, relating to the affairs of the Priory of Christ Church, were found by the Historical Commission two songs, scribbled on scraps of paper. One was a love-song of the common type, such as, allowing for difference of diction, might be had in any second-rate music-shop of the present day. But the other was of a very different and far higher order. It was the cry of the immured bird which has been forced from its nest in the greenwood, and for which life has no other attraction than to sit mournfully at the door of the cage, looking out to the fair fields, and the blue sky in which it shall stretch its wings no more. None but God will ever know the name or the story of that poor heart-weary monk, torn from all that he loved on earth, who thus "pressed his soul on paper," one hundred years before the dissolution of the monasteries. We can only hope that through the superincumbent wood, hay, stubble, he dug down to the one Foundation and was safe: that through the dead words of the Latin services he heard the Living Voice calling to all the weary and heavy-laden, and that he too came and found rest.
But to turn to our story.
The days rolled slowly on, undistinguishable from one another save by the practical divisions of baking-day, washing-day, brewing-day, and so forth; and, certainly, not distinguished by any increase of comfort in the outward surroundings of Agnes's lot. She was trying to do her work heartily, as to the Lord; but it did seem to her that the harder she tried, the harder Mistress Winter was to please; the crosser was Joan, the more satirical was Dorothy. The only sunshine of her life was on those precious Sunday afternoons, when always the tall gaunt figure might be seen ascending the desk in the nave of Saint Paul's, and, after the reading from Scripture, came a few pithy, fervent words, which Agnes treasured up as very gems. But by-and-by, another gleam of sunlight began to creep into her life.
It was again Sunday afternoon, and the reading in Saint Paul's was over for that day. But it was too soon to go back to the bosom of that uncongenial household which Agnes called home; for Mistress Winter was generally extra cross--and the ordinary exhibition was enough without the extra--if Agnes presented herself before she was expected. The now deserted steps of the Cross were the only place where she could sit; and accordingly she took refuge there. Not many minutes were over, when she recognised the dark figure of Friar Laurence passing through the churchyard with his usual rapid step. All at once a thought seemed to strike him. He paused, turned, and came straight up to the place where Agnes was seated.
"And how is it with thee, my daughter?" he demanded.
"Well, Father; and I thank you," said she. "Verily, touching outward things, as aforetime; but touching the inward, methinks the good Lord learneth me somewhat."
"Be thou an apt scholar," said he.
Agnes grew desperate, and resolved to plunge into the matter. She was afraid lest he should leave her, with one of his usual rapid movements, before she had got to know what she wanted.
"Father!" she said hastily, crimsoning as she spoke, "pray you, give me leave to demand a thing of you."
"Ask thy will, my daughter."
"Pray you, tell me of your grace, wherefore in your goodly discourses you make at all no mention of our Lady?"
The Friar sat down on the steps, when he was asked that question.
"What wouldst thou have me for to say of her?"
"Nay, Father!" returned Agnes, humbly. "You be a learned priest, and I but an ignorant maiden; but having alway heard them that did preach sermons to make much of our Lady, methought I would fain wit, an' I might ask it at you, wherefore you make thus little."
"My child!" answered the Friar quietly, "who died on the rood for thee?"
"Jesus Christ our Lord," responded Agnes readily.
"What! not Saint Mary?"
"Certes, nay, Father, as methinks."
"And who is it that pleadeth with God for thee?"
"You have told me, Father, our Lord Christ is He. Yet the folk say alway, that our Lady doth entreat our Lord for to hear our prayers."
"Child!" asked the Black Friar, "did Christ die for thee against His will?"
"I would humbly think, not so, Father," answered Agnes meekly, "sith He needed not to have so done at all without it were His good pleasure."
"Right!" was the rejoinder. "It was by reason that God the Father loved thee, that He gave Christ to die for thee; it was by reason that Christ loved thee, that He bare for thee the pain and shame of the bitter cross. Tell me, is there in this world any that thou lovest?"
Agnes hesitated. It seemed something new and strange to think that she could love, or could be loved, since the death of her mother. But she thought, and said, that she loved little Will Flint.
"Tell me, then," pursued her teacher, "if this little lad were in some sore trouble, and that thou couldst quickly ease him thereof, should he need for to run home and fetch his mother to entreat thee?"
"Surely, nay!" responded Agnes. "I would do the same incontinent [immediately], of mine own compassion, and the more if he should ask it. I would never tarry for his mother!"
"My daughter, is thy love so much better than His that died for us? Should Christ tarry till His mother pray Him to be thine help, when of Himself He loveth thee?"
"But, Father--I pray you pardon me if I speak foolishly, in mine unwisdom--how then needeth a mediator at all, if God the Father be so loving unto men?"
"God is a King, whose law thou hast broken. He is all perfect; therefore must His justice be perfect, no less than His mercy. A lawgiver that were all justice should be a scourge unto men; but a lawgiver that were all mercy should be as good as no law. God hath appointed His Son to be thy Surety; and by reason that He is thy Surety, He is become thine Advocate. He hath said in His Word that the Son is the Advocate with the Father; but of an advocate with the Son never a word saith He. Wherefore God saw fit to appoint a Mediator, He knoweth, not I. I am content that having thus decreed, He hath Himself provided the same."
Agnes looked up, after a moment's thought, with an expression of fear and trouble on her white face.
"But what then of our Lady?"
"Wherefore should there be aught beyond what God hath told us?" replied Friar Laurence. "She was `highly favoured' and `blessed among women,' in that she was the mother of the Saviour. Must she needs _be_ the Saviour to boot?"
"But we must worship her, trow?"
"Must we so? `Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and Him only shalt thou serve.' Let us hold by God's Word, my daughter."
"Father, I wis so little thereof! nought at all but what I do hear of you," said Agnes with a sigh.
"Then, my child," he replied gently, "list thou the better. And here is a word for thee, and for all other in thy place: `If any man do desire to do God's will, he shall know whether doctrine be truth or no.' Keep that desire ever sharp on the whetstone of prayer. Then, surely as God is in Heaven, thou shalt know."
The next minute he was gone.
"Agnes, sweet-heart!" demanded Dorothy that evening, in the sugary style which she only used when she was in a particularly tormenting mood, "prithee do me to wit of the name of thy dear friend, Master Black Friar? I beheld him and thee in so sweet converse at the Cross, it caused me to sigh that I had no such a friend as he. I pray thee lovingly of his goodly name?"
The answers which Dorothy usually received from Agnes to questions of this kind were as short as civility permitted.
"Master John Laurence," said she.
"And how long hast been of his cognisance, sweeting?" demanded Dorothy, with more honey on her tongue than ever.
"I have wist him some six weeks," said Agnes.
"Six weeks! woe worth the day!" cried Dorothy, putting on an aspect of sentimental sorrow. "And thou never spakest word, when thou wist how dear all we do love thee, and the least we might do for joy of thy finding a new friend were to have the great bell rung at Paul's! Agnes, my fairest one, this is to entreat us but evil."
Agnes held her peace. She never felt any doubt of the exceedingly low price to be set upon Dorothy's affections towards her.
"Is he a priest, darling?" inquired Dorothy in her most coaxing tone.
"Ay," replied Agnes as curtly as before.
"Good lack, how delightsome!" exclaimed Dorothy, clasping her hands in mock rapture. "Do, of thy sweet gentlehood, bring me of his cognisance. But to think what it were to have a priest thy friend, and alway get absolution without no trouble at all!"
But about the last thing which Agnes had any intention of doing was to introduce Dorothy to John Laurence.
After that interview at the Cross, Agnes often met the Black Friar. Sometimes he passed her with a simple blessing in answer to her reverence; but more frequently he stopped her, and inquired into her spiritual welfare. She had many a difficulty in which to ask his counsel; many a trouble in which it was a relief to seek (and always to find) his sympathy. He was the only friend she had who spoke the language of Canaan. And it was far less as a priest than as a friend that Agnes regarded him. He was as different from old Father Dan, the Cordelier, as Mistress Flint differed from Mistress Winter. Agnes never knew, when preparing for one of those abhorred periodical interviews with the Cordelier, what he might say to her, or rather, what he might not say. She shrank with horror from his inquisitive questioning, and not much less from his petty humiliating penances. Father Dan's remedy for angry words was to fast for a week on bread and water; for pride, to lick a cross in the dust of the church floor; for envy and covetousness, the administration of a cat-o'-nine-tails on the shoulders. The Black Friar, on the contrary, led Agnes out of herself altogether. He had only one topic, of infinite variety, for it was Jesus Christ. Only once had Agnes asked him whether he would recommend her to administer "the discipline" to herself, as a cure for discontent and murmuring.
"If thy shoulders be discontented, why, by all means," answered Friar Laurence, with his grave smile; "but if it be thine heart that murmureth, wherefore chastise thy shoulders?"
Agnes never put the question again, and never had recourse to the discipline. Of fasting, poor girl, she had already too much for her bodily profit, without any adventitious use of it. And when she began to pray in reality, the rosary was very soon dropped. When a man's heart is in earnest, to keep count of his words is not possible.
Meanwhile, in the outer world, the downward progress was very rapid. One after another the Protestant Bishops were committed to prison, and the chief preachers shared their fate. The first mass was sung at Saint Bartholomew's on the eleventh of August, when the people were ready to tear the officiating priest in pieces; but by the twenty-fourth of the same month it was heard in other churches in London, and the hearers were becoming reconciled to the innovation. The once powerful Duke of Northumberland was beheaded on Tower Hill, notwithstanding his profession of Popery at the last hour; the married priests were deprived; the French Protestant residents were banished; the altar was replaced in Saint Paul's; the Latin services, processions, palms, ashes, candles, holy bread, holy water, and all the rest of the rubbish swept away at the Reformation, came back one by one. That portion of the populace which had no particular religion was well pleased enough with these changes. The shows and the music were agreeable to them, and the Gospel sermons which they displaced had not been agreeable.
Some tell us in the present day that young people must be attracted to church, and that if music and pageant be not given them, their attendance is not likely to be secured. But what have we gained by thus going down to the Philistines to sharpen our weapons? Are these young people attracted to any thing but the music and the pageant? They are quite clever enough to realise the inconsistency of the man who serves them with bread in the pulpit, while he hands out husks from the chancel.
How many of us mean what we say, when the familiar words fall from our lips, "I believe in the Holy Ghost"? Should we think it necessary, if we really did so, to add all these condiments and spices to the pure Bread of Life? Would it not be easier to discern the real flavour of the heavenly ambrosia, if we might have it served without Italian cookery?
And is there to be no thought taken for those who are won to Christ already? to whom He is in Himself the all-sufficient attraction, and these veils and gewgaws are but annoyances, or at least superfluities? Where is the building up of the saints, the edifying of the Body of Christ? Once was it said to Peter, "Feed My lambs;" but twice "Feed My sheep." How is it that so many are satisfied with a state of things in which the sheep of Christ are starved and disgusted for the sake of the lambs, or in many cases rather for the sake of those who are not in the fold at all?
In February, 1554, a great commotion was caused in the City and suburbs by the insurrection of Wyatt, which had for its object to arrest the Queen's projected marriage with Prince Philip of Spain. The Londoners did not show themselves particularly valiant on this occasion, and the doughty Doctor Weston--one of the most active and prominent of the Popish clergy--sang mass to them with a full suit of armour under his vestments. The Duke of Suffolk, whose sad fate it was to be perpetually getting himself into trouble in the present, for fear of calamities which might never occur in the future, ran away in terror lest he should be suspected of complicity with the rebellion; a proceeding which of course roused suspicion instantly, and sealed not only his own fate, but that of his daughter, Lady Jane Grey. The latter was beheaded on the twelfth of February, the former on the twenty-third. For weeks the prisons were full, and the gallows perpetually at work. The Londoners were in so excited and frightened a state--is it any marvel? --that when the phenomena of a mock sun and an inverted rainbow occurred on the fifteenth, they were terrified beyond measure. There was enough to terrify them on the earth, without troubling themselves about the sky. No man's property, liberty, or life was safe for a moment unless he were a devout servant of holy Church; and even in that case he held them by a frail tenure, for private spite might accuse him of heresy, and then for him there was little hope of mercy. One after another, the few who had hitherto remained staunch either fled from England, fell from the faith, or suffered at the stake.
These being the awkward circumstances of the case, Mistress Winter thought it desirable not only to gild Saint Thomas, but to put on a cloak of piety. The garment was cheap. It was not difficult to attend evensong as well as matins, and that every day instead of once in the week; the drama performed in the Cathedral was very pretty, the music pleasant to hear, the scent of the incense agreeable. It was easy to be extremely cordial to Father Dan, and to express intense subservience to his orders. This kind of religion was no inconvenient bridler of the tongue, nor did it in the least interfere with the pride of the natural heart. Humiliation is one thing, and humility is quite another.
Dorothy began seriously to consider whether she should take the veil. Her disposition was a mixture of the satirical and the sentimental. There would be a good deal of _eclat_ about the proceeding. It was pleasant to be regarded as holier than other people. Nevertheless there were drawbacks; for Dorothy was not fond of hard scrubbing, and was uncommonly fond of venison and barberry pie. And she had a suspicion that rather more scrubbing than venison generally fell to the lot of the holy sisters of Saint Clare. But the idea of the implicit obedience to authority which would in that case be required of her decided Dorothy to remain "in the world." She thought there was more hope of managing a husband than a lady abbess.
Nearly two years had passed away since Agnes had first heard Friar Laurence preach at Saint Paul's Cross, and once more Corpus Christi had come round. Since that time she had grown much in the spiritual life, though she had received no outward help beyond those rare Sunday readings, and her occasional interviews with the Friar. Though Corpus Christi was still "uncertainly" kept, it naturally fell in with Mistress Winter's new policy of veneered piety to be exceedingly respectful to all fasts and festivals. Accordingly she gave a grand banquet to some dozen acquaintances, and sent Agnes about her business. There was likely to be reading on a holy day, and Agnes bent her steps towards the Cathedral; but finding when she reached it that it was a little too early, she sat down on the steps of the Cross to wait. There was no one about; for most of those who cared to keep the feast did not care to hear sermons or Bible-readings; and Agnes was thinking so intently as hardly to be conscious whether she was alone or not.
"Good morrow, friend!" said a voice beside her; and John Laurence sat down a little way from her on the steps.
"Good morrow, Father," answered Agnes.
"Agnes, I would seek thy counsel."
Agnes looked up in astonishment. He seek her counsel! Was it not she who had always sought his?
"Good lack, Father!" she exclaimed in her surprise.
John Laurence leaned his head thoughtfully on his hand, and made no further communication for some seconds.
"I know a Black Friar, Agnes," he said, speaking slowly, as if weighing each word, "who seeth no cause, neither in God's Word, neither in common reason, wherefore priests should not be wedded men, as thou wist that many, these ten years past, have been. But he is yet loth to break his mind unto the maid, seeing that many perils do now seem to lie in the way of wedded priests, and he cannot tell if it were well done or no, that he should speak unto her. If penalty fell on him, being thus wed, it should not leave her scatheless. Tell me, now, how thinkest thou? -- should he do well to break his mind, or no? A maid may judge better than a man how a maid should take it."
"I would think, Father," answered the astonished Agnes, "that a maid which did truly love any man should not suffer uncertain sorrow to stand betwixt her and him."
"Yet how, if it were certain?"
"Nay, nor so neither."
"Go to! Put it this case were thine own. Shouldst thou be afeared to wed with a priest?"
Agnes did not quite like such a home question. Yet she replied calmly, without any idea of the other question which was coming.
"Methinks, no; not if I truly loved him."
"And couldst thou truly love--_me_, Agnes?"
For an instant Agnes gave no answer. She had as little expected to have that question asked her as she had expected to be created a duchess.
"Say sooth, if thou shouldst be feared," said John Laurence; and the faint suspicion of pain in his tone unloosed her lips at once.
Afraid! Afraid to leave all her dreary past behind her, and to begin a new life, with her cup of gladness full to the very brim? John Laurence was satisfied with his answer. But, for the first time, not one word of reading or comment reached Agnes's mind in an intelligible form.
"May be, my gracious Lady, your good Ladyship should like your palfrey called!" were the words that greeted Agnes when she made her reappearance in Mistress Winter's kitchen, having certainly been more forgetful than usual of the flight of time. "Or, may be, it might please your honourableness to turn your goodly eyes upon the clock, and behold whether it be meet time for a decent maid to come home of a feast-day even? By my troth, I would wager thou hadst been to Westminster and hadst danced a galliardo in the Queen's Grace's hall, did I not know that none with 's eyes in 's head should e'er so much as look on thee. Thou idle doltish gadabout! Dost think I keep thee in board and lodgment and raiment for to go a-gossiping with every idle companion thou mayest meet? Whither hast been, thou dawdlesome patch? Up to no good, I warrant thee!"
"I have been to Paul's, Mistress, an' it like you," was all that Agnes answered.
"Soothly, it liketh me well, sweeting! Alisting some fat pickpurse friar, with his oily words, belike?"
"I have been a-talking with a friend," said Agnes boldly.
"Marry come up! So my sweet young damosel hath made friends, quotha! Prithee, was it my Lady's Grace of Suffolk thou wentest forth to see, or my Lady of Norfolk, trow? Did she give thee a ride o' her velvet pillion, bestudded with gold?"
Agnes thought it would be best to get it over. The storm which must come might as well fall soon as late. She stood up, and looked the terrible Mistress Winter in the face.
"Please it you, Mistress Winter, I am handfast to wedlock; and he that shall be mine husband it is that I have talked withal this even."
And having so spoken, Agnes waited quietly for the tempest.
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{
"id": "24105"
}
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6
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THE SHADOW BEFORE.
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"Oh for the faith to grasp Heaven's bright For Ever, Amid the shadows of earth's Little While!"
_Jane Crewdson_.
Sheer amazement kept Mistress Winter silent for one moment after Agnes had made her startling revelation. That her bondslave should have dared to dream of freedom was almost too preposterous for belief. And she was powerless to stop this most insubordinate proceeding; for, never anticipating such a calamity, and not fond of spending money, except on herself and her daughters, she had not, as she might have done, bound Agnes her apprentice. But after that minute of astonished silence, a thunderstorm such as even Agnes had never before experienced, burst upon her devoted head. If Mistress Winter might be believed, no such instance of rebellion, perversity, ingratitude, and all imaginable wickedness, had ever before occurred since Adam and Eve quitted Paradise. Agnes was asked to what she expected to come in this life, and where she expected to go after it. When Mistress Winter became weary of scolding, which was not soon, Joan took up the tale, and when she was tired Dorothy succeeded, and as all were gifted with considerable powers of speech, the ball was kept going until bedtime. Then Agnes was allowed to creep to her coarse rug and bundle of straw, feeling herself in peace at last.
Thenceforward there was not much peace left, at least in the day-time. Having been interrogated as to the name and calling of her suitor, Agnes was at once dubbed Madam Dominic, my Lady's Grace of Blackfriars, and various similar titles. Dorothy, clasping her hands in mock rapture, falsely averred that she had foreseen this delightful ending to the story, when she caught sight of Agnes and Friar Laurence talking at the Cross; and proceeded to give an ironical description of the Friar's personal charms, sufficiently spiced to be very amusing to her mother and sister, and just sufficiently seasoned with truth to be exceedingly galling to Agnes. Henceforth she took every opportunity to play ill-natured practical jokes on the latter. It was not likely that Agnes would particularly enjoy having shreds of dirty flannel and linen flung into her lap, with a tittering remark that they would enrich her trousseau; nor feeling, when she sat at needlework, a rotten egg gently broken over her head, with the bland intimation that it was to dress her hair for the wedding; nor the presentation, in solemn form, of torn and faded ribbons, accompanied by the information that they would become her sweetly on her bridal. Of all approach to wedding attire poor Agnes was devoid. She had but two gowns in the world--the washed-out linen bed-gown and stuff petticoat in which her work was generally done, and the well-patched serge which replaced it upon holy days. But Agnes bore all these outrages with a patience born of long practice, and nourished by glad hope. It was now May, and it had been agreed with John Laurence that the twenty-ninth of the following March was to set her free.
They would gladly have made arrangements for an earlier date, had it been possible. But John Laurence was not much richer than Agnes herself, and they had to wait till he thought that he could reasonably afford to marry. Beside this, it was a most perilous time for a priest to think of wedlock. Things might change. Hope told that "flattering tale" which she is so fond of recapitulating to young people--often most unjustifiably. Who could tell what might happen, if they waited?
Meanwhile, what was happening was not particularly cheering, at least to the apprehension of the Gospellers. Wyatt's insurrection had been put down, and its leader beheaded; and its fruitlessness was shown by the setting out of the Queen's envoys to escort Philip to England, while Wyatt yet lay in prison waiting for his trial. The Princess Elizabeth, sent to the Tower in March, on charge of complicity in Wyatt's evil deeds--who will ever know whether it was true? --had been released (at Philip's request, it was said) a few days before Corpus Christi. Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer lay imprisoned at Oxford, and under sentence of death. Nearly every day somebody was exhibited in the pillory--women as well as men--the most frequent charge being, as it appears in the diary of that comical speller, Mr Henry Machyn--"spekyng yll of good Qwen Mare." The difficulty which presents itself to the present generation is, how else her subjects could well speak of her proceedings. However, they could have held their peace. Probably the discreet portion of the community did so.
It may seem a little strange, on the surface, when one considers how it was that the reign of Mary was felt so galling, that the accession of Elizabeth was welcomed with such a fever of delight and triumph, such a sense of relief and freedom, as was undoubtedly the case--and yet that men bore the former and made no sign, waited for the latter with indescribable longing, but without any attempt to bring it about. Perhaps we must attribute this partly to that law-abiding instinct inherent in the ordinary Englishman: yet I think still more to the fact that as a rule, at all times, in all respects, the majority of the nation are indifferent. There were men who died at the stake in defence of the free Gospel. There were men who kindled those fires, and stamped out the truth, so far as in them lay. But these, even when put together, were still a minority. The majority were the watchers who stood round the stake, and who cared nothing for the cause on either side--who went to see a martyrdom as a Spaniard goes to see a bull-fight, with neither sympathy nor enmity towards the martyr. Of course, these would be, as to religious profession, what they found it to their own interest that they should be. The most popular and crowded of all the Seven Churches is the Church of Laodicea. " _Because_ thou art lukewarm... I will spue thee out of My mouth."
It was not without some difficulty that Agnes contrived to enjoy an occasional, and always short, interview with her betrothed. Such interviews were generally followed by forced audiences of Dorothy, who professed an entirely hypocritical interest in the progress of the love-match, and did her best to make Agnes recount what her lover had said to her. Agnes, however, was wise enough to keep out of the trap laid for her, and Dorothy took little by her motion.
Sometimes the lovers met for a few minutes before or after the reading in the Cathedral; sometimes there could be a few words as Agnes carried her pails to and from the Horsepool; once or twice, when Mistress Winter had barred the door on her for misdemeanour, they walked to some quiet nook in the fields near Clerkenwell, refreshing themselves with converse on the one grand subject nearest to both hearts--nearer even than each other. But the readings in the Cathedral were becoming much fewer than of old. It was a perilous thing to do now, and John Laurence was a marked man. Not that he feared danger: his motto was that of the old French knight--"Fais ce que dois, advienne que pourra!" But his brother clergy were afraid lest it should be known that such compromising proceedings as regular Scripture lessons were permitted at Saint Paul's. Some from dislike of the Bible-reading, a few from honest kindly feeling towards the reader, managed to take care that the lectern was otherwise occupied, during the hour which alone John Laurence could usually spare from other duties.
At last King Philip landed in England, and his meeting and marriage with the Queen took place at Winchester. The City and suburbs blazed with bonfires, and rang with bells; the _Te Deum_ was chanted in every church; the utmost delight had to be felt, or at any rate professed, by all who did not wish to be reported as disaffected persons. On the twelfth of August, the royal bride and bridegroom made their state entry into London. A heretic had been burnt at Uxbridge four days previous.
Every house in Cow Lane, imitating every other street in London, poured forth its members to see the procession. The good folks locked their doors, and left their houses to take care of themselves. Agnes, who liked a pretty sight as well as other people, had taken her stand with the crowd, and was looking out with interest as the first of the advancing horsemen who opened the procession became visible, when suddenly she felt a hand upon her own. She looked up into the welcome face of John Laurence.
"Art come to see the sight, John?" she asked with a smile.
"I am come to see two sights," said he, returning it,--but his smiles were always grave. "To wit, the King's and Queen's Graces of the one hand, and Agnes Stone of the other. Hast a mind for a walk toward the Clerks' Well, when all be gone by?"
"With a very good will," she answered.
But the pageant was coming past now, and they exchanged the use of their tongues for that of their eyes. It was entirely equestrian, and came over London Bridge, from Suffolk Place, where the King and Queen had passed the night. Our friends were not prepossessed by the royal bridegroom, whose low stature, want of beauty, and gloomy expression, struck them in the same light that they did most Englishmen, as denoting neither grace nor graciousness. Only two persons are recorded ever to have loved Philip--Queen Mary herself, and her successor, the fair and sagacious Elizabeth of France.
Just opposite the place where Agnes and the Friar stood was an allegorical group, of which one painted figure, supposed to be Henry the Eighth, was holding out to the Queen an open Bible, inscribed with the words _Verbum Dei_. But before night a warning had been conveyed to the authorities that the Queen was offended with this representation of her father, and the Bible was painted out so hastily that the hand of the figure was partly obliterated with it.
When the pageant had gone by, and the crowd had sufficiently dispersed, John Laurence and Agnes set out for their walk to Clerkenwell. They found a shady field, in a corner of which they sat down, and the Friar drew from his pocket a Latin Psalter,--the only form of the Bible with which it was then safe to be caught. From this he read to Agnes the hundred and seventh Psalm, translating it as he went on into the only tongue she knew.
"And He led them forth by the right way, that they might go to the City of Habitation."
He paused at that seventh verse, and half closing the book, sat looking thoughtfully into the blue heaven.
Very vaguely did Agnes enter into his deeper thoughts. Her ideas concerning public events, and possible future dangers, were of a very misty description. She kept silent a moment. Then, when he did not speak, she said-- "Well, John?"
"By the right way!" he said dreamily, rather as if speaking to himself than to her. "And He leads them, too, _inportum voluntatis eorum_--to the haven of their desire."
"That is, Heaven?" said Agnes questioningly. Her admiration for his knowledge and wisdom was high.
"That is Heaven," he replied in the same tone as before.
"John, what thinkest Heaven shall be like?"
"Like God!" said the Black Friar slowly. "Therefore, glorious-- wonderful--perfect in every part--holy--satisfying."
"And right fair and beauteous, doubtless," she added, by way of completing the picture.
"That which is perfect must be fair," said John Laurence. "He saith to His Church, `Thou art all fair, My love, and a stain is not in thee.' That is, to thee, and me, Agnes."
"To _me_?" she repeated, in an awe-struck voice. "Nay, how so, trow? I am all o'er a stain with my sins."
The answer was in inspired words. " `For perfect wert thou, in My beauty which I put upon thee, saith the Lord God.'"
Agnes sat still, trying to take in the idea.
"Hear yet again another His saying to the Church: `Thou hast wounded Mine heart, My sister-spouse; thou hast wounded Mine heart in one of thine eyes, and in one chain of thy neck.' Now what is the eye? --is it not a member of the body? Doth not this learn us that every one of Christ's members hath his proper and peculiar love of Him, that cannot belong to any other? Yea, more; for the chain of the neck is not a member, but only the ornament of a member. Wherefore one grace--for the ornaments of the soul be his graces--one grace of one Christian soul is enough to delight Christ's heart."
Both were silent for a while, Agnes learning her new lesson.
"Mine heart!" said John Laurence suddenly, "the right way at times looks like the wrong."
"What meanest thou, John?" said Agnes, looking into his face, and startled by its expression of pain.
"Dear heart, we know not what lieth afore us. We be so blind, Agnes! But He knows. It is enough, if we are ready to follow Him. Canst thou dare follow, as well through the flood and the fire as through the flowery mead?"
"I cannot tell," she said tremulously. "I would try."
"There be two staves to lean on in our weariness," he said. "The one is for earth: `Fear not, because I am with thee.' And the other is of Heaven, but gildeth earth with hope: `Where I am, there shall My servant be.' There must be glory and sweetness, where is Jesus Christ."
Long years afterwards, Agnes recalled those words.
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{
"id": "24105"
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7
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SAD TIDINGS.
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"But of all sad words by tongue or pen, The saddest are these--`It might have been!'"
Though the majority of the nation were comparatively indifferent to the religious changes that had been effected, there were certain political occurrences which they viewed with less equanimity. One of these was the vast number of Spaniards brought over by Philip. It was reckoned-- doubtless with some exaggeration--that in September, 1554, three Spaniards might be seen in London to every Englishman. The rumour ran that five thousand more were on the way. The nation was both vexed and alarmed. Was England to be reduced, like the Netherlands, to the condition of a mere outlying province of Spain?
Before eight weeks had run out from the day of Philip's arrival in London, his hand upon the reins was plainly visible. He had been heard to say that if he believed a member of his own body to be tainted with heresy, he would amputate it immediately and without remorse. The Gospellers were not left quite ignorant of what they might reasonably expect.
It was on a quiet morning in October that Agnes was on her way to Horsepool, when she was overtaken by Cicely Marvell, carrying a yoke of water-pails like herself.
"Good morrow, Mistress Marvell!" said the former. "Dear heart! but you look something troubled belike. Is any sick with you?"
Cicely and Agnes were quite aware that their religious sentiments were alike. It is in the cloudy and dark day that those who fear the Lord speak often one to another.
"Heavy news, my maid!" said Cicely in a low voice, and shaking her head. "Yesternight sixty folk were arrest in London for reading of Lutheran books."
"Poor folk, trow?"
"All manner, as I do hear."
Neither high nor low, in those days, were safe, if suspicion of heresy were once roused against them. The higher class were the more likely to be detected; yet there was a little more hesitation in bringing them to the stake. But it was easy to see, then as now, that as a rule it was the poor of this world whom God had chosen to be rich in faith. For every rich man or titled lady who incurred bodily danger through faithfulness to the truth, there were at least fifty of those whom the world regards as "nobody."
There was a strange mixture of comedy and tragedy in the events of those days. The miracle-play alternated with the pillory, and the sight-seers went from the burning of a heretic in the morning to see the new athletic games, introduced by the Spaniards, in the afternoon in Palace Yard. A grand tournament at Court preceded, and a bear-baiting followed, the humiliating spectacle of the Parliament of England kneeling at the feet of Cardinal Pole, and abjectly craving absolution from Rome. One man--Sir Ralph Bagenall--stood out, and stood up, when all his co-senators were thus prostrate in the dust. He was religiously a Gallio, not a Gospeller; but he was politically a sturdy Englishman, and no coward. Strange to say, no harm came to him. Nay, is it strange, when we read, "Them that honour Me, I will honour," and "Whosoever shall lose his life for My sake and the Gospel's, the same shall save it?"
There were no longer any sermons preached at the Cross that a Gospeller cared to hear. One was forthcoming regularly every Sunday; but the preachers were Pendleton the renegade, Feckenham the suave, or Gardiner the man of blood. The uneasy feeling of a section at least of the populace was shown by frays at Charing Cross, incipient insurrections in Suffolk, assaults on priests at the altar, and unaccountable iconoclasms. The image of Becket was twice found broken by mysterious means; and a cat, tonsured, and arrayed in miniature vestments, was discovered hanging on the gallows in Cheapside, while the offer of a large reward failed to reveal the offender.
During this time, Mistress Winter's piety had been blooming in a wonderful manner. She kept Saint Thomas of Canterbury on a small table, with a lamp burning before it, and every morning diligently courtesied to this stock and stone. When her hands were not otherwise busied, a rosary was pretty sure to be found in them, on which she recounted Paters and Aves with amazing celerity. The bitterness of her tongue kept pace with her show of religiousness. Ugly adjectives, and uglier substantives, were flung at Agnes all the day long, and whether she deserved reproof or not appeared to make no difference. But though words and even blows were not spared, Mistress Winter went no further. Agnes was much too useful to be denounced as a heretic, at least so long as she remained at her post in Cow Lane. She did all the unpleasant work in the house, besides filling the convenient offices of a vent for Joan's temper, and a butt for Dorothy's ridicule. But though getting rid of her was not to be thought of, words were cheap, however peppery, and a box on the ear was a great relief to the feelings of the giver-- those of the recipient not being taken into account. So Agnes got plenty of both.
"Sweet-heart, how earnest by yonder black eye?" anxiously demanded John Laurence, on the last Sunday afternoon in January, when Agnes and he were coming back from their favourite stroll towards Clerkenwell. " 'Tis nought new, belike," said she with a smile.
"Please God," returned he, "it shall be ancient matter and by-gone, very soon."
He stood still a moment, looking over the crowded chimneys of the City, just beyond the green field through which they were walking.
"Doth the thought e'er come to thy mind, Agnes," asked he, "how soon all things shall be bygones? At the most afore many years,--yea, afore many days, it may be,--thou and I shall be away hence from this world. And even this great city, that doth look thus firm and substantial, ere long shall not be left thereof one trace. Yea, heaven and earth shall pass away: but Christ's words shall not pass away."
Agnes listened with interest, but gave no answer beyond a gesture of assent.
"I have fallen to think much of late," said the Black Friar, "of one word of His,--assuredly not to pass away, nor be forgotten--`Whosoever shall deny Me before men, him will I also deny before My Father which is in Heaven.' Verily, it were awful matter, to draw down on a man's head this public denying of Jesu Christ."
"Dear heart!" said Agnes, at once sympathetically and deprecatingly.
"Ah!" he replied, with a sigh of self-distrust: "hope is one matter, and belief another."
"Dost fear some ill work, trow?" she asked doubtfully.
John Laurence did not answer at once. He spoke after a minute, dreamily, as if to himself; a habit to which Agnes was now quite accustomed. " `Be not afraid of them that kill the body, and after that have no more that they can do. But I will forewarn you whom ye shall fear: Fear Him, which after that He hath killed hath power to cast into Hell.'"
The Friar walked on for a few seconds with his usual rapidity, and then suddenly stopped again.
"Men think lightly of these things, dear heart," said he. "Most men have a far greater care lest they break a limb, or lose an handful of gold, than lest they be cast into Hell. Yet see thou how Christ took the same. And He knew,--as we cannot know,--what is Hell."
"The good Lord keep us!" ejaculated Agnes fervently.
"Amen!" responded the Black Friar. " `He shall keep the feet of His saints.' It is not we that keep ourselves. 'Tis not we that hold Him, no more than the babe holdeth himself in his mother's arms. And the mother were more like to leave the babe fall into the fire or the water, than He to loose hold upon His trustful child."
He was trying to prepare her for what might come. But she was not prepared.
Cold though it was, they had a pleasant walk that afternoon. The time of release was drawing so near, that Agnes felt almost as bright and glad as if it were already come. At Cow Cross, her betrothed bade her farewell, saying with his grave smile that he would not come further, lest it should cost her an extra taunt from Mistress Dorothy.
Agnes was quite satisfied to be saved the small torment in question. She did not realise how soon the time might come when it would seem to her a lighter thing to endure Dorothy's ridicule for a calendar year, than to miss one glimpse of that face.
We recognise such facts as these--when they come.
The next day passed over uneventfully. The Tuesday morning rose, bright, clear, and frosty. Agnes was in spirits perfectly marvellous, considering what she had to endure. She was making melody in her heart as she carried her pails to the pump, thinking gladly how short her time of trial was growing, and how bright her future would be. It mattered nothing to her that she would have to work as hard as ever; nothing, that she must live in a single room of a crowded street in the heart of the City; nothing, that John Laurence was a worn, gaunt man of more than twice her years, and utterly unattractive in the eyes of the world; nothing, that the day was bitterly cold, and her thin bed-gown a very insufficient protection. Everything was rose-colour to her. Had she not Christ in Heaven, and one honest heart that loved her upon earth?
When Agnes came in sight of the pump, she perceived a little child sitting crouched upon the step of the trough, and evidently crying. Her heart was not hard to touch, and setting down her pails she laid her hand on the boy's shoulder. He had been too much absorbed in his grief to notice her approach, but when she spoke he looked up, showing the now tear-stained face of little Will Flint.
"Why, Will, my little lad! --what matter now?"
Will burst into a fresh paroxysm without answering.
"Metrusteth thou hast not been an ill lad?"
Will shook his curly head.
"Nay, what then? Is Mother sick?"
Another shake.
"Come, tell me what it is. Mayhap we shall find some remedy."
"O Mistress Agnes!" came with a multitude of sobs.
"Nay, then, tell me now!" pleaded Agnes.
"O Mistress Agnes, they have ta'en him!"
"Ta'en whom, my lad? Sure, thy little brother Dickon is not stole away?"
"No!" sobbed Will. "But, O Mistress! --they've ta'en him to yon ugly prison, afore those wicked folk, and they call him an here--heretic, and they say he'll ne'er come out again--nay, never!"
This was manifestly something serious.
"But ta'en whom, Will, dear? --not thy father?"
"Oh nay, nay! --the Black Friar."
"What Black Friar, Will?" Agnes hardly knew her own voice.
"Why, our Black Friar--Father Laurence. There was only one."
For a minute there was dead silence in reply--a minute, during which the rose-colour died out of sky and earth, and the glad music was changed to funeral bells. Then Agnes rose from her stooping position.
"There was only one!" she repeated, with a far-away look in her eyes, which were fixed on the tower of the Cathedral, but saw nothing.
"He was so good to me and Dickon!" sobbed Will.
"Child, wilt do thy best to find out whither they have ta'en him, and when he is to be had afore the Bishops, and then come and tell me?"
Will, occupied in rubbing his eyes with his small sleeve, nodded assent. Agnes filled her pails mechanically, and carried them home. The world must go on, if the sun would never rise any more for her.
Early the next morning Will brought her news that the six prisoners, of whom John Laurence was one, had been taken to the Counter, and that on the eighth of February they were to appear before Bishop Gardiner at Winchester Palace, Southwark. Knowing that Mistress Winter would soon hear of the arrest, if she had not already done so, Agnes made no attempt to conceal the news. She told it herself, and requested permission to go and hear the examination.
"What, on a brewing-day!" cried Mistress Winter. "Good sooth, nay! They be right sure to be put by to another day. If that be not brewing, nor baking, nor cleaning, nor washing-day, may be thou canst be let go for an half-hour then."
"Prithee, Mistress Sacramentary, don thy velvet gown!" spitefully added Dorothy.
The hall of the Bishop's Palace was crowded that morning. The six prisoners were led out in order, according to their social rank:--first, William Hunter, the apprentice-boy of Brentford, only sixteen years of age; then Thomas Tomkins, the weaver; Stephen Knight, the barber of Maldon; William Pygot, the butcher of Braintree; John Laurence, the Black Friar; lastly, Thomas Hawkes, the only one in the group who wrote himself "gentleman." They were such common, contemptible people, that Gardiner thought them beneath his august notice, and scornfully referred them to Bonner's jurisdiction. They were marched at once to the Consistory sitting in Saint Paul's Chapter-House, whither the crowd followed.
The Consistory demanded of the accused persons-- "Do ye believe that the body of Christ is in the Sacrament, without any substance of bread and wine remaining?"
The prisoners replied that this doctrine was not agreeable to Scripture.
"Do ye believe that your parents, your sponsors, the King, Queen, nobility, clergy, and laity of the realm, believing this doctrine, were true and faithful Christians, or no?"
"If they so believed," was the answer, "they were therein deceived."
"Did ye, yourselves, in time past, truly believe the same, or no?"
They said, "Ay, heretofore; but not now."
"Do ye believe that the Spirit of Christ has been, is, and will be, with the Church, not suffering her to be deceived?"
"We do so believe," replied the prisoners.
"Have you," pursued Bonner, "being infamed to me as heretics, not been a good space in my house, and been there fed, and instructed by those desirous of your soul's welfare--and yet you refuse this belief?"
The accused admitted all this.
"Will ye now conform?"
"In no whit, until it be proved by Holy Scripture," came the decisive answer.
"If not," demanded the Bishop, "what grounds have you to maintain your opinion? Who is of the same opinion? What conference have ye had therein with any? What comfort and relief had you from any, and their names and dwelling-places?" [Note 1.]
This was a deliberate request that they would accuse their friends and teachers. But the prisoners did not respond.
"We have no ground but the truth," they said, "which we were taught by Doctor Taylor, of Hadleigh, and such other."
Since Taylor of Hadleigh was already burnt to ashes, this admission could do him no harm.
The accused persons were then remanded until nine o'clock the next morning, and advised in the meantime to "bethink them what they would do."
It was Cicely Marvell who told all this in a low voice to Agnes Stone, as they stood together under a tree in the meadow behind Cow Lane.
"Keep a good heart, dear maid!" said Cicely encouragingly. "May be it shall be better than we might fear. `The Lord is very pitiful, and of tender mercy.'"
But Agnes shook her head. To such a trial she at least anticipated no other end than death. Too well she knew that, like the Master whose servant John Laurence was, "for envy they had delivered him."
Perhaps, too, her spirituality was of a higher type than that of Cicely. She recognised that the Lord's tender mercy lies not in sparing pain to His chosen, but in being with them when they pass through the purifying waters, and bearing them in His arms through the fire which is to consume their earthliness, but not themselves. His is a love which will inflict the pain that is to purify, and tenderly comfort the sufferer as he passes through it.
Agnes hardly knew how she passed that Friday evening. Her usual duties were all done; but she went through them with eyes that saw not, with deafened ears on which Mistress Winter's abuse fell pointless, for which Dorothy's sarcasms had no meaning. God was in Heaven, and John Laurence and his persecutors were on earth: beyond this there was to her nobody and nothing. The vexations for which she used to care were such mere insignificant pin-pricks that it was impossible even to notice them now.
So the Friday evening, and the sleepless night, wore away: and the Saturday morning broke.
------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. These questions, in point of wording, are very much condensed.
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8
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THE CROWN OF LIFE.
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"Welcome scaffold for precious Christ."
_Reverend James Renwick_.
It so happened that the 9th of February, to which the prisoners had been remanded, was not a day devoted to baking, brewing, cleaning, or washing, in the household of Mistress Winter; who, not in complimentary language, gave Agnes her permission to spend half-an-hour in the Chapter-house.
Already, before the sitting of the Consistory, Bishop Bonner had sent, first for Pygot and Knight, and afterwards for Tomkins and Hunter, into his "great chamber," and asked them if they were willing to recant. They all refused, "not being persuaded in their consciences" that the doctrines propounded to them were true. These four were then brought into the Consistory, and a paper was offered them to sign, containing a synopsis of their belief. The statement appears to have been a fair and true definition of their creed, for all four attached their names to it without hesitation.
It was just at this time that Agnes entered the Chapter-house, as these prisoners were being removed, and John Laurence was brought forward.
"Pray you, come hither to me," said Bonner, with a show of friendliness, due to his prisoner's priesthood.
Calmly enough, to outward show, Agnes looked on his face as he came up to the Bishop,--that face so plain and uncomely to other eyes, so dear and beautiful to hers. There would be time enough for weeping hereafter, in that dreary future, of which the vista seemed to stretch before her in illimitable desert: but now she could afford to lose no tone of that yoke, no moment of the time permitted for gazing on that face. She might never see him again until they should stand together before the throne of God.
John Laurence answered every question asked of him calmly and firmly. He admitted that he was a priest, eighteen years in orders, and sometime a Black Friar professed. But Bonner's spies had told him more than this; and it was not his wont to omit the wringing of a heretic's heart.
"Art thou not ensured unto a maid in way of marriage?"
"I am so, my Lord," said John Laurence.
"Didst thou truly propose to wed with her?"
"By God's leave, I did."
And Agnes Stone, standing in the crowd, heard herself thus confessed before God and man--a confession which, she full well knew, stamped him who made it, in the eyes of these his judges, with indelible disgrace.
"And what is thine opinion on the Sacrament?" inquired Bonner in a confidential manner.
"It is a remembrance of Christ's body."
"Then what sayest thou of them which believe, as we do, that it _is_ Christ's body?"
"I say that they are deceived."
"Thinkest thou that all do err which believe not as thou dost?" said Bonner with his usual bluster.
"I do say so, my Lord," was the determined answer.
Once more the prisoners were remanded, but only until afternoon. Agnes did not dare to stay. She had ascertained from Cicely Marvell, whom she saw in the crowd, that prisoners' friends were often permitted a farewell interview between sentence and execution; and if she meant to apply for that, she must not risk Mistress Winter's anger by remaining now. Cicely promised to bring her news of the sentence.
"Lo' you now! here cometh my fair Lady Dominica!" was Dorothy's salutation, as Agnes re-entered the kitchen. "What news, sweet Mistress Blackfriars? Is thy goodly sweet-heart consecrate Lord Bishop of Duneery, or shall he but be Master Doctor Dean of Foolscap?"
Agnes vouchsafed no answer.
"Woe betide us! here is Madam Gospeller hath lost her tongue!" cried Dorothy. "Do but give me to wit, prithee, sweetest Sacramentary! So dear love I all Black Friars, I may never sleep till I know."
"They be yet again remanded," replied Agnes dreamily.
Though she felt sure what the end would be, it was impossible to realise it. Surely all that was passing must be some dreadful dream, from which she would presently awake, perhaps in the little bed which used to be hers in her aunt's pretty cottage, and find that all the past, for eight years, had been a groundless vision.
Yet Dorothy's torturing pin-pricks were real enough. All day long she persisted in worrying Agnes by pretended sympathy--so patently pretended that it was excessively annoying. The towel was snatched from her as she was washing her hands, with an entreaty that Dorothy might take that trouble for her; the mop was hidden where she could not find it, with an assurance that it would but increase the bitterness of her sorrow to discover it; invisible strings were stretched across the kitchen where she was sure to fall over them,--in order, as Dorothy tenderly intimated, to turn her thoughts from the painful anxiety which she must be enduring. It seemed to Agnes as if night and certainty would never come. Yet how could she wish it, when she felt so sure what the awful certainty would be? The hours wore on; the dark came at last; and when the night had fairly set in, Cicely Marvell's soft tap was heard on Mistress Winter's door. Agnes opened it herself. Dorothy had indeed rushed to do it, but fortunately Agnes contrived to reach it before her. It was evident that Cicely was loth to tell her terrible news, though Dorothy begged her, over Agnes' shoulder, to relieve her heartrending suspense. Was it from one faint throb of womanly feeling in her usually hard heart, that Mistress Winter, in sharp tones, summoned Dorothy within, and left Agnes to hear the news alone?
"Speak, Mistress Marvell," said Agnes, in that preternaturally calm manner which she had worn from the first. "It is death."
"Ay, poor Agnes! It is death by fire."
"And in the meantime? --" "They lie in Newgate. He shall be taken to Colchester to suffer, being he was there born, the 28th of this March."
"Then he dieth on the 29th?"
"E'en so."
He was to die on the very day they had fixed for their marriage. To _what_ had Agnes been looking forward so joyfully during those past weary months?
When the prisoners had reappeared before Bonner in the afternoon, they were asked, for the last time, if they would recant their heresy.
"We are not heretics," they replied; "the contrary is heresy."
Then, on these six contumacious men, was passed in due form the sentence of death.
Each was to suffer at the place of his birth: Thomas Tomkins in Smithfield, on the 16th of March; William Hunter, the poor apprentice-boy, at Brentford, on the twenty-sixth; William Pygot at Braintree, and Stephen Knight at Maldon, on the twenty-eighth.
It was only one interview with the prisoner for which Agnes dared to hope, and she waited for it until the day before he was to be degraded from his priestly office. Mistress Winter's momentary sympathy, if it had existed, was over, and she grumbled a good deal when Agnes preferred her request for a few hours' leave of absence. But she granted the boon at last.
"It will be the last time," said Agnes quietly.
No more meetings at Paul's Cross,--no more summer walks to Clerkenwell,--no more readings from the Cathedral lectern! Instead of that, for him the chariot of fire, and then the King's welcome home, the white robe, and the palm of victory, and the crown of life. And for her,--ah! what? It might be a forty years' wandering in the Wilderness of Sinai, with the River of Jordan at its close, ere she could come to the shore of the Promised Land. Yet the Promised Land was sure, as was the Promiser.
A strange specimen of human nature was Alexander, the keeper of Newgate prison: a man who could request Bishop Bonner to burn some more heretics because the cells were inconveniently crowded, and then, after a good supper, sit down and play the fiddle. He was extremely fond of music, though it scarcely exercised a soothing influence in his exceedingly savage breast.
Happily for Agnes, this gentleman happened to be in a good temper when she presented herself at his gates. He admitted her into the great hall, and after a short delay took her down to the low damp cell where condemned prisoners were confined. There she found John Laurence.
They were both very calm,--these two, to each of whom in that hour's last meeting the bitterness of death was passing. Each tried to be brave for the other's sake; each strengthened the other's hand in God.
"This is scarce what we looked for, sweet-heart," said the Black Friar. "We had gathered a fair dish of honey, but our good Master saw it should harm us, and appointed us in the stead thereof a dish of wormwood. Neither is all the honey gone from us, for it is sweet to suffer for His sake."
"I am glad thou hast stood firm," said Agnes quietly.
"Thou shalt have the bitterer portion, my poor heart! Yet it is for no long season. We must meet soon, in our Father's House."
"Truly. And the time may be very short," she answered.
"And canst thou give me up, mine Agnes, for Christ's sake? For mark thou, that which is wrenched away is not given."
She looked up with fixed, tearless eyes.
"Ay, John. I can give thee up for Christ's sake. But I could not for any other."
So they parted--for the last time. For when they should meet again in the Father's House, they would part no more for ever.
"Not for any other!" Is there no special tenderness in the heart of the loving Saviour, for those who have given up that one thing which would not, could not, be resigned for any sake but His?
The next day there was the bitter mockery of degradation. Every vestment of the priesthood was put upon the martyr; one by one they were torn from him with curses. The crown of his head, where the tonsure had been cut, was defaced; the anointed head and hands were roughly scraped, to deprive them of the sacred unction. But the unction from the Holy One was beyond their reach.
Then came the journey to Colchester, and, lastly, the _auto da fe_. "Not able to go, his legs sore worn with heavy irons, as also his body weakened by evil keeping," John Laurence was borne in a chair to his chariot of fire. We are told that at this martyrdom there were seen little children running round the stake, crying, "Lord, strengthen Thy servant, and keep Thy promise!" God did keep His promise, and strengthened His servant.
It was soon over; and they had no more that they could do.
There were martyr-crowns for such men as John Laurence. But were there none for women such as Agnes Stone, whose martyrdom lasted, not an hour, but a lifetime,--who laid on the Lord's altar, not their lives, but all that made life precious?
We are not told what became of her. Nor does it much matter. Rather than sketch a fancy future for such a life as hers, let us remember the true end, when that life was over. For three hundred years, more or less, these two, who gave each other up for Christ, have been given back by Christ to each other: together they have followed the Lamb whithersoever He goeth; the Lord has been their everlasting light, and the days of their mourning have been ended.
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{
"id": "24105"
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“Hallo! young lady, what on earth are you doing here?” and Gerrard bent down over his horse's shoulder, and looked inquiringly into the face of a small and exceedingly ill-clad girl of about ten years of age.
“Nothing, sir, I only came out for a walk, and to get some pippies.”
“And where do you get them?”
“Down there, sir, on the sand,” and the child pointed with a strong, sun-browned hand to the beach, which was within a mile.
“Eat them?”
“Yes--they're lovely. Jim and I roast them in the stockman's kitchen when auntie has gone to bed.”
“And who is Jim?”
“Jim Incubus; I'm Mary Incubus.”
“Mary _what_?”
“Incubus, sir.”
Gerrard dismounted, and tying his reins to a stirrup, let his horse graze. Then taking his pipe out of his pocket, he filled and lit it, and motioned to the child to sit down beside him upon a fallen honeysuckle tree.
“What is your auntie's name, my dear?” and he took the child's hand in his.
“Mrs Elizabeth Westonley.”
“Ah! I thought so. Now, did you ever hear her talk of an Uncle Tom?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the child, wonderingly, “he's a cattleman in the Northern Territory.”
“Well! I'm the cattleman, Mary. I'm the Uncle Tom, and I've come to see you all.”
“All the way from Cape York! Why! Uncle Westonley says it's two thousand miles from here.”
“So it is, my dear,” and the man stroked the child's tousled chestnut hair caressingly; “quite two thousand miles,” and then as he looked at her pityingly he muttered something very uncomplimentary to Aunt Elizabeth.
“Are you really my uncle Thomas Gerrard?”
“I am really your Uncle Tom Gerrard, and you are my niece Mary. Your mother was my sister, whose name was Mary.”
“Uncle Westonley likes you.”
“Does he?” and the young man's kindly grey eyes smiled as he stroked his pointed beard. “Good old Ted!”
“Who's Ted?”
“Your Uncle Westonley, of course. Don't you call him 'Uncle Ted'?”
“Oh, _no! _” and the child's big eyes looked startlingly into his, “I call him 'Uncle Westonley.' Aunt Elizabeth said I must never say 'Uncle Ted,' as it's vulgar, and she won't allow it, and uncle says I must be obedient to her.”
Gerrard put out his right arm, drew her to him, and looked intently into her face. In her dreamy, violet-hued eyes, with the dark pencilled brows, and the small delicate mouth, he saw the image of his dead twin-sister, Mary.
“Poor little mite!” he again said to himself pityingly, as he looked at her coarse though not ill-kept clothing, “Lizzie always was a cold-hearted prig, and always will be to the end of her days--even in her moribund moments. How could she let this child wander out so far away from the station.” Then he took two or three great puffs at his pipe. “How far is it to Marumbah, little niece Mary?”
“Five miles, sir.”
“Don't say 'sir.' Who taught you to say 'sir'?”
“Aunt Elizabeth.”
“But you must not say 'sir' to me. I'm your uncle. And you must call me 'Uncle Tom.' Understand?”
“Aunt Elizabeth insists on my saying 'sir' to gentlemen.”
“Does she now? Well, my dear, you must never say 'sir' to me--I'll ask Aunt Elizabeth not to insist on your calling me 'sir.' You see I shouldn't like it I want you to call me 'Uncle Tom.' Lots of people call me Tom. Some of 'em call me Tom and Jerry--short, you know, for Thomas Gerrard.”
“Aunt Elizabeth says you're godless and wild.”
“Does she really?” and the grey eyes twinkled. “That's only _her_ way of talking, you see. 'Godless and wild' doesn't mean anything very bad when Aunt Elizabeth says it It only means--well, nothing particular. When you are older you will understand.”
“Yes, sir.”
“_Uncle Tom! _” “Yes, Uncle Tom.”
“Now, Mary, what about these pippies? Will you let me come with you? I'm awfully fond of pippies--can eat bushels of 'em.”
“Yes, Uncle Tom,” and the child's face lighted up, “oh! I wish Jim was here too. Are you his uncle, too?”
Gerrard rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. His sister Elizabeth had no children, and he wondered who Jim could be.
“No, I _don't think_ I am. When did he come to Marumbah?”
“Uncle Westonley brought him from Sydney about--about six months ago.”
“Where is he now?”
“At home, with Aunt Elizabeth. He's been fractious, and is being punished.”
“Being punished?”
“Yes, he's locked up in the spare room.”
“What did he do?”
“Put a saddle on the brindle bull calf, and tried to make it backjump.”
“Did it?”
“Oh, yes, beautifully, and Jim had his forehead cut, and a lot of blood came.”
Gerrard laughed as he put down his pipe, “And what did Uncle Westonley say?”
“Uncle Westonley is away in Sydney,” said the child gravely, and as she spoke her eyes filled with tears.
Gerrard understood. “Well, never mind, Mary; now you and I shall go and get these pippies.”
From his saddle dees he took a pair of green-hide hobbles, lifted off the saddle with its valise, hobbled the horse, and then holding the child's hand in his, set out towards the beach.
“Now, Mary, you and I are going to have a great old time. First of all, you are going to show me how _you_ get pippies. Then we will come back and cook them, and have some tea and some damper as well, for I have both in my saddle-bags, and I have a wood duck too, which I shot this morning. Did you see it?”
“Yes, Uncle Tom; and your gun, too. Jim loves guns.”
“Does he, my chick? Jim must be a man after my own heart.”
“What's that, Uncle Tom?”
“Oh, I'll tell you some day. Now come along for the pippies. You show me how _you_ get them, and I'll show you how _I_ get them.”
Holding his hand, the child led him down through the wild, sweet-smelling littoral scrub by a cattle track to the beach, where before them lay the blue Pacific, shining under the rays of the afternoon sun. The tide was low, and the “pippies” (cockles) were easily had, for they protruded their suckers out upon every few inches of the sand. Gerrard, booted and spurred as he was, went into the water, dug into the sand with his hands, and helped the child to fill the basket she carried, and then, realising that she was excited, and being himself determined upon a certain course of action, he walked slowly back with her to where he had left the horses.
“Mary, dear, just sit down, and listen to me. I am not going to Marumbah to-night, and you must stay with me. We shall be there early in the morning.”
“Oh, Uncle Tom! Aunt Elizabeth will punish me.”
“Don't be afraid, chick--she won't. I will explain everything to her in the morning.”
In a few minutes he had lit two fires, and when the coals were glowing on one, and the child was attending to the roasting of the pippies, he was boiling a billy of tea on the other, and laying out some cold salt beef and damper from his saddle-bags.
“Come, chick, you and I are going to have a great time to-night, as I told you, pippies and wild duck, and tea and damper, and after that is over you shall be tucked up in my blankets, and sleep until we hear the bell-birds calling to us in the morning.”
“Aunt Elizabeth----” “That's all right, chick. Aunt Elizabeth will have nothing to say about it. _I'll_ settle with _her_. Now, sit down on that blanket--I daresay you're hungry, _eh? _” “Please, Uncle Tom, let me go home, Aunt Elizabeth----” “We'll go home, chick, when the bell-birds and the crockets begin to sing. And Aunt Elizabeth won't say a word to you.” He smiled somewhat grimly to himself, “don't be afraid of that. You and I are camping out tonight--like two old mates. By-the-way, where do you sleep at Marumbah?”
“In the little room, just off the saddle-room.”
“And Jim?”
“Oh, Aunt Elizabeth doesn't like him to sleep in the house, so he sleeps in the stockman's spare room.”
“How old is he, chick?”
The child bent her head in thought for a moment or two. “About ten, I think, Uncle Tom. He is really and truly such a good boy--Uncle Westonley says so, but Aunt Elizabeth says he is godless and an 'incubus.' What _does_ incubus mean? I am one too.”
“Nothing, nothing very much, little one,” said Gerrard, as he held the breast of the wild duck he had plucked over the glowing coals of his fire; “you see, your Aunt Elizabeth doesn't mean to be unkind to you--it's only her way of saying that you and Jim are troublesome at times. And I don't think she will call you or Jim 'incubuses,' any more after to-morrow. Now, let us have something to eat. See, it is nearly dark.”
They ate their supper to the murmur of the ever-sounding surf upon the beach, and then Gerrard spreading out his blankets under the shelter of a spreading wild honeysuckle, covered the child over with a sheet of waterproof cloth to keep off the dew.
“I must say my prayers, Uncle Tom.” “Yes, dear,” he said softly, “but you needn't get up. Can't you say them lying down?”
“Oh, no, Uncle Tom. That would be very wrong, and denotes laziness, Aunt Elizabeth says. Do you say _your_ prayers lying down?”
“Yes, chick,” was the prompt response, “generally when I'm lying down at night in the bush, looking up at the stars. And I daresay it does 'denote laziness,' as Aunt Elizabeth says. But at the same time I think it really doesn't matter to God whether one is lying down or sitting up, or on one's knees when we pray to Him.”
“Oh, Uncle Tom! Are you quite sure?”
“Dead sure, little woman--as sure as ducks are ducks--especially when little girls are tired.”
“Then I'll say my prayers lying down.”
She clasped her two little sunbrowned hands together and said the Lord's Prayer, and then paused.
“Shall I say the extrack?”
“The extrack?”
“Yes, the extrack from the Catechism. Aunt Elizabeth composed some of it.”
“Oh! she composed some of it, did she? Yes, by all means say 'the extract.'”
The child closed her eyes again, and began very slowly: “'Before I slumber, O Lord, I comment myself to Thy care and protection, however unworthy and thoughtless my conduct has been during the day now closed.'” (“That's Aunt Elizabeth,” muttered Gerrard under his breath.) “'I will try hard to hasten my rebellious spirit,--no not hasten, but chasten--I always say that wrong, Uncle Tom--to reverently submit myself to all my governors, teachers, spiritual pastors and masters: to regulate my conduc', and demean myself with all humility; to keep my hands from picking and stealing, to recollect that I may be called this night before, Thee to answer for my many sins and transgressions.' That's all Uncle Tom.”
Gerrard listened with the utmost gravity.
“That's all right, Mary; but I think it is a bit too long a prayer for very little girls. Now, by and by, I'll teach you a new prayer.”
“A new prayer! Oh, that _will_ be nice! Sometimes Uncle Westonley let's me pray for Bunny.”
“Who is Bunny?”
“My native bear. I'll show him to you to-morrow. You see, when Uncle Westonley comes to see me at night, after Aunt Elizabeth has heard me say the Lord's Prayer, and the extrack, he lets me pray for Bunny because he is full of ticks, and Jim says hell die. I say 'dear God, don't let Bunny die, freshen and preserve him in Thy sight, and make him whole.' I got that out of a book, and Uncle Westonley says it will do very nicely.”
“Couldn't be better, little woman. _I_ think it's a grand prayer.”
“But, Uncle Tom, Bunny has been sicker an' sicker, and won't eat anything but the very youngest, weeniest gum leaves, and Aunt Elizabeth says he's a hideous little beast. And Jim and me love him to death.”
“Don't worry about what Aunt Elizabeth says,” and Gerrard bent down and kissed her. “I'll try and cure Bunny for you. I know a heap of things about native bears and ticks, and know exactly what to do.”
The child smiled delightedly into his face,* “Oh! Uncle Tom, you are as kind as Uncle Westonley, good-night.”
“Good-night, little woman,” and then the man laid himself down upon the sandy ground beside her, with a certain resolve in his mind.
At six o'clock in the morning, he rode up to Marumbah Station with little Mary held in front of him. Mrs Westonley, pale-faced, austere, and much agitated, met him as he dismounted.
“Oh, dear, Thomas! Just fancy _you_ finding the child and bringing her home! I sent out Toby, the black boy, to look for her, and I suppose he is looking for her still--the naughty----” “That's all right, Lizzie, don't get into a fluster,” said Gerrard placidly, as he dismounted and kissed his sister, “Toby _did_ find her--that is, he found her and me comfortably camped for the night. He's coming along presently with my packhorse.”
Mrs Westonley turned angrily upon the child, and was about to deliver a lecture, when her brother placed his hand upon her arm and drew her aside.
“Look here, Lizzie, I'm your guest, and I'm also your brother; but if you bully that unfortunate youngster, I'll just get into my saddle again, and ride off without putting my foot over your threshold.”
Mrs Westonley's pale, clear-cut face flushed deeply. “I never expected such a remark as this from you, Thomas.”
“And I never expected that you would have treated your own sister's child as you have done,” was the stern reply; “I found her five miles from here, wandering alone. Have you no love or sympathy in your heart, or compassion for children, because you have none yourself?” and the grey eyes flashed.
Mrs Westonley gazed at him in astonishment, and twined her hands together in mingled anger and fear that this brother--fifteen years younger than herself--should so dare to speak to _her_.
“The child is a great trial----” “Aye, an 'incubus,' you call her, the poor little mite. But I hardly thought you read novels.”
“_I_ read novels! _Never! _ What do you mean?”
Gerrard drew her inside the house, and patted her cheek, ready to forgive.
“Oh, I did read a book somewhere about a stepmother or an aunt or something of the kind, who was always talking about some unfortunate child committed to her care, as an 'incubus.' Now, that's all I have to say. I _love_ the kid already. She has Mary's eyes and Mary's voice, and, _if you_ don't want her _I_ do. When will breakfast be ready, old girl?”
“Eight o'clock,” said Mrs Westonley faintly, wondering if she were awake or dreaming. Who but this handsome, sunburnt brother would dare to lecture her, and then wind up by addressing her as “old girl”!
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{
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When Captain Richard Gerrard--the father of Mrs Westonley--came to Australia from India, he first settled in Gippsland, in Victoria. A retired military man, with ample means, he devoted himself successfully to pastoral pursuits, and soon took a leading part in the advancement of the colony. He had married the daughter of an English chaplain, by whom he had but one child--Elizabeth--and when she was but an infant of two years of age, Mrs Gerrard died. For thirteen years her husband remained faithful to her memory, and then did what all his neighbours regarded as a very sensible thing--he married the daughter of a neighbouring squatter, and sent his child to England to be educated. His second wife was a beautiful, vigorous, and well-trained woman, mentally and physically, and although her parents were English, she was a native of the colony, and, naturally enough, took the deepest interest in all that concerned the station, the advancement of her husband's interests, and the colony in which she was born. Two children were born to them, a twin son and daughter, and as time went on, Captain Gerrard's station became one of the best in Victoria, and the “R over G” brand of cattle brought “top” prices in the Melbourne market.
After completing her education in England, Elizabeth Gerrard returned to Australia. She was a remarkably handsome girl, but cold, even to chilliness, in her manner, especially to her step-mother, for she had much resented her father's second marriage. The six years she had spent in England seemed to have entirely changed her character and disposition, and when soon after her return, Edward Westonley, a young squatter, who was the owner of Marumbah Downs, fell violently in love with her pink and white beauty, and she accepted him, even her father, although he loved her--was secretly pleased.
Marumbah Downs was over a hundred miles from Captain Gerrard's station, and there Westonley took his bride. He was a cheerful, somewhat careless man, very “horsey” in his tastes, and fond of good company. Both his father-in-law and Mrs Gerrard liked him greatly, and the two children by the second marriage, Tom and Mary, gave him their affection the first time they saw him.
The boy Tom grew up like most Australian-born boys of his class of life and surroundings, and before he was twenty years of age, was managing one of his father's stations in Queensland, and managing it prosperously. Soon after he had taken charge, he heard from his father that his twin sister Mary was to be married to a local medical man--a Doctor Rayner, who had been her steady admirer since she was a girl of fifteen.
“It will be a very happy union,” wrote Captain Gerrard to his son, “of that I am certain, and although he's too young a man to have much of a practice for some time, he'll get along all right. And even if things do go against him, it won't matter to him and Mary--I'll stand to them. Mary is writing to you by this mail.” Then after alluding to some business matters in connection with his various stations he went on to say. “Westonley comes over to see us now and then--Lizzie never. Poor Westonley! Lizzie has crumpled him up altogether, although when he comes to see us he is the same cheery Ted of yore, and he, Rayner, and I had some grand kangarooing together when he was here last. Lizzie, during the past five years has become more and more crotchety, and has given herself up to 'religious thought _and_ work,' as she calls it, from which I surmise that her's is a reign of terror at Marumbah Downs. She has built a little tin-pot chapel in which there is not enough room to swing a cat by the tail, and had it opened a few months ago by some swagger curate from Melbourne--poor old Preston, the Scotch parson at Marumbah township not being considered good enough, and having incurred her wrath by openly stating that when he had a cold he took whisky toddy at bedtime! then the silly woman--who rules poor Westonley with a rod of iron--had a notice put up in the men's quarters that all hands, from the head stockman down to the black boys, were to attend service every future Sunday morning and evening, Westonley--whom she wanted to conduct the service--bucked, and said he could not make an ass of himself before his employés, and the next day the entire crowd--stockmen, fencers, sawyers, etc.--rolled up to the station and gave Westonley a week's notice, and the poor fellow had to effect a compromise, they agreeing to come into the 'Chapel' and let Lizzie read them a chapter 'of suthin' outer the Bible,' if they could have the rest of the day for their usual Sunday recreations--euchre or kangarooing. I never thought Lizzie would turn out to be a crank, but a crank she is, and I'm afraid Westonley is not at all a happy man, though he yields to her in almost everything.
“Your mother has not been at all well for the post six months. She will be very lonely when Mary leaves the house, and you must come to us for a month or two next year; 'twill cheer her up. She doesn't want Lizzie--neither do I; she'd depress a dead bull calf, by just looking at him.”
And then within a twelvemonth, came the tragedy of the Gerrard family.
Captain Gerrard, by Dr Rayner's advice, decided to take his wife to Sydney to consult a specialist, and Rayner went with them. They took passage on a coastal steamer named the _Cassowary_--a small paddle-wheel vessel of three hundred tons, old, ill-found, and utterly unable to cope with the savage easterly gale that met her as she rounded Cape Howe, and doots north for Sydney.
A fortnight later, Mary Rayner, as she was putting her two months' old baby girl to sleep, was called from her bedroom to see a stranger in the sitting-room. He was a stockman from a station seventy miles away on the coast.
He silently handed her a letter, and then turned away, She opened and read it. It was from die Police Inspector of the Cape Howe district, and in a few sympathetic words told her that the _Cassowary_ had been lost near Cape Howe, and that every soul on board but one seaman and a child of four years of age had perished, and that her husband, her father and her mother had been buried three days previously.
She never survived the shock, and when Tom Gerrard made his long journey down from North Queensland to Victoria, to comfort and aid his loved sister, he found that she had died a month before.
It took some months to settle up Captain Gerrard's affairs. He had made a will devising his head station to his wife, together with (less a certain reservation) the sum of ten thousand pounds. His two other stations--one in Central Queensland, and the other in the Far North of that colony,--he bequeathed, the former to his “dear daughter, Mary Rayner” and the latter to his “son, Thomas Gerrard, together with such moneys as might be at his (the testator's) death, lying to the credit of the two stations.” Then--and here came the sting of the “certain reservation” to Elizabeth Westonley--to his “dearly esteemed son-in-law, Edward Westonley, of Marumbah Downs, I give and bequeath the sum of one thousand pounds, to be by him used in the manner he may deem best for the benefit of the Marumbah Jockey Club, of which for ten years he has been patron. To his wife (my daughter Elizabeth) I bequeath as a token of my appreciation of her efforts to improve the moral condition of illiterate and irreligious bushmen, the sum of one thousand pounds, provided that she first consults and has the approval of my wife Eleanor, as to the manner in which the said money shall be expended.”
Then, as if to show that despite this gentle sarcasm towards the cold-hearted daughter who had never forgiven him for his second marriage, and had so long alienated herself from her stepbrother and sister, he still bore her a parental affection, he added another clause (also with an unintended sting in it) to the effect that if Mrs Westonley should have issue, male or female, five thousand pounds was to be invested for her first child, to be paid upon coming of age, “also the like sum for the first child of my beloved and affectionate daughter, Mary Rayner.”
“Poor Lizzie!” said Tom Gerrard to his brother-in-law, Westonley, after the contents of the will were made known, “she won't be pleased at this, I fear, Ted.”
“She won't, Tom,” replied Westonley frankly, as he placed his hand on Gerrard's shoulder with a kindly gesture, “but, between you and I, she has nothing to be angered at. I am pretty well in, and if I died to-morrow, she would be well provided for. And I don't think--I'm not disloyal to my wife--I don't think that she was quite as kind as she might have been to your mother and to you, and to poor Mary.”
Of course the death of Mrs Gerrard simultaneously with that of her husband, somewhat complicated matters, for she had made no will, and was evidently not aware of the nature of that made by Captain Gerrard; for she was of too gentle and kindly a nature to have permitted him to have written anything that could have aroused a feeling of resentment in the mind of his first-born child, although that child, from the day she returned from England had treated her with unconcealed hauteur and coldness.
At last, however, matters were finally settled, and Mrs Westonley, although she did resent most bitterly what she called her father's “wicked will,” consented, at her husband's earnest request, to take charge of and educate Mary Rayner's orphan child.
“It will be a disgrace to us, Elizabeth, if we send the poor child to strangers,” Westonley had said to her, almost sternly. “Tom, although he is a bachelor, would be overjoyed if we let her go to him.”
“He is most unfitted to have the care of a child,” said Mrs Westonley, icily; “from his conversation I should imagine he would be a most _decidedly_ improper person.”
“But he means well, you know; but, like your poor father, he's a bit too outspoken and rough. And... and Elizabeth, we have no children of our own, and you will get to love the poor little one.”
“I will make no guarantee as to conferring my affections upon a child whose disposition may prove to be utterly unworthy of the tuition and Christian training I have undertaken to give her--at your request,” was the acidulous reply.
Westonley groaned inwardly, but made no answer.
A few months after this conversation, Tom Gerrard made a short visit to Marumbah Downs to see Westonley and his dead sister's child. He had just returned from the little bay near Cape Howe, where the _Cassowary_ had been castaway, and where his father, mother, and Dr Rayner had been buried, together with all the other passengers and members of the crew whose bodies had been washed ashore. After dinner, he, Westonley, and his step-sister, were discussing Captain Gerrard's will, when just then there came in a neighbour of Westonley's--a squatter named Brooke--who was one of the executors. Mrs Westonley received him rather coldly, and when Tom Gerrard began describing to him the situation of the place where his father and mother were interred, she listened with an ill-concealed impatience.
“Well! Mrs Westonley,” said Brooke, stretching out his spurred and booted feet, “your father and mother died together--as they lived, hand in hand, and heart to heart.”
“The late Mrs Gerrard was _not_ my mother.”
There was a dead silence, and then Tom Gerrard rose, and looked his step-sister in the face with undisguised and bitter contempt.
“No, thank God! she was _not_, but she was _mine_, I am proud to say.”
Then he held out his hand to Westonley, “Good-bye, Ted, I'm leaving.”
“For heaven's sake, Tom! ... Elizabeth, you forget yourself! Oh, I say, Brooke, don't let him go.”
But Tom Gerrard, his heart aflame with anger, pushed Brooke and his brother-in-law aside, went to the stables, saddled his horse, and rode off to the Marumbah township, fifteen miles away, and next morning Westonley received a note.
“Dear old Ted,--You and I will always be the same old pals. I know you will be kind to Mary's little one, and will write to me from time to time, as I shall to you. But I can't forgive Lizzie. You will say I write in anger. _I do_. And yet I am a man quick to forgive an ordinary affront, even from a woman. You understand, old boy. TOM.”
And so for many years, Tom Gerrard kept away from Marumbah, till his step-sister and Westonley wrote, and urged him to visit them.
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Breakfast was served punctually at eight o'clock, and Tom Gerrard, whose equanimity was now quite restored, took his seat opposite his sister with a smiling face, and in a few minutes, under the sunshine of his genial manner, Mrs Westonley, much against her own inclination, began to thaw, and presently found herself chatting quite pleasantly with him.
“I've sprung myself on you two or three days before you expected me, Lizzie, but I'm sure you don't mind.”
“Indeed no, Thomas. I am very glad I wish Edward was here, but the mailman may bring me a letter from him this morning. He said in his last letter he would be sure to return home by Saturday, and to-day is Thursday. But what brought you here so quickly, Thomas?”
“Well, I was very lucky in getting a passage in one of the new Dutch mail steamers, instead of having to wait for the slow old _Eagle_ so I reached Melbourne a week earlier than I expected. Then at Melbourne I caught the steamer for Port Albert, just as she was leaving. At Port Albert, instead of waiting two days for the coach for Marumbah, I bought a couple of horses, a gun, and some other gear, and came the ninety odd miles comfortably, instead of being shaken to pieces in one of Cobb's awful coaches.”
“But what an unnecessary expense, Thomas. The two horses----” “Oh! the whole thing, gun and all included, didn't run into fifty pounds.”
“Fifty pounds! Oh, Thomas! And your coach fare would have been but three pounds! You really are dreadfully extravagant.”
“Not at all, Lizzie. I shall not lose much in the end. Ted will buy the horses, and all the gear from me. I think I can jew him into giving me something for them, even if it is only thirty quid.”
“Thirty what?”
“Thirty quid--thirty pounds. Now my dear old Lizzie, don't pretend to be shocked at the word 'quid.' You know you've heard all the colonial expressions--and poor dad used them pretty frequently.”
“Indeed he did, Thomas--too frequently, I'm afraid.”
“Ah, well, Lizzie my dear, it doesn't matter now. By-the-way, doesn't little Mary breakfast with you?”
“Oh yes, usually; but this morning I told Janet to give her her breakfast in her bedroom, then after she has made herself presentable she can join us. I'm sure she and that dreadful boy Jim will get you to inspect their 'cubby house' down on the river bank in the course of the day. Sometimes Edward makes me quite cross by the way he yields to their stupid whims. He actually spent a whole day in helping them build their precious cubby house.”
Gerrard laughed: “Good old Ted--just as much of a boy as he was twenty years ago! But who is this youngster Jim?”
“Oh, I quite forgot to tell you about him when we wrote to you. He is another of Edward's extravagances. You will remember that when the _Cassowary_ was lost, the only survivors were one seaman and a child of four years of age. Well, about eight months ago, when Edward was travelling to Sydney in the _Balclutha_, he--as he always does--made the acquaintance of every seaman on board. One of them, a quartermaster, turned out to be the man who had been washed on shore from the _Cassowary_. Of course Edward was very much interested, and the man, whom he says is a very respectable steady person, told him that he had taken care of the child, who was his fellow-survivor. Well, the end of it was that Edward went to see the boy, and brought him home with him. He _will_ do those extraordinary things.”
“Who were the boy's parents?”
“No one knows. Coll, the quartermaster, said that there were a great number of steerage passengers on board, and that he remembers seeing a young woman and her husband with this child, whom they called Jim, but what was their name was never ascertained. It was believed that they were newly-arrived emigrants, for no inquiries were made from any quarter about them, and so Coll, who seems to be a very kind man, took the child to his own home, although he has quite a large family, and actually did not want to part with him. Of course, Edward, as usual, went to extremes, and gave the Coll family fifty pounds.”
“It was a generous action, Lizzie,” said Gerrard gravely, “and shows him to be a good fellow--and a Christian.”
Mrs Westonley looked at her step-brother in surprise. “But, Thomas, you don't seem to understand. These Coll people are really very poor--the father, I suppose, earns about seven pounds a month as quartermaster, and there are nine children. I think it was ridiculous of Edward giving them any money at all, considering the fact that he was lightening their cares by taking this boy, Jim, off their hands.”
“Ah! Lizzie, we don't know. They may have been very fond of the kid--in fact they _must_ have been, or they would not have kept him for six years, when they could have sent him to the Government Orphanage at Parramatta.”
“I think that is what they should have done.”
“No, you don't, Lizzie. You would not have let the youngster go into an Orphanage had you known of the matter. You have father's heart, Lizzie, under that pretty blouse of yours, although you pretend to be so cold, and put on the 'keep-off-the-style'--even to me.”
“I'm not cold-hearted, Thomas.”
Gerrard rose from his scat, and in another moment, Mrs Westonley found herself in his arms, and seated upon his knees.
“Now, look here Lizzie,” and he kissed her, “I'm going to do my level best to please you, for you are my sister. I daresay I have done many things to displease you, but I love you, old woman, I do indeed. And whatever I may have said in the past I 'take back' as we bushmen say, and I want you to give me some of your affection. I know you have tons of it concealed under that prim little manner of yours, but you are too proud to show it. And see, Lizzie, old girl, I'm not really the reckless scallawag you think me to be,” and he stroked her hair, and looked so earnestly and pleadingly into her eyes, that her woman's heart triumphed, and she leant her head on his shoulder.
“I never thought you cared for me, Tom,” she said “and I daresay that I have been to blame in many respects. Edward is one of the best husbands in the world, but he is careless and all but irreligious, and I cannot--I really cannot change my nature and be anything more than politely civil to the friends he sometimes brings here--they are rough, noisy and bucolic. I am always urging him to leave a manager at Marumbah and retire from squatting altogether. I do not like Australia, and wish to live in England, but he will not hear of it, although we have ample means to enable us to live in comfort, if not luxury.”
Gerrard smiled as he gazed around the handsomely furnished room, and, mentally compared it with his own rough dining room on his station in the Far North.
“I should call this a pretty luxurious diggings, Lizzie,” he said; “there are not many such houses as Marumbah Head Station in Australia.”
His half-sister shrugged her shoulders. “You should see some of the country houses in England, Thomas. And then another reason why I dislike bush life is the utter lack of female society.”
Gerrard raised his brows. “Why, there are the three Gordon girls at Black River station, only ten miles away; they certainly struck me as being graceful, refined girls.”
“Mrs Gordon is not a lady, and makes no secret of it. Her father was a fishcurer at Inverness, and before that a herring fisher.”
“But she speaks, acts, and bears herself like a lady,” protested Gerrard.
“It doesn't matter--she is not one. How Major Gordon, who comes from an old Scottish family, could marry her, I cannot understand. She was a nursery governess, or something like that.”
“Yet Gordon seems a very happy man, and the girls----” “The girls are all very well, although too horsey for me. I cannot tolerate young women bounding about all over the country after kangaroos, in company with a lot of rough men in shirts and moleskins, attending race meetings, and calling the Roman Catholic clergyman 'Father Jim' to his face. It's simply horrible.”
“Well! what about Mrs Brooke and Ethel Brooke?” asked Gerrard; “surely they are ladies in every sense of the word?”
“I admit that they are better than the Gordons, but Ethel Brooke is a notorious jilt, and her mother has absolutely no control of her; then Mr Brooke himself is more like one of his own stockmen in appearance than a gentleman by birth and education.”
Gerrard looked up at the ceiling--then gave up any further argument in despair. “I'll tell you what you want, Lizzie,” he said, cheerfully, “you want about six months in Melbourne or Sydney.”
“I detest Melbourne; it is hot, dusty, dirty, noisy, and vulgar.”
“Then Sydney?”
“Of course, I like Sydney; but Edward never will stay there more than a week--he is always dying to be back among his cattle and horses.”
“I'll try my hand with him, and see what I can do with the man,” then he added, “Now, let us get on with breakfast. Then we'll see this cubby house, and I'll diagnose the bear's complaint.”
As soon as breakfast was over, Mrs Westonley left the room to put on her hat, and Gerrard stretched himself out in a squatter's chair on the verandah to smoke his pipe. Presently he heard his sister calling, “Jim, where are you? I want you.”
“Yes, Mrs Westonley!” came the reply in a boyish treble, and the owner of it wondered what made her voice sound so differently from its usual hard, sharp tone.
“Jim, come here and see my brother. He, you, and Mary, and I are all going down to the cubby house.”
Suppressing a gasp of astonishment, the boy came to her to where Gerrard and she were now sitting.
“Thomas, this is Jim.”
Gerrard jumped up and held out his hand.
“How are you, Jim? Glad to see you,” and he smiled into the boy's sunburnt face. “By Jove! you are a big chap for a ten year old boy. What are you going to be--soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, eh?”
“I did want to be a sailor, sir; but now I'm going to be a stockman.”
Gerrard smiled again, and surveyed the boy closely. He was rather tall for his age, but not weedy, with a broad sturdy chest, and his face was almost as deeply bronzed as that of Gerrard himself, and two big, honest brown eyes met his gaze steadily and respectfully; the squatter took a liking to him at once, as he had to his sister's child.
“Well, Jim, I'm going to stay here a week, and you'll have to tote me around, and keep me amused--see? You and Mary between you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any fish in Marumbah River?”
“Lots and lots--two kinds of bream, Murray cod, jew fish, and speckled trout, and awful big eels.”
“Ha! that's good enough. Got fishing lines and hooks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then bring 'em along. Where is Mary, Lizzie?”
“Here she is,” and Mrs Westonley brought her forward, the child's eyes dancing with pleasure; “she was too excited to eat any breakfast, until I insisted. Thomas, they'll worry you to death. You don't know them.”
Gerrard threw his feet up in the air, like a boy, and rapped his heels together--“I'm fit for anything--from fishing to riding bull calves, or cutting out a wild bees' nest from a gum tree a mile high. Oh! we're going to have a high old time. I say, Mary, where's the invalid Bunny?”
“In the saddle-room.”
“Then come along, and I'll prescribe for the poor, tailless gentleman,” and he jumped to his feet. “We shall not be long, Lizzie--are you ready?”
“I shall be in ten minutes, Thomas,” and the children looked wonderingly at her, for she actually smiled at them.
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A few days after the return of the owner of Marumbah Downs, he, with Gerrard and the black stockman, Toby, were camped on the bank of a creek about thirty miles from the head station. They had started out at daylight to muster some of the outlying cattle camps, and now after a hard day's riding were stretching themselves out upon the grassy bank to rest, whilst Toby was lighting the fire in readiness for supper. On the top of the bank the three hardy stockhorses and a packmare, were grazing contentedly on the rich green grass, and lying at Westonley's feet were two beautiful black-and-tan cattle dogs, still panting with their exertions. The camp had been made in a grove of mimosa trees, within a hundred yards of the clear waters of the creek, which rippled musically over its rocky bed as it sped swiftly to the sea. It wanted an hour to sunset, and already the hum of insects was in the air, and a faint cool breeze which had been stirring the green graceful fronds of the mimosas, and wafting fleecy strips of white across the blue dome above, had died away.
In the thick foliage of a cedar tree on the opposite bank, a pheasant and his mate were hopping about, uttering their harsh, rude notes; then came a whir and whistle of wings and a quick passing shadow overhead as a flock of black duck sped over the tree tops to some sandy-banked, reed-margined pool near by.
Westonley, a big, bushy-bearded man, raised himself on one elbow, and watched them disappear; then he called to Toby to take the gun and follow.
“What's the use of 'em, Ted?” said Gerrard, as pipe in mouth, and with hands clasped under his head, he gazed upwards to the sky. “There's two scrub turkeys in the saddle-bags; don't be such a beastly glutton.”
“You mind your own business, my little man. You like scrub turkey. I don't. Give me a black or a wood duck, freshly killed, before all scrub or 'plain' turkeys in Australia. And move yourself, you useless animal, and get one of your turkeys and pluck it while Toby is getting a duck or two. Wonderfully intelligent nigger is Toby. I've never yet known him to fail in getting me a duck if there was one within a mile. I say, Tommy, d'ye like crawfish? This creek here is full of 'em. We'll get some after supper.”
“All right! I'm with you there,” said Gerrard, as he pulled out two scrub turkeys from the saddle-bags, and then seizing one by the legs, he took aim at the broad back of his friend, and the fat, heavy bird struck him fairly in the middle of it. The big man never moved, except to carelessly put his hand out behind, and taking the turkey, began to pluck it.
“Tommy,” he said, presently, “d'ye know how to make crawfish soup? It's grand!”
“Can make it as well as you can, sonny,” replied Gerrard, as he sat down and began plucking the other bird.
“Fearful lot of cubs at the 'Union' now in Sydney,” said the older man, meditatively. “Hate going into the place. Met the two young Arlingtons there the other day, and asked 'em if they were going home to the station. 'No jolly fear,' said one of the cubs--they have just come back from college in England--'we've had enough of Portland Downs and bullock punching, branding, and all the rest of the beastly thing.' 'But you'll go and see your father?' I asked. 'Well, I don't think so, you know, Mr Westonley,' drawled the elder cub, 'it's a beastly long way, and takes such a devil of a time to get there--fourteen hundred miles by steamer is no joke, and we have to be back in England in five months. So the governor is coming down here to have a palaver with us.' It hurt me, Tom, to hear these two youngsters talking like that, for Arlington is over seventy years of age. And they were good lads until he sent them to England to college with more money than was good for them. And it has done them harm--made cads of 'em,” and he viciously tugged at the wing feathers of the bird he was plucking. “Your father used to say that Oxford and Cambridge turned out more good men, and more moneyed snobs into the world than all the other colleges in the universe.”
“Daresay,” said Tom Gerrard, carelessly, as he began a surgical operation on his turkey. “I have heard my father say that old Arlington, who was one of the best of the old time squatters, made a mistake in sending those two boys home with unlimited money and credit. I suppose they'll turn out rotters.”
“Most likely. And Arlington--by thunder, can't that old fellow of seventy ride through scrub--thinks that they will take his place on Portland Downs when he dies, and be a credit to the colony. _I_ wouldn't have 'em on Marumbah as jackeroos, at a pound a week. But yet there is good stuff in them, Tom, and good English blood--the best in the world. Hallo! this turkey has eggs; just the very thing for the crawfish soup to-morrow.”
Presently two shots rang out in quick succession.
“Toby has got on to 'em,” said Westonley; “how do you cook black duck, freshly-killed, sonny, when you're camping out?”
“Grill 'em.”
“The whole carcass?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you must have degrading, greedy customs up in Queensland. Why, the only part--but there, I'll show you presently when Toby comes back. Tommy!”
“Yes.”
“This sort of thing is all right, isn't it?” and the big man waved his great arm vaguely around his head.
“Yes, it's as fine a bit of country as there is anywhere in Australia,” replied the younger man, who knew how devoted his companion was to Marumbah. “In fact it is all good country on Marumbah. I wish my run was half as good. Still I've nothing to grumble at. There are five thousand cattle on Ocho Rios now, and it will carry another two thousand easily.”
Presently Toby appeared carrying three ducks, which he handed to his master, who felt them approvingly. “They're all right, Toby. Go and look to your fire. Now, Tom, my son, I'll show you the only way to fix up a black duck quickly, and correctly as well.” Plucking the thick coating of feathers off the underneath half of a bird from the lower part of the neck down, he made a deep, sweeping curve with his sheath knife, removed the entire breast denuded of plumage, and then threw the rest to the dogs. A second bird was done the same way, and the two portions were then skewered through with a piece of hard, green wood, sprinkled with salt, and handed to the black boy, who soon had them frizzling merrily over a glowing fire.
Gerrard nodded approval. “Quick, but wasteful, old man. You would never do for a cook in a well-regulated household.” Then cutting off a large piece of the turkey, he skewered it in the same manner, and hung up the rest for Toby to eat.
Night came swiftly, and, as the two friends ate their supper, and drank their strong “billy” tea, the stars came out, and the heavy dew began to fall upon the grass. Spreading their blankets under the mimosas, they lit their pipes, and with their saddles for pillows, began to discuss various matters--the past day's work, the price of fat cattle in Melbourne, the late drought in South Australia, and such other all-important subjects to Australian pastoralists.
Then Gerrard, after describing some of his experiences and troubles with the wild blacks on Cape York Peninsula where his station, “Ocho Rios,” was situated, said: “By the way, Ted. That was a curious thing that you should come across that youngster Jimmy, just through having a yarn with a sailor on board the _Balclutha_.”
“Very curious; no--it's something more than that Tom. It was as if the Power above had directed it. This man Coll was one of the quartermasters, and only mentioned the _Cassowary_ in the most casual manner to me as we were passing the place where she went ashore. 'I was in her, sir,' he said in the most simple, matter-of-fact manner, 'and me and a poor little boy about four, was the only ones as was saved.'
“'Good heavens!' I said, 'you are the one man in the world I wanted particularly to meet I went especially to Sydney, but could not find any trace of you except your name in the shipping office where you had been on the _Cassowary_ as an A.B. And I advertised in all the Australian papers for you and the boy, but you seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth.'
“'It's very easy to explain, sir,' he said. 'As soon as I got to Sydney, I went to the Sailors' Home, taking the boy with me. There was hundreds of people wanted to take him, but I was too fond of the kid to give him up to anyone. I suppose it was wrong of me, seeing as I have a big family of my own, which was then living at Newcastle. But I knew the old woman wouldn't make too many bones about another mouth to feed.'
“Then he went on to say that being afraid the boy would be taken from him by some of the many people who wanted to adopt him, he slipped away with him one night from the Sailors' Home, and took him on board a collier schooner, whose captain he knew, and who was leaving Sydney on the following morning for Wellington, New Zealand. The skipper of the vessel consented to take Jimmy away with him, and then bring him to Newcastle on the return voyage--the collier belonged to, and always loaded at Newcastle--and hand him over to Mrs Coll. This was done, and in a few months, although Coll was continually asked by people what had become of the youngster, he always told the same story--the boy had been adopted by a family with plenty of money, whose name he was not at liberty to reveal, etc.
“Then, of course, I told him that I was the son-in-law of Captain Gerrard, whom he remembered perfectly well, as also your mother and poor Rayner. We had quite a long talk, and in the end I succeeded in wresting a promise from him that if 'the old woman' was agreeable to parting with Jimmy, he would also consent.
“I went to Newcastle with him and saw his wife, who brought the boy to me. He was quite decently dressed, and got into my heart right away... And I thought that Lizzie would like him too.” His voice dropped, and he ceased speaking for a few minutes.
“Well, I had a hard struggle to induce the worthy woman to give him up, but in the end she consented. Then I talked about little Mary, and how happy the two would be together, and that it would not be natural for two children who had been rendered orphans by the same dreadful calamity to be separated. The poor creature's face was streaming with tears when she at last consented. 'It's no for the sake o' the money I pairt wi' the bairn. It's little he costs me, an' my own children will be sore at heart for many a lang day after he goes!' . . But she recognised that it would be wrong of her to refuse--and so the matter was fixed up.”
“Good old Ted!”
“Well--keep this dark from Lizzie, old man--I gave 'em a cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds.”
Gerrard's clear laugh. “Poor Lizzie! She thinks you gave them fifty pounds only.”
“Just so, just so--you see, old man, Lizzie isn't a bit mean--and she doesn't know that I am as well in as I am, so I told her a fifth of the truth. I said that fifty pounds was a great help to a hard-working man with a large family.”
“Cunning beggar!”
“Then, as Coll struck me as being a downright, straightforward man, who had a pretty stiff pull of it to bring up and educate his children decently on seven pounds a month--seaman's wages. --I got him a berth as wharfinger to a steamship company at twelve pounds, and he was made as happy as a sandboy, I can tell you: Lizzie knows that much, for I told her. And she lets the youngster write to the Colls now and then.”
“Does she?” said Gerrard, dryly. He could not help it. Then he sat up, and re-filled his pipe.
“Ted, old chap, I like that youngster. Let me have him and take him to Ocho Rios with me. I want little Mary most, but know you won't part with her, and even if you would, a cattle station in the Far North is no place for a girl. But let me have the boy. I'll be good to him.”
Westonley made no answer at first. Then he said slowly, “I'll tell you in the morning, Tom. Good-night.”
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{
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Soon after sunrise, as the two friends were drinking their morning tea ere they started back for Marumbah, Westonley told Gerrard that he had decided to let him take Jim away with him to Ocho Rios.
“He is provided for in my will, Tom, but you must never let him know it. I think it is a mistake to let youngsters know that they will have money left to them some day.”
“Quite so, Ted. And I am sure that you will never regret letting me have him, and I will bring him up as if he were my own son. There is no school within two hundred miles of Ocho Rios, but I think I am quite capable of giving him a decent education.”
“Little Mary won't like it, Tom. She is passionately fond of him, and will cut up very rough over the parting, I fear.”
“Poor child! But, of course, she will see him again in a few years. I can see, that next to you, Jim is her 'dearest and best.' If I were a married man, Ted, I would ask you for her as well. Every time she looks at me with those big, soft eyes of hers, I see poor Mary again, and when she speaks, hear the soft sweet voice again.”
“She is a lovable child, and, look here, Tom, old man, I'll tell you something that has made me grizzle in secret for many years--Lizzie doesn't care for her. I don't mind her being a bit sharp with the boy how and then, for he's a terrible young Turk at times, and I'm too easy with him; but little Mary is such a gentle, soft sort of kid, that I wonder how anyone could possibly help loving her. But, somehow or other, Lizzie doesn't. Still, within the last few days--ever since you came in fact--she has been a bit warmer in her manner.”
Gerrard nodded. “Lizzie will come round to like her in time, Ted, And, I say, old fellow, since you have been so open with me, I'm going to say something to you that you perhaps may not like, and think I'm an interfering ass. But, 'honest Injun,' Ted, I mean well--like a good many other idiots do when they meddle with other people's domestic affairs.”
“Go on, sonny,” said the big man, quietly, “you never talk rot.”
“Well, it's this. Lizzie is simply fretting her life out at Marumbah, and I think that, in a way, you are to blame. She does not like living in the bush, and does not seem to care for the people hereabout. I had quite a long yarn with her the first day I came to Marumbah, and although at first she tried to be the stiff, austere lady with me, I wouldn't have it. Made her sit on my knee, and all that, you know, stroked her hair, and pinched her pretty little nose.”
“Tom, if I didn't know you better, I would call you a liar.”
“Fact! You know as well as I do that she has always looked upon me as a black sheep. But she is going to change her mind about me, and I'll bet you a fiver that before I leave Marumbah, I'm going to be 'Tommy' to her, as I was in the old, old days.”
Westonley's sun-tanned face flushed with pleasure. “Tom, I'd give half of all I'm worth to see her and you friends again. I know how bitterly she affronted you years ago.”
“Oh! that is all forgotten, old son. I was to blame for going off in such a silly huff. I behaved like a bear. We men don't understand women, Ted, and make hideous fools of ourselves. And that brings me to what I wanted to tell you--which is, that you are a blazing idiot.”
“Tom, whatever you say, and whatever cheek you give me, I will take it quietly, although I could knock you out in four rounds,” and Westonley thumped Gerrard affectionately on his back with his great hand. “Now, I know I'm a thundering ass but I'll be as meek as a lamb to you, you black-faced, under-sized little beggar.”
Gerrard laughed. There was a difference of four inches in their respective heights; Westonley being six feet two inches. He knew by the inflection of the big man's voice that he had become a much happier man within the last ten minutes, and the knowledge of it gave him a great satisfaction.
“I may not be as big as you,” he said, “but if I was the same shape, I'd go to a bush carpenter, and get him to trim me down with an adze.” Then after this jest, he resumed seriously. “Well, Ted, it is just this. Lizzie says that she likes Sydney but you do not, and that you will never stay there for more than a week at a time. Now, that isn't doing the square thing by her. You and I as well, never think that the many years she spent in England gave her a taste for many of the refinements of civilisation--pictures, high-class music, especially Churchy music, and all kind of things like that, which are always dear to a highly-educated and naturally clever woman, Now, when she married you, and settled down to a station life, she gave up a good deal, and as the years go on, she feels it more and more, and no woman in the world can always be an angel, you know, although we tell 'em so when we ask 'em to marry us. Do you follow me?”
“I'm listening for all I'm worth, my son. If we were in a room, you could distinctly hear the wall paper adhering to the wall.”
“Well, now, as I was saying, that isn't fair to Lizzie. What is the use of her going to Sydney for a week? Just as she is beginning to enjoy herself, and feel something of the life she had in England, you drag her back to Marumbah to your beastly bullock punching.”
“But I don't want her to come, Tom. I've always urged her to stay there for three months--or six, if she liked.”
“Bosh! What pleasure would she have in being there alone; for although a woman may have lots of women friends, she's practically alone if her husband isn't with her. Tumble?”
Westonley nodded. “Go on, Tommy, go on to a dead finish. I am beginning to see I'm in fault.”
“Of course you are. And if you don't give her a long change in Sydney, and stay there with her, you'll feel sorry for it; she'll become a religious monomaniac, and go in for High Church, auricular confession, and an empty stomach on Fridays. She's got a turn that way, remember. A conventual education in a High Church school in England isn't a very healthy preparation for a girl who afterwards marries a hulking, horse-racing, hard-riding Australian squatter.”
“What am I to do?” asked Westonley.
“Take her to Sydney next week. We'll all go together, little Mary included, and I'll stay with you for a couple of months. I'll stand half the racket.”
“Shut up! Do you think I can't run Lizzie, little Mary, and myself without you chipping in?”
“All right!” and Gerrard, secretly delighted, but showing no sign of it, went on placidly: “you see, Ted, you have a good man in Black” (head stockman at Marumbah). “What he doesn't know about cattle isn't worth knowing, and there's no need for you to come tearing back for mustering, and branding, and attending to things generally. D'ye think that if you died to-morrow the cattle would go into mourning, and would refuse 'to increase and multiply'? No one in this world is indispensable, although everyone thinks he is, and that, when he pegs out, the Universe is going to fall into serious trouble. Now, that's all I have to say. Are you satisfied I'm talking sense?”
“Sonny, it's all right. I'll do any blessed thing you want, although I hate the idea of leaving Marumbah to loaf about in Sydney for six months,” and the big man gripped Gerrard by his pointed beard, and tugged it affectionately. “I can see that I have thought too much of myself and too little of others.”
“Not a bit; you were only thinking of Marumbah. Ted, old man, I think I'll come back next year, and well see the Melbourne Cup together, hey?”
“Its a deal! If you don't come, I'll----” “Kick me when I do come. Time we were off home, fatty.”
Just about midnight, as Gerrard lay on his bed reading, he heard a low sound of sobbing from little Mary's room, which adjourned his own. He rose quietly, stepped to her door, and gently opened it.
The child was in her nightdress, leaning out of the window, with her hands outstretched to the night.
“Oh Jim, Jim, dear Jim! I wish Uncle Tom had never come to Marumbah. He must be a godless and wicked man to take you away from me when I love you. I hate him, I hate him!”
Gerrard went back to his room, lit his pipe and walked out on to the verandah, and paced slowly up and down, thinking.
“I wish I had 'em both,” he said to himself.
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The charming little town of Bowen, on the shores of the beautiful harbour named Port Denison, was in the zenith of its glory and prosperity. There were certainly other towns in the north of Queensland--Mackay for instance--which enjoyed the advantage of being nearer the capital, and so obtaining more consideration from the Treasury; but Bowen, although six hundred miles from Brisbane, was the most thriving town in the north, and affected a haughty indifference to her rivals for supremacy, such as the “sugar” growing towns of Bundaberg and Mackay to the south, and the vulgar, upstart, and newly-founded Townsville to the north.
“With our matchless harbour, surpassed only on this island continent by that of Sydney,” said the Port Denison _Clarion_, in one of its inspired and lofty-languaged leaders, “we can regard with a serene, yet not discourteous or contemptuous indifference, the statements of our esteemed, though hasty contemporary, the Mackay _Planters' Friend_, that Bowen may yet find that the newly-founded hamlet of Townsville on the shores of Cleveland Bay will ere long usurp the claim of beautiful Bowen to be the natural _entrepôt_ for all that vast extent of territory to the northward and the westward of Port Denison, and which, ere many decades have passed, will, through its marvellous agricultural, pastoral, and auriferous resources, add not a jewel but a confiscation of blazing and lustrous gems of the most priceless value to the already glorious crown of that noble lady upon whose Empire the sun never sets. Townsville is simply a collection of humpies and shanties built upon an ill-smelling mud bank. We have personally satisfied ourselves that unless some enterprising British capitalist can convert the only available possession of Townsville (which is mud, and bad mud at that) into bricks, which, perhaps, may be used for the minor classes of buildings which must of necessity soon be built for the accommodation of the poorer classes of working men who, in their thousands, will soon be established in Bowen, Townsville will no more prove a factor towards the development of this great country of North Queensland than the numerous alligators in the Burdekin River will be employed by the municipality of Bowen as paid scavengers, and be provided brass badges, dust shovels, and other such implements to denote their vocation. As for the other assertions of the editor of the _Planters Friend_, we, with all kindliness, should like to point out that the _Friend_ is the organ of the Sugar Planters; it sees nothing beyond Sugar; Sugar is its God, its Mokanna, and (incidentally) we may remark that Rum is a product resulting from the manufacture of the saccharine plant, and we fear that many samples of this aromatic liquid may have found their way into the editorial sanctum of our esteemed and valued contemporary in Mackay. At least, we judge so when a dirty, ill-smelling mud bank is compared with one of the most noble evidences of God's handiwork--Port Denison!”
To such a courteous reproof as this, the _Planters' Friend_ would invariably make the same reply in the form of a leaderette of ten or twenty lines, enclosed in a square of black to denote mourning: “Our esteemed Bowen contemporary has 'got 'em' again. We are sorry we cannot #do any more than again, in the most kindly spirit, urge him to try the Dr Jordan cure, an advertisement of which will be found on page 3. We have personal knowledge of a case of the rescue from utter wreck and degradation of one of the brightest intellects of the present century by the use of the Jordan system; and as the price is but trifling, it should be within easy access of our squatter-adoring contemporary.”
To these vaguely-worded, funereal-encompassed remarks, the _Clarion_ would retort: “No one who believes in the trite but, nevertheless, all-powerfully true assertion that the Press is the Archimidean lever which moves the world, cannot but regret the unblushing statement of the editor of our esteemed contemporary, the _Planters' Friend_, that he has been the victim of a soul-destroying, home-wrecking, and accursed habit, which that gifted American, Colonel Robert Ingersoll, has, in words of fiery eloquence, called 'the treacherous, insidious murderer of home and happiness; the Will-o'-the-Wisp that draws honour, genius, and all that is good into its fatal, deadly quagmire.' To the assertion that our valued contemporary is 'the possessor of one of the brightest intellects of the present century' (as he so modestly informs us) we do not cavil at for one moment. But even the patients under the Jordan (American quack) system may have relapses; and, when the _Planters' Friend_ can calmly publish two columns of leaded matter insinuating that a mud bank on the shores of Cleveland Bay is to become the leading port of North Queensland, we can but regretfully infer that the Jordan cure is not entirely satisfactory, and that even the 'brightest intellects' suffer terrible and deplorable relapses.”
These journalistic amenities were accorded serious attention by the society of Bowen, which, by reason of the many Government officials established there, considered itself very exclusive. The majority of these officials were connected with the law, for Bowen was the proud possessor of not only a resident judge, but also a new courthouse of such ample dimensions that the whole population of the town could have been accommodated therein. How the numerous barristers, solicitors, and the smaller legal fry lived was a mystery. Perhaps, like the mythical French town whose population supported themselves by doing each other's washing, the legal gentry of Bowen existed by performing each other's clerical work. Next in numbers--though not in social standing--were the Government officials connected with the Harbour and Lights Department, and “The Jetty.” The Jetty was one of Bowen's triumphs; was over a quarter of a mile long, cost twenty thousand pounds to build, and was costing four thousand pounds a year to keep in order, and enable the staff of engineers, inspectors, etc., to dress in a gentlemanly style, and maintain their prestige as officials of higher importance than the Customs officers, of whom Bowen was provided with six, all dressed very becomingly, and all more or less related to members of the Queensland Cabinet--as a matter of fact it would have been a difficult task to find any male person in the Government service in Bowen--from His Honour Judge Coker to Paddy Shea, the letter-carrier, who was not connected with, or did not owe his position to a member of the Ministry. And Bowen revelled in the knowledge that Brisbane and the Legislature dared not refuse Bowen any reasonable request, for already there was a dark rumour concerning Separation--the division of the colony into North and South--and the _Clarion_ had warned the “inert and muddling Government” of the colony “that unless the just and courteous request of the telegraphic staff of the Bowen Repeating Office for a punkah is acceded to without further circumlocution, the growing movement in favour of Separation will be openly advocated by this journal. Already (of this we have private knowledge) has Lord Kimberley expressed himself astonished at the heartless refusal of our benighted Colonial Secretary and Treasurer to grant the insignificant sum of two hundred pounds to the necessitous widow of Samuel Wilson, who was killed by being run over by a trolley on our beautiful jetty. Does the Colonial Secretary know the meaning of the word Nemesis? Let him ponder!”
The appearance of Bowen at this time of latent agitation for Separation and open and undisguised animosity to the “upstart collection of humpies on a mud bank in Cleveland Bay,” was pleasing in the extreme. Wide, tree-planted, grassy streets, kept scrupulously clean, handsomely-built bungalows, enclosed in gardens containing tropical and sub-tropical plants (the residences of the officials and their families), a court-house and other public buildings of such size and ornate construction that they surpassed those of any other town in the colony, except the capital; an environment of back country grateful to look upon, and a harbour of surpassing beauty.
The editor of the _Clarion_ despite his inflated leaders, was a thoroughly sensible man, who fully recognised the potentialities of the port, and yet saw that it was doomed to sink into comparative insignificance, and that the “collection of humpies on a mud bank” was to be the future capital of the Far North. But he struggled on gamely. He was a genial, merry-hearted old bachelor, who had once loved his paper as a mother loves her one child, and had spent his capital of two thousand pounds in trying to keep the town alive as long as possible. A refined, highly-educated man, he was obliged--after two years' bitter financial experience--to resort to the type of journalism prevalent amongst Australian country newspapers; otherwise he could not have made a living. But he despised the very people for whom he was apparently fighting so strenuously, and often savagely reproached himself for having turned aside from the straight path.
“Thank Heaven, I'm not married!” he said to himself one evening, as throwing himself down upon a couch in his bedroom at the Queen's Hotel, he began to glance through a bundle of exchanges which he had brought from the office, and in a few minutes a smile spread over his face, as he read the following in the Rockhampton _Bulletin_: “The Bowen _Clarion_ is making a game effort to bolster up that little tin-pot township with its _coterie_ of highly-paid, useless officials, who for six years past have battened on the public revenues. It was the misfortune of a representative of this journal to be obliged to spend two weeks in Port Denison not long since, and his terse description of the spot and its inhabitants deserves a place in the guide book of the colony which has yet to be written. Bowen is a delightfully laid-out town on the shores of Port Denison. It is inhabited by some six hundred people--mostly official loafers and spongers of the worst type. The community consists of boozy squatters, snobbish wives of snobbish officials, anaemic old maids, obsequious tradesmen on the verge of insolvency, and two respectable and hard-working persons--the latter are Chinamen. The 'tony' society of Bowen is about as lively and intelligent as that of a decaying Cathedral town in the old country. The atmosphere of matchless snobbery and vulgarity that pervades Bowen can be perceived by the passing voyager many miles out at sea.”
“By Jove! he's not far wrong,” commented the editor, as putting down the paper he took up another, and had just ripped off the the cover, when the chambermaid tapped at the door, then entered with a card.
“The gentleman wishes to see you particularly, sir.”
He took the card from the tray, and read, THOMAS GERRARD. Ocho Rios.
beneath was written, “Urgently desires to see the editor of the _Clarion_ on business of importance.”
“Ask him to come in, Milly,” he said as he kicked a chair into position.
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“How do you do, Mr Gerrard?” he said, as with outstretched hand he met his visitor at the door. “I am glad to meet Ted Westonley's brother-in-law at last. How is he?”
“Very well, indeed, when I last saw him,” replied Gerrard, as he sat down, and Lacey rang the bell.
“I have not seen him for ten years,” said the editor. “Ah, here you are, M illy! What will you take, Mr Gerrard? You must excuse my rig” (he was in his pyjamas); “but it's so infernally hot that I always get into these the minute I'm back in my room. When did you arrive?”
“Only an hour ago, in the _Tinonee_.”
“Going back to your station, I suppose? By the way, aren't you--or is it Jardine? --who is the 'furthest north' cattle man?”
“Jardine; but his station is on the east side. I'm on the west; the Gulf side, between the Batavia River and Duyfhen Point.”
Lacey looked admiringly at the well-knit figure and handsome, tanned face of his visitor. “Well, the climate up there can't be as bad as it is painted. I never saw a man look better than you do.”
“Oh! the climate doesn't hurt me now. I've had my share of fever of course; so has everyone on Ocho Rios. The niggers are our chief trouble.”
“Ah! no doubt. By the way, Aulain, of the Black Police is down here on sick leave. He'll be glad to see you.”
“And I him. He's a fine fellow, isn't he?”
“A whiter man--or a better gentleman--never put foot in a stirrup. I've got to like him very much. And he thinks no end of you. Says you're the best scrub rider he ever saw.”
Gerrard laughed. “'Praise from him is praise indeed.' All I can say is that I have never seen anyone who can go through scrub or thick timber like Randolph Aulain. Where is he staying?”
“Here--at the Queen's. He's had a terrible time with fever, and can't do more than sit up. We'll go and see him presently.”
“Oh, yes! But I want to speak to you on a matter of some importance first. That is why I have ventured to come to your hotel. I did go to the _Clarion_ office, but just missed you.”
“I'm only too delighted to see you, even if you were not Westonley's brother-in-law. You know that he and I were at Rugby together, and then at Oxford? But, before I say anything else, when does your steamer leave?”
“This afternoon at four o'clock; but I am not going on in her. I'm in somewhat of a hole, and I felt sure you would assist me.”
“Indeed I will. I'm not flush. This blessed rag of mine doesn't pay, but I can raise a hundred from the bank here.”
Gerrard laughed. “No, not that, Mr Lacey. I'm not 'broke,' and it is not money I want. At the same time I appreciate your generosity. Ted has often told me you would do any mortal thing for a friend in need.” He paused, and then began, “Mr Lacey----” “Drop the 'Mr' please.”
“Well, then, Lacey, I want your advice and assistance. Do you know any decent family here who would take care of a boy of eleven years of age for about a fortnight?”
The editor of the _Clarion_ tugged thoughtfully at his long, white moustache for a few moments. “Yes, I think I do know of such a family. I used to board with them when I first came to this infernal hole. Their name is Woodfall. The father is a dairyman here, and a very decent hard-working man. His wife is a thoroughly, good honest woman, and they have no children. I think they would be suitable people; and I'm sure would look after the boy very well. Where is he?”
“On board the steamer, just now, waiting for me. I'll tell you how I'm fixed. The youngster is an orphan who was living with my brother-in-law at Marumbah. I took a great fancy to him, and as my sister did not care much for the young 'un, though Ted did, I persuaded Ted to let me have him to 'father.' I should have liked to have had my poor sister Mary's little girl--you know that my sister died soon after her husband and my father and mother all went together in the _Cassowary_--but, of course, I couldn't bring her away from civilisation--there's no white woman within two hundred miles of Ocho Rios.” Then he went on telling his host the history of Jim, from the time Westonley had brought him away from Newcastle to the present. Lacey listened with interest.
“Well, a few weeks ago in Sydney I met a Mrs Tallis, a widow. Her husband was a squatter, and died a few months ago in Sydney.”
“I knew him. His station is called Kaburie--it is between here and Mackay--and is a rattling good cattle run.”
“Yes. She wants to sell it. I suppose the poor little woman doesn't like going back to the place now. However now I'm coming to the point I've an idea that it might suit me as a breeding station, and told her I would stop at Bowen, and go and look at it. Now it would suit me very well if I could leave my _protégé_ here for a couple of weeks, as the young scamp has managed to sprain his wrist on board, and so can't very well come with me, though I should like to take him very much.”
“The Woodfalls will take him, I'm sure. And I will look after him as well. Now, will you come and see Aulain for a few minutes? Then I'll take you up to Mrs Woodfall.”
Aulain, a strikingly handsome, slightly-built, olive-faced man, with jet-black beard and moustache, was delighted to see Gerrard.
“Hallo! old 'Tom-and-Jerry,' I'm glad to see you again. Sit down and tell me o' the wondrous sights o' Sydney and Melbourne. Heavens, man, I wish I could get away down South for six months.”
They remained talking for half an hour, during which time Gerrard told Aulain the reason of his stopping at Bowen.
“By Jove! old fellow, I shall be glad if you buy Kaburie, for you'll have to put in some of your time there, of course, and I've applied for a removal from the Cape York District to Port Denison. I'm sick to death of nigger chasing in the Far North, and want to be somewhere where I can feel I'm not entirely an outcast from the world, with no one to talk to but my own black troopers, any one of whom would put a bullet into my back if I turned rusty.”
“Oh, well, I think it is pretty certain I shall buy Mrs Tallis's station. I like Ocho Rios very well, but now, since this last trip of mine South, I feel as you do--I want to be a little less out of the world. I might, perhaps, sell Ocho Rios, and fix myself at Kaburie. If I don't, I'll put a manager there, and keep the place going, for I have a great belief that there will be some rich gold discoveries in the Batavia River country before long--and thousands of meat-hungry diggers means pots of money to a cattleman.”
“I'm certain, too, that there will be some big fields opened up that way soon,” said Aulain. “In that valise of mine, there under the bed, are three or four ounces of alluvial gold which my troopers and I washed out in one day at the head of a little creek running into the Batavia.”
“Place with a hunking big boulder standing up in the middle of a deep pool, with a lot of fish in it?” queried Gerrard.
“Yes; but how the deuce did you come across it? I've never seen a beast of yours within fifty miles of it--the country is too rough even for cattle--and I thought that my troopers and I were the first that ever saw the place.”
“When were you there?”
“About a month after you left Ocho Rios for Sydney.”
“Well, my dear little laddie, I was there a year ago, camped there for a couple of days, and did a little washing out--with two quart billy cans for a dish.”
“Get anything?”
“Seven ounces, sonny; mostly in coarse gold too.”
Aulain whistled. “And you never went back there?”
“No! I never had the time for one thing; another reason was that it would not have paid me to have left my station for the sake of a few hundred pounds' worth of gold, and thirdly, although I know a little about alluvial mining, I don't know anything about reefing--wouldn't know a gold-bearing reef from a rank duffer, unless I saw the gold sticking up in it in lumps. And there are several parties of prospectors up in Cape York Peninsula now, and some of them are sure to make their way to the Batavia River country in the course of time. If any come to my place I'll give them all the help I can. I'd like to see a really good gold-field discovered near Ocho Rios; it would mean thousands of pounds to me.”
“Of course it would. But, I say, Gerry, old fellow,” and here Aulain paused. “Will you do me a favour? Oh, no, hang it!” and he stopped suddenly.
“What is it, Aulain?”
The Inspector's sallow face flushed. “I don't think it is fair to ask you, as it will perhaps affect your interests.”
“Don't be an ass! What is it?”
Lacey rose, thinking that Aulain hesitated to speak on account of him being present, but Aulain begged him to stay, and then said: “Well, I'll tell you what it is, Gerry. Will you keep it dark about that little creek up there; for six months anyway.”
“Certainly, I will.”
“You see, Gerry, it's this way. I'm sick to death of life in the Black Police, and as soon as I get over this fever, I think I'll resign and try my luck at mining. I can't live on my salary, and I have no backstair's influence in Brisbane to get me anything better in the Government service; and only this morning I was thinking of that very place where we both got gold. There are reefs all about the head of that creek, and every one of them carries payable gold. And so if you will keep it dark I stand a good chance of not only getting the usual Government reward of five thousand pounds for the discovery of a payable gold-field, but can peg out my reward claim beforehand.”
“My dear old chap, I shall be only too pleased. And, look here, why not send in your resignation right away, and then after I've finished this business at Kaburie, come away with me. There will be a steamer here in a fortnight, which will take us to Somerset, and from there we can get to Ocho Rios in one of the pearling luggers. We shall find plenty of them lying up at Somerset at this time of the year, and it will be a better and easier way of getting to my place than having to buy horses at Somerset, and travelling a hundred and fifty miles across the peninsula.”
Aulain shook his head. “It is a very tempting offer, Gerry; but I can't accept it. I am obliged to wait six months after sending in my resignation before I can leave the service; it is a hard and fast rule.”
“I'm awfully sorry, Aulain,” said Gerrard; “however, when you do come, you will, of course, make my place your headquarters. Don't buy any horses when you get to Somerset; I can lend you all you want. Now I must be off with Lacey. I'll see you when I get back from Kaburie in a week or ten days, and we'll have long yarns together, as I shall remain in Bowen until the next steamer for Somerset calls.”
“Right! Oh, by-the-way, Gerry, on your way to Kaburie you will have to pass a little mining camp called Fraser's Gully. Will you leave a letter there for me? I'll have it written by the time you come back from Woodfalls.”
As soon as Lacey and Gerrard were out in the street, the latter returned to his companion with a smile. “So you are to play Mercury for Aulain?”
“Am I? Who is she?”
“A Miss Kate Fraser. Her father is a friend of mine, and Aulain and she are engaged--at least I think so. But I have heard that there is a parson in the running, and I don't wonder--for she is a splendid girl.”
A walk of a mile brought them to Wood fall's house. Both Woodfall and his wife were at home, and Lacey at once entered into the subject of Jim.
“Certainly, Mr Gerrard, we'll take the boy and be glad to have him. But we won't take payment,” said Mrs Woodfall, a big-shouldered woman with a pleasant, sunburnt face. “Joe, get the buggy, and I'll drive down to the steamer at once with Mr Gerrard.”
Two hours later, Jim was installed at the Woodfall's, and Gerrard was on his way to Kaburie.
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Along one of the many densely-wooded spurs of Cape Conway, which rears its bold front from out the pale green waters of Repulse Bay, a young girl was riding a wild-eyed, long-maned and sweating bay filly, which, newly broken in, had been making the most frantic efforts to unseat its rider, whose dark brown hair, escaping from under the light Panama hat she wore, had fallen down upon her shoulders.
At the summit of the spur there was an open grassy space, free of timber, and commanding a view seaward, and along the coast north and south for many miles. Here the girl drew rein and dismounted, deftly whipped her hair into a loose coil, quickly took off the saddle, placed it, seat down, upon the ground so that it might dry under the hot sun, and then slipping the bit from the horse's mouth, let the animal graze with loose bridle.
“There, my fractious young lady,” she said, “you can feed, and as you feed, I hope you will consider the error of your ways, and give up any more attempts to buck me off. You ought to know me better by this time.”
From a leather saddle-bag she took out some slices of beef and damper, and leisurely began to eat, her dark brown eyes dreamily scanning the blue sea before her, and then resting on the green, verdured hills of Whitsunday Island, away to the northward, with little beaches of shining white nestling at the heads of many a quiet bay, whose shores were untrodden, except by the feet of the black and savage aborigines inhabiting the mainland. Far out to sea, and between Whitsunday Passage and the Great Barrier Reef, the white sails of five pearling luggers were glinting in the sun as they sailed northward to the scene of their labours in the wild waters of New Guinea and Torres Straits.
“I wonder how many of those on board will return,” mused the girl aloud as she watched the little vessels--which looked no larger than swans. “How many will come back rich, how many disappointed and yet not undaunted, ever hopeful, ever daring, ever eager to sail once more, and face danger and death; death day by day and night by night for two long weary years. And yet--oh, I wish I were a man. I believe I am a man--a man in heart and will and strength of mind and body, and yet a woman. And for father's sake I ought to have been born a boy.” She sighed, and leaning her chin on her hand gazed longingly at the tiny fleet and wished she--a man--were at the tiller of one of the luggers, listening to the tales of the bronze-faced, bearded pearl-shellers; tales of mighty pearls worth thousands of pounds, of fierce encounters with the treacherous savages of New Guinea, and the mainland of Australia; of fearful hurricanes and dreadful dangers ashore and afloat, and then peaceful, happy days of rest in the far-away isles of Eastern Polynesia; before the newly-discovered beds of pearl shell in Torres Straits lured them away from the calm seas and palm-clad atolls of the Paumotus and Manahiki and Tongarewa.
The grazing filly suddenly raised her shapely head and pricked up her ears, and listened; and, in an instant, the girl sprang up and took a Smith and Wesson revolver from her saddle. The blacks about Repulse Bay and Whitsunday Passage had an evil reputation, and many an unfortunate stockman or digger had been slaughtered by them when camped in apparent security; even within a few score miles of such towns as Bowen and Mackay.
With the filly she listened, and then smiled as she heard the sound of a horse's feet coming along the track through the scrub. In a few moments horse and rider appeared, and the girl slipped her weapon into the pocket of her short riding skirt.
“How do you do, Miss Fraser?” cried the newcomer as he jumped off his horse and hurried up to her with outstretched hand and an eager light in his eyes; “this is a pleasant surprise. I was on my way to see your father, and when riding along the beach below caught sight of your filly feeding on the bluff. I knew that it could be no one but you who would camp here, so instead of going on to Fraser's Gully, I turned off; and here I am.”
“And I am very glad to see you, Mr Forde,” said the girl, as she shook hands; “now, will you have something to eat? I have plenty of Fraser's Gully fare here--beef and damper--and I've tea and sugar in my saddle-bag.”
“So have I. And now, whilst I light a fire, tell what brought you here to-day? To look at the sea--the 'ever treacherous sea'--I suppose, and 'wish you were a man,'” and the speaker smiled into the brown eyes.
“You are very rude, Mr Forde; the rudest clergyman I ever met Certainly, I've only met three in my life, but then----” Here the brown eyes lit up laughingly. “They were different from you.”
“I have no doubt about it,” and the man laughed like a boy, as taking up some dead sticks he broke them across his knee. “But you haven't told me how it is I am so fortunate as to find you here--fifteen miles off the track to Fraser's Gully.”
“Oh! the old story. Some of our horses are missing, and I have been trying to pick up their tracks.”
Forde, with an earnest look in his blue eyes, looked up from the fire he was kindling, and shook his head gravely. “You should not venture so far away, Miss Fraser. How can you tell but that whilst you are trying to pick up the horses' tracks that the blacks about Repulse Bay are not now engaged in picking up yours?”
“Oh, I am not afraid of any of the myalls{*} about Whitsunday Passage and Repulse Bay, Mr Forde. I really believe that if I rode into one of their camps they would not bolt. Poor wretches! I do feel sorry for them when I know how they are harried and shot down--so often without cause--by the Native Police. Oh, I hate the Native Police! How is it, Mr Forde, that the Government of this colony can employ these uniformed savages to murder--I call it murder--their own race? Every time I see a patrol pass, I shudder; their fierce, insolently-evil faces, and the horrid way they show the whites of their eyes when they ride by with their Snider carbines by their sides, looking at every tame black with such a savage, supercilious hatred! And their white officers--oh, how can any man who pretends to be a gentleman, and calls himself a Christian, descend to such an ignominious position as to lead a party of black troopers? If I were a man, and had to become a sub-inspector of Native Police, I would at least blacken my face so as to hide my shame when I rode out with my fellow-murderers and cutthroats.”
* Wild blacks.
Her eyes, filled with tears as they were, flashed with scorn as she spoke. The clergyman looked admiringly at her as he put his hand on her arm.
“You must remember, Miss Fraser, that the wild blacks on this coast have committed some dreadful murders. How many settlers, miners, and swagmen have been ruthlessly slaughtered?”
“And how many hundreds of these unfortunate savages have been ruthlessly slaughtered, not only by the Black Police, but by squatters and stockmen, who deny the poor wretches the right to exist? We have taken away their hunting grounds! We shoot them down as vermin, because, impelled by the hunger that we have brought upon them, they occasionally spear a bullock or horse or two! Why cannot the Government do as my father suggests--reserve a long strip of country for these poor savages, just a small piece of God's earth that shall be inviolate from the greedy squatter, the miner, the sugar planter? And let the wretched beings at least live and die a natural death.”
The clergyman's face flushed as he listened to her passionate words. “It is, I believe, impossible to segregate the coastal tribes of the Australian mainland. The cost of such an attempt would, in the first place, be enormous; in the second, the people of the colony----” “The people, Mr Forde! You mean the squatters, the sugar-planters, the land-devouring swarm of 'Christians,' who think that a bullock's hide, worth twenty shillings, is of more moment than the welfare of thousands of poor, naked savages, whose country we have taken, and yet of whom we make beasts of burden--hewers of wood and drawers of water. Oh, if I were only a man!”
“But you are, instead, a beautiful girl, Miss Fraser.”
“Don't pay me any compliments, Mr Forde, or I shall begin to dislike you, and work you a pair of woollen slippers like English girls do in novels for the pale-faced, ascetic young curates, with their thin hands, and the dark, melancholy eyes.”
Forde laughed heartily this time, and held out his own hands jestingly for her inspection; they were as brawny and sunburned as those of any stockman or working miner, and were in keeping with his costume, which was decidedly unclerical. For he only wore his clerical “rig” when visiting towns sufficiently populous for him to hold services therein. At the present time he was clad in the usual Crimean shirt, white moleskins, and brown leather leggings, and the grey slouched felt hat affected by most bushmen. His valise, however, contained all that was necessary--even to the wreck of a clerical hat--to turn himself into the orthodox travelling clergyman of the Australian bush.
“Ah! I was only joking, Mr Forde, as you know. _You_ are not the usual kind of 'parson.' That is why father--and everyone else--likes you. Then, too, you can ride--I mean sit a horse as an Australian does; and you smoke a pipe, and--oh, I wonder, Mr Forde, that you never married! Now I am sure that Mrs Tallis admires you--In fact she told me so, and Kaburie is a lovely station, and----” The clergyman laughed again. “Thank you, Miss Fraser. I'm afraid I should not have courage enough to propose to a brand-new widow even if I was sure she would say 'yes.'” Then he added quietly, “There is only one woman in the world for me; and I have not even dared let her know I care for her. I want her to get to know me a little better. And then a bush parson is not a very eligible _parti? _ “Oh! I don't see why not, though I don't think _I_ should like to marry a clergyman.”
“Why?” He asked the question with such sudden earnestness that she looked up.
“Oh! one would have to visit such a lot of disagreeable women, and be at least civil to them. Take old Mrs Piper for instance. She gave fifty pounds towards the little church built at Boorala, and made your predecessor's life miserable for the two years he was in the district. She told him that she strongly disapproved of single clergymen 'under any circumstances,' and tried to make the unfortunate man propose to Miss Guggin, who is forty if she's a day, and poor Mr Simpson was only twenty-five.”
“No wonder he fled the country.”
“No wonder, indeed! Then there are the Treverton family at Boorala; very rich and highly respectable, though old Treverton was a notorious cattle duffer{*} in Victoria. Father says that Mr Treverton would have made the patriarch Jacob die with envy. He started from Gippsland with a team of working bullocks, six horses, and twenty-four cows and calves to take up new country on the Campaspe River, and, in six months' journey overland, his herd of cattle had increased to a thousand head--most of them full-grown, and by some mysterious agency they were branded 'T' as well! And the six horses had multiplied to an astonishing extent; from six they had grown to fifty, all in six months! And now Joseph Treverton, Esq., J.P., and Member of the Legislative Assembly, is one of the richest squatters in the North, and the Misses Treverton speak of their 'papa' as 'one of the very earliest pioneers of the pastoral industry in North Queensland, you know.'”
* Cattle stealer.
The girl's frank sarcasm delighted Forde, the more so as he knew that what she had said was perfectly true.
“Well, it is a new country, you see, Miss Fraser, and----” Just then the two horses raised their heads and neighed, and Forde, going to the edge of the bluff, saw a horseman coming along the beach in a direct line for where they were camped.
“We are to have company, Miss Fraser. There is some one riding direct for the bluff.”
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{
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In less than half-an-hour the new-comer, who was walking his horse, slowly rode up to the bluff, and raised his hat to Miss Fraser and her companion.
“Good-morning!” he said, as he dismounted. “I saw you as I was coming along the beach and so turned off. Am I on the right track for Kaburie, and Fraser's Gully?”
“Yes,” replied Forde, “this is the turn off here for both Kaburie and the Gully; the main track goes on to Boorala. Will you have some tea?”
“Thank you, I shall be very glad of a drink.” Then again raising his hat to Kate, he said, “My name is Gerrard. Are you Miss Fraser?”
“Yes,” replied Kate smiling, “and you are Mr Gerrard of Ocho Rios, I am sure, for I have seen your photograph. But how did you guess I was Kate Fraser?”
“I really could not tell you; but somehow I felt certain that you were the young lady whom Mr Lacey described so admiringly to me a day or two ago.”
“Did he? The dear old man! How nice of him,” and she laughed merrily. “Mr Gerrard, this is my friend, the Reverend Mr Forde, of Boorala--and hundreds of other towns as well.”
The two men shook hands, and in a few minutes Gerrard was conversing with him and his fair companion as if he had known them for years, and both Forde and Kate were much interested in learning the object of his visit to Kaburie.
“I do hope you will buy Kaburie, Mr Gerrard,” said Kate; “it is a really splendid station, and I am sure that you will like it better than your place away up on Yorke's Peninsula. Of course,” she added, with her usual serene frankness, “I am very, very sorry that Mrs Tallis is not coming back, for we are great friends, and always exchanged visits once a week, and now I shall miss going there very much. And, oh, the garden of which she was so proud! I suppose now----” she stopped, and reddened slightly.
“Go on, please,” said Gerrard with assumed gravity, though his eyes were smiling.
“I was about to be rude enough to say that most men don't care much for flowers.”
“If I buy Kaburie, Miss Fraser, I will come to you, cap in hand, and humbly beg you to instruct me what to do; and furthermore, I promise that when you say 'do this' it shall be done.”
“You are undertaking a big contract, Mr Gerrard,” said Forde with a laugh, as he rose to go to his horse; “you will have to send to Sydney for a Scotch gardener.”
As soon as the clergyman was out of hearing Gerrard, who had remembered Lacey's remark about “a parson being in the running,” said quietly, “I certainly am a most forgetful man, Miss Fraser, and ask your forgiveness. Here is a letter for you, which my friend Aulain asked me to deliver to you.”
The girl blushed deeply as she took the letter, for she instinctively divined that Gerrard had purposely deferred giving her the letter whilst Forde was with them. And from that moment she liked him.
“Thank you, Mr Gerrard,” she said, as she placed the letter in the pocket of her skirt. “Is Mr Aulain any better?”
“Yes, but he won't be 'fit' for another six weeks or so. He has had a very bad attack of fever this time. Of course you know that he and I are old friends?”
“Oh, yes, indeed! He always writes and speaks of you as 'old Tom-and-Jerry.' And I am so really, really glad to meet you, Mr Gerrard. Randolph says that you are the finest scrub rider in Australia, and he is next.”
“Ah, no, he is the first, as I told Lacey a couple of days ago. His own troopers can hardly follow him when----” “Don't, Mr Gerrard! I know what you were about to say,” and she shuddered; “but please do not ever speak to me of Mr Aulain in connection with the Native Police. I loathe and detest them, and would rather he were a working miner or a stockman, than a leader of such fiends.”
“Randolph Aulain is a different stamp of a man from the usual Inspector, Miss Fraser. No one has ever accused him of cruelty or unnecessary severity in discharging his duties.”
“It is an ignominious duty, I think, to shoot and harass the blacks in the manner the police do,” persisted Kate. “When the brig _Maria_ was lost here on the coast some years ago, and some of the crew killed by the blacks, the Government acted most cruelly. The Native Police not only shot the actual murderers, but ruthlessly wiped out whole camps of tribes that were hundreds of miles away from where the vessel was lost.”
Gerrard nodded. “So I heard. But I can assure you, Miss Fraser, that the Native Police under men like Aulain, can, and do, good service. The blacks in this part of the colony are bad enough, but on Cape York Peninsula, they are worse--daring and ferocious cannibals. The instinct to slay all strangers is inborn with them. Some of the tribes on the Batavia River district I believe to be absolutely untamable.”
“Would _you_ shoot a black-fellow, Mr Gerrard, for spearing a horse or bullock?”
“No, certainly not! But you see, Miss Fraser, we squatters would not mind them killing a beast or two for food occasionally, but they will spear perhaps thirty or forty, and so terrify a large mob of cattle that they will seek refuge in the ranges, and eventually become so wild as to be irrecoverable. I can put down my losses alone from this cause at over a thousand head. Then, again, two of my stockmen were killed and eaten three years ago; and this necessitated inflicting a very severe punishment.”
The girl sighed, but said no more on the subject.
“You will stay with us to-night, will you not, Mr Gerrard?” she said as Forde returned. “It will be so pleasant for father and me to have both Mr Forde and you with us for the night.”
“Thank you, I will, with pleasure. Perhaps your father--and you too--will come on to, Kaburie with me in the morning, show me the ropes, and tell me something about the country. And then you can see how the garden looks as well.”
Kate's eyes brightened. “Indeed, we will I I love Kaburie. When we heard that it was to be sold, father tried to lease it from poor Mrs Tallis, but she wanted to sell outright, so father has to keep 'pegging away' at the claim, and our old rattle-trap of a crushing mill. But some day, perhaps, we shall 'strike it rich' as the miners say.”
The horses were again saddled, and the party set out on their way, riding single file along the narrow bush track towards the ranges in which the little mining camp was situated. The sun was well towards the west when they came in sight of the rough, bark-roofed shed with uncovered sides, which contained the battery plant, and Fraser's equally unpretentious dwelling, which, with three or four miners' huts constituted the camp. A bright, brawling little mountain stream, with high banks lined with the graceful whispering she-oaks, gave a pleasant and refreshing appearance to the scene, and the clash and rattle of the heavy stampers as they crushed the golden quartz, echoed and re-echoed among the rugged tree clad range.
A big, broad-shouldered man of about sixty years of age, who was engaged in thrusting a log of ironbark wood into the boiler furnace, turned as he heard Forde's loud _coo-e-e! _ and came towards them. He was bareheaded, and clad in a coarse flannel singlet, and dirty moleskin pants, with knee-boots; and his perspiring face was streaked with oil and grease from the engine. Taking a piece of cotton-waste from his belt, he wiped his hands leisurely as the three travellers dismounted.
“Father,” said Kate, “I couldn't find the horses. But I 'found' Mr Forde, and this is Mr Gerrard, who is going to Kaburie, and who has promised to camp here to-night.”
“Glad to see you,” and the big man shook hands with Gerrard; “how are you, Forde? Get along up to the house, Kate, and I'll follow you soon. Give Forde and Mr Gerrard towels. I daresay they'll be glad of a bathe in the creek before supper. You know where the whisky is, parson. Help yourself and Mr Gerrard.”
“How is she going, father?” asked Kate.
“Oh! just the same, about half an ounce or so.”
(“She”, in miners' parlance, was the stone then being crushed--a crushing is always a “she.” Sometimes “she” is a “bully-boy with a glass eye; going four ounces to the ton.” Sometimes “she” is a “rank duffer.” Sometimes “she” is “just paying and no more.”)
Simple as was the girl's question, Gerrard noted the grey shadow of disappointment in her dark eyes, as her father replied to it, and a quick sympathy for her sprung up in his heart. And to Fraser himself he had taken an instantaneous liking. Those big, light-grey Scotsman's eyes with their heavy brows of white overshadowing, and the rough, but genial voice reminded him of his brother-in-law Westonley.
“I'll give the old man a lift,” he said to himself, as he walked beside Kate to the house.
“What are you thinking of, Mr Fraser?” asked Kate, “I really believe you are talking to yourself.”
“Was I?” he laughed, “it is a habit of mine that has grown on me from being so much alone. What a splendid type of a man your father is, Miss Fraser.”
The glance of delight which shone in her eyes made Tom Gerrard's heart quicken as it had never before to the voice of any woman.
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{
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Douglas Fraser was a widower, his wife having died when Kate was only four years of age. She was now nineteen, and had been her father's constant companion and helpmate ever since the death of her mother. Fraser, who to all appearance was only the ordinary type of working miner common to all Australasian gold-fields, was in reality a highly-educated man, who had been not only a successful barrister, but a judge of the District Court of New South Wales. The death of his wife, however, to whom he was passionately devoted, changed the whole course of his existence. Resigning his appointment, he withdrew himself absolutely from all society, sold his house and such other property as he possessed, and then, to the astonishment of his many warm friends, disappeared with his little daughter from Sydney altogether. A year or so later one of these friends came across him riding down the main street of the mining township of Gympie (on the Mary River in Queensland). He was in the ordinary diggers' costume, and the once clean-shaved, legal face was now covered with a rough, strong beard.
“How are you, Favenc?” said his ex-Honour the Judge, quietly, as he pulled up his horse, and dismounted; “have you too, caught the gold-field fever, that I see you in Gympie?”
“No! I'm here on circuit with Judge Blakeney--Crown-Prosecuting. And how are you, Fraser?”
“Oh, very well! I've gone in for mining; always had a hankering that way. So far I have had no brilliant success, but hope to get on to something good in the course of time.”
For some years after this he wandered from one gold-field to another, always getting further northward, and always accompanied by his child, to whom he was able to give a good education, though not in a style that would have met with the approbation of the principal of a ladies' school. He had finally settled at Fraser's Gully, where he had discovered a large, but not rich reef, and for the past five years he and some half a dozen miners had worked it, sometimes doing very well, at others their labour yielding them a poor return. On the whole, however, he was making money, and the life suited him. Very often he would urge Kate to go to Sydney for a year or two, and see something of the world, under the care of her mother's people, but she steadfastly refused to leave him.
“It would be simply horrible for me, father. I could not stand it for even a month. I am very, very happy here with you, and only wish I had more to do.”
“You have quite enough I think, little woman--keeping house for me, milking and dairy work, and making bread for seven hungry men.”
“I like it. And then I am the only woman about here now that Mrs Tallis has gone, and I feel more important than ever. But I _do_ wish I were a man, and could help you more than I do.”
Between father and daughter there had ever been the greatest love and confidence, and their existence, though often monotonous, was a happy one. To her father's miners, “Miss Kate” was a fairy goddess, and consternation reigned among them when one day a passing Jewish hawker told them that it was rumoured that Parson Forde was “a stickin' up ter Miss Fraser, and the match was as good as made.”
The men had bought a couple of bottles of whisky from the hawker when this portentous announcement was made, and little “Cockney Smith” the youngest man of the party, who was just about to drink off the first grog he had tasted since his semi-annual spree at Boorala, set it down untouched.
“I thought the bloomin' Holy Joe was a comin' 'ere pretty frequent,” he said, “but didn't think he was after Miss Kate. Well, all I can say is,”--he raised his glass--“that suthin'll 'appin to 'im. I 'ope 'e may be bloomin' well drownded when 'e's crossin' a creek.”
“Shut up, Cockney,” growled Sam Young, an old grey-haired miner, “it's only a Boorala yarn, and Boorala is as full of liars as the bottomless pit is full of wood and coal merchants. And it doesn't become you to call the parson a Holy Joe. Maybe you've forgottten that when you busted your last cheque at Hooley's pub in Boorala, and had the dilly trimmings, that it was the parson who brought you back here, you boozy little swine. Didn't he, boys?”
“You bet he did,” was the unanimous response.
“And come here and give you four good nips a day outer his own flask until you was rid of the green dogs with red eyes, and flamin' fiery tails that you was screechin' about,” went on Sam, relentlessly. “If she's going to hitch up with the parson it can't be helped. Anyways he's the right sort of a sky pilot; a white man all over, and can shoe a horse, and do a bit of bullocking{*} as well as he can preach.”
* Hard manual labour.
“Wasn't there some talk about her and the Black Police officer being engaged?” said the hawker, who was a great retailer of bush gossip.
“Wasn't there some talk of you havin' done time for trying to do the fire insurance people?” angrily retorted Young, who was wroth at the hawker's familiar way of speaking of the goddess of Fraser's Gully.
“It vasn't me at all,” protested the hawker. “It vas another Isaac Benjamin altogether.”
“What did he do?” asked Cockney Smith.
“He had a store in Brisbane,” said Young, “and insured the stock for about two thousand quid,{*} and made an awful fuss about his being so careful of fire. He bought about fifty of them round glass bottles full of a sort of stuff called fire exstinker--bottles that you can hang up on a nail with a bit of string, or put on shelves, or anywhere, and if a place catches on fire, they burst, and the exstinker liquid sends out a sort of gas which puts out a fire in no time. One'll do the trick.
* “Quid”: £1.
“Well, this chap--of course it isn't your fault, Ikey, that your name is the same as his--was dead set on getting that two thousand quid for his stock, which was only worth about five hundred. But he was such a downy cove--did you ever come acrost him, Ikey?”
“No, never,” emphatically replied the hawker, “and he vasn't no relation of mine either.”
“Well, as I was saying, he was always making a fearful fuss about a fire, and as he was a member of the Fire Brigade Board, he was always bringing forward ressylutions at the Committee meetings for a better water supply, and all that sort of thing, and he gave a five pound note to the driver of the fire engine because he was a temperance man of fifteen years' standing, and set a noble example to the Brigade. Did you hear about that, Ikey?”
“No, I didn't,” answered the hawker uneasily.
“Well, he did. He hated liquor in any shape or form, he said, and wouldn't sell any in his store on no account whatever, and wanted all the Fire Brigade men and other public servants to take the pledge. And the noosepapers said he was a great-hearted phillyanthropist.
“He had two boys in the store to help him--was it two, Ikey?”
“I don't remember, Mr Young. I vas never much interested in reading about rogueries of any kind.”
“Just so! Well, one Sunday night one of the boys came back to the store for suthin' or other, and he sees you--I mean the feller as has the same name--emptying out the fire liquid in the exstinkers, and fillin' em up with kerosene. So, being a cute young nipper, he slips away to the Fire Brigade station and says to the Superintendent, 'Give me ten bob an' I'll tell you a secret about Ikey Benjamin and his fire exstinkers.' The Super gave him the money, and the boy tells the yarn, and about two o'clock in the morning the fire bells starts ringin', and Ikey was aroused from a dead sleep with the noos that his store was alight in seventeen places, but that the firemen was puttin' it out vigorously. How many years did you--I mean the other cove--get, Ikey?”
“I don't know,” replied the hawker, “but I do know that I must be getting along to Boorala,” and hurriedly gathering together his effects, he departed in a bad temper.
Young gave his mates a solemn wink, and then laughed.
“He's the chap, boys; and if he hadn't started gassin' about Miss Kate, I wouldn't have started on him. As for what he said about her and Mr Aulain, there's some truth in it. The Inspector is dead sweet on her, I know, but whether she cares for him is another matter. Anyway she hasn't seen him for nigh on two years, so I think it must be off. And you all know what she thinks of the Nigger Police, don't you?”
The arrival of the Goddess of the Gully with her two companions created quite a little stir at the camp. As soon as Forde and Gerrard had finished their refreshing bathe in the crystal waters of the creek, and returned to the house, they found Kate had supper ready. She had changed her riding dress for a white skirt and blouse, and looked as Forde said, “divinely cool and refreshing.”
“Father will be here in a few minutes,” she said, as going to a small overmantel she deftly re-coiled her hair, which had a way of becoming loose. “What a nuisance is a woman's hair, isn't it, Mr Gerrard? Now, Mr Forde, _why_ don't you say it is her glory? Don't be shocked at me, Mr Gerrard, but the fact is I am short of hair-pins, and this morning when the filly began bucking, I lost nearly all I had. I think I shall do my hair _à la Suisse_.”
“I wouldn't if I were you,” said her father, who just then entered after a hasty “wash down” in a tub placed at the back of the house, “there are a lot of native dogs about, and you might lose it.”
Both Forde and Gerrard, and Kate as well, laughed loudly, for they all knew that in the winter time, when the dingoes{*} were hungry they would often bite off the tails of calves not old enough to kick off their assailants.
* The Australian wild dog.
Kate clenched her little sunbrowned hand, and punched her father on his mighty chest. “You rude man! You don't deserve any supper.”
Late in the evening, as Forde and his host were walking to and fro outside the house, and Kate was reading Aulain's letter in her room, Gerrard was stretched out upon his bed, smoking his pipe, and talking to himself.
“I wish I had never seen you, Miss Kate Fraser. And I wish Aulain, my boy, that you were safely married to her. And I wish that there were two more like you, Miss Kate--one for me, and one for the parson. And I wish I was not such an idiot as to wish anything at all.”
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}
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Just as dawn broke, the deep note of a bell-bird awakened Kate from a somewhat restless and troubled slumber; but quickly dressing, she took up a bucket and set off to the milking-yard.
The ground and the branches of the trees above were heavily laden with the night-dew, and in a few minutes her feet were wet through, and then, ere she had walked half the distance to the yard, several long-legged, gaunt kangaroo dogs, who were watching for their mistress, made a silent and sudden rush to welcome her, leaping up and muddying her shoulders with their wet paws, and making determined efforts to lick her hair and face.
Presently a loud whistle sounded from somewhere near, and “Cockney Smith” appeared driving before him two cows, and in an instant the dogs darted off to him, and let the girl enter the yard in peace.
“Why, Miss Kate, them 'ere dorgs will bite the 'ed off'n you if you don't use a whip on 'em when they get prancin' around like that,” and he lashed out at them with the whip he carried.
Kate laughed. “Poor doggies! they badly want a day's kangarooing, so I must not mind their roughness. I think, Smith, if we can only find the missing horses this week we'll have at least half-a-day's run with the dogs on Sunday. To-day I am going with my father to Kaburie.”
“Right you are, Miss!” said the young miner, who, like his mates, revelled in a kangaroo hunt. “On'y yesterday near the claim, I seed an old man kangaroo as big as a house, but er course, bekos I was on foot, and hadn't got no dorgs with me, 'e took no more notice of me than if I was a bloomin' howl. ' E just stood up on 'is 'ind legs, and looked at me for about five minutes with a whisp o' grass hangin' outer 'is mouth; then 'e goes on feedin' has if 'e didn't mind dorgs or 'orses, or men, and hadn't never heerd o' kangaroo-tail soup in 'is life.”
“Perhaps we may get him next Sunday, Smith. Now, bail up, Maggie, and if you try to kick over the bucket you'll feel sorry, I can assure you,” and she smacked a jet black little cow on the ribs with her strong, shapely brown hand. The beast put her head through the bail; “Cockney” quickly pinned her in, then secured her “kicking” leg with a green hide leg rope, and the Goddess of the Gully began to milk. “Cockney” stood by watching, pipe in mouth, and waiting till Kate was ready for the second cow to be put in the bail.
“Here's Jackey and 'is missus, as usual, Miss Kate,” he said, pointing to the slip rails of the milking yard, on which a large “laughing jackass,” and his mate had perched, and were regarding Kate with solemn attention.
“Oh, the poor things! I forgot their bread this morning. I was thinking about something else.”
“Don't you worry about 'em, Miss,” said Smith, with a grin, “they can take care 'o themselves, Miss Kate.”
“Yes, Smith.”
“I went to look at that 'ere guinea hen what was sittin' on eleven eggs under that sort o' cotton bush in the 'orse paddock.”
“Did you? The chicks will be out in three or four days.”
“They are out already, Miss; them two laughin' jackasses 'as heaten up every blessed egg, and on'y the shells is lef. I thought I saw 'em flying about the nest, and went to see.”
“Oh, the wretches!” cried Kate in dismay.
“Next ter halligaters, laughin' jackasses his the mischievioustest, and cunnin'est things hin creation,” observed Mr Smith; “hif I 'ad my gun 'ere now I could take 'em both hin a line. Look at 'em setting there like two bloomin' cheerybims, who 'adn't never seen a hegg o' any kind but their own.”
“Oh, no, don't shoot them, Smith. I feel very mad with them, but wouldn't hurt them for the world. They kill and eat such a lot of snakes--bad snakes, 'bandy-bandies' and 'black necks.'”
“So I believe, Miss. And perhaps that is wot fills 'em with such willianly; they himbibes the snakes' cunning after they 'as digested 'em. I onct heerd a naturalist cove as was getting birds on the Diamantina River say that he was dead certain there wasn't no laughin' jackasses in the Garden o' Eding, which was a smokin' great pity.”
“Why?” asked Kate, as she rose, put the milk bucket aside, and let Smith bail up the second cow.
“Oh, he says, says he, as he was skinnin' a jackass which had a two foot whip snake inside him, 'if one o' you fellers 'ad a been in Eding, poor Heve wouldn't 'ave got hinter no trouble, hand we 'uman bein's 'ud go on livin' for hever like Muthusalum. The old serpant,' says he, 'wouldn't a 'ad the ghost of a show hif han Australlyian laughin' jackass 'ad copped him talkin' to Heve, and tellin' 'er it was orlright, and to go ahead an' heat as much as her stomach would accomydate.'”
“Oh, I see!” said Kate gravely, “I must tell that to Mr Forde.”
“'E won't mind--'ell on'y larf,” said Mr Smith, who was a talkative young man for an Australian bushman, native to the soil. (The nickname of “Cockney” had been bestowed upon him on account of his father being a Londoner, who, like a true patriot, had left his country for his country's good.) He was a good-natured, hard-working man like the rest of the hands at the camp, but was the “bad boy” of the community as far as liquor was concerned. Every three months, when Fraser “squared up” with his miners, and handed them their share of the proceeds from the gold obtained, he gave them all a week's leave to spend in Boorala, or any other township in the district. Not more than two or three would elect to go, but of these Cockney Smith was always one. On such occasions Kate would stand at her father's door on the look-out--to see that Mr Smith did not ride off without being interviewed.
“How much have you this time, Smith?” she would ask.
“Forty-five quid, Miss.” “I'll take ten.”
“Thirty-five pound don't go far in Boorala, Miss,” he would plead, uneasily.
“It will go far enough for you to see the Police Magistrate, and be fined five pounds, or take fourteen days for disorderly conduct, and also enable you to pay that wicked wretch of a Hooley for the poisonous stuff he gives you to drink, and keep him from taking your horse and saddle. In fact I think you might go with thirty pounds this time.”
“Oh, 'Eavens, Miss!” and Cockney's features would display horrified astonishment as he hurriedly handed her ten one-pound notes. “Why it's the winter meetin' of the Boorala Jockey Club, and I'll want an extra ten quid to put on a couple o' 'orses; one is a bay colt that won----” “That will do, Smith. You are a bad lot. You tell me horrible stories. Instead of going sober to the race-course, you go drunk, and are robbed, or lose your money, or fight the police, and----” “Didn't I pull it orf, larst Christmas, Miss, with Banjo in the 'urdle race? Didn't I collar a hundred and five quid from that Melbourne bookie?”
“Yes. And what became of it? How much of it did you bring back? Just thirty shillings! And you couldn't do any work for nearly two weeks; and you had _delirium tremens_. Now, go away, and if you come back as you did last time father won't have any more to do with you--and neither will I.” Smith would ride off with his companions. “She made me ante up ten quid this time,” he would observe--expecting sympathy.
“Well, it's ten pound to the good for you, you boozing little owl,” would be the reply. For all the men at the camp knew that during two years Kate had placed various sums to the credit of Smith at the Boorala bank, and had extorted a solemn promise from him not to attempt to write a cheque for even one pound without her consent. But, as she felt she could not trust Cockney, she had also taken the bank manager into her confidence, and asked him to refuse to honour any cheque drawn by “the bad lot” unless it had her endorsement.
The bank manager, who was another of Kate's adorers, promised to observe her wishes. “It's not banking etiquette, Miss Fraser, but that doesn't matter in North Queensland. We do many things that we ought not to do, and if Smith draws a cheque you may be sure that I will refuse to pay it as 'signature illegible'--as it is sure to be. But I'll lend him a few pounds if he breaks out again, and is laid up in this abode of sin, so that he may get home again to your protecting care.”
The milking was finished, and Smith, taking up the heavy bucket of milk, was just about to carry it to the house, when he set it down again.
“My word, Miss,” he said admiringly, “look there; there's that Mr Gerrard a-gallopin' 'is 'orse down to the creek for a swim bareback. My oath, 'e can ride.”
Kate turned just in time, and saw Gerrard, who was in his pyjamas with a towel over his shoulders, disappearing over the ridge at a full gallop. She did not know that he had risen long before she had, walked in the grey dawn to the horse paddock through the dew-soaked grass, caught his horse, and had been an interested spectator of her dairy work.
“Yes, Smith, he _can_ ride, as you say. And his horse wanted a swim after such a hot ride from Port Denison.”
As they walked back to the house, Kate saw her father coming towards them, and let Smith go on.
“Father,” she said, “I am glad to see you before breakfast as I shall not perhaps have a chance to speak to you if we are going to Kaburie to-day with Mr Gerrard.”
“What is it?”
“Mr Aulain has written to me. He wants me to marry him.”
“So does Forde, who asked me for you last night.”
Kate laughed.
“We'll talk about it by and by, my girl,” said Fraser gravely, as he stroked her head.
“There will not be much to talk about, father,” was the decisive answer. “I am never, never going to leave you for any man--no matter who he is.”
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Fraser, his daughter and their two guests were on the road to Kaburie, and within a few miles of the turn-off to Boorala. Kate and the clergymen were together, her father and Gerrard some hundreds of yards in advance, and all were walking their horses slowly, for the sun was beating fiercely down upon them through the scantily-foliaged gum trees, and Kaburie was yet twenty miles away. The girl sat in her saddle with bent head, and there were traces of tears on her cheeks.
“I am very, very sorry, Mr Forde, for I _do_ like you very, very much--more than any other man in the world except my father. You have always been so kind to him and to me; but I never thought that you would ask me to be your wife. And it hurts me to----” Forde placed his hand on hers. “Never mind, Kate. It was a foolish dream of mine, that is all. But you were always the one woman in the world to me ever since I first met you two years ago. And it grieves me that I should have made you shed one single tear.”
His calm, steady voice, and the firm pressure of his hand reassured her. Her father had said to her a few hours before that Forde would take her refusal “like a man,” and she had replied that she knew it.
She raised her face to his as he bent towards her, and, on the impulse of a moment, born of her sincere liking for the man, kissed him. His bronzed features flushed deeply, and his whole frame thrilled as their lips met; and then he exercised a mighty restraint upon himself.
“Good-bye, little woman, and God bless you,” he said softly, as he bent over her.
“But why are you going away, Mr Forde? Father will be so distressed, and so indeed will be everybody--for hundreds of miles about.”
Forde had drawn himself together again, and swinging his right foot out of the stirrup sat “side-saddle” and lit his pipe.
“Well, you see, Kate, my mother has left me two thousand pounds or so. It was that that gave me pluck enough to speak to your father last night. I thought I would go to him first. Perhaps I made a mistake?”
“No, indeed! He told me all that you said to him, and--oh! Mr Forde, we shall all miss you so much,” and as she spoke her eyes filled with tears again. He looked at the gum tree branches overhead, and went on meditatively, apparently not taking heed of her emotion, though his heart was filled with love for the girl, who with bent head, rode by his side.
“And I shall miss much--much out of my life when I leave this part of the colony, Kate. But I was never intended to be a clergyman. I was driven into the Church by my mother--good, pious soul--who, because my father was in the Church, condemned me to it, instead of letting me follow my own bent--which was either the Army or Navy or Commerce.”
“But you made a good clergyman,” said the girl artlessly.
He shook his head. “Well, the fact is, Kate, that I was always pretty sick of it, although I must say that I like the free open life of the bush, and the people; especially the working men, diggers, and stockmen. And their frank hospitality and rough good nature I can never forget.”
“Where do you think of going?”
“To Sydney first Then I'll decide what to do. I am very much inclined to follow your father's example and go in for mining; either that or cattle-breeding. But, of course, I shall write and let you know.”
“Do!” she said, earnestly, and then they quickened their horses' pace, as they saw that Fraser and Gerrard had pulled up at the turn-off to Boorala, and were awaiting them.
“Well, Forde, old man,” said the mine-owner, as he bade the clergyman good-bye, “you will leave a big hole in the hearts of the people about here. Kate and I especially will miss you. And I do hope that we shall meet again.”
“Nothing is more likely. I like Queensland too much to leave it altogether,” and then with another warm grasp of the hand, he said good-bye to them all, and turned along the Boorala track.
“One of the whitest men that ever put foot in stirrup,” said Fraser a few minutes later to Gerrard.
“I'm sure of it!” assented Gerrard. And then they began to speak of Kaburie, Fraser giving his visitor every possible information about the country and its cattle-carrying capabilities. It was, he said, one of the best-watered runs in the north, and a drought had never been known.
“See!” he said, pointing to a sandal-wood scrub, “that is one of the mustering camps on the Kaburie boundary, and there are some of Mrs Tallis's cattle down there in the creek. Crack your whip, Kate.”
Uncoiling the long stock-whip, the girl cracked it once only, but loudly, and in a few seconds hundreds of cattle appeared from the creek, and through the fringe of she-oaks that lined its banks; they clambered up the steep side and stared at the disturbers, and then at a second loud crack of the whip, trotted off quietly to the camp--bullocks, steers, cows and calves, the latter performing the usual calf antics, curving their bodies, hoisting their tails, and kicking their heels in the air. Once under the cool, grateful shade of the dark green foliage of the sandalwoods, they quietly awaited to be inspected, and Fraser and Gerrard slowly walked their horses about among them. .
“What do you think of them?” asked the mine-owner, who was himself a good judge of cattle.
“Very fair lot indeed, and all as fat as pigs,” replied the squatter, scanning them closely. “Now then, Bully boy, what are you staring at?” he said to a sturdy twelve months' old bull calf, who had advanced to him. “Ah! you want to be branded, do you? Quite so! Well, I think it very likely you soon will be.”
“There has been no branding at Kaburie for six months, Mr Gerrard,” said Kate, who added that there were now only Mrs Tallis's overseer, and one black boy stockman on the station, who did nothing more than muster the cattle occasionally on the various camps.
Gerrard nodded. “Ladies are bad business people as a rule. There will be a terrible amount of branding to be done now.”
Kate, unaware of the twinkle in Gerrard's eyes, was indignant. “Indeed, Mrs Tallis was considered a very good business woman, and knew how to manage things as well as Mr Tallis. What are you laughing at, Mr Gerrard?”
“At Mrs Tallis's smartness. She has saved herself some hundreds of pounds by dismissing her stockmen, and leaving the calves un-branded. All the work and expense will fall on whoever buys the station.”
“Oh, I see!” and Kate smiled. “But, after all, I suppose----” “That all is fair in love and war. And buying a cattle or sheep station is war in a sense between seller and buyer. I should have done the same thing myself, I suppose.”
“I don't believe you would,” said the girl frankly. “Mr Aulain told father and me that you were very Quixotic.”
“Aulain doesn't know what a hard nail I am in money matters sometimes, Miss Fraser. I'm a perfect Shylock, and will have my pound o' flesh--especially bullock flesh.”
“I know better, and so do you, father, don't you,” and her eyes smiled into Gerrard's. “Mr Aulain told us all about your selling a hundred bullocks to the French authorities at New Caledonia, and then, because half of them died on the stormy voyage to Noumea, you returned half the money. Was it your fault that the steamer was nearly wrecked, and the cattle died?”
“Aulain did not think that it might have only been a matter of my setting a sprat to catch a mackerel. You see I was anxious to establish a big cattle trade with the French people.”
Kate shook her head decisively, but there was an expressive look in her eyes that gave Gerrard great content.
Towards the afternoon the travellers saw a horseman coming towards them, and Kate recognised him as Tom Knowles, the overseer of Kaburie, for whom Gerrard had a letter from Mrs Tallis. He was a lithe, wiry little man of fifty, and Kate and her father exchanged smiles as, when he drew near, they saw that he was arrayed in his best riding “togs,” was riding his best horse, and that his long grey moustache was carefully waxed. He had long been one of Kate's most ardent admirers, and had a strong belief that he was “well placed in the running with Aulain and the parson” for the young lady's affections--and hand.
“Well, this is a pleasure,” he cried, as he rode up and shook hands with Fraser and his daughter; “I was coming over to Gully to spend an hour or two with you, Fraser, but, of course, you are coming to me?”
“Yes!” said the mineowner. “This is Mr Gerrard, Knowles. He has come to see you on business, and we came with him.”
The overseer, who had at first looked at Gerrard's handsome face with some disapproval, at once became at ease, and in a few minutes, after Gerrard had explained the object of his visit, the party put their horses into a smart canter, and half-an-hour later came to a wide, sandy-bottomed creek, fringed with huge ti-trees. On one of these, which was on the margin of the crossing, was nailed a large black painted board with an ominous inscription in white.
“LOOK OUT FOR ALLIGATORS.”
“Mr Tallis had it put up,” explained the overseer to Gerrard; “as two men were collared by 'gaters here. But when the water is clear, and the creek low, as it is now, there is no danger. It is when the creek is high after rain, and the water muddy, that the crossing is risky. I suppose you have any amount of the brutes up your way?”
“Thousands! The rivers, creeks, and swamps are full of them, and I have lost a lot of cattle and horses at Ocho Rios by them.”
An hour later they arrived at Kaburie, and Kate was, at the request of the admiring Knowles, acting as hostess and preparing supper.
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Two days had passed, and Gerrard was still at Kaburie, though Kate and her father had left the previous day; they were, however, to return, bringing with them three or four stockmen to assist Knowles and Gerrard to muster the cattle, for he had decided to buy the station and leave Knowles there as his manager. Although there were but four thousand head of cattle on the run, they were widely separated in small mobs of a few hundreds each--some high up in the ranges, and some haunting the low-lying littoral, and frequenting the flat marshy land about the mouths of the numerous creeks debouching into the sea, where they eagerly ate the lush, saline grasses and creepers that lined the coast above high-water mark--and to “round up” all these scattered mobs on their various camps, and count every beast, meant very hard work. Then too, Gerrard intended to have a general branding at the same time, and he felt a thrill of pleasure in his veins, when Kate had said to her father: “Father, why cannot we help, too? You can safely leave the battery and claim to Sam Young for a few days. And as you and I know the country so well, I am sure we should be of some use to Mr Gerrard.”
Douglas Fraser had never said “No” in his life to any request of Kate's since she was fifteen, and he smiled assent. And then in addition to that he had taken such a strong liking to Gerrard that it gave him pleasure to afford him all the assistance in his power.
“All right, Gerrard!” (men in the Australian bush do not “Mister” each other after a few hour's acquaintance) “we shall be here. And I'll send over to Boorala for three or four good men to help in the mustering.”
So Kate and her father had ridden away and left Gerrard and Knowles to themselves for a few days; and Gerrard and the dapper little overseer planned all sorts of improvements that were to be effected in the way of making Kaburie a crack breeding station.
As father and daughter rode side by side along the track back to their home, through the darkening shadows of the coming night, they talked about Forde and Aulain, Fraser resting his big brown hand on her knee, and looking wistfully into her face.
“And you see, my child, that I well know that there will come a time when you and I must part Some man----” “Never, father, never! I liked Mr Forde very much, but not well enough to marry him, and part from you. And I kissed him, dad, when we said good-bye. Do you mind much? I couldn't help it. I felt that I _must_ kiss him.” (Then tears.) “I thought I had better tell you, for I feel so horribly ashamed of myself.”
“There is nothing for you to be ashamed of, child,” said her father tenderly; “Forde is a _man_, and, as I told you, he would take your refusal like a white man and a gentleman.”
“He did. And I could not help crying over it.”
For some minutes they rode on in silence, then Fraser said: “When is Aulain coming?”
“As soon as he is able to sit a horse, he said,” and then her face flushed. “I wish he would not come, father, and yet I do not like the idea of writing to him and telling him so--especially when he is ill.”
Fraser nodded. “I understand. Still I think it would be the better course to take. I had imagined, however, Kate, that you thought more of Aulain than you cared to admit, even to me.”
“So I did; and so I do now, but I would never marry him, father, no matter how much I cared for him.”
Her father looked at her inquiringly.
“I think I am afraid of him, dad, sometimes. He is so dreadfully jealous, and he has no right whatever to be jealous of me, for we were never engaged. And then there is another thing that is an absolute bar to my marrying him, though I fear I am too much of a coward to tell him so; he is a Roman Catholic. And whenever I think of that I remember the awful tragedy of the Wallington family.”
“I think you are quite right, Kate,” said the mine-owner gravely. “Frankly, whilst I think Aulain is a fine fellow, and would make you a good husband, I must confess that the thought of your marrying a Roman Catholic has often filled me with uneasiness.”
“Don't be afraid, dad,” she said decisively. “In the first place, I am not going to marry anyone, and shall grow into a pretty old maid; in the second, if I was dying of love, nothing in the world would induce me to marry a Roman Catholic. Whenever I think of poor Mr Wallington as we saw him lying on the grass with the bullet hole through his forehead, I shudder. I loathe the very name of Mrs Wallington, and consider her and Father Corregio the actual murderers of that good old man.”
She spoke of an incident that had occurred when she was sixteen. Wallington, a wealthy Brisbane solicitor, had gone to England on a six months' visit When he returned, he found that his wife and only daughter, a girl of five and twenty, had fallen under the influence of a Father Corregio, and had entered the Roman Catholic Church, and his long and happy married life was at an end. A week later he shot himself in his garden.
“I am afraid that poor Aulain will cut up pretty roughly over this, Kate,” said her father presently.
“I can't help it, father. And I think, after all, I had better write to him to-morrow. I really do not want him to come to the Gully.”
And she did write, and Aulain's face was not pleasant to see as he read her letter.
“By ______! if it is the parson fellow, I'll shoot him like a rat,” he said, and then he cursed the fever that kept him away from Kate.
He went over to the _Clarion_ office and saw Lacey, who was quick to perceive that something had occurred to upset the dark-faced sub-Inspector.
“How are you, Aulain? Any 'shakes' to-day?” he asked, referring to the recurring attacks of ague from which Aulain suffered.
“Oh! just the usual thing,” replied his visitor irritably, as he sat down on a cane lounge, and viciously tugged at his moustache. “I thought I would come over and worry you with my company for a while, and get you to come across to the Queen's and share a bottle of fizz with me. They have some ice there I hear--came up by the Sydney steamer last night.”
Lacey's eyes twinkled, “I'm with you, my boy. I've just finished writing a particularly venomous leader upon mine adversary the _Planters' Friend_, and a nice cool drink, such as you suggest, on a roasting day like this, will tend to assuage the journalistic rage against my vile and hated contemporary.”
Arriving at the Queen's Hotel the two men went upstairs and sat down on comfortable cane lounges on the verandah, and in a few minutes the smiling Milly appeared with a large bottle of champagne, and a big lump of the treasured ice, carefully wrapped up in a piece of blanketing. As Lacey attended to the ice, Aulain began to cut the cork string.
“Oh! by the way, Lacey,” he said carelessly, “I saw in the _Clarion_ yesterday that Forde, the sky pilot, is leaving the Church. Are you ready with the glasses.”
“I am. Faith, doesn't it look lovely. Steady, me boy, these long sleever glasses hold a pint. Here's long life to ye, Aulain. Heavens! but it is good,” and he sighed contentedly as he set down his glass again.
“Ye were asking about Forde?” he said as he wiped his red, perspiring face. “Yes, he is giving up parsonifying. I had a letter from him by the mailman yesterday from Fraser's Gully. He was staying there for the night with our friend Gerrard.”
Aulain's black brows knit, and his hand clenched under the table, as Lacey went on, “His mother has died, and left him some money. And very glad it is I am to hear it, for a finer man I don't know.”
“Much?”
“He didn't say; but I know that his mother was pretty well off. He merely wrote me asking me to mention in the _Clarion_ that he was leaving the Church, and was going South. Ye see, he has a power of friends all over the country, and he just asked me to write a bit of a paragraph saying he was going away, and regretted that he could not come to Port Denison to preach next Sunday fortnight.”
Aulain re-filled Lacey's and his own glass, “Lucky fellow! When is he leaving Fraser's place?”
“He was leaving that morning for Boorala, and Fraser and his daughter and Gerrard were going with him as far as the turn-off. By a bit of good-luck, Gerrard--who also sent me a few lines--met Forde and Miss Fraser on his way to the Gully. Here is his note,” and he took a letter from his pocket and handed it to Aulain, who read: “Fraser's Gully.
“Dear Lacey,--As the Boorala mailman is calling here this morning, I send you a line. I had the good fortune to come across Miss Fraser and Mr Forde at Cape Conway, and we all came on to her father's place together. I like Fraser. He's a fine old cock. The parson, too, is a good sort As for Miss Kate Fraser, she is a modernised Hotspur's Kate--a delightfully frank and charming girl. I envy the lucky man who wins her. I hope the boy has not got into any mischief, and is giving you no trouble. Give Aulain my regards, and tell him I delivered his letter sooner than I anticipated. I leave for Kaburie this morning, and am to have the pleasure of being accompanied by Fraser and his daughter. Tell Jim that if he gets into any mischief whilst I am away, I'll make it hot for him. --Sincerely yours, “Tom Gerrard.”
Aulain handed the letter back to Lacey. He was outwardly calm, but his heart was surging with passion. What business had that d------d parson fellow and Kate to be together at Cape Conway, fifteen miles away from her home? And then his receptive brain conjured up the blackest suspicions. Forde had come into money, and Kate had written to him saying that she could not marry him, “because she would never marry and leave her father.” He set his teeth.
“I think we could do another bottle, Aulain,” said Lacey presently.
“Right, old man!” replied the sub-Inspector mechanically, and then Lacey noticed that his bronzed face had become pallid.
“'Shakes' coming on?” he asked, sympathetically.
“Just a bit; but the fizz is doing me good.”
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Mustering on Kaburie was almost over, much to the satisfaction of every one taking part in it, for the weather had been unpleasantly hot even for North Queensland, and heavy tropical thunderstorms had added to the difficulty of the work by the creeks coming down in flood. All the cattle running in the mountain gullies and on the spurs, had been brought in, the calves and “clean-skins” branded, and now there remained only those which roamed about the coast lands.
Early one morning Gerrard, Fraser, and Kate, with three stockmen, were camped near the mouth of a wide, but shallow creek, whose yellow, muddied waters were rushing swiftly to the sea. The party had arrived there the previous evening, and now, breakfast over, were ready to start to muster the cattle in the vicinity. Heavy rain had fallen during the night, but Kate's little tent, with its covering fly had kept her dry, and the rest of the party had slept under a rough, but efficient shelter of broad strips of ti-tree bark spread upon a quickly-extemporised frame of thin saplings.
Just as they started the sky cleared and the blue dome above was unflecked by a single cloud as they rode in single file along a cattle track leading to the beach, which they reached in half an hour.
“What a glorious sight!” said Gerrard, as he drew rein and pointed to the blue Pacific, shimmering and sparkling under the rays of the morning sun. “Look, there is a brig-rigged steamer quite close in--evidently she must be calling in at Port Denison, or would not be so near the land.”
“Yes,” said Kate, “that is one of the new China mail boats, the _Ching-tu_. How beautiful she is--for a steamer, with those sloping masts, with the yards across, and the curved shapely bow like a sailing ship. Oh! I do so wish I were on board. I love ships and the If I were a man I should be a sailor.”
“Would you?” said Gerrard, as he looked at the animated, beautiful face. “I, too, am fond of the sea, though it robbed me of father, mother, and a brother-in-law, my twin sister's husband. She died of a broken heart soon after.”
Kate's eyes filled with tears. “Oh, how dreadful!” and then as they rode on Gerrard told her the story of the _Cassowary_.
“What a sweet child your little niece Mary must be,” she said, when he had finished, “and I am sure, too, that your _protégé_, Jim Coll, must be a perfect little man. I wish I could see him.”
“I can safely promise you that, now that I have bought Kaburie, and I feel pretty sure that you will gain his affections very quickly; especially if you will let him ride that bucking filly. I daresay that I shall be back here within twelve months, and bring Master Jim with me.”
“This is where we separate, boss,” said a stockman named Trouton, “if you, Mr and Miss Fraser and me take the right bank of this creek, my two mates will work down on the other bank, and we'll get the cattle on both sides at the same time, and drive 'em all on to Wattle Camp, which is between this creek and the next to the south of us.” Then turning to the other stockmen, he warned them to be careful of alligators.
“You chaps must keep your eyes skinned if you have to swim any bits of backwater, now the creeks are up. Don't cross anywheres unless you have some cattle to send in fust, and keep clost up to their tails if yous can't get in among 'em. 'Gaters like man and horse meat next best to calf.”
The two men nodded, and riding down the bank, crossed the creek and quickly disappeared in the scrub on the other side; then Gerrard's party turned towards the coast, Trouton leading the way with the packhorses along a well-defined cattle-track. A quarter of an hour later they came across a small mob of cows and calves, which as the stockwhips cracked, trotted off in front, to be joined by several more, and in a short time the mob had increased to five hundred head, and Trouton and Gerrard decided to drive them across the creek to join those which were being rounded up by the two stockmen on the left hand bank. In reply to a question by Gerrard, Trouton said that the crossing was a good one even when the creek was as high as it was then, on account of its width--about two hundred yards from bank to bank.
“It is a hard, sandy bottom, boss, and we shall only have about forty yards of swimming to do. If we rush 'em they'll get over in no time.”
“Very well. But we will cut out all the cows with calves too young to swim.”
This did not take long, and some thirty or forty cows with calves were separated from the mob, and driven some distance back into the scrub by Fraser. Then with the usual yelling and cracking of whips the main mob was rushed down the bank into the water, a wide-horned, stately bullock, plunging into the yellow stream, and taking the lead Close behind the cattle followed the three men and Kate, the latter and Gerrard keeping on the “lee” side of the mob so as to prevent them spreading out and getting too far down-stream, where there was danger from a number of snags of ti-trees, which showed above water in the middle of the creek. The cattle, however, kept well together, and when the deep part was reached, swam safely across, despite the rather strong current.
“They went over splendidly, didn't they?” cried Fraser to Gerrard, as he gave his horse a loose rein and leant forward to let the animal swim easily. “We are lucky to get them over so easily, and----” His words were interrupted by a cry of terror from Kate, as the colt she was riding gave an agonised snort of terror, and began pawing the water with its fore-feet.
“Help me, father! Mr Gerrard! Oh, it is an alligator!” and as she spoke she was nearly unseated. “It has Cato by the off hind leg.”
Gerrard, only ten yards away from her, turned his horse's head, and shouted to her to throw herself off, and then, with a deadly terror in his heart, saw her shaken off; and disappear in the surging stream, but in a few seconds she rose to the surface, panting and choking, but swimming bravely, though she was unable to see. Gerrard, now beside her, leant over, placed his left arm round her waist, and held her tight.
“Don't be afraid,” he said, “I have you safe; take a good grip of my horse's mane and hold on; he will take you across in a few minutes,” and as the girl obeyed, he slipped out of the saddle, so as to swim beside her. Then his bronzed face went white with horror as the black snout of an alligator thrust itself out of the water between the girl and himself, and the saurian tried to seize her by the shoulder. In an instant Gerrard had clutched the reptile by the throat with his right hand.
“Go on, go on; for God's sake, do not mind me!” he cried to Kate; “I have the brute by its throat,” and then, as he and the hideous creature were struggling fiercely, Fraser came to his assistance, and emptied the five chambers of his heavy Colt's pistol into its body, and Gerrard, whose face was cut open by a stroke of one of the reptile's fore-paws, remembered nothing more till he found himself lying upon the bank with Fraser and the stockmen attending to him.
“Is Miss Fraser safe?” was his first question.
“Yes, thanks to God and to your bravery,” answered Fraser with deep emotion; “but don't speak any more just now, there's a good fellow. The brute has ripped the left side of your face open from the top of your head to the chin, and we are trying to put in some stitches.”
“All right,” was the cheerful, but faint response; “but tell me--is my eye gone?”
“No, boss,” said Trouton quickly, “your eye is all right, but the eyebrow is mauled pretty badly, and was hanging over it, but we've got it back again now, and tied it up in place. Here, boss, take a sup o' this,” and he placed a brandy flask to Gerrard's lips. The liquor stung his lacerated lips like fire, but it revived him.
“Where is Miss Fraser?” he then asked.
“Here, beside you, dear Mr Gerrard,” said the girl brokenly, as she pressed his hand, and turned her face away in blinding tears.
“Narrow squeak for both of us, wasn't it?”
“Yes, but please do not try to talk, dear Mr Gerrard.”
“Oh, I'm all right, and must gabble a bit, now I know that I haven't lost an eye. You see, Fraser, the beast, although he was only a little fellow----” “Eight feet he were, boss,” interrupted Trouton, “but a young 'un, as you say.”
“Well, just after I collared him, he swung his head about and hit me such a tremendous smack on the side of my brain-box that it stunned me. But I didn't let go, did I?”
“No,” replied Fraser, “you held on like grim death. I settled the brute by putting five bullets into it.”
“There was two 'o 'em, boss,” said Trouton, “the one as collared Miss Kate's horse, and the one as you tackled.”
“Did Cato get away?” Gerrard asked quickly.
“Yes, yes, he got away,” said Kate hurriedly, trying to speak calmly, though the poor colt, which had managed to struggle to the bank with a lacerated and broken leg, was then lying dead with a bullet through its head. Trouton had put it out of its misery.
There was no more mustering that day, for Gerrard's condition was so serious, though he tried to make light of it, that Fraser, leaving the cattle to the care of the two stockmen, first sent off Trouton to Boorala for a doctor, and then he, taking one of the pack-horses, made Gerrard mount his own.
“We'll be at Kaburie as soon as the little German doctor is there,” he said, as he, Gerrard, and Kate started.
And when they reached Kaburie they found Doctor Krause, a quiet, spectacled little man, awaiting them with Knowles the overseer.
“Will he lose his eye, Krause?” asked Fraser, after the doctor had attended to Gerrard, and he with Kate met him in the dining-room.
“No, but his face is very much cut about, and the poor fellow may be disfigured for life.”
Kate turned away with a bursting heart, and went to her room.
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{
"id": "24270"
}
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15
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“Poor, dear, old Tommy boy!” said Westonley to his wife, as they sat at their breakfast table some weeks after the mishap to Gerrard. The mail had just arrived at Marumbah, and brought a letter from his brother-in-law, and one from Fraser, His eyes glistened as he laid them down upon the table, and looked at his wife, who, he could see, was also visibly affected, whilst little Mary sobbed unrestrainedly.
“I wish this Mr Fraser had telegraphed to us, Edward. I would have left Marumbah the same day, and gone to poor Tom to nurse him.”
“Would you, old girl?” and the big man rose from his seat and kissed her, his thick, heavy beard spreading out over her shoulders.
“Indeed, I would. And now it is no use my going, is it?”
“Not a bit, Lizzie. You hear what Fraser says--'He is getting on splendidly, and the left eye is saved.' Let me read it all over again; shall I?”
“Do,” and her pale, clear-cut features flushed; “it makes me feel as if I were there and saw the whole dreadful sight. Don't cry any more, Mary dear. Uncle Tom is getting better.”
“If Jim had been with him, it wouldn't have happened,” said the child, suppressing her sobs, and wiping her streaming eyes; “Jim would have been sure to have seen the alligator coming before any one else, and done something. I am quite sure that even if he met a bunyip he would not be afraid; but would fight it.”
“I'm dead certain of it, Mary,” said Westonley, as he put his big hand upon the child's head, and then taking up Fraser's letter, he again read it aloud. It described in simple language Gerrard's desperate struggle with the alligator, then went on about his courage and fortitude under agonising pain, for the wounds caused by alligators' claws invariably set up an intense and poisonous inflammation, and take a long time to heal, and concluded by saying, “as long as life lasts, I shall never forget that only for his heroic conduct I should now be a childless man, and my daughter have died a death too fearful to contemplate.”
Gerrard's letter was in his usual laconic style.
“Dear Ted,--I have bought a little station here called Kaburie--good cattle country with about 2500 head on it. In getting a mob across a creek I was mauled by an alligator' and if it had not been for my friend Fraser--in whose house I am now staying for a week or so--shooting the beast, it would have had me. It is nothing serious, so don't worry over me--some deep cuts on my face, that is all, and Mr Fraser and his daughter (a charming girl) are coddling me up. Jim is with me. I left him with your old friend Lacey at Port Denison, but the young beggar wouldn't stay when he heard that I had had an accident. He is making great running with pretty Miss Fraser. Give my love to Lizzie and Mary, and tell the latter that I trust her bear is now thoroughly convalescent Jim will write to Mary by next mail. He went out early this morning fishing with Miss F------, and did not know that the mailman was calling to-day. --Yours ever, Tom.”
Mary's face brightened at the prospect of a letter from her dearly-beloved Jim, and Mrs Westonley smiled. Ever since Gerrard's visit to Marumbah Downs, her once icy and austere manner to the child had, bit by bit, relaxed, until at last she had thawed altogether, and had been amply repaid by such a warm response of affection that she now made a companion of the little one, and found herself a much happier woman now that the sweet sunlight of childish love had penetrated and melted her former frigid reserve. Westonley had noted the change with unalloyed delight, but, like a wise man, had pretended not to notice; but one day, soon after Gerrard's letter had arrived, he could not suppress himself. He had been away on a business visit to his squatter neighbour Brooke, to whom he had sold his cattle station in Central Queensland at a very satisfactory figure, and as he rode up to the slip-rails of the home-paddock, he saw the one time “incubus” coming flying towards him, her sun-tanned face wreathed in smiles.
“Oh, Uncle Ted, Uncle Ted!” she panted, as she took down the slip-rails, and let Westonley pass through, “just fancy, Uncle Ted!” --and as she spoke, she lifted the slip-rails in place again and turned to him with a beaming face, out of breath, and so wildly excited that she could scarcely speak.
“What is the matter, young 'un?” and the big man bent down and swooped her up into the saddle in front of him.
“Oh, Uncle Ted, this is the very, very first time in my life that I was glad you were away!”
“How's that?”
“Aunt Lizzie let me sleep with her last NIGHT.”
A great joy came into Westonley's heart. “Did she? Really and truly?”
“Really and truly! And oh, Uncle Ted, it was lovely! We talked and talked and talked for such a long time, and she told me such a lot of things about the school she was at in England, and about the girls there--some were very nice, but there were some horrid ones. Oh, she told me heaps of things. It was lovely, and we had Bunny in the room, too”--here she paused to catch her breath--“he tried to get in through the mosquito curtains, and got all tangled up, and tore a most enormous hole in them, and Aunt Lizzie only laughed, and said it didn't matter!”
“You _must_ have had a bully time.”
“Splendid! And Aunt Lizzie and I are going to the beach together one day next week to get pippies, and she says she won't mind if she gets sopping wet right up to her face.”
When they reached the house they found Mrs Westonley awaiting them on the verandah, and when her husband put his arms around her and kissed her repeatedly, she blushed like a young girl. And as the days went on he saw with delight that she had at last taken the child to her heart.
***** Breakfast was over, and Westonley in his study was talking to his head stockman when he saw Brooke riding up.
“Lizzie,” he called to his wife, “here is Brooke. I expect he will have some breakfast, so tell Mrs Patton.”
Brooke, a tall, powerfully-built man, and usually as boisterous as a school-boy in his manner, seemed very quiet as he dismounted, shook hands with Westonley and his wife, and patted Mary's head.
“Just in time for breakfast, Mr Brooke.”
“No, thank you, Mrs Westonley. I had mine at five o'clock--I made an early start, as I wanted to get here as soon as possible, thinking that very likely Westonley might be going out on the run somewhere, and that I might miss him. I want to have a talk with you, old man.”
Mrs Westonley and Mary at once left the room, both wondering what was the matter with Brooke--he looked so worried and depressed.
“Westonley, old fellow,” he said, as he sat down, “give me a big brandy and soda. I've ridden hard all the way from my place.” Then he looked at the letters and newspapers still lying upon the breakfast table. The latter, he saw, were unopened. Drinking off the brandy and soda, he said: “You haven't opened your _Argus_ yet, I see?”
“No, we had some bad news about Tom Gerrard--he's been mauled by an alligator, and we haven't bothered about newspapers this morning.”
“Not seriously hurt, I trust?” anxiously asked the squatter, who had a sincere regard for Gerrard.
“No, I am glad to say. I'll show you his letter presently. But what is the matter, Brooke? You look worried.”
“I am--most infernally worried. Tell me, old man, what did you do with that cheque of mine for eight thousand?” (The cheque to which he alluded was the price of the station in Central Queensland which he had bought from Westonley a few weeks previously.)
“Paid it into my bank,” replied Westonley, instantly surmising that Brooke's financial affairs had gone wrong.
“Dacre's?”
“Yes.”
“Westonley, old chap, I have bad news for you. I got a telegram from Melbourne last night--Dacre's Bank has smashed, and smashed badly--hopelessly, in fact.”
Westonley's florid face paled.
“Smashed!”
“Utterly smashed. Will it hit you hard?”
“Break me! I had thirty thousand pounds on fixed deposit, a current account of about fifteen thousand--including the eight thousand you paid me, and every penny of my wife's money, little Mary's, and Jim's were in Dacre's,” and, man as he was, his voice trembled.
“It won't break you--by heavens, it shall _not_ break you, Westonley! I bought Comet Vale from you for my boys, but I'll give it back to you for three--for five--years to help you to pull up.”
“Thanks, Brooke,” and the big man grasped his friend's hand mechanically. “This has dazed me a bit. Come outside, and well talk it over.”
He rose unsteadily, placing his hand on the edge of the table, and then fell forward upon his face, and lay still--his big, generous heart had ceased to beat.
When Brooke rode away late that night on his way home thinking of his dead friend, he reproached himself for so often having spoken of Elizabeth Westonley as “a pretty automaton, with as much heart in her as a doll.” For her silent grief had showed him that she had loved her husband.
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{
"id": "24270"
}
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The news of Westonley's sudden death was a great shock to Gerrard. The brief telegram from his half-sister had been forwarded to Port Denison, and Lacey had sent it on to him at Fraser's Gully, by the mailman, together with a copy of the _Clarion_, containing the telegraphed account of the Dacre's bank failure. Had Gerrard looked at the newspaper, he might perhaps have connected Westonley's sudden end with the financial disaster, which had brought ruin to so many thousands of Australian homes, for he knew that his brother-in-law banked at Dacre's. But Mrs Westonley had said nothing of the cause of her husband's death--“Edward died suddenly yesterday. Am writing you fully to-night to Port Denison” was all that she had said.
“Dear old Ted!” he said as his eyes filled, and he saw before him the great, bearded face with the kindly, mirthful eyes, and heard the deep, gruff voice. “How can I tell Jim--the boy will be heartbroken.”
And Jim's grief almost unmanned “Uncle Tom,” as the boy now called him. Putting the telegram in his pocket, he went down to the battery, where his _protégé_ was being inducted into the mysteries of amalgamation by Fraser.
“Jim,” he said quietly, “come along the creek with me for a bit of a stroll.”
“Is your face paining you much this morning, Uncle Tom?” said the boy, as they left the battery, and walked towards the creek, “you look quite white.”
“No, sonny,” and he placed his hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder, “my face isn't paining me, but I have a thundering big pain in my heart, Jim--a pain which you must share with me. I have just had a telegram 'from Marumbah--with very, very sad news.”
“Is it about Mary?” and the boy's lips quivered; “is she sick, Uncle?” and then, with a gasp--“is she dead?”
“No, sonny, Mary is all right, but Mr Westonley is dead,” and then he told him all that he could tell.
An hour later, when they returned to the house, and Kate Fraser wondered why they looked so quiet and depressed, Gerrard told her of the news he had received.
“Poor Jim!” she said, as she put her arms round the boy, who was trying hard not to again break down.
Then Gerrard went on to say that he would now have to change his plans somewhat.
“I must get back to Port Denison tomorrow, Miss Fraser. I want to send some telegrams as well as letters. But as it will take my sister's letter quite a fortnight to come from Marumbah, I shall put in most of the time at Kaburie, and, if I may, also inflict myself upon your father and yourself occasionally.”
“Do. We shall be so glad.”
Two days later he and Jim were back in Port Denison, and lunching with Lacey at the Queen's Hotel. Then for the first time Gerrard heard of the Dacre bank failure.
“It must have been a fearful shock to poor Ted,” he said to Lacey; “and perhaps it was that that killed him, for, as you say, the bank suspended on Saturday, and he died early on the Monday following. I fear he must have been hit very badly by the smash, for he not only had a lot of money in it, but was a big shareholder in the concern as well.”
“That's unfortunate, for yesterday's news gives further revelations of the smash, which is the very worst that has occurred in the Colonies. Every one thought that Dacre's bank was as solid as the rock of Gibraltar.”
This intelligence disturbed Gerrard greatly--so much so that after lunch he sent a telegram to Westonley's Melbourne agents--who were also his own--and asked them if they could tell him how his sister would be affected by the collapse of Dacre's. In a few hours he received an answer--“Deeply regret to say everything will be swept away.”
“Poor Lizzie!” he said to Lacey after dinner, as they sat on the verandah smoking; “this will be terrible news for her--if she does not already know of it. Thank God, I can help her to some extent,” and he meant to “help” her by giving her Kaburie, for which he had only a few days previously sent Mrs Tallis a draft upon his bankers for six thousand pounds.
“You were lucky not to have had anything in Dacre's.”
“Very, for Westonley was always cracking it up to me. He urged me strongly only six months ago to buy a hundred shares--a pretty hole I should be in now if I had taken the poor fellow's advice.”
“Yes, indeed. But no one ever dreamt of Dacre's being anything but one of the soundest banks in the world It is a blackguardly affair--a cruel, shameless fraud--and I hope that the men who are responsible for it will each get seven years' hard labour.”
“They deserve it I suppose that Westonley, with Marumbah Downs, and Comet Vale, and the funds he had in Dacre's was worth a hundred thousand at least; and now my poor sister and little Mary Rayner will be absolutely penniless. Thank heaven, I did not take his advice, but stuck to the Capricornian Pastoralists' Bank.”
The editor of the _Clarion_ gasped and dropped his cigar. But he quickly recovered himself, and turning his face away from Gerrard, puffed out volumes of smoke most energetically, considering what he should do. He soon decided. “Better tell him the grim truth at once,” he thought.
“Gerrard!”
The change in his voice struck his companion--it was low, grave, and sympathetic.
“What is it, Lacey? Now, out with it. You have something unpleasant to tell me, and don't like doing it. I'll bet you drinks that I can guess what it is. I saw you start when I mentioned the Capricornian Pastoralists' Bank. Has that 'busted' too?”
“Yes. It smashed yesterday as a result of the Dacre collapse. The news was in my rag this morning.”
“Was it? I didn't look at the _Clarion_ to-day. Is it a bad case?”
“Very bad; about a shilling in the pound is all that will come out of the wreck. Will you be hard hit?”
“Rather! Curls me up like a corkscrew. To pay Mrs Tallis her six thousand pounds I gave a mortgage on Ocho Rios for five thousand pounds as I only had about three or four thousand pounds in the Capricornian. I'm deuced lucky that it wasn't more.”
He rose from his seat and paced angrily to and fro on the verandah for a moment or two, then he stopped suddenly, and a smile lit up his scarred face.
“What an ass I am, Lacey! The thing can't be helped, but only a little while ago I had made up my mind to give Kaburie to my sister; and now I can't pay for Kaburie, for my draft for six thousand pounds is worthless to Mrs Tallis, and all the labouring of mustering and branding has gone for nothing. Poor little woman! I am sorry for her! Isn't it a beastly mess?”
“You think too much of others, Gerrard, and too little of yourself.”
“I don't! I'm very fond of being good to myself, I can assure you. But a smack in the face like this is enough to make a saint swear like an Australian Member of Parliament. Now, I bought Kaburie with the idea of making it a breeding station--prize cattle and all that sort of thing--for Ocho Rios. Then when I received this telegram from my agents in Melbourne telling me that my sister would be left penniless, I made up my mind to write to her by the next mail south, and tell her that Kaburie was for her and my niece Mary. And another thing I wanted to do was to give a man I know a good lift.” (He meant Fraser.) “And now I'll be as good as stony-broke for the next two years.”
“I wish I could help you,” began Lacey, earnestly.
“Thanks, old man. It is awfully good of you, but I shall pull through all right in the end, and with a good season or two should easily lift the mortgage on Ocho Rios. All I am scared of now is a drought, but if a drought does come, I can't stop it, and therefore, it is no use my worrying about it.” He hoisted his feet upon the table, and touched the bell for the waitress. “Well, thank heavens, Lacey, I still have a thirst, and an iced brandy and soda is very soothing to the nerves. Milly, bring the ice again please, and if you see the boy tell him to come here.”
Jim soon appeared, still looking subdued and depressed.
“Sit down here, old son, and have a long drink of ginger ale with a lump of ice in it,” and he put his hand on the boy's arm, and made him sit down between himself and Lacey. “Jim, my son, I've just had some beastly bad news. I've lost a lot of money, and you and I will have to work like niggers when we get to Ocho Rios. Savvy?”
“Yes, Uncle Tom. I will work very, very hard for you.”
“For us both, Jim, and for Mary and Aunt Lizzie; for we are all in the same boat I'll tell you the whole yarn by and by; but for the present well talk about something else for a change.”
Lacey looked at him in silent admiration and wonder. “Nothing can disturb the equanimity of such a serene mind,” he thought, “and I like him for taking the youngster into his confidence like that.”
“I wonder what made Aulain leave so suddenly,” said Gerrard, as Milly appeared with the ice, and the ginger ale for Jim. “It was strange of him not to even leave a note for me.”
“Oh! when a man has fever he does very queer things. All he told me was that he was off to Brisbane to tender his resignation in person, and as that is against the regulations he hoped to be dismissed. He has been very strange lately. I think that matters have gone wrong in a certain quarter.”
Gerrard nodded. “I know. Well, I'm sorry if it is the case. She is a bonny little lady.”
Milly again appeared. “If you please, Mr Gerrard, Sergeant Macpherson would like to see you for a few minutes on important business.”
“All right, Milly! Ask him to come up. Jim, I hope you haven't been up to any games while I was away.”
The local Sergeant of Police was shown up.
“Good evening, sir,” he said. “I have just had a wire from Cardwell from Inspector Sheridan, saying that news had come through by the mail boat from Somerset, that there has been a very bad bush fire up your way, and Ocho Rios station is destroyed.”
“Any lives lost?”
“No, sir, but the fire spread all over the run for fifty miles about, and your stockman thinks that there are hardly two hundred head of cattle left I am sorry to bring you such bad news, sir.”
“Oh! don't apologise, Sergeant,” was the quiet reply, “I'm getting used to bad news. Milly, bring a chair for Mr Macpherson, and another big glass, and some more ice. Now sit down, Sergeant, and tell me all about it. Jim, get off that railing, or you'll fall off into the street, and break your leg. My luck is dead against me. Light your pipe, Sergeant, and make yourself comfy.”
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{
"id": "24270"
}
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“The saying that misfortunes never come singly seems to be verified in your case, Mr Gerrard,” said Kate Fraser, as, a fortnight after he had received the news of Westonley's death, he was relating his disastrous experiences to her and her father.
“Looks like it, doesn't it? But there are lots of fellows who have had worse luck than me, and so I shouldn't 'make a song' over mine. Now, do you know the story of Knowles's life?”
“No, he has never told us.”
“Well, he told it to me yesterday” (Gerrard had been to Kaburie to tell the dapper little overseer that he could not pay for the station, and that he, Knowles, must re-take possession as manager for Mrs Tallis), “and I think the poor little chap only related it out of pure sympathy for me when I explained to him how I was fixed, and how sorry I was for him--as well as for myself--for I had doubled the salary he was receiving from Mrs Tallis.”
“He told _me_ that,” said Kate, and her eyes sparkled with fun.
“Naturally, he would tell _you_” and Gerrard, with a faint quiver of one eyelid, gave Douglas Fraser a sly glance. “I am sure you must be the recipient of the confidences of all the country side, and would never 'give any one away,' as vulgar persons like myself would say; so please don't 'give me away' to Knowles.” Then his voice changed. “Miss Fraser, that little man is both a hero and a martyr. He was in the Naval Brigade at Sebastopol, and was recommended for the V.C. for distinguished bravery in one of the futile attacks on the Redan. Did you know that?”
“No! He only told us that he was with Peel's Naval Brigade and had seen most of the fighting, was severely wounded, and that after he came home he left the Navy through ill-health, and came to Australia.”
“Well, he didn't get the Cross after all; that was his first bit of bad luck. Then his father, who was always looked upon as a very wealthy man, went smash for a huge amount, which ruined hundreds of people, and then shot himself; so poor Knowles left the Navy and took a billet as house-master at a boys' college. Six months after, his uncle, Lord Accrington, died, and left Knowles twenty thousand pounds. Of that twenty thousand pounds he kept only five hundred pounds; every penny of the rest he gave to his dead father's creditors.”
“How noble of him,” said Kate. “It was indeed, 'but you see,' he said to me, 'I didn't want the money. My mother had died years before, and I have no brothers or sisters, and it would have been a disgraceful thing for me to have kept the money after what had occurred. Lord Accrington was my mother's brother, and I was always a favourite of his (he did not like my father, and had not spoken to him for years). I never expected he would leave me a cent, and so it was no sacrifice on my part' And then he said that ten years ago he had saved enough money to buy a small sheep station in the Riverina District, and then came the drought of '72 which broke him.”
“Poor fellow!” said Kate, “I shall like him now more than ever.”
Gerrard nodded. “One doesn't often come across such men. And, as I was saying, I have no reason to make a song over my affairs when so many other fellows have had worse luck than me.”
Douglas Fraser, who for the past few days had been depressed in spirits, said, as he rose from his seat: “True, Gerrard. It is of no use any one girding at his misfortunes, if they are not caused by himself. Sometimes a man thinks in mining parlance that he has 'struck it rich,' and straightway begins building his Chateaux en Espagne. Then he finds he has bottomed on a rank duffer, and wants to swear, as I do now.” He smiled and spread out his chest, “Kate, I'm going up to the claim to see Sam Young.”
“And Mr Gerrard and I are going to the creek to catch some fish for supper.”
“Very well! I shall come back that way and join you,” and the big man strode off to the claim--half a mile away.
“Your father is not in his usual spirits, I think, Miss Fraser,” said Gerrard, as he and Kate walked down to the fishing pool through the ever-sighing she-oaks which lined the banks of the creek.
“He is not; the reef has been gradually thinning out, and Sam Young told him yesterday that he is afraid it will pinch out altogether. Last Saturday's cleaning up at the battery only yielded ten ounces of melted gold--worth about forty pounds--and the week's expenses came to one hundred and forty pounds. I am afraid, Mr Gerrard, that father and I and all the men will have to leave Fraser's Gully, and set our faces to the North, and leave the old battery behind us to the native bears and opossums and iguanas and snakes,” and her voice faltered, for she dearly loved the place where she had spent so many happy years.
“I am sorry,” said Gerrard, musingly. “I suppose your father--if he does leave here--from what he said to me is thinking of going to the newly-opened gold fields on the Gilbert River?”
“Yes, in that direction at any rate, prospecting as we travel. That is the one thing that consoles me; I love the idea of seeing new country.”
Gerrard made no answer for some minutes. He was thinking of a certain place on a creek, running into the Batavia River--the place “with a hunking big boulder standing up in the middle of a deep pool,” of which he had spoken to Aulain, and he now half-regretted his promise to him to “keep it dark” for six months.
“Of what are you thinking, Mr Gerrard?”
“I was wondering if your father would care to make a prospecting trip up my way instead of going to the Gilbert rush. When I left Ocho Rios there were several prospecting parties on Cape York Peninsula--some of them doing very well--and I myself got seven ounces of gold in a few hours from a creek about sixty miles from my station. Unfortunately, however, another man as well as myself knows of this place, and he asked me not to say anything about it for six months. He means to go there with a prospecting party.”
“You mean Mr Aulain,” and Kate turned her frank eyes to his.
“How did you know?”
She flushed. “You remember the letter you brought me from him. In that letter he told me that he was leaving the Native Police, and intended going in for mining, as he knew of some very rich auriferous country near your station, and that you, who also knew of it, had promised him to keep it secret from any other prospecting party.”
“Yes, I did. I should like to see Aulain 'strike it rich' as your father says, Miss Fraser,” and then he smiled. “If only for the sake of my kind, patient nurse of last month.”
Again Kate's face flushed. “I know what you mean, Mr Gerrard, but----” she bent her head, and began to tie on a fishhook to the line she was carrying. “But you are mistaken. I like Mr Aulain very, very much, but I do not like any one enough to--to--oh, dear! I've broken the snooding.”
“Never mind, I'll fix it for you,” and as his hand touched her's, a new hope came into his life. He knew what she meant him to understand--that she was not going to marry Aulain--and then he went on quickly.
“I gabble like an old woman, do I not, Miss Fraser? Oh, this is what I was about to say, I believe that the Batavia River district is full of rich reefs and alluvial gold as well, and from what I hear from Lacey, I don't think the Gilbert will prove a permanent gold-field. Now, I will try to persuade your father to come to my part of the country instead of the Gilbert, which, by the time he reaches it, will probably be played out altogether, and abandoned.”
“Ah! do persuade him, Mr Gerrard; I liked the thought of our going to the Gilbert, but I like better--oh, ever so much better--your suggestion of the Batavia River, for there we should be near the sea; and I love the sea and the beaches. I am horribly selfish, I am afraid.”
Gerrard stroked his beard meditatively. “Yes, you'll be near the sea, Miss Fraser. But it is an awful country for a lady to live in; the fever is very bad there, and the blacks are a continual source of danger and trouble.”
“Anything that my father can go through I can face too,” she said proudly; “and besides that I have had fever, am not afraid of blacks or anything--except alligators,” and she shuddered, as she smiled.
“Then you will be in a continual state of fear. All the rivers on the Peninsula are alive with them, and I have lost hundreds of cattle by the brutes.” Then he laughed. “But they won't get many this year.”
“How bravely he takes his misfortunes,” she thought. Then she said, “Well, I shall take good care of myself, and not cross any creeks if the water is not clear. Now here we are at the pool. Isn't it lovely and quiet? I do hope we shall have caught enough fish by the time father comes.”
Gerrard, as he filled his pipe, watched her smooth, slender brown hands baiting the hook of her line with a small grasshopper, and noted the beautiful contour of her features, and the intent expression in her long-lashed eyes as she surveyed it. She looked up.
“Now, Mr Gerrard what _are_ you doing? Don't be so lazy. I'll have at least three fish before you have your line ready. Oh, I do wish I were a man!”
“Why?”
“Because then I could smoke a pipe when I am fishing. It must be delightful! When father and Sam Young and Cockney Smith come here with me to fish, and I see them all looking so placidly content with their pipes in their mouths, I feel as if I was missing something. Now, watch!”
She made a cast with her light rod of bamboo, and almost at the same moment that the impaled grasshopper fell upon the glassy surface of the pool it was seized by a fish of the grayling species; known to Queenslanders as “speckled trout.”
“There you are!” she cried triumphantly, as she swung the silvery-scaled beauty out of the water, and deftly grasped it with her left hand. “First to me.”
The music of her laugh, and her bright, animated features, filled Gerrard with delight as he watched her make a second cast. Then he too set to work, and, for the next quarter of an hour, they vied to make the greatest catch. Gerrard was a long way behind, when Douglas Fraser appeared. He was saying over and over again to himself: “There is nothing between her and Aulain! there is nothing between them!” Then, as he put his hand to his scarred face, the wild elation in his heart died away.
***** “Well, young people, what luck?” said the burly mine-owner, as with his hands on his hips, he leant against a she-oak.
“Splendid, father! thirty-five. How is the reef going?”
“Pinched out all together, chick. We can hang the battery up now.”
Kate laid down her rod, and covered her face with her hands, and Gerrard saw the tears trickling through her fingers. For she loved the Gully, as she had loved no other place before.
Fraser stepped over to her, and placed his hand on her bent head.
“Never mind, little girl! We'll strike it rich some day.”
“Yes, father!” she whispered, as she smiled through her tears, “we _shall_ strike a patch some day.”
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On their way home, Gerrard and Fraser discussed the position, and Kate's heart beat quicker when her father said, “I think you are right, Gerrard. Ill give up the idea of the Gilbert, and shall try my luck on the Batavia.”
“Very well, it is settled. We can leave by the next steamer for Somerset.”
“I meant to overland it.”
“Don't think of it. It is over a thousand miles, and you would have to pass through some fearful country, full of poison bush, and would perhaps lose all your horses. Then, too, the blacks are bad, very bad.”
“Some of my men will be sure to come with me; especially Young and Smith.”
“Don't think of overlanding it,” persisted Gerrard. “It would take you, even with the best of luck, two months to get to the Batavia. Come with me to Somerset. I think we can get all the horses we want there, and then we can go across country--only one hundred and fifty miles--to the Gulf side; if not, I'll hire one of the pearling luggers to take us round by Cape York.”
So Douglas Fraser yielded, and when they reached the house, he sent word to the claim and battery for all the men to come to him.
“Boys,” he said, as the toil-stained, rough miners filed into the sitting-room, “we'll have to clear out of the Gully now that the reef has pinched out. Now, Mr Gerrard tells me that there is both good reefing and alluvial country up about the Batavia River; all the creeks carry gold; so I am going there with him, Will any of you come in with me?”
Every one of them gave a ready assent.
“Why, boss,” said Sam Young, “we coves ain't agoin' to leave you an' Miss Kate as long as we can make tucker and wages--or half wages, as fur as that goes. What say, lads?”
“Of course you can't leave us,” said Kate with a laugh; “you all know what it is to have a woman cook.”
“An' a lady doctor for them as have jim-jams,” said one of them, looking at Cockney Smith, who shuffled his feet, and stared at something he pretended to see outside.
The matter was soon concluded, and the few following days were spent in crushing the last of the stone from the claim, and having a final clean-up of the battery. And Douglas Fraser could not help a heavy sigh escaping him, as he looked at the now silent machinery, and the cold, fireless boiler, to be in a few years hidden from view by the ever-encroaching forest of brigalow and gum trees.
Knowles, when he heard they were going, came to say good-bye. He looked so dejected that Kate felt a real pity for him; especially now that she knew the story of his life.
“I'll be as lonely as a bandicoot after you go,” he said frankly, as he twisted his carefully-waxed moustache; “and, by Jove, if I were not bound to stay at Kaburie for Mrs Tallis, I would ask your father to let me make one of his party. I don't know anything about mining, but I could make myself useful with the horses--sort of a cow-boy, you know.”
“I really do wish you could come with us, Mr Knowles. We shall miss you very much. Father, when he looked at his chess-board yesterday, heaved such a tremendous sigh, and I knew that he was thinking of you, and wondering if he will ever find any such another player.”
“Ah! I shall miss my chess, too. Still, one never knows what may happen, and it is possible that some day you may see me up on the Batavia, looking for a billet on some cattle station. I would go now if I could. But I must stick to Mrs Tallis, at least until she gets another manager.”
“She won't let you leave Kaburie, Mr Knowles. She likes you too much; she told me so.” The little man's face suffused with pleasure. “It was very good of her. But I should like her ever so much more if she would give me a better salary.”
“Ask her--she won't refuse you.”
“Ah! I wouldn't have the courage; a lady, you see, is different from a man.”
“Write--that is easy enough. Now, promise me. And I can positively assure you that she will only be too glad.” She put her hand on his. “Do promise me.”
“I can refuse you nothing. But I need not write, for I think it very likely that now the sale of Kaburie is 'off' with Mr Gerrard, she will come back there to live. I had a telegram from her yesterday, in which she said that she might come back next month.”
“Then, Mr Knowles, you will have to propose to her--that will be ever so much better than asking her for a bigger salary,” and Kate laughed.
The ex-sailor blushed like a girl, then he tugged furiously at his moustache. “By Jove, Miss Fraser, I--I--you don't know--I--if I were not so old, and not so beastly poor--I was going to ask _you_ to marry me. There, it's out now, and you'll think me an ass.”
Kate's manner changed. What she had feared he would one day say, he had now said, and she felt sorry for him.
“I think that you are such a man that any woman should be proud to hear what you have said to me, Mr Knowles,” she said softly. “I know more about you than you think I do. But I shall never marry. I am going to stick to my father, and grow up into a nice old maid with fluffy white hair.”
“You are not offended with me?”
“Offended! No, indeed. I feel proud that you should think so much of me as to have thought of asking me to be your wife,” and she put out her hand to him. He raised it quickly to his lips, and then saying something incoherent about his wanting to see Cockney Smith's kangaroo pups, hurriedly left the room.
“That was over soon,” breathed Kate, as she watched his well-set little figure striding across the paddock to Smith's humpy. “He _is_ a gentleman, if ever there was one in the world.”
“What is the matter, little one?” asked her father, as he entered the room.
“Nothing, dad. I was only looking at Mr Knowles going over to Smith's humpy to look at the new kangaroo pups.”
Fraseras eyes twinkled. He guessed what had occurred. “I suppose Charlie Broome,” (the bank manager at Boorala) “will be the next, Kate. I had a letter from him this morning, saying he would be here to-morrow. You had one also, I saw.”
“Oh, he is concerned about Cockney Smith's account,” said Kate serenely; “that is why he is coming, now that he knows we are going away.”
“Exactly,” said Fraser, stroking his beard. “It's wonderful the interest he takes in Cockney Smith--an extraordinary-ordinary interest.”
“Father, don't make fun of me--I can't help it. And his letter to me was so silly that I was ashamed to show it to you--I really was.”
“Oh, well, I don't want to see it, my child. I've read too many love-letters when I was on the Bench--some of them so 'excessively tender,' as that old ruffian of a Judge Norbury used to say in Ireland, more than a hundred years ago, that I had to handle them with the greatest care, for fear they would fall into pieces. Now, who else is there that is going to solicit your lily-white hand--which isn't lily-white, but a distinct leather-brown--before we get away? Lacey, I suppose, will be the next.”
“Not he, dad--the dear, sensible old man! He is wedded to his 'rag,' as he calls the _Clarion_. But, at the same time, I do look forward to seeing him again, and hearing his beautiful rich brogue--especially when he is excited.”
Gerrard came to the door.
“May I come in?” he asked His eyes were alight with subdued merriment, as he displayed an open letter. The mailman from Port Denison had just arrived.
“I have had a letter from my sister, Miss Fraser. She is leaving Sydney with my niece Mary, and coming to Ocho Rios. That is a bit of good luck for me, isn't it? And I am sure you and she and Mary will become great chums. She tells me that “--he hesitated a moment--“that as her affairs are in such a bad state she would like to come to me. And I am thunderingly glad of it Of course she doesn't know that Ocho Rios station has gone--in a way; but by the time she gets to Somerset--three months from now--she will find a new house, and we'll all be as happy as sandboys. Now, Miss Fraser, are you ready for an hour or two's fishing? You'll come too, Fraser?”
“Won't I? Do you think _I_ would miss the last chance of fishing in Fraser's Creek?” and the big man took down his fishing-rod and basket from a peg on the rough, timbered sides of the sitting-room.
“Fill your pipe, dad, before we start.”
“Fill it for me, Miss,” and Fraser threw a piece of tobacco upon the table, together with his pocket-knife.
“And yours too, Mr Gerrard. I am a great hand at cutting up tobacco; I wish I were a man, and could smoke it. Oh, Mr Gerrard, I'm 'all of a quiver' to know that I shall see your little Mary.”
“So am I, 'quite a quivering,” and then as Gerrard looked at her beautiful face, he remembered his own scarred features, and something between a sigh and a curse came from his lips.
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As Mrs Westonley had told Gerrard in her letter that she and Mary would not leave Marumbah for quite two months and proceed direct to Somerset, where she hoped he would meet them, he decided to lose no more time at Port Denison; and so a week after the abandonment of Fraser's Gully, he and his friends found themselves on board a steamer bound to the most northern port of the colony, just then coming into prominence as the rendezvous of the pearling fleet, although Thursday Island was also much favoured.
Before leaving Port Denison, he had written to his sister, and told her that he would meet her on her arrival at Somerset. “Jim is off his head with delight,” he added; “in fact we both are, at the prospect of seeing you and Mary so soon. In one way I am glad that it will be barely three months before you get to Ocho Rios, for I want to get a new house put up; the present one isn't of much account”--this was his modified way of saying that there was no house there at all, it having been reduced to ashes, but he did not wish her to have the faintest inkling of any of his misfortunes, for fear that she would then refuse to add to his troubles and expenses by becoming a charge upon him. “And I have already bought some decent furniture, which I will take round with me in one of the pearlers. I do hope you will like the place, but you will look upon it at its very worst, for there have been heavy bush fires all about the station, which have played the deuce with the country for hundred of miles about. But the annual rains will begin to fall in four months, and then you will see it at its best. I am also going to make a garden, and plant no end of vegetables and flowers and things. There is a lovely little spot on one of the creeks; and Jim and I have been going over a thumping big box of seeds which I bought yesterday. You can consider that garden as made, with rock-melons and watermelons, and 'punkens' and other fruit growing in it galore.”
When Elizabeth Westonley read the letter she smiled--the first time almost since her husband's death. “How nice of your uncle, is it not, Mary? I should miss a garden dreadfully, and it is very thoughtful of him when he has so much work to do with his cattle. And see, he has sent me a draft for one hundred pounds for our expenses up to Somerset.”
“Are we very, very, poor now, Aunt?”
“Very, very poor, Mary,” and she sighed, “But still it might have been much worse for us if the people to whom Marumbah now belongs had not let me keep the furniture. Mr Brooke has bought it, and paid me three hundred and fifty pounds for it. And I am sure he only did it because he was sorry for us; I am certain he does not want it.”
Brooke, indeed, had been very kind to the wife of his dead friend, and had pressed her to accept a loan of money, but this she had gratefully declined.
“How glad Uncle Tom must be that he has money to send you!”
“I am sure he must be. He is always thinking of others; and you and I, Mary, must do all we can for him. I shall be housekeeper and cook and all sorts of things, and you shall be chief housemaid, and help me, and we will try and make the house look nice.”
“Yes, Aunt. And won't it be lovely to see Jim again! I can just imagine his staring eyes when he sees that I have brought Bunny. You'll keep it a dead secret, won't you?”
“Quite secret. I did not even mention Bunny in my letter. Now we must go on sewing these mosquito curtains; your uncle says that in the rainy season the mosquitoes nearly eat one alive, so I am going to make six, as I am sure he has none at Ocho Rios. He says they don't bite him, as his skin is too tough.”
An hour before the steamer in which Gerrard and the Frasers had taken passage cast off her lines from the jetty, Lacey came on board to say farewell, bringing with him Mrs Woodfall. The kind-hearted woman was almost on the verge of tears as she sat down beside Jim, and folded him to her ample, motherly bosom.
Gerrard presently drew her aside, and put two five pound notes in her hand.
“Indeed I won't, sir. I like the lad too much! No, sir, not even as a present. But I do hope you won't mind his writing to us sometimes. And will you mind my saying, Mr Gerrard, that me and my husband are very sorry to hear that your station has been burned, and that you have lost nearly all your cattle. And we have taken a liberty which I hope won't offend you--it is only a present for Jim, and won't give you any trouble on board the steamer, and the freight is paid right on to Somerset, and my husband put five hundredweight of best Sydney lucerne hay on board, so you won't have no trouble in feeding him; and, although I say it myself, there's not a better bred bull calf in North Queensland.”
“Do you mean to say, Mrs Woodfall, that you have given Jim that Young Duke bull of yours? Why, he's worth fifty pounds! Oh no, I can't allow you to be so generous as that.”
“You can't help it now, Mr Gerrard,” said the good woman triumphantly; “my husband brought him on board last night, and he is now in his stall on the fore-deck as happy as a king, and I hope he will prove his good blood when you once have him at Ocho Rios. Come and look at him,” and she smiled with pride as she led the way out of the saloon.
The animal was comfortably established in a stall on the fore-deck, and beside him was Woodfall feeding him with the “Sydney lucerne.”
“Woodfall, that bull is going ashore right away unless you take fifty pounds for him,” said Gerrard; “he'll be worth five hundred pounds to me in a couple of years.”
“Can't take it, Mr Gerrard. He's a present to Jim, so it's no use talking. But I would take it as a favour if you'd send me a line, and tell me how he bears the journey.”
“Indeed I will, Woodfall,” replied Gerrard, who was greatly touched by this practical demonstration of their regard for him; for he knew that their excuse of giving the bull to Jim was a shallow one, and that both husband and wife were aware that the animal would prove of the greatest value to him, now that Ocho Rios was practically without cattle. And such sympathy went to his heart. “The world is full of kind people,” he thought. Then he turned to Mrs Woodfall and her husband with a smile. “Come back to the saloon with me. The steamer will leave in half an hour, and we shall not have much time to talk together. And the steward is giving us tea there.”
The big woman's face flushed with pleasure. “That is kind of you, Mr Gerrard. I can drink a cup of tea, but would be afraid to ask that swell steward for it; he looks like----” “Like a duke in disguise, eh? But he'll take a shilling tip from any one, I can assure you.”
“Well, I never! He ought to be ashamed of himself. English fashions are a-coming in, aren't they, Mr Gerrard? Just fancy any respectable man taking a shilling for doing the work he is paid for! Fifteen pound a month these steamer stewards get, so Mr Lacey tells me. My! But he won't get no shilling from me.”
“Indeed he shall not, Mrs Woodfall. You are my guest. Now come along, please, as Miss Fraser and the others will be waiting for us.”
“Mr Gerrard, isn't Miss Fraser a bonny girl--and can't she ride! I don't want to be rude, sir, but you will have to have a mistress for Ocho Rios; and she is one of the sweetest girls in the country, and right to your hand, so to speak.”
“Mrs Woodfall, you _are_ surprising me. First you give Jim a bull calf worth hundreds of pounds, and then you try to fill my head with the idea that a young lady whom I have only known for a few weeks----” “Ah, Mr Gerrard! Trust a woman for knowing things that men don't see. I saw her looking at you in the saloon--and, well, I know a thing or two.”
“I am sure you do,” said Gerrard laughingly, as they re-entered the saloon, “but I should have to get another face before I ask any one to marry me.”
“Not at all. Why, Mr Gerrard, in a year or so all those red scars will have gone, and you'll be the nice same nutty brown all over.”
“How are you, Gerrard?” said a little white-haired man in uniform. “I am glad to see you on board the _Gambler_ once more. You'll share my cabin, of course?”
“Thanks, Captain MacAlister, I shall be delighted,” and then the master of the steamer, after an admiring glance at Kate, and a look of wondering sympathy at the left side of Gerrard's face, hurried on deck to the bridge.
“Two big bottles of Pommery, steward; never mind the tea. Quick, please,” cried Lacey to the steward; “the skipper has gone on the bridge, and we'll just have time for a doch and dorrish, Miss Fraser.” The steward soon had the bottles opened.
“Gerrard, me boy, I wish you lashings of luck, and you too, Miss Fraser. Jim, my son, don't forget to write. Come, Mrs Woodfall; you really must, or I'll not speak to ye for a month. Here's to the bright eyes of the ladies! Miss Fraser, don't be after playing with any more alligators--they're nasty things for ladies to handle. Now I must be going; there's the last bell,” and shaking hands all round once more, the genial Irishman left the saloon with the Woodfalls to go on shore, leaving Gerrard and his party to make their way on deck.
The engines throbbed, and the great hull of the steamer slid slowly along the pier, and Gerrard and his friends went to the rail to see the last of Lacey. He, however, for the moment did not see them, as he was hurriedly writing in his pocket-book. Then tearing out the leaf, he looked up, and pushing his way through the crowd to the edge of the pier, was just in time to reach out and place the paper in Gerrard's hand.
“Don't read it now,” he cried, as he drew back; “put it in your pocket. Good-bye, and good luck.”
A few minutes later Captain MacAlister asked Gerrard and Fraser to come up on the bridge, and Gerrard unfolded Lacey's missive and read: “Just recognised one of your fellow-passengers--tall, stout, good-looking, yellow moustache, jewellery. Look out for him-- noted card-sharper, and all-round blackguard. Calls himself Honble Wilburd Merriton, but has heaps of aliases--ex-gaol bird.”
Gerrard showed the note to Fraser, who nodded, and said he had noticed the man.
“I think there is a party of them. See, there they are together at the companion; and, by Jove, I can swear to one of them! I tried him at Araluen for being concerned in gold-stealing, and gave him three years 'hard.' That is he with the black moustache and Jewish features--Mr Barney Green.”
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Not only the saloon, but the steerage accommodation of the _Gambier_ was taxed to the utmost, and Gerrard and Fraser were not surprised to see that there were quite a hundred diggers on board, for Lacey had told them a few days previously that the Sydney and Melbourne newspapers as well as the Queensland Press had, weeks previously, reported that many prospecting parties were doing well on both sides of Cape York Peninsula.
Some of them the ex-judge quickly recognised as men he had met at Gympie and other Queensland gold-fields, and he was especially pleased to see one man--a tall, broad-shouldered Irishman named Blake, who at that moment was engaged in an altercation with the fore-cabin steward, and causing roars of laughter every few moments from his rough companions.
“That's a 'broth av a boy,' and no mistake,” said Captain MacAlister, coming over to Fraser and Gerrard; “he's as full of mischief as a monkey, but a great favourite with every one on board, except the unfortunate stewards. He is a lucky digger from Gympie, and came aboard at Brisbane, and has kept the ship in an uproar ever since. He took a four-berth state-room for himself, but only uses it to sleep in--if the devil ever does sleep--and spends all his time among the other diggers in the fore-cabin.”
“I know him,” said Fraser with a smile. “Just listen now--he is taking a rise out of the poor steward.”
The fore-cabin steward, a fat, podgy, little man, was speaking; beside him was Cockney Smith, who kept giving him sympathetic punches in the back to go on.
“I won't 'ave it, even if yer are a cabbing passinger. Wot do yer come into the fore-cabbing for, upsettin' me an' my men, and a-usin' langwidge when I can't open four dozen bottles of beer at onct. I never seed such a crowd! I'm alius willin' to oblige any man wot is thirsty, and wot wants a drink; but I aint a-goin' to attend on yer like a slave when I 'as cleanin' to do. So there, big as yer are, yer 'ave it--straight.”
“'Ear, 'ear,” said Cockney Smith, who was thoroughly enjoying himself. “Who's a-goin' to be bullied by any cove because he is a cabbing passinger?” and he gave Blake an almost imperceptible wink.
Blake outspread his huge hands and rolled up his eyes, in sorrowful indignation. “Me little mahn, I can see that ye and the steward mane to parsecute me, and make me loife a mishery--an' me doin' no harm at all, at all. Sure, I'll not stand it anny more. It's to the captain I'll go, and complain av ye both. He's a MacAlister, he is, an' I'll call on him to purtect me from your violent conduct--me sufferin' from a wake heart, an' liable to fall dead on yez at anny moment, when yez luk at me like that, wid that ferocioushness in yez eyes. Sure, an' me own father dhropped dead off the car he was drivin' whin an ould maid from Belfast gave him two sovereigns in mistake for two shillin's for takin' her from Dawson Street to St Stephen's Green. It was short-sighted she was, but it made me the poor orphan I am this minute.”
Amidst much laughter, the irate steward went off, and left the field to his antagonist, and then Douglas Fraser left the bridge, made his way forward, and clapping the Irishman on the shoulder, said: “At your old tricks again, Larry.”
Blake stared at him for a moment, and then gave a shout of delight as he seized Fraser's hand, and in a few seconds other diggers also recognised and crowded about him.
“An' how's the wee girl?” was Blake's first question.
“Come and see for yourself,” and Fraser led the way to the saloon, where they found Kate. She was delighted to see the big digger, and blushed scarlet at his loudly expressed compliments, for there were a number of other passengers near. Leaving her with Blake, Fraser rejoined Gerrard, and together they went to the purser, whom they found in his cabin, and asked to see the passenger list. He was an old accquaintance of Gerrard's, and readily complied. Running down the names, they failed to see either that of Merriton or Green.
“Who is that big, good-looking man with the yellow moustache, carrying field-glasses, Adlam?” asked Gerrard carelessly.
“Oh,” and the purser shrugged his shoulders. “Here he is,” and he pointed to a name on the list--“'Captain Forreste.' He's one of a party of four, who have a cabin to themselves. They put on no end of frills, and practically boss the saloon. Between ourselves, I have every reason to believe they are a gang of sharpers. I know for a fact that one of them--this fellow here, 'Mr Bernard Capel'--has a hand-bag literally packed with unopened packs of cards, every one of which no doubt is marked. I happened to be passing their state-room late at night, after all the other passengers were asleep, and when the ship was rolling heavily. The door flew open, and I saw this fellow Capel and the big man Forreste had the bag open on the table, and there must have been at least twenty unopened packs of cards piled up on the table, besides those in the bag. I pretended I didn't notice, for the moment the door flew open, Capel called Forreste a ------ idiot for not turning the key. Now, I haven't been pursering for ten years without learning something, and I can smell a swell-mobsman almost before I see him.”
Fraser nodded. “I daresay you are right, Mr Adlam. When a man travels with a handbag full of packs of cards one naturally would suspect that he was either very eccentric, or was a commercial traveller, with samples of his wares.” His eyes twinkled. “It is a very old dodge that--an apparently unopened pack of cards, every one of which has been systematically marked, and then the wrapper with the revenue stamp is carefully put on again.”
“Just so,” assented the purser. “And the other night, a big digger--one of our saloon passengers--was taken down by Forreste for a hundred and twenty pounds. The great Irish ass, however, thinks that Forreste is no end of a gentleman. The skipper and I gave him a hint, which he wouldn't take, however. The worst of it is that I must keep my mouth shut about the bag full of packs of cards. Diggers are rough customers, and if these now on board knew that Forreste and his friends were a gang of sharpers, they would handle them very severely, and create a fearful disturbance.”
“What is Mr Bernard Capel like?” asked Fraser.
“Oh, a short, black-moustached chap with curly hair, and a hook nose, wears a lot of jewellery. The lady passengers think that he and Captain Forreste are most charming men.”
“Who are the other two?”
“Pinkerton and Cheyne. They are as well-dressed as the others, but don't push themselves much--the other two are the bosses of the gang.”
Fraser thought a moment or two. Then he spoke.
“I think I ought to tell you, Mr Adlam. I know the man who calls himself Capel. His real name is Barney Green, and he is a bad lot--gold thief and coiner. And I advise you to take good care of your safe. I daresay these four gentlemen have a very interesting collection of safe keys.”
Adlam laughed. “Ah, our Company has learnt something by experience. There, you see, is the safe which is supposed to contain all the money committed to my care; but there is nothing in it but loose cash; the safe that does hold all the money is here,” and he tapped the varnished cedar panels of his bunk; “no one, even if he knew the secret, could get at it without disturbing me. When the strong room of the _Andes_ was broken into five years ago, between Melbourne and Colombo, and six hundred-weight of gold bars stolen, I set my wits to work, and devised this idea of mine. Only the captain, chief officer, chief engineer, and myself, and, of course, the Company's general manager at Sydney, know of it; even my own bedroom steward has no idea that there is a second safe, although he turns out my cabin twice a week for a general cleaning. If he did discover the fact, I should have to shunt him at once, as he is quite a new hand in the service.”
“Well, you have given the secret away to us, Adlam,” said Gerrard, with a laugh, “and I have had some bad luck of late.”
The purser laughed in unison, and then turning the key of his door, rose, went to his bunk, and touched a concealed spring in the heavy panelling at the back. It at once slid down noiselessly, and revealed the safe, about the sides of which were a number of electric wires and bells.
“The current is turned off now,” he explained, as he again touched the panelling, which ascended as quickly and softly as it had fallen; “but if any one did try to prize up the panelling, there would be a devil of a row; not only the six bells in this cabin but those in the captain's and chief mate's room would begin to ring, and keep ringing, and they and the chief engineer would know something was wrong. We have tried it several times when in dock, after clearing every one out of the ship but ourselves, and it works splendidly--kicks up a fearful din. Now, last voyage, independent of ten thousand ounces of gold in the strong room, I had seventeen thousand pounds in notes and sovereigns in that safe; this trip there is only about one thousand two hundred pounds, mostly passengers' money, and a packet of five thousand new unsigned one pound notes for the bank just opened at Cooktown. Now, I hope with four such gentry as we have on board that you and Mr Fraser will be careful; better give me your cash.”
“Thank you, I will,” said Fraser; “I have seven hundred pounds in notes.”
“And I about three hundred pounds,” said Gerrard.
“Well, go and get them now if you will,” said the obliging purser.
This was done, and then the two friends, as they were returning to the bridge, met Kate.
“I have honours conferred on me, father. Captain MacAlister is having afternoon tea in his cabin, and you, Mr Gerrard, and Jim are invited; I am to be hostess. In another hour I shall be the best hated woman on board.”
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{
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It was past midnight, and the chief steward of the Gambier was taking a last glance through the empty saloon to see that everything was in order before he turned in, when Swires, the purser's bedroom steward, came to him.
“If you please, sir, the gentlemen in No. 16 send their compliments, and would be obliged to you if you will let them have their lights on full for an hour or so for a game. And they want a couple of bottles of Usher's and a dozen of soda.”
“Why can't they play cards in the-smoking-room on deck?” grumbled the chief steward; “there's a man on duty there until two o'clock--they know that well enough. Who's going to wait on them, and see after the lights?”
“I will, sir, if you don't mind,” replied Swires, a clean-shaven, deferential young man with shifty eyes.
“Well, it's against the rules. And if the skipper or the purser comes along, and finds you loafing about in, the alley-way when you ought to be turned in, I'll get into trouble as well as yourself. Captain Forreste is a very liberal gentleman, but he puts it on a bit too thick when he asks me to run risks.” But as he spoke he took out his keys, and proceeded to open his sideboard lockers--he had already received several golden tips from Captain Forreste and his friends, and felt certain of more in the future.
“I told the gentlemen, sir, that I would get into trouble if the purser or yourself seen me in the alley-way after eight bells, and they said that I might sit in their state-room until they had finished their game.”
“Oh, well, I suppose I must give in to 'em. Tell 'em not to make too much noise.”
As soon as Swires entered No. 16 with the whisky and sodas, Cheyne turned the key in the lock.
“Well?” asked Forreste interrogatively, as the steward laid the bottles down in one of the berths.
Helping himself to a cigar from a box on the table, the man lit it, and then sat down familiarly.
“Well,” he replied, “I've found out that we are going to coal from a collier at Cooktown--that's one thing. Another is that there is a dinner-party to be given on shore to the skipper by the saloon passengers on the night after we get there, and most likely the purser is going.”
“Ah,” and Capel's black beady eyes glittered, “that'll be our chance.”
“Yes, we'll be coaling for about sixteen hours, beginning in the afternoon. There will be a dust screen put up just near the purser's cabin, because one of the bunker shoots is just a little for'ard of his door--see?”
“Yes,” and all four men bent eagerly towards Swires.
“Well, there'll be a thundering clatter with the coals as they come pouring down from the upper deck, and that will be the time to get in, cut the wire, and do the job right away. There'll be no one this side of the dust screen after eleven at night, as most of the passengers will be ashore at the dinner, and those who don't go will be asleep.”
“Supposin' the flamin' purser don't go?” said Cheyne, a small, wiry, sunburned man, who, although like his confederates was extremely well-dressed, was an exceedingly illiterate man. He was Australian born, and from his youth upward, when not occupied in horse-stealing or thimble-rigging on bush race-courses, had spent the intervening time in gaol. Pinkerton, who was an American of a somewhat similar type to Cheyne, but of a more villainous nature, was an expert burglar, and a very fitting companion to the astute and well-educated Forreste, and the Jew, Barney Green.
“Well, what if he doesn't?” responded Swires, turning to Forreste; “you've got the stuff for me to give him in his B and S before he turns in. You're always cacklin' about it. Where is it?”
“Here you are,” and Forreste went to his Gladstone bag, opened it, and took out a tin box containing a number of very small unlabeled phials, each holding about ten drops of colourless liquid. “Empty one of these into the tumbler before you put in the brandy, and he'll be dead to the world in ten minutes after he drinks it.”
“I'd like to know how many flimsies there are in that packet,” said Capel.
“We'll know before long,” replied the steward. “It is a good big bundle. I seed the bank clerk give it to him in the saloon, and take a receipt for it, but couldn't get a look to see how much it was for.”
Discussion then followed as to the future movements of the gang after the robbery, and it was decided that Capel and Cheyne should take the plunder on shore and hide it, and the following morning they should inform the purser that they intended to remain at Cooktown instead of going on in the steamer to Somerset and the newly-discovered rushes further north. This would cause no surprise, for already a number of the diggers on board had formed a deputation to Adlam, asking him if he would make them a rebate on their passage money if they landed at Cooktown; explaining that they had learnt at Port Denison that it would be easier to get to the new gold-fields from Cooktown than from any other place to the north of that port.
Swires was to receive a fifth share of the plunder, and was to desert from the ship as soon as possible after the robbery. He had long been associated with the gang, and indeed it was at his suggestion, made in Sydney, that they should attempt to open the ship's safe. After a separation of twelve months--spent in prison--from his former companions, he had succeeded by means of an excellent “discharge,” which he had stolen from an unfortunate steward named Swires, in getting a berth on the _Gambier_, and the first thing he did was to look up Forreste and Capel, and suggest their all going to the new gold-fields, pointing out that there would be a great number of passengers on board, and that they were bound to do well.
“That is just what we meant to do,” Capel had said, “and we can wire to Cheyne and Pinkerton to join us. They are 'working' Bathurst just now, and will be here by to-morrow night.” Then he added that it was a bit of luck that he (Swires) should be the purser's attendant--it would give them a very fair chance of making a big haul. If, however, they did not succeed in their anticipation of perpetrating any robberies or swindling on the voyage by cards, they knew that on a new gold-field they would have glorious opportunities. Swires--who really was a ship steward--they had become acquainted with in San Francisco, and had admitted into their fraternity. For quite two years they had “worked” the mail steamers between Sydney and San Francisco, fleecing the passengers who were foolish enough to be enticed into playing with them. Sometimes there would be but two of them--with Swires--sometimes three, and they usually took their passages separately, met on board as strangers, and, being always well-dressed, and very agreeable in their manners, soon ingratiated themselves with the rest of the passengers. Their lavish manner of living and courteous attention to ladies and children always paved the way to success; but at last they became too well known, and had to change their sphere of work from the American steamers--which are always infested by sharpers--to other lines. As “the Hon. Wilburd Merriton” the chief scoundrel of the gang had travelled all over the world, changing his name and appearance as occasion demanded. In the mining towns of California and Nevada he would be a wealthy English gentleman looking for suitable investments; on a Peninsular and Oriental liner from Melbourne to London, he would be either a college professor enjoying a twelve months' holiday trip, a squatter in the Northern Territory of South Australia, or the owner of a nitrate mine in Peru; and whatever role he played, he always succeeded in swindling some one. Women were his chief victims. His handsome appearance, fascinating manners, and easy courtesy were as fatal to a confiding woman as to the managers of banks who cashed his cheque when he was “temporarily short for a few hundreds.” An excellent linguist in the principal Continental languages, he could also talk like, and assume the manners of, the rough gold-diggers with whom he so frequently associated for his nefarious purposes. Unlike his associates--the Jew, Barney Green (alias Capel), and Pinkerton and Cheyne--he had only once seen the inside of the prison, when as “the Hon. Wilburd Merriton” he was given a sentence of two years' hard labour for forgery in Auckland, New Zealand.
Lacey, who was then editing a newspaper in that somnolent little city, had seen him in the dock, and heard something of his career; and so, when he saw him standing on the after-deck of the _Gambier_, he had given Gerrard his hurriedly scribbled warning.
The discovery by Swires of the location of the secret safe in the purser's cabin had come about in a very simple manner. A plan of the electric connections between the dynamo in the engine-room, and Adlam's cabin and other parts of the ship, had come under his notice through the carelessness of the chief engineer, who had left it on the purser's table, and Swires had studied it so carefully that although he had not the time to make a copy, he had been able to explain the mechanism perfectly to Pinkerton and Capel. The unlocking of the door of the purser's cabin was a very easy matter to professionals like Cheyne, Pinkerton, and Barney Green, and so when their conference closed, and the oily-voiced steward bade the gang good-night, the latter were highly elated at the prospect of making a big haul with scarcely any danger of detection.
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{
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When the _Gambier_ arrived at Cooktown at the mouth of the Endeavour River, a scene of the greatest activity presented itself, for several other steamers had just reached the port, some bringing European diggers from the southern colonies and New Zealand, and others from Hongkong with Chinese. The latter numbered over a thousand, and they landed amid a storm of execration and missiles from the white miners, who had preceded them to the shore. But the yellow men made no show of resistance, not even when some of their number were seized--and thrown into the water with their heavily weighted baskets; they crowded together like sheep, and gazed with stolid faces at the Customs officials remorselessly capsizing their baskets upon the ground, and kicking the contents apart in the search for opium. Bags of rice were cut open and the grain spilled upon the ground, to the delight of the white diggers, especially when a tin of opium was found, and the would-be smuggler had his pigtail tied to that of another until there were several groups of a dozen so secured to be driven to the roughly constructed jail and court-house, where justice was administered in an exceedingly expeditious manner by heavy fines. Had it not been that the angry diggers were anxious to get to the newly-discovered fields as quickly as possible, a riot would have taken place, for they knew that within a few weeks there would be thousands of Chinese alluvial diggers all over the country, enriching themselves and spending nothing, for they brought even the greater part of their food with them from China. But the fatuous Government of the day wanted to swell its depleted treasure-chest, and the Chinese poll-tax brought in money quickly. All over North Queensland the rich alluvial gold-fields were soon to be occupied by the yellow men, to the detriment of the white diggers who were hastening to them from all parts of Australasia to meet with bitter disappointment, for the swarms of Chinese would descend upon a newly opened rush like locusts, and in a few weeks work out a field that would have made hundreds of white miners rich, though perhaps each Chinaman might not have obtained more than a few ounces of gold, every penny-weight of which he sent or took back to his native country. Amongst other passengers on the quarterdeck of the _Gambier_ who were watching the examination of the Chinese were Captain Forreste and his friends. Presently Capel, who was looking at Kate so impertinently that she turned her face angrily away, caught her father's eye, and in a moment the Jews features flushed. Where had he seen those keen grey eyes and that square-set face before? Fraser continued to gaze steadily at the man, for he had noticed the fellow's leering glance at his daughter, and meant to resent it.
Then the Jew's natural effrontery came back to him, and returning Fraser's look with an insolent stare, he walked up to him.
“I hope you'll know me again the next time you see me.”
“I know you as it is, Mr Barney Green, and the next time you dare to even look at my daughter, I'll give you something to remember. Meantime, take this as an earnest of my intentions.”
His right hand shot out and seized Capel by the collar, and twisting him off his feet, he spun him round and round, and then sent him flying across the deck with such violence that he struck the rail on the other side and fell in a heap.
For a few moments there was an astonished silence, and then cries of “What is the matter?” “What did he do?” resounded on all sides as Pinkerton and Cheyne rushed to the fallen man, who lay unconscious. Forreste, twisting his yellow moustache, strode up to Fraser, his face pale with anger.
“What is the meaning of this outrageous assault upon my friend?” he demanded fiercely.
Fraser eyed him up and down with cold contempt, and then Gerrard said with a pleasant drawl, as he stroked his beard: “Run away and play, Mr--er--Mr--I really forget your name. Oh, Merriton, is it not?”
Forreste's face purpled with passion, and he took a step nearer to Gerrard, who was quite ready for him. Then he stopped and said hoarsely: “My name is Forreste. I don't know yours, but I do know that if I catch you on shore I'll add some further adornment to your face.”
“Oh, you contemptible creature, to say that!” and Kate looked at him with blazing eyes.
Forreste raised his immaculate Panama to her. “This is hardly a matter for a lady's interference.”
“Better see to your friend for the present,” said Gerrard in the same placidly pleasant manner, as he drew him aside. “But I may mention before you go that there is, on the lower deck, ample space if you wish to fulfil your promise to complete the adornment of my prepossessing features. I am quite at your service later on in the day.”
Forreste uttered an oath and turned away, and in a few minutes was in state-room No. 16, where “Mr Capel” was being brought to by his friends.
“Who is the man that did it, Barney?” was Forreste's first question.
“I didn't know him at first, but knew him quick enough when I heard him speak,” replied Capel; “he's the ------ judge”--here he broke out into a torrent of blasphemy--“who gave me two years at Araluen.”
“Ha!” and Forreste tugged his moustache. “The sooner we get that safe affair over the better. The fellow with the scarred face who is with him tackled me and called me 'Merriton.' Some one has blown upon us.”
“Yes,” assented the Jew, “the sooner the better.” Then pouring out a glass of whisky he gulped it down. “And if I get the chance I'll get even with that Scotch swine. He's going to Somerset, and I'll get my knife into him some day. I'd not mind swinging for it.”
“Don't talk rot,” said Forreste, who yet knew that the Jew was a man who would not hesitate at murder, and that his expression about getting his knife into Fraser was meant in a very literal sense. “I mean to get even with my man if I come across him again. But I won't be such a fool as to attempt it here. Take a look outside and see if Snaky is about.”
“Snaky” was the name by which Swires was known to the gang--and the Australian police; and in a few minutes that worthy appeared, and a further conference was held.
That evening, whilst Captain MacAlister was being entertained on shore, a collier came alongside, and the _Gambier_ began to coal. Those of the saloon passengers who had remained on board sat under the after-deck awning, where they were not only secure from the invading coal dust, but where they could enjoy the cool sea-breeze. Among them were Kate and Jim, who had made themselves comfortable in two cane lounges, and at various parts of the quarter-deck were groups of passengers--principally ladies--who were glad to escape from the confined atmosphere of the saloon, and intended to sleep in the open air. Gerrard and Fraser had gone on shore, leaving Jim “in charge of Kate,” as Fraser had said.
At the extreme stern were Captain Forreste, Pinkerton, two or three other men, and several ladies, and from this group came much laughter, the “captain” being in great good humour, and winning the ladies' smiles by his skill as a _raconteur_.
“And so you are deserting us to-morrow morning, Captain Forreste,” cried a vivacious young matron; “it is too bad of you. The rest of the voyage will be dreadfully _triste_--for me at any rate.” Every one laughed.
The gallant captain smiled winningly. “Ah, Mrs Marriott, do not make me vain. Yes, we are going to leave you. In fact we should have all gone ashore this evening, but my unfortunate friend, Mr Capel, is not yet fully recovered from the brutal attack to which he was subjected.”
“It was most disgraceful and wicked,” chimed in a second lady.
“And cowardly as well,” added a fat, sleepy-faced dame. “I believe poor Mr Capel was taken quite by surprise.”
“And the way that horrid girl flew at you!” said Mrs Marriott; “but her father being such a horrible bully I suppose she has inherited some of his disposition. She is certainly pretty in a coarse kind of a way, I admit, but terribly _gauche_. And I really am quite angry with Captain MacAlister--he positively _trots_ after her. She is continually on the bridge with him, and yet he has refused to permit any other ladies to go there, ever since we left Sydney. I think it is scandalous, for I know that Captain MacAlister is a married man with grandchildren.”
The hours passed by, and then at eleven o'clock, to the anger of Forreste, Adlam sauntered up. He had been to the dinner, but had left early. Seating himself beside Kate and Jim, he pulled the boy's ear.
“So you are taking care of Miss Fraser, eh, Jim? Lucky man!”
“Just listen to that now!” said the fat lady to Mrs Marriott. “One would think that Mr Adlam would have more sense than to flatter that girl's vanity. He has quite deserted us since she came on board at Port Denison.”
Kate, serenely unconscious of the criticisms being passed upon her, was listening to the purser's description of the excited state of Cooktown, when Swires appeared, and said to Adlam: “When are you turning in, sir?”
“In a few minutes, Swires. You can leave my nip and bottle of soda on the table. I shall not want you any more to-night.”
“Very good, sir.”
Adlam remained with Kate a few minutes longer, then said good-night, and went to his cabin. Swires, as usual, had placed a tumbler with some brandy in it on the table, and beside it lay the soda. The purser took off his clothes, and got into his thinnest pyjamas, for the cabin was close; but he had made up his mind to stay in his cabin that night, for the sole reason that he was now very suspicious of Captain Forreste and his party, and had made up his mind to suffer the discomfort of a hot cabin, and the noise of the coaling going on as long as they were on board. Forreste had told him in the afternoon that he and his party were staying at Cooktown, much to his satisfaction.
Eight bells struck, and then noise of the falling coals suddenly ceased--the lumpers were taking the usual half-hour “spell.” Adlam opened the soda, and the listening Swires heard the pop of the cork, and stole softly into No. 16, where he found the gang awaiting him.
“Well, he's taken his B and S,” he said, “and that finishes my part of the contract.” (Earlier in the evening he and Pinkerton had opened Adlam's door, and the latter had quickly cut the electric communication of the secret safe. The opening of it later on would not be a difficult matter to such an expert as the American.)
“And we'll do ours presently,” said Capel, who was now quite recovered. “How long will that dose keep him quiet?” he asked of Forreste.
“Two hours. As soon as you have the work done, Pinky and Cheyne can take the stuff on shore. I've told the chief steward that we had all thought of going for a stroll on the beach, but that I did not care about leaving Mr Capel, and that as our cabin is not very hot, we should not sleep on deck. When will the coaling start again, Snaky?”
“Twenty minutes or so.”
“Very well. Well wait until one o'clock, eh, Barney?”
The Jew nodded, and then Swires left them, and Forreste put out the electric light.
About half-past one Pinkerton and Cheyne appeared on the after-deck, and sauntered up and down for a few minutes. There were several other male passengers still awake, and with these the two men exchanged a few words.
“Will you come with us for a stroll on the beach?” said Pinkerton to a sleepy man who was lying on the skylight.
“No jolly fear; I'm too comfy as I am, and I know what the mosquitoes are on Cook town beach.”
Cheyne made some laughing rejoinder, and then he; and his companion went to the gangway and walked leisurely along the jetty. An hour or so later they returned, and settled themselves comfortably with pillows on one of the long deck seats.
In state-room No. 16 Forreste and Capel were conversing in angry, whispered tones.
“How was I to know that he hadn't taken your cursed dose?” snarled the Jew; “and what else could I do but settle him when he awoke? Anyway, we have nothing to be afraid of. We have got the stuff, and by this time Pinky and Cheyne have it safely planted, and there will be no evidence to connect us with the job. Curse you! what are you funking it for? We'll be on shore at five o'clock, the steamer leaves at six, and the purser is never called until seven; and when he is called and doesn't answer, they won't break open his door for at least two or three hours. And by this time he has fifty tons of coal on top of him, and there's more coming down every minute. Listen!”
Forreste, criminal as he was, was not so callous as Green, and shuddered as he heard the coals rattling down into the bunkers.
“Was he quite dead when you dropped him down into the bunker?” he asked, as with shaking hand, he poured some whisky into a tumbler.
“Dead as you will be some day, you white-livered cur!” said the Jew with savage contempt. Then opening the port, he dropped Pinkerton's burglar's tools over into the water. “There! there goes Pinky's kit. All we have to do now is to go on deck--you to blarney with the women, who are awake, and me to play the interesting invalid who was subjected to a violent and unprovoked attack,” and he leered evilly.
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“Well, Lizzie, how does the Ocho Rios country strike you?” and Gerrard pulled up his horse under the grateful shade of a great Leichhardt tree standing on the bank of a clear, sandy-bottomed creek.
“I think it is beautiful, Tom, almost tropical, especially anywhere near the sea,” and Mrs Westonley jumped lightly from her horse. “Are we going to spell here for awhile?”
“Yes. Here come Jim and Mary with the pack-horse, and as it is past twelve, we'll have our dinner, rest an hour, and then take the beach way home.”
Eight months had passed since Mrs Westonley and Mary had come to Ocho Rios, and they had been eight months of work and happiness to them all, for the fortunes of Gerrard had changed greatly, and he was now in a fair way of becoming a prosperous man again. The numerous gold discoveries had brought a great inrush of diggers, and cattle for killing were now worth four times the price they had been a year before. He had built his new house, which was ready and actually furnished when his sister and Mary arrived at Somerset, where he had met them. Together they had ridden across the peninsula, through the dry, parched-up bush so lately devastated by fire, and when Ocho Rios was reached, the country was certainly looking at its worst, as he had mentioned in his letter. But since then glorious rains had fallen, and no one not acquainted with the marvellous changes produced by copious rains in a tropical land, would believe that the shady Leichhardt tree under which Gerrard and his sister were camped had four months previously been withered and scorched by the great fire which had swept across the peninsula.
The name of “Ocho Rios” had been given to the station by the man who had first taken up the block of country for a cattle-run. He was an ex-Jamaican sugar planter, whose estate had been situated in the Ocho Rios (Eight Rivers) district of that beautiful island; and who had been ruined by the emancipation of the negroes in 1838. And, as his new possession was in the vicinity of eight small creeks flowing westward into the Gulf of Carpentaria, he had given it the same name.
“How far are we from the sea now, Uncle Tom?” asked Mary, as she and Jim rode up leading the pack-horse.
“About seven miles or so. Ever seen mango trees, Mary?”
“No, Uncle Tom, but Aunt Lizzie has, and says that mangoes are lovely. She ate some at Point de Galle, when she was a little girl going to England. Didn't you, Aunt?”
Mrs Westonley smiled, and looked at Gerrard inquiringly, wondering what had made him ask the question. He had a way of “springing” pleasant surprises upon people. When she came to the new bark-roofed house at Ocho Rios, she had never expected to find anything but the common chairs and tables, usually to be seen on cattle stations in the Far North. Certainly Tom had told her in his letter that he had bought “some decent furniture” at Port Denison, and she had smiled to herself, thinking of what the difference would be between her ideas and his of what was “decent furniture.” And her heart had gone out to him when she--then knowing what she had not dreamt of before, that he was a ruined man--saw what he had bought for her out of his slender purse.
“Tom,” she had cried, “why did you go to such expense? And that piano too! I shall hardly have the heart to play upon it, knowing what----” “You are going to play to-night after dinner. That piano will become famous. It is the first thing of the kind ever seen on Cape York Peninsula. You should have seen the skipper of the pearling lugger at Somerset stare when he saw the thing swing out of the hold of the _Gambier_. It will be a great thing for you and Mary.”
“Indeed it will, Tom. For her sake alone I must rejoice.”
Four months after his return to the station Gerrard was delighted to receive a visit from Douglas Fraser and Kate. They, with Sam Young, and the rest of Fraser's old hands, were on one of the new rushes about ninety miles from Ocho Rios, and were, Fraser said, doing very well, together with some fifty other white diggers, and several hundreds of Chinese. Amongst other news the ex-judge told Gerrard something that had pleased him greatly.
“You'll be glad to hear that Adlam is thoroughly recovered,” he said, “I saw a paragraph about him in a Brisbane _Courier_, two months old, which the new sub-Inspector of Black Police gave me last week. The poor fellow had a most marvellous escape.”
Adlam had indeed had a marvellous escape from a dreadful death. When the treacherous “Snaky” Swires had heard the pop of the soda water in the purser's cabin, he had naturally concluded that Adlam had poured it into the glass containing the drugged brandy; but as a matter of fact Adlam had drunk the soda water alone, for he thought he had taken quite enough champagne--and other liquid refreshment as well--at the dinner to MacAlister, and wanted to rise earlier than usual in the morning with a clear head. When Pinkerton and Capel entered his cabin, he was not quite asleep, and had turned in his berth as he heard his door close softly, and the next instant the American had seized him by the throat, and the Jew dealt him a blow on the temple with a slung shot. After that he remembered nothing more. When Capel and Pinkerton dropped his unconscious figure down into the bunker, he had rolled down the inclined heap of coals to the bottom, where half an hour later he was discovered by the half-drunken coal trimmers, who at once summoned the chief engineer, and Adlam was carried to his cabin, Swires opening the door with the duplicate key he was allowed to possess. There was nothing in the cabin to give rise to any suspicion--everything was in the usual order; and it was naturally concluded that the purser had fallen down into the bunkers in the darkness, and had struck his head, or that a heavy piece of fallen coal had inflicted the terrible blow. No doctor was available, and for many days he hovered between life and death, unable to speak. It was only after the steamer arrived at Somerset that medical assistance was obtained, and that Captain MacAlister opened the safe, and found it rifled of all the cash it had contained--the bundle of unsigned notes Adlam had given to the bank manager within an hour after the steamer's arrival at Cooktown. Poor Adlam, still unconscious, was sent to Brisbane. The disappearance of Swires led to the belief that he was the perpetrator of the robbery, but Adlam, still unable to speak, could not give any information on the subject. Gerrard and Fraser, however, told the captain all they knew of Captain Forreste and his friends, and in due time they were arrested at one of the mining camps and brought back to Cooktown, charged with being concerned in the affair. But there was not a tittle of evidence against them, and they were discharged.
Another matter which had pleased Gerrard was that he had heard that Randolph Aulain with a party of three, was working the head waters of the little creek running into the Batavia, on which both he and Gerrard had found gold, and that they had washed out some thousands of ounces. But Aulain's expectation of being able to secure the usual Government reward for the discovery of a payable and permanent gold-field was not realised; the Mining Warden had reported adversely upon it as regarded the latter essential qualification. Gerrard felt some surprise that Aulain had not come to see him, for the “place with a hunking big boulder standing in the middle of a deep pool,” was only eighty miles from Ocho Rios. But then, upon second thoughts, he concluded that the _auri sacra fames_ had seized his friend too thoroughly in its grip--as it always does the amateur digger, especially when he strikes upon very rich auriferous country, as was the case in this instance. And his surmise was correct, for Aulain was working madly to become rich and win Kate, and had no thought of aught else.
“Here are the mangoes, Mary,” said Gerrard, as two hours after leaving their camp under the great Leichhardt tree, the party drew rein before a grove of fifty or more of the beautiful trees; “these escaped the big fire. See, the clusters of fruit are almost ripe. In another week or so they will be fit to eat, and then you'll see all the winged insects and the 'bitiest' ants in the universe here in millions, feeding upon them. The niggers like them too. About four years ago a mob of myalls came here and stripped every tree, and I did not mind it very much. But two days after that, they killed and ate two of my stockmen, and Inspector Aulain gave them a terrible punishment.”
He stood up in his saddle, broke off a cluster of the reddening fruit, and tossed them to Jim. “Put them in your saddle pouch, Jim, and when we get home wrap them in a piece of damp blanket; they'll be ripe in a couple of days. Now, come on, Lizzie, we can ride along the beach for another five miles. I want to show you the old Dutch ship buried in the sand. Some day I mean to dig her out, and find millions of treasure--eh, Jim? Like the storybooks, you know.”
And then, as the first red glories of the nearing sunset spread its blades of softened fire upon the sleeping waters of the Gulf, they cantered along the hard, yellow sand.
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Summer had come and gone, and come again before Gerrard received a visit from Aulain. Early one scorching, hot morning, however, he rode up to the station, leading a pack-horse, and found his friend busy in the branding yard with Jim, and some white and aboriginal stockmen. Gerrard was delighted to see him, and at once ceased his work of branding calves.
“Come to the house, Aulain. My sister will be so pleased to see you. Jim, take Mr Aulain's horses to the stable, give them a wash down, and then turn them out into the river bank paddock.”
“No, don't do that, Gerrard,” said Aulain; “I can't stay for the night. I want to push on to--to”--he hesitated a moment,--“towards Black Bluff Creek.”
“Nonsense, man! It's ninety miles from here, and you can't get there before to-morrow night, although your horse looks pretty fit for another twenty miles or so. What is the earthly use of your camping out to-night? I'll take it very badly, I can tell you, and my sister will feel greatly hurt.”
The ex-inspector began to protest, but Gerrard would not listen, and so Aulain allowed himself to be overruled. As they walked to the house, Gerrard could not but notice that his friend seemed very much changed in his manner. He spoke slowly and constrainedly, and looked at least five years older than he was when Gerrard had last seen him at Port Denison.
“Fever been troubling you again, Aulain?” he said sympathetically, as he placed his hand on his shoulder.
Aulain gave a nod. “Oh, nothing very bad. I get a pretty stiff turn now and again, but there's nothing like hard work to shake it off when you feel it coming on.”
“Just so. How's the claim going--well, I hope?”
“It's worked out now. But my three mates and I have done very well out of it. We have taken out four thousand five hundred ounces in a year and eight months. We sent the gold away by the escort last week, and our camp is broken up. My mates have gone off in various directions to other diggings.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I thought I would see what the new field near Cape Grenville was like. I hear that it is very patchy, but any amount of rich pockets. And as Black Bluff Creek is on my way, I thought I would pay Fraser a visit, and see how he is doing. Do you know?”
“Very well indeed.”
“Is he?” and Gerrard was quick to notice the gloomy look that came into Aulain's eyes, and wondered thereat.
“I am so glad to meet you at last, Mr Aulain,” said Mrs Westonley, as the two men entered the cool sitting-room. “Tom has a just grievance against you for not coming to see him when you were only eighty miles from us. Almost every day for the past year he has been expecting to see you. But I suppose that washing out gold is too fascinating a pursuit, and that you could not drag yourself away.”
Aulain smiled. “You are quite right in one way, Mrs Westonley, but wrong in another. I should have come to Ocho Rios six months ago, but all our horses died from eating poison bush, and it was only a few weeks ago that my mates and I were able to buy some from a drover, who was taking a mob down to Cooktown.”
During lunch the ex-inspector brightened up somewhat, and once smiled when Mrs Westonley, in alluding to the several visits made by Kate Fraser to Ocho Rios, said that Jim had fallen violently in love with her, whereupon the lad laughed, and said he was only as much in love with her as were Uncle Tom and Mary. Gerrard, who of course knew of Aulain's rejection by Kate, was at that moment wondering whether his friend meant to again “try his luck” or had quite got over the affair, and joined heartily in the general laugh that followed Jim's remark.
“I think she is a delightful girl, Mr Aulain,” said Mrs Westonley; “and I am looking forward to her next visit. She spent a fortnight with us the last time, and we felt quite dull and humdrum after she had gone home to her father.”
Aulain raised his brows slightly, and enquired if Miss Fraser had come all that distance alone. Surely she would not be so rash!
“Oh, no! She knows how bad these Cape York blacks are, and would not be so reckless of her life as to come alone. Mr Fraser came with her the first time, then one of her father's mates was her next escort, and the last time Tom and Jim went to the Bluff for her, and also went back with her.”
A fleeting shadow crossed the dark handsome face, but beyond saying that the blacks were now not so bold as they were two years ago, he apparently did not take much interest in Miss Fraser's visits to Ocho Rios. But already his ever suspicious mind was at work about her and Gerrard.
After lunch, as there was more branding to be done, Gerrard went back to the stockyard. Aulain wished to come and help.
“Indeed you shall not, Aulain. I'll tell you what you ought to do. You were saying that you felt inclined for a sea bathe when you camped last night and heard the surf beating on the beach. Now, you and Jim go and have a jolly good swim in the surf. Jim will show you a place safe from sharks.”
“I can't resist that,” said Aulain eagerly. It was just the very thing he wished--to have a talk with Jim. “But I know the place you mean, Gerrard. My troopers and I have often bathed there when I was in charge of the N.P. Camp at Red Beach.”
Jim ran off to catch and saddle a couple of horses, for although the bathing place was only three miles distant, no Australian would walk so far (except to catch a horse) when he could ride.
“Take your fishing-line, Jim,” said Mrs Westonley, when he returned leading the horses, “and catch some bream for supper. No, Mary, certainly not--you cannot go. No, not even to help Jim to catch and clean the fish. This is a terrible girl, Mr Aulain,” and with a smile she drew Mary to her, “I know exactly what she wants to do--ride into the surf and get wet through.”
“Aunt, you _are_ a wonder. However did you guess?” and Mary, now almost as tall as Jim, hugged Mrs Westonley's slender waist; “that's exactly what I did mean to do. But I also meant to catch fish as well.”
“Then you can 'catch' me some guinea-fowl eggs instead, to make egg and bread-crumb to fry the fish. Mr Aulain, do you know that Tom brought some guinea-fowl from Port Denison, and now we have hundreds of them? They are horrid things, though. Instead of laying in the fowl-house in an ordinary Christian fowl-like way, they go miles away, and of course the carpet snakes and iguanas, and kookaburras,{*} get most of the eggs and chicks--except those which Jim and Mary find.”
* Laughing jackasses.
Aulain laughed as he swung his light, wiry figure into his saddle, and then he and Jim cantered off.
A few hours later, as he and the lad were returning to the station, he lit his pipe and said: “So your aunt doesn't care about the beach, and the sea, and the old Dutch ship buried in the sand, eh, Jim?”
“No, Mr Aulain. She says she cannot look at the sea without shuddering--it always makes her think of her father and mother, and the wreck of the _Cassowary_. But Uncle Tom and Miss Fraser like the beach, and always went there in preference to anywhere else when they went for a ride.”
Poor Jim, never for one moment imagining the cause of Aulain's interest in Miss Fraser's movements, was then led on by him to relate nearly everything that had occurred at the station during her last visit. “Was she fond of fishing?” Aulain asked. “Oh, yes, and so was Uncle Tom. They would go out nearly every day either to the beach for bream, or up one of the creeks for spotted mullet.”
Sometimes he (Jim) and Mary would go with them, and then it would be a regular all-day sort of fishing and shooting picnic Miss Fraser used to shoot too, and Uncle Tom was teaching her to shoot from the left shoulder as well as the right--like he could. Then he went on to say that next time Kate came to Ocho Rios she, Gerrard and Mary and himself were all going to Duyphen Point, where there was a small coco-nut grove.
“It will be grand, won't it, Mr Aulain? You see we are going to take two pack-horses, and our guns and fishing-lines, and will camp there for three or four days and come back with a load of coco-nuts.”
“It ought to be splendid, Jim. When is it to be?”
“In about a month. Miss Fraser is coming to stay with aunt for three whole months. Uncle Tom and I are going to Black Bluff Creek for her, if Mr Fraser can't spare the time to come with her. You see, it's ninety miles, and you can't do it in one day, because some of the country is very rough, and none of our horses have ever been shod. Look at this colt's hoofs,” and he pointed to them; “ain't they an awful size? --real 'soft country' hoofs, and no mistake.”
Aulain gave a short nod, and then became silent, scarcely noticing Jim's further remarks concerning such interesting subjects as kangarooing, alligator-shooting, the big tribe of cannibal niggers on the Coen River, who had killed and eaten sixteen Chinamen diggers, etc., etc.
For the rest of the day he was, Gerrard and Mrs Westonley noticed, very restless, and the former observed with some surprise that he helped himself freely and frequently to the brandy; hitherto he had known him as a somewhat abstemious man in the matter of liquor.
He left soon after daylight, declining Gerrard's pressing invitation to stay for breakfast on the ground of wishing to “do a good twenty miles before the cursed sun got too hot,” and somehow the master of Ocho Rios was not sorry to say good-bye to him, for his manner seemed to have undergone a very great, and not pleasant change.
“Take care of the niggers, Aulain,” he said as they parted.
The ex-officer smiled grimly, and he touched the Winchester carbine slung across his shoulder. Then leading his pack-horse, he rode away.
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“Oh, men who have, or have had fever as badly as Aulain has, often act very queerly, Lizzie, so don't be too hard on him.”
“I know that, Tom. But at the same time there is something about him--those strange eyes of his--that made me afraid of him. When I told him last night that Kate Fraser was coming here on a long visit, he did not answer; his eyes were fixed on your face in such a strange, intense look that it made me feel quite 'creepy'.”
Gerrard laughed. “Were they? I didn't notice it.”
“No, of course not. You were too busy showing Jim how to unscrew the nipples of his gun, and perhaps did not even hear what I was saying.”
“Oh, I did. But I didn't make any comment, as I noticed that at supper, whenever you or I spoke of the Frasers, he answered in curt monosyllables.”
“Did you tell him she was coming here next month?”
“No. I daresay I should have done so if I had thought of it.”
“Tom, I am not a female Lavater, but when I saw him looking at you like that, I disliked and distrusted him.”
“Poor Aulain! Why, Lizzie, he's one of the straightest fellows that ever lived, and I am sure he has a sincere regard for me. You must never take notice of the queer looks and actions of men who have had fever badly.”
“Tom! I'm a woman, and I know. He was thinking of Kate Fraser--and you. And he is suffering from another fever--the fever of violent jealousy.”
Gerrard looked up--they were at breakfast. “Well, if that is the case, it is a bad complication of diseases, and I am sorry for him. He has no earthly reason to be jealous of me.”
“He _is_ jealous, Tom, 'deadly jealous,' as Jim would say, and I dislike him, dislike him intensely for it You have been so good to him, too.”
“Only keeping things quiet about Big Boulder Creek, as I promised him I should. And then, you see, Lizzie, his not getting the Government reward of five thousand pounds, as he thought he should, has been a big disappointment to him.”
Mrs Westonley rose, came over to him, and placed her two hands against his bronzed cheeks.
“Thomas Gerrard, Esquire?”
“Mrs Elizabeth Westonley!”
“You are to marry Kate Fraser!”
“Am I, old woman? You're a perfect jewel of a sister to find me such a charming wife. But you see there are one or two trifling formalities to be observed. First of all, I should have to ask her her views on the subject.”
“You ought to have done that a year ago.”
“And have met with a refusal like poor Forde and Aulain.”
“No, you would _not_ have been refused. I know that much,” was his sister's emphatic observation. “But you are letting the time go by, Tom. And I am sure she is wondering why you don't ask. I know that she loves you.”
“Do you really?” and he shook his head smilingly.
“Yes, I do. I'm certain. And I know you are fond of her.”
“Been long in the clairvoyant business, Lizzie?”
“Don't talk nonsense, Tom. I am very serious--and it would make me very happy. Ask her this time, Tom. You must--else you have no right to be with her so much. It is not fair to the girl.”
“We are very great friends, Lizzie. I like her better than any woman I have ever met. And I have sometimes thought--but anyway, I'm not in a position to ask her.”
“Nonsense! Your affairs are improving every day.”
Gerrard was silent for a minute, then he said: “I think Aulain means to try again.”
“I am sure of it. But he is wasting his time. High-spirited as she is, she is almost frightened of him. She told me so. She resented very much a letter she received from him in reply to hers telling him she could not marry him; and moreover she told me that even if she cared ever so much for a man, she would never marry a Roman Catholic.”
“I don't think she will ever marry, Lizzie, so it is no use my indulging in ridiculous visions; she is too much attached to her father to ever leave him. And you will always be mistress of Ocho Rios and master of Tom Gerrard.”
Mrs Westonley laughed, and pulled his short, dark-brown, pointed beard. “Silly man! I know better than that; and I know also that Douglas Fraser would be pleased to see Kate become Mrs Tom Gerrard, for he likes you immensely. Now, promise me you will ask her?”
Gerrard rose and made his escape to the door, then he turned.
“I'll think it over, you match-making creature,” and then he went off to the stockyard, apparently unconcerned, but secretly delighted at what his sister had told him, and she smiled to herself, for she knew that when he spoke of thinking about a matter, he had already decided.
Black Bluff Creek was a purely alluvial gold-field, and was in the very zenith of its prosperity when, towards sunset, Randolph Aulain looked down upon it from an ironstone ridge a mile distant from the workings. It had been given its name on account of a peculiar formation of black rock, which rose abruptly from the alluvial plain, and extended for nearly two miles along and almost parallel with the creek, from the bed of which so much gold was being won by two hundred diggers. The top of this wall of rock was covered with a dense scrub, and presented a smooth, even surface of green, which even in the driest seasons never lost its verdant appearance. Some of the diggers had cleared away portions of the scrub, and erected sun-shelters of bark, under which they slept when their day's toils were over, and enjoyed the cool night breeze--free from the miasmatic steam of the valley five hundred feet below. Almost on the verge of the steep-to wall of rock was a large and regularly built “humpy,” in which Douglas Fraser and Kate lived. The ascent to the summit of the bluff was by a narrow path that had been found by Kate in one of the many clefts riven in the side of the black-faced cliff, and her father's mates had so improved it with pick and shovel that Aulain could discern it quite easily.
As he walked his horse down into the camp, the diggers had just ceased work for the day, and with clay-stained and soddened garments were returning to their various tents or “humpies” of bark, all of them contentedly smoking, and ready for their usual supper of salt beef, damper, and tea. Many of the stalwart fellows recognised the ex-officer of Black Police, and bade him a pleasant “good evening, boss,” and presently he was hailed by Sam Young, Cockney Smith, and others of Fraser's party. He dismounted and shook hands with Young, and asked him where was the “pub,” as he intended to put up there for the night.
Young protested against his going there. “There it is, Mr Aulain, over there,” and he pointed to the bush public house, a low, bark-roofed structure on the edge of the creek; “but you can't stay there to-night It's Saturday, you see, and the boys will be there in force to-night, and you'll get no sleep. Besides, Mr Fraser would be real put out if you didn't go to him. He's just gone home. He and Miss Kate live up on the bluff.”
“I know. I'll go and see them after supper, but I'd rather camp down here for to-night.”
“Then come to our tent. There's plenty of room, and plenty of tucker, and any amount of grass along the creek for your horses.”
Aulain accepted the offer, and after unsaddling and turning out his horses, he was provided with a piece of soap, an alleged towel, and a bucket of water, and made a hasty wash in company with Young and his mates. Then came supper and the interchange of the usual mining news. Two years before, not one of his present companions would have addressed him without the prefix of “Mister”; but now he was one of themselves, a digger, and would himself have felt awkward and uncomfortable if any one of them had had the lack of manners and good sense to “Mister” him.
Supper over he lit his pipe, and telling Young he would be back about ten and take a hand at euchre, he set out and took the mountain path to the summit of the bluff. It was a beautifully clear moonlight night--so clear that every leaf of the trees which stood on the more open sides of the rocky track showed out as if it were mid-day, and a bright sun was shining overhead.
When he was within sight of Fraser's dwelling, he heard two shots above him, and then Kate speaking.
“I've got four of the little villains, father.”
The sound of her voice thrilled him, and he hastened his steps. In a few minutes he saw Douglas Fraser, who was seated outside smoking his after-supper pipe.
“How are you, Fraser?” he cried.
The big man sprang to his feet, and came towards him with outstretched hand.
“Aulain, by Jove! I _am_ pleased to see you again. I saw some one leading a pack-horse coming into the camp below, but never dreamt it was you. Come inside. Kate will be here in a few minutes. We have a bit of garden close by, and the confounded bandicoots and paddymelons ravage it at nights, and she has just been knocking some over. She will be delighted to see you.”
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Kate was _not_ pleased to see Aulain, but did not show it; for she guessed why he had come, and could not but feel a little frightened. But after a little while she felt more at her ease, when he began to tell her father and herself of his mining experiences, and said laughingly that malarial fever was not half as bad as gold fever.
“You see,” he said, turning to Kate, “the one only takes possession of your body: the other takes your soul as well. The more gold you get, the more you want; and one does not feel that he has a corporeal existence at all when he turns up a fifty or sixty ounce nugget--as I did on three or four occasions. You feel as if you belonged to another--a more glorious world; and before you, you see the open, shining gates of the bright City of Fortune.”
The grizzled ex-judge laughed. “You have missed your vocation in life, Aulain. Man, you're a poet But I know the feeling, and so does Kate. Well, I am pleased that you have had such luck.”
“And so am I,” said Kate incautiously, “and I wish you better luck still at the new rush at Cape Grenville; but I think what has pleased me most, Mr Aulain, is that you have left the Native Police. Do you know that when the escort was here a few weeks ago with ten black troopers, and your successor came here to see us, I could hardly be civil to him, although he was very nice, and gave us some very late newspapers--only two months old.”
“The Black Police are certainly your _bêtes noire_, Kate,” said her father with a smile, as he pushed the bottle of whisky towards his guest.
“They are, dad. They are very especial black beetles to me--beetles with Snider rifles and murderous tomahawks for shooting and cutting down women and children.”
Aulain's dark face flushed, and Kate reddened too, for she was sorry she had spoken so hastily. Then, to her relief, there sounded a sudden outburst of barking from Fraser's kangaroo dogs.
“Oh, those horrid paddy melons and bandicoots at the garden again!” and she rose and seized her gun.
“May I come and have a shot, too?” said Aulain.
“Do. It is as clear as noon-day. Take father's gun, Mr Aulain. I have plenty of cartridges in my pocket.”
They stepped out together into the brilliant moonlight, and then Kate, driving the dogs away, led the way to the garden--a small cleared space enclosed with a brush fence. Peering over the top, the girl saw more than a dozen of the energetic little rodents busily engaged in their work of destruction. Indicating those at which she intended to fire, she motioned to Aulain to shoot at a group which were further away, and occupied in rooting up and devouring sweet potatoes. They fired together, and three or four of the creatures rolled over, dead. The rest scampered off.
“They will come back in ten or fifteen minutes,” said Kate; “shall we wait? See, there is a good place, under that silver leaf ironbark, where it is rather dark. There is a log seat there.”
Aulain eagerly assented. This would give him the opportunity to which he had been looking forward.
As soon as they were seated he took Kate's gun from her hand, and leant it with his own against the bole of the tree.
“Kate,” he said, speaking very quickly, “I am glad to have this chance of speaking to you alone. I want to ask your forgiveness for that letter I wrote when----” “I did forgive you, long ago, Randolph. I was very, very angry when I read it, and I daresay you too were angry when you wrote such cruel things to me, but then”--and she smiled--“you have such a very hasty temper.”
He placed his hand on hers. “Only you can chasten it, Kate. And now you know why I have come to Black Bluff.”
“It is very good of you, Randolph, but, as I have said, I forgave you long ago, and I am sorry that you have come so far just to tell me that you are sorry for what occurred, although both father and I are sincerely glad to see you.”
“Ah, Kate! You don't understand what I mean. In asking for your forgiveness I ask for your love. I came here to ask you to be my wife.”
“Don't, please, Randolph,” and she drew herself away from him. “I cannot marry you. I like you--I always liked you--but please do not say anything more.”
“Kate,” and the man's voice shook, “you cared for me once. Forget my mad, angry letter, and----” “I _have_ forgotten it. Did I not say so? But please do not again ask me to marry you. Come, let us go back to the house. You will only make me miserable--or else angry.”
“Why have you changed so towards me?” he asked quickly.
“I have not changed in any way towards you,” she answered emphatically with a slight accent of anger in her tones. “Please do not say anything more. Let us go in,” and she rose.
“Kate,” he said pleadingly, and he placed his hand on her arm gently, “just listen to me for a minute. I love you. I will do all that a man can to make you happy. I have left the Native Police, and I am now fairly well off----” She made a swift gesture. “For your sake I am pleased--very pleased--that you have left the Police, and have made money. But, Randolph,” and though she was frightened at the suppressed vehemence in his voice, and the almost fierce look of his dark, deep-set eyes, she smiled as she put her hand on his, “please don't think that--that--money, I mean--would make any difference to me. Come, let us go back to father. I am sure he wants you to play chess.”
Aulain's face terrified her. He had lost control of himself, and his hand closed around her wrist.
“So you throw me over?” he said in almost savage tones.
“'Throw you over'! How dare you say such a thing to me!” and she tore her hand away from him, and faced him with blazing anger in her eyes. “What have I ever said or done that you can speak to me like this?”
“I know who has come between us----” “Between us! What do you mean?” she cried scornfully. “What has there ever been 'between us'? And who do you mean?”
Aulian's face whitened with the anger of jealousy, and he gave full vent to the unreasoning passion which had now overmastered him.
“I mean Gerrard.”
“Mr Gerrard--your friend?” she said slowly.
“Yes,” he replied with a sneer; “my dear friend Gerrard--the man who, professing to be my friend, has steadily undermined me in your regard ever since he first saw you.”
“Your mind is wandering, I fear,” and the icy contempt with which she spoke brought his anger to white heat. “I shall stay here, no longer, Mr Aulain,” and she stepped over to the tree, and took up her gun. Aulain was beside her in an instant.
“Do you think I do not know?” he said thickly, and the gleam of passion in his eyes struck terror to her heart, “It was he who made you leave Fraser's Gully to come here, so as to be near him. At first I thought that it was that Scotch hound of a parson--but now I know better.”
Kate flushed deeply, then she whitened with anger. “Oh, I wish I were a man! I could strike you as it is! Ah, you should never have left the Black Police. I shall not fail to let the man who befriended you know how you have vilified him.”
“You need not. I will tell him myself what I have told you. By ------ he shall suffer for robbing me of you!” and it needed all Kate's courage to look into his furious eyes.
“Good-night, Mr Aulain,” she said, trying to speak calmly; “I do not wish to--I hope I never may--see you again.”
“No doubt,” was the sneering response. “Mr Thomas Gerrard, the squatter, is in a very different position from Randolph Aulain, the digger, with a paltry three or four thousand pounds.”
Kate set her teeth, and tried hard to choke a sob.
“My father and I thought that you were a gentleman, Mr Aulain. I see now how very much we were mistaken. And as far as Mr Gerrard is concerned, he will know how to deal with you. I will ask my father to write to him to-morrow.”
“Why not expedite your proposed visit to him, and tell him personally?” said Aulain with a mocking laugh.
Kate made no answer, but walked swiftly away. Five minutes later, Aulain, without going to the house to say good-bye to Douglas Fraser, descended the rocky path to the main camp.
At daylight next morning, to the wonder of Sam Young and his mates, he was missing. He had risen at dawn, caught and saddled his horses, and gone off without a word of farewell.
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“Hansen's Rush” was one of the richest, noisiest, and the “rowdiest” of all the many newly-discovered fields, and contained more of the elements of villainy amongst its six hundred inhabitants than any other rush in the Australian Colonies. Perhaps about two-thirds of the men were genuine diggers, the rest were loafers, card-sharpers, horse and cattle thieves, sly grog-sellers, and men “wanted” by the police for various offences, from murder down to simple robbery with violence. So far, however, the arm of the law had not yet manifested its power at “Hansen's,” although at first when the field was discovered by the prospector after whom it was named, a solitary white trooper and one native tracker had reached there, expecting to be reinforced. But one day he and the aboriginal rode out of camp to visit a party of diggers, who were working at the head of the creek, and never returned.
Months afterwards, the body of the white man was found lying near a heap of huge boulders, and it was concluded that either the unfortunate trooper had been thrown from his horse and killed, or that he had been murdered by his black subordinate, for the latter was never seen again at the camp, and most of the diggers asserted that he had deserted to the coastal blacks, where he would be safe from capture. When the body was discovered a careful search was made for some gold which had been entrusted to the policeman, but it could not be found; and this confirmed the theory of the tracker being the murderer.
Then, nearly three months after, “Moses,” as the black tracker was named, walked into Somerset carrying his carbine and revolver, and told another story, which was accepted by the authorities as true. The party of miners whom he and the trooper visited, had complained of their tent having been entered when they were absent at their claim, and some hundreds of ounces of gold stolen. This was some weeks previously, and heavy rain, since then, had obliterated all traces of the robbers' tracks. The diggers, said Moses, then gave the trooper a bag of small nuggets containing about fifty ounces, and asked him to take it to Hansen's to await the monthly gold escort.
That night he and Moses camped near the boulders, and at daylight the latter went after the horses, leaving the poor trooper asleep. Half an hour later, he heard the sound of a shot, and saw three mounted men galloping towards him. They halted when they saw him, and then all three fired at him, but missed. Then they tried to head him off--he was on foot--but he was too fleet, and after an hour's pursuit he gained some wild country in the ranges, where he was, he thought, safe. Feeling hungry as the morning went on, he penetrated a thick scrub in the hope of finding a scrub turkey's nest. He did find one, and whilst engaged in eating the eggs, was dealt a sudden blow from behind with a waddy, and when he became conscious, found he had been captured by a wandering tribe of mountain blacks. They did not treat him harshly, but kept a strict watch on him for two months. One wild night, however, securing his carbine and revolver, he managed to escape, and finally reached Somerset.
“Hansen's,” in addition to the several bark-roofed drinking shanties of bad reputation, also possessed a combined public house and general store, kept by a respectable old digger named Vale, who was doing a very thriving business, the “Roan Pack-Horse Hotel” being much favoured by the better class of men on the field. The loafers, rowdies, and such gentry did not like Vale, who had a way of throwing a man out if he became objectionably drunk and unduly offensive.
One afternoon, about five, three men entered the “hotel” part of Vale's establishment, and entered what was termed “the parlour.” They were very good customers of Vale's, although he did not much care about them, being somewhat suspicious as to their character and antecedents. The three men were Forreste, the Jew Barney Green, and Cheyne.
The former had grown a thick beard, and looked what he professed to be--a digger pure and simple; and Green and Cheyne also had discarded the use of the razor, and in their rough miners' garb--flannel shirts, moleskin pants, and slouch felt hats--there was nothing to distinguish them from the ordinary run of diggers at Hansen's Rush. They had, Vale knew, a supposedly paying claim, but worked it in a very perfunctory manner, and employed two “wages men” to do most of the pick and shovel work. Their esteemed American _confrère_ was not with them this afternoon--one of them always remained about their claim and tent on some excuse, for it contained many little articles which, had they been discovered by the respectable diggers at Hansen's, would have led to their taking a very hurried departure from the field.
“What's it to be?” said Vale, coming to the door of the room.
“Oh, a bottle of Kinahan,” said Forreste, tossing the price of it--a sovereign--upon the table. “Got any salt beef to spare?”
“Not a bite. Wish I had. But that mob of cattle can't be far off now. They were camped at the Green Swamp two nights ago. There's a hundred head--all fine, prime young cattle, I hear.”
“Are you buying the lot?”
“Every hoof--at ten pound a head. Plenty of fresh beef then--at two bob a pound. No charge for hoofs, horns, and the end of the tail,” and with this pleasantry, the landlord of the “Roan Pack-Horse” withdrew, to bring the whisky.
A step sounded outside, and Randolph Aulain entered and nodded to the three men. He had been at Hansen's for some months, and had one of the richest “pocket” claims on the field, but most of the gold it produced went in gambling. He had made the acquaintance of Forreste and his gang, and in a way had become intimate with them, although he was pretty certain of their character. But he did not care.
“Have a drink, Aulain?” said Barney Green.
Aulain nodded, and sat down, and then a pack of cards was produced, and the four men began to play--Aulain as recklessly as usual, and drinking frequently, as was now habitual with him.
Night had fallen, and the diggers' camp fires were everywhere blazing among tents and humpies, as the ex-officer and his villainous acquaintances still sat at their cards, too intent upon the game to think of supper. Vale's black boy, however, brought them in some tea, damper, and a tin of preserved meat, and they made a hurried meal. Just as they had begun to play afresh, they heard a horseman draw up outside, and a voice say “Good-evening, boss,” to Vale.
All four men knew that voice, and Aulain's dark face set, as turning down his cards, he held up his hand for silence.
“I'm Gerrard from Ocho Rios,” went on the voice as the rider dismounted, and, giving his horse to the black boy, followed Vale into the combined bar and store. “I've camped the cattle five miles from here, and pushed on to let you know. Can you take delivery tomorrow morning pretty early, as I want to get down to the coast again as soon as I can?”
“You bet!” said Vale with a laugh; “I'm all ready, and so is the money--not in cash, but in nuggets at four pounds the ounce. Is that right?”
“Quite,” was the answer, and then the four listeners heard Vale drawing the cork of a bottle of beer--a rare commodity at Hansen's Rush. “Come round here, Mr Gerrard, and sit down. There's another room, but just now there are four chaps gaffing there, and so if you don't mind we'll sit here, and talk until my nigger gets you some supper.” Then they began to talk about the cattle, Vale frankly telling Gerrard that if he had asked another five pounds per head, he would have paid it, as the diggers had had no fresh meat for nearly five months.
“Well, I've been very lucky,” said Gerrard, and Forreste saw Aulain's teeth set, and wondered. “We--three black boys and myself--started out from the station with a hundred and ten head, and have not lost a single beast--no niggers, no alligators, no poison bush, nothing of any kind to worry us for the whole two hundred miles.”
“I'll give him something to worry over before long,” said Green viciously to Forreste.
“And so shall I,” said Aulain in a savage whisper.
“Do you know him?” asked Forreste eagerly.
Aulain replied with a curt nod, and then again held up his hand for silence.
“Curse you, keep quiet; I want to hear what he is saying.”
“Well, I'm glad to see you, Mr Gerrard,” went on Vale. “I've heard a lot about you, and was sorry to hear of your loss in the big fire. I wish you luck.”
“Thank you, Mr Vale. And I'm glad to meet you, and sell you my cattle. Every one that I have heard speak of you says that you will never try to 'skin' a digger over the price of his liquor and 'tucker.'”
Vale was pleased. For a bush publican and store-keeper he had an unusual reputation for honesty--and well deserved it, for all his roughness and lurid language when aroused to wrath. He asked Gerrard to stay for the night.
“No, I cannot. I must get back to the cattle to-night, and do my watch. But I think I shall spell here at Hansen's for a day or two, have a look at the field, and see if I can buy a share in one of the claims. As I'm getting my money out of the diggings I ought to put something back, even if I strike a rank duffer.”
“Ah, you're one of the right sort of men, Mr Gerrard. I daresay I can put you on to something that won't displease you in the end. But I'm sorry you can't camp here to-night.”
“No, I must not. It would not be fair to my men to leave them with a mob of cattle out in the open all night in such thunder-stormy weather. If they broke away they would clear off into the ranges.”
Then he added that whilst two of his black stockmen were returning to Ocho Rios after they had had a spell at “Hansen's,” he was striking across country to the coast--seventy miles distant--to the mouth of the Coen River.
“You see, Mr Vale, my luck is coming in, 'hand over fist,' as the sailors say. I'm going to be married at Ocho Rios next month by the Gold Commissioner, and there is a pearling lugger bringing me a lot of stores round from Somerset, and I have arranged to meet her at the Coen on the 22nd, and sail round in her. I'm taking one black boy with me, who will take my horse back with him to the station, and I'll get the benefit of a short sea-trip of a few days, or perhaps a week.”
Vale opened another bottle of beer--more valued at Hansen's than even whisky at a sovereign a bottle.
“Here's to your very good fortune and happiness, Mr Gerrard! Will you mind my mentioning it to the boys here to-night? You see, I arranged to give a sort of a shivoo as soon as the cattle got here, and I had killed and dressed a couple of beasts.”
Gerrard laughed. “I don't mind. And I'll come to the shivoo myself, and eat some of my own beef. Now, I must be getting back to the cattle.”
Aulain and the other three men waited until they heard his horse brought. And then the dark-faced ex-inspector turned to Forreste.
“Come outside. I want to talk to you.”
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The news that a small mob of cattle had been bought by Vale, and were to arrive on the following day, caused great satisfaction to the diggers, and that night the “Roan Pack-Horse” was crowded with diggers, who had not for many months tasted meat of any kind, except now and then a scrub wallaby. Game of any kind was scarce, and hard to shoot, and the diggers, although they cheerfully paid adventurous packers three shillings for a small tin of sardines, and five for a tin of American salmon, wanted beef of some kind--even if it were that of a worn-out working bullock--if such a treasure could have been found. Vale, for business and other purposes, had carefully avoided telling any one until the last moment that he had sent a letter to Gerrard, offering him ten pounds per head for one or two hundred young cattle, delivered to him in fair condition. A “cute” man of business, he had the idea of forming the nucleus of a herd with which to stock some adjacent country to “Hansen's Rush,” and being also in his rough way a sentimentalist, he meant to give the diggers a surprise--for a satisfactory _quid pro quo_. He would sell them fresh beef at two shillings a pound, when they were willing to pay double, instead of eating “tinned dog,” as they termed the New Zealand and American canned beef and mutton they bought from the packers at exorbitant prices, and often cast aside with disgust and much vivid language.
At nine o'clock on the following morning, Gerrard and his three black stockmen appeared, driving before them the mob of young cattle--steers, young heifers, and a few bulls; and the diggers gave him an uproarious welcome, for work on the claims had been stopped for that day at least, and they had been waiting for him.
“Good morning, boys,” cried Gerrard, as the mob of cattle was rounded up by his black stockmen, and he, swinging his right foot up out of the stirrup, sat sideways on his saddle. “Just show me those you want for killing, Vale, and I'll cut them out for you right away. Then I'll turn the rest over to you to tail. {*} I've had enough of 'em, and want a drink.”
* “Tail”--a drover or stockman who is set to keep a mob of cattle from straying “tails” them--i.e., follows at their tails.
“Here you are, Mr Gerrard,” cried a big, hairy-faced digger, who was holding a bottle of beer in one hand, and a tin pannikin in the other; “a bottle of genuine Tennant's India Ale, acceptable to the most tender stomach, and recommended by the faculty for nuns, nurses, bullock drivers, and other delicate persons.”
The crowd laughed, and then Gerrard, after satisfying his thirst, “cut out” (separated from the rest of the mob) three fat steers indicated by Vale; they were at once taken to the killing yard, and the remainder of the animals driven down to the creek to drink, and Gerrard's responsibility ceased.
Amongst those who watched the arrival of the cattle were Aulain and Forreste. They were on the outskirts of the crowd, leaning against the rough “chock and dog leg” fence which served to enclose an acre or so of ground used as a horse-paddock by the diggers. Early in the day as it was, Aulain's sallow face was flushed from drinking. He and Forreste had come to an understanding the previous night. The gentlemanly “Captain” did not take long to discover the cause of Aulain's hatred of Gerrard, and he inflamed it still further by telling him a well-connected series of lies about his frequently having seen Kate Fraser clasped in Gerrard's arms on the deck of the _Gambier_, when they imagined that they were unobserved, and Aulain, who was now hardly sane, believed him implicitly.
“Let me deal with him first,” he had said; “you can have your turn after I have finished with him.”
“You don't mean to kill him?” asked Forreste; “if you do, I'm out of it I have a score to settle with him, but not in that way.”
“Settle it in any way you like,” said Aulain savagely, “but don't interfere with me. I'm not going to kill him, but I am going to make him suffer for his treachery to me. But,” and he turned to Forreste with a sneer, “you seem very diffident in the matter of killing any one just now. Perhaps you and your friends acted rather impulsively in the matter of Trooper Angus Irving.”
“What do you mean?” cried Forreste hoarsely, and his face blanched with mingled rage and terror.
“I have not been five years in the Native Police without gaining some experience. And when you and your friends galloped after the black tracker, one of your number lost his moleskin saddle-cloth, did he not?”
Forreste made no answer, though his lips moved.
“_I_ found that saddle-cloth two months ago, and recognised it as belonging to your mate Cheyne, for he once lent it to me. It was a great mistake of his to gallop over rough country with loose girths--especially upon such an occasion as that. Fifty ounces of gold was not worth it.”
Forreste, a coward at heart, collapsed. “We could not help it We were trying to unbuckle his valise from his saddle when he awoke, and---- “And--I understand. So please say no more of what followed. It does not concern me, and you need not look so ghastly white.”
Then he walked away to his tent, for he did not wish to be seen by Gerrard--at that time.
But a few hours later the latter learnt quite accidentally from Vale that his one-time friend was at Hansen's, and had been one of the card-playing party of the previous night Vale was speaking of the great yields from some of the claims on the field, and mentioned that “Aulain, who had been in the Nigger Police,” had a pretty rich one. Gerrard was surprised to hear of his being at Hansen's, for he and the Frasers thought he had gone to the new rush at Cape Grenville on the east coast. Of her quarrel with him Kate had told Gerrard but little, but her father had given him the story in detail, and it had angered him greatly.
“Would you care to go over to his claim, and have a yarn with him?” said Vale; “it's only about a mile away. I think he wants to sell out.”
“No, I don't want to see him. I know him very well, and he was once a great friend of mine, but he is not now, and I don't think it would be advisable for us to meet. He nurses an imaginary grievance against me.”
Vale nodded. “He's a queer fellow, and I am sure he's not quite right in the upper story. Sometimes he won't speak to a soul for a week at a time; then he has a drinking bout, and goes off his head entirely. I feel sorry for him, for it is a pity to see a gentleman come down so low, and associate with spielers and card-sharpers. The men he was playing with last night are a shady lot--a man called Forreste, and his mates Cheyne and Capel----” “Ha!” cried Gerrard, “so that gang is here? I know a good deal about _them,_” and he told Vale of what had occurred on board the _Gambier_ when Fraser had thrown Capel across the deck.
“I thought they were a fishy crowd, and there are lots of men here who believe they are gold-stealers, but so far they have been too clever and have escaped detection.”
“Well, I can tell you that Capel, otherwise Barney Green, is one of the most notorious gold thieves in Australia, and served a sentence in New South Wales.”
“Can I make that known?”
“Certainly. It should be known. You can call upon me to repeat what I have told you to the whole camp.”
“Very well, but not to-day. They'll be sure to be here to-night at the shivoo, and as some of the boys are certain to be pretty groggy they might half-kill the whole gang. But I'll go for them in the morning, if you'll back me up.”
“Of course I will. But I don't think they will show up to-night, if they know I am here.”
In this surmise Gerrard was correct, for Forreste and his companions kept away, being particularly anxious not to come into personal contact with him, and in pursuance of a plan of their own. After the cattle had been killed, they sent a neighbouring digger to buy some beef, and remained at their claim for the rest of the day. Forreste, however, went to several of the other claims, and told the owners that he and his mates thought of clearing out in a day or so, and would sell their claim cheap.
In an hour or two he came back, and found Cheyne outside the tent, repairing their saddles. Green and Pinkerton were busy at the claim, cradling the last of the wash-dirt taken out.
“What luck?” asked Cheyne.
“Better than I expected. Old Sandy MacParland and his party are coming here to-morrow morning, and are going to give the claim a day's trial. If they like it, they will buy us out for one hundred pounds.”
“Pity we haven't got time to salt it,{*} and get a bigger price.”
* “Salting” a gold mine is a common practice of dishonest miners not entirely unknown even to magnates of the Stock Exchange--as the records of the London Law Courts have shown for many years past.
“MacFarland is too old a hand to be got at that way,” replied the captain, as he walked on to the claim to tell Green and Pinkerton his news.
“We can get away to-morrow evening before sunset,” he said, after he had told them the result of his negotiations with MacParland. “Cheyne says we can camp at Leichhardt Ponds that night, push on early in the morning, and wait for our man at Rocky Waterholes, where he is sure to camp for the night.”
“He'll want a good rest if Aulain does him up to-night,” said Capel with an evil grin.
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Nearly a hundred noisy but contented diggers filled Vale's hotel and store, all talking at once; and outside in the yard, seated on boxes, barrels, etc., were as many more, equally as well satisfied as those within. The impromptu and “free feed” of freshly-killed beef had been a great success, and now at seven o'clock, what Vale called “the harmony” began--to wit, music from a battered cornet, an asthmatic accordion, and a weird violin. There were, however, plenty of good singing voices in the company, and presently a big, fat-faced American negro, with a rich fruity voice, struck up a well-known mining song, “The Windlasses,” and the diggers thundered out the chorus: “For I love the sound of the windlasses, And the cry, 'Look-out, below.'”
At its conclusion there was much applause, and then the negro, who was an ex-sailor, was pressed, very literally, for another song. One digger gripped him around the waist, and another seized his woolly poll and shook him.
“Sing, you beggar, sing! Give us the 'Arctic Fleet.'”
“Don' you be so familiar, sah! You common digger pusson! How dah you take liberties with a gentleman!” and the negro laughed good-naturedly as he was forced on his feet again. “And don' se singist get some refreshment fust?”
It was at once supplied, and then “Black Pete's” rich tones sounded out in their full strength as he began the whaleman's ditty: “Oh, its advertised in Noo York town, Likewise in Alban-ee, For five hunder and fifty Yankee boys, To join de whaling fleet Singing, blow ye windy mornin's, And blow ye winds, heigho, Clear away de marnin' dews, To de Arctic we mus' go, To de Arctic we mus' go.”
The song was a lengthy one, and when it was finished, there was a pause; then some digger called out through the cloud of tobacco smoke that filled the room: “Won't you give us a song, Mr Gerrard?” Gerrard, who was talking to Vale, and some other men, turned and shook his head smilingly, when suddenly there was a slight commotion near the open door, and Randolph Aulain pushed through the crowd into the centre of the room. He was booted and spurred, and carried a short, heavy whip of plaited greenhide.
“I should like to have a few words with you, Mr Gerrard, before you sing.”
In an instant there was a dead silence--the diggers saw that Aulain meant mischief, for his usually sallow features were now white with ill-concealed fury. Gerrard kept his seat, but leant back a little so as to look Aulain full in the face.
“I am not going to sing,” he said quietly. “If you have anything to say to me, say it.”
“This filthy den is somewhat too crowded for a private discussion--unless you wish to let every one here know what you are. Come outside.”
“You want me to fight you, Aulain, do you?” The steady, unmoved tone of his voice sounded clearly through the crowded room.
“Yes, you treacherous hound, I do. I'll _make_ you fight.”
“You shall not. I do not fight with lunatics--and you speak and act like one. Come here to-morrow morning--or I will come to you if you wish.”
Vale put his hand on Aulain's arm, with rough good-humour. “Get back to your tent, my lad, or sit down and keep quiet This is my house. You can see Mr Gerrard in the morning. I'll engage he won't run away.”
Aulain thrust him aside with savage determination, and again faced Gerrard. “Are you coming outside?” he asked hoarsely.
“No, I am not. But don't try my patience too long, Aulain.”
“Will you come or not?” he almost shouted, and he drew back a step, amidst a hot, expectant silence.
“No, you are not in a condition to speak to any one, let alone fighting,” was the contemptuous answer.
“Then take that, you wretched cur!” and he swung his heavy whip across Gerrards face, cutting the flesh open from temple to chin, and sending him down upon the earth floor.
In an instant the maddened man was seized by Vale and another man, and borne to the ground. Then amidst oaths and curses, he was dragged outside, struggling like a demon, and carried to his horse, which was tied up to the fence. He was hoisted up into the saddle, and at once tried to take his pistol from its pouch, but the diggers took it away, and then seized his Winchester carbine.
“Here, take your reins, you murderous dog!” cried Vale, putting them into his hands.
“Stand back, boys, and well start him off to blazes.”
“He has a Derringer inside his shirt,” cried one of the men, “I've seen it.”
“Let him keep it,” and Vale raised the whip which he had torn from Aulain's hand, and gave the horse a stinging cut on the flank, and with a snort of pain and terror the animal leapt forward into the darkness.
Never again was Randolph Aulain seen alive, but weeks afterwards his horse wandered back to Hansen's Rush, and began to graze outside his master's tent. And all that was left of Aulain was found long after in a gully in the ranges, with a rusted Derringer pistol lying beside some bleaching bones.
Gerrard had a great send-off when he left Hansen's for the coast. The terrible cut on his face had been sewn up by a digger known as “Pat O'Shea,” who, ten years before, had had on his brass door-plate in Merrion Square, Dublin, the inscription, “Mr Vernon O'Shea, M.R.C.S.” “Take care of yourself, boss,” cried Vale, as Gerrard swung himself up into the saddle, and made a grimace intended for a smile as he waved his hand to the assembled diggers, and trotted off, followed by his black boy, a short, wiry-framed aboriginal from the Burdekin River country, who was much attached to his master, and eyed his bound-up face with much concern. He, like Gerrard, carried a revolver at his saddle-bow, and a Snider carbine in a becket--Native Police fashion. Gerrard, in addition to his revolver, had a 44° Winchester carbine slung across his shoulder.
“Well, Tommy, here we are off home again. How do you feel? Drunk last night?”
“Yes, boss. Last night and night before, too. Mine had it fine time longa Hansen's.”
Gerrard laughed, and began to fill his pipe, though smoking just then gave him as much pain as pleasure. Then he and Tommy rode on in silence for many hours, until they came to where the beaten track ended at a lagoon, known as Leichhardt Ponds. Here they noticed that a party had been camped the previous night, and had evidently been shooting and eating duck, for the ground was strewn with feathers.
From Leichhardt Ponds there was not even a blazed tree line, but both he and the black boy kept steadily on, their bushmen's knowledge guiding them in a bee line for the particular part of the coast they wished to reach.
As they rode along, Tommy's eyes scanned the ground, which was strewn with a thick carpet of dead leaves and bark from the forest gum trees.
“Four fellow men been come along here yesterday, boss,” he said, as he pulled up and pointed downward.
Gerrard bent over in his saddle, and looked at the tracks indicated by Tommy.
“Some fellow stray horse perhaps, Tommy?”
The black boy grunted a disapproval of the suggestion. No horses would stray so far from Hansen's, where there was good grass country, into “stunted ironbark” country where there was none. And presently to prove his contention, he pulled up and pointed to a small white object on the ground.
“Look, boss. Some fellow been light pipe and throw away match.”
In an instant Gerrard's suspicions were aroused. What could a party of four men be doing so far away from Hansen's--and making towards the coast? Vale had told him that there were scores of notoriously bad characters on the field, and that it was known that he (Vale) was paying him for the cattle in gold, and had advised him to keep a sharp look-out for any strangers.
For another two hours he and the black boy saw the tracks still going in the same direction, till open country was reached--a wide plain covered with clay pans. Here the tracks turned off sharply to the right, and Gerrard pulled up.
“Which way Frenchman's Cap, Tommy?”
Tommy pointed to the right.
Frenchman's Cap was a small mining camp, sixty miles distant, and Gerrard was satisfied that the four horsemen were diggers, bound for that spot, and Tommy agreed with him.
But he was wofully mistaken in his conclusions.
Cheyne was one of the cleverest bushmen in Australia, and when Forreste and his party reached this spot, they too had stopped, at Cheyne's bidding.
“Gerrard has a nigger with him who most likely will see our tracks. If we turn off here, and cross the clay pans, he will think we are going to Frenchman's Cap. It will mean us making a half circle of sixteen miles, but we will get to Rocky Waterholes a long way ahead of him.”
“How do you know he'll camp there?” asked Forreste.
“He's sure too, even if only for an hour or two to spell his horses, and we'll get him as easy as falling off a log.”
Forreste moved uneasily in his saddle. He knew what “get him” meant Barney Green turned on him, and savagely asked if he was “funking” again.
“No,” was the sullen reply, “I'm not. I've given my promise, and I'll keep it. But you must remember that the policeman's tracker got away from us, and Gerrard's nigger may do the same.”
“I'll see to that,” said Pinkerton. “If there is one thing that I can't miss when I shoot, it's a nigger. If I had been with you that day, I guess that that tracker wouldn't have got away.”
The plan they had arranged was a very simple one. The Rocky Waterholes were deep pools situated in the centre of a cluster of wildly confused and lofty granite boulders and pillars, covered with vines and creepers and broken up by narrow gullies. Cheyne knew the place, and knew almost to a certainty the particular spot at which Gerrard would camp, either for a few hours or for the night. It was in an open grassy space, almost surrounded by giant boulders. It was their intention, after disposing of Gerrard and the black boy, and securing the gold, to strike across country for Somerset, and there await a steamer bound for either London or Hongkong. At that place, where the steamers only remained for an hour or two, they would attract no more than the casual notice taken of lucky diggers; at Townsville or Port Denison they might be recognised. Already they had nearly a thousand ounces of gold between them--some little of it honestly earned from their own claim at Hansen's, but most of it gained by robbery; and with the two thousand pounds' worth that they knew were in Gerrard's possession, they calculated that they might leave the hardships of mining life, and enjoy themselves for a considerable time in England or America--without, however, the society of “Snaky” Swires, who had left them at Cooktown, fearful of being arrested in connection with the robbery on the _Gambier_.
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“What a lovely spot!” thought Gerrard, as he caught sight of the Rocky Waterholes, whose calm, placid surfaces were gleaming like burnished silver under the rays of the sinking sun.
It was indeed a beautiful scene, for the five pools were surrounded by noble Leichhardt and wattle trees, the latter all in the full glory of their golden flowers, the sweet perfume of which scented the air for miles around. Close in to the bank of the largest pool were a number of teal feeding on the green weed, and chasing each other over the shining water. As they caught sight of the intruders, they rose with a whir and disappeared, followed a few seconds later by a pair of snow-white cranes, which, however, merely flew noiselessly upward, and settled on the branches of a Leichhardt.
The day had been intensely hot, and now, as the sun sank, there was presage of a thunderstorm, and Gerrard and Tommy quickly unsaddled, hobbled, and turned out the horses to feed upon the thick buffalo grass that grew in profusion around the bases of the vine-clad rocks which overlooked the pools. Then they hurriedly collected some dead wood for their camp fire, and threw it, together with their saddles, blankets, etc., under an overhanging ledge which would afford them complete shelter from the coming downpour.
A fire was soon lit, and whilst Tommy attended to making the tea, his master unrolled his own blanket and spread it out; then, from mere force of habit, he took his revolver from his saddle and strapped it to his belt, placed his Winchester and Tommy's Snider against the side of the rock, where they would be within easy reach, and then told the black boy that he was going to have a bathe before supper.
“No, no, boss!” cried Tommy, energetically, “baal you bogey longa that waterhole. Plenty fellow blue water snake sit down there--plenty. One bite you little bit, you go bung quick. Plenty fellow myall go bung longa baigan.” {*} * “Do not bathe in that waterhole. Many blue water-snakes live in it. If one bit you, even a little, you would die quickly. Many wild blacks have been killed by the baigan” Gerrard could not repress a shudder. He had often seen the dreaded “baigan”--a bright blue snake which frequented waterholes and lagoons, and whose venom equalled that of the deadly fer-de-lance of Martinique and St Vincent. Years before he had seen a cattle dog swimming in a lagoon attacked by a “baigan,” which bit it on the lip, and, although a stockman, as soon as the animal was out of the water, cut out a circular piece of the lip, it died in a few minutes.
“Very well, Tommy. I'll wait till after supper and have a bogey in the rain.”
As he spoke, the low rumble of thunder sounded, and deepened and deepened until it culminated in a mighty clap that seemed to shake the foundations of the earth, then followed peal after peal, and soon the rain descended in torrents, beating the waters of the pools into froth, and making a noise as of surf surging upon a pebbly beach.
For twenty minutes the downpour held; then it ceased suddenly, and, like magic, a few stars appeared. The fire was now blazing merrily in the cave. Tommy had made the two quart pots of tea, and Gerrard was taking the beef and damper out of his saddle-bag when the black boy started.
“What is it, Tommy?”
“Horse neigh!”
Gerrard listened. The boy was right, for he, too, heard a second neigh, and their own horses, which they could see standing quietly under a big Leichhardt tree, undisturbed by the storm, pricked up their ears and raised their heads.
“Quick, take your rifle, Tommy!” and Gerrard seized his own, then taking up the two quart pots of tea, he threw the contents over the fire, and partly extinguished it--not a moment too soon, for almost at the same moment a volley rang out, and he knew he was hit; and Tommy also cried out that he was shot in the face. Seizing him by the hand, Gerrard dragged him outside, stooping low, and bullet after bullet struck the wall of the cave. As he and the black boy threw themselves flat on the ground a few yards away, they both saw the flashes of rifles less than a hundred yards distant, and knew by the sound of and the rapidity of the firing that their unseen foes were using Winchesters.
“Keep still, Tommy, don't fire. Wait, wait!” said Gerrard in an excited whisper. “Let them go on firing into the cave. Can you make out where they are?”
Pressing his hand to his cheek, which had been cut open by a bullet, the black boy watched the flashes.
“Yes, boss, I see him--four fellow altogether. You look longa top flat rock, they all lie down close together.”
But keen as was his sight, Gerrard could see nothing but the flat moss and vine-covered summit of a huge granite boulder, from which the flashes came. Presently a bullet struck a piece of wood on the still smouldering fire, and scattered the glowing coals, then the firing ceased, and they heard voices.
“Keep quiet, Tommy. Don't move, for God's sake, or they'll see us. They are reloading. They think they have killed us. Is your Snider all right?”
“Yes, boss,” was the whispered and eager reply, “rible and rewolber too.”
“Are you much hurt, Tommy?”
“Only longa face, boss.”
“And I'm hit too, Tommy, but not much hurt.” A bullet had ploughed through the lower part of his thigh, and as he spoke he tore two strips from his handkerchief, and bidding Tommy watch their hidden foes, cut open his moleskin pants, and hurriedly plugged the holes. As he was doing this, the firing again began, and they could hear the bullets spattering against the granite rock, or striking the saddles. After about thirty shots had been fired it again ceased.
“Be ready, Tommy,” whispered Gerrard; “they'll be here presently. Don't fire till they are quite close, then drop rifle and take pistol.”
“All right, boss. Look, look! You see one fellow now stand up--there 'nother, 'nother--four fellow.”
The increasing starlight just enabled Gerrard to catch a brief glimpse of four figures moving about on the top of the boulder, then they disappeared, and he clutched his Winchester.
Five anxious minutes passed, and then one by one the four forms appeared coming round from the other side of the boulder. For a few moments they halted, then came boldly out of the shadows into the starlight, and then a deadly rage leapt into Gerrard's heart as he recognised two of them. First the man whom Kate's father had handled so roughly on board the _Gambier_, and then the tall, imposing figure of Forreste.
“Can you see their horses anywhere?” said the man who was in advance of his three companions, and they again stopped and looked about them.
“Oh, they are all right,” said a second voice; “well find 'em easy enough in the morning. They're both hobbled, and won't be far away. Now come on, Pinky, and show us your nigger with the top of his head off. You're a great gasser, I know. Strike a match, Barney, and I'll get a bit of dry ti-tree bark to give us a light.”
Gerrard pressed Tommy's arm. “Wait, Tommy, wait. Let them get a light. All the better for us. Listen!”
“I suppose they are properly done for, Cheyne?” said Forreste, who had a revolver in his hand.
“Oh, put your flaming pistol back into its pouch, you funky owl,” snarled Barney Green, “they both dropped at the first time, as I told you. Gerrard fell on to the fire, and you'll find him cooking there, and that both of 'em are as full of holes as a cullender. We've wasted a hundred cartridges for nothing, but I daresay we'll get some more. He had a forty-four Winchester, and the nigger a Snider.”
A match was struck, and the two motionless watchers saw Cheyne go to a ti-tree, which grew on the edge of the large pool, tear off the outer thin and wet bark, and then make a torch of the dry part, which lit easily. Pinkerton waved it to and fro for a few moments, and then held it up. It burst into flame.
“Now, Tommy, quick! Take the big man,” and as Gerrard spoke he covered Green.
The two rifles rang out, and Forreste and the Jew fell. Pinkerton dropped the torch and tried to draw his revolver, but a second shot from Gerrard broke his leg, and he too dropped. Cheyne sprang off towards the pool, leapt in, and swam across to where their horses were hidden. Tommy, with all the lust of slaughter upon him, tomahawk in hand, ran round the pool to intercept him on the other side.
“Let him go, Tommy, let him go!” shouted Gerrard, who was now feeling faint from loss of blood. “Come back, come back!” and as he spoke, Pinkerton, who could see him, began firing at him.
The black boy obeyed just as Gerrard sank back upon the ground. The still blazing torch, however, revealed his prone figure to the American, who, rising upon one knee, reloaded his revolver. Then Tommy leapt at him, raised his tomahawk, and clove his head in twain.
“Did he hit you, boss?” he cried, as, still holding the ensanguined weapon in his hand, he darted to his master.
“No, Tommy, I'm all right, but bingie mine feel sick. {*} Get water for me, Tommy.”
* “I feel faint” The black boy ran down to the waterhole, filled his cabbage-tree hat with water, and Gerrard drank.
“Go and see if those two men are dead, Tommy, If they are not, take their pistols away. Then make a big fire, and I will come and look at them.”
“All right, boss, but by and by.” He raised and assisted Gerrard into the cave, laid him down upon his blanket, and placed his head upon one of the bullet-riddled saddles, re-lit the extinguished fire, took off his shirt, tore off the back, and bandaged his master's thigh with it.
“You like smoke now, boss?” “Yes, fill my pipe before you go.” Five minutes later Tommy returned. “All three fellow dead,” he observed placidly, as he stooped down to the fire and lit his own pipe with a burning coal. “Big man me shoot got him bullet through chest; little man with black beard and nose like cockatoo you shoot, got him bullet through chest too, close up longa troat.”
Then he asked if he might go after the two horses, which, hobbled as they were, had gone off at the first sound of the firing, and were perhaps many miles away.
“All right, Tommy. We must not let them get too far away.”
The black boy grunted an assent, made the fire blaze up, and taking up his own and Gerrard's bridles, disappeared.
In less than half an hour he returned, riding one horse and leading the other, and found that Gerrard had risen and was looking at the bodies of the three men, which lay stark and stiff under the now bright starlight. Tommy's face wore an expression of supreme satisfaction as he jumped off his horse.
“Other fellow man bung{*} too,” he said in a complacent tone.
* Bung---dead.
“Did you shoot him?” cried Gerrard, aghast at more bloodshed.
“Baal me shoot him, boss. I find him longa place where all four fellow been camp in little gully. He been try to put saddle on horse, but fall down and die--_boigan_ been bite him I think it, when he swim across waterhole.”
“Come and show me,” said Gerrard, and, suffering as he was, he mounted his horse, and followed Tommy. In a few minutes they came to the place where Forreste and his gang had hidden their horses, all of which were tethered.
Lying doubled up on the ground beside a saddle, was the body of Cheyne. He had succeeded in putting the bridle on his horse, and then had evidently fallen ere he could place the saddle on the animal.
Gerrard struck a match, and held it to the dead man's face; it was purple, and hideous to look upon.
“Boigan,” said Tommy placidly, as he re-lit his pipe.
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{
"id": "24270"
}
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31
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Three days passed before Gerrard and the black boy were able to leave the Rocky Waterholes. The bodies of their treacherous assailants they interred in the soft, sandy soil at the foot of one of the granite pillars, and then Gerrard took their valises containing their gold, together with their arms and saddle pouches, and rolled them in a blanket, which he strapped on one of the gang's horses, which was to serve as a pack. He intended to hand everything over to the Gold Commissioner, whom he expected to see at Ochos Rios in a few weeks, and who having judicial powers, would, he expected, hold the official inquiry into the deaths 'of the men at the station itself.
Tommy made but little of his wound, and only grinned when Gerrard said he was lucky not to have had his jaw smashed by the bullet. He doctored it in the usual aboriginal manner: first powdering it with wood ashes, and then plastering the whole side of his face with wattle gum.
“My word, Tommy,” observed his master gravely, “you got him handsome fellow face now--all the same as me. Plenty fellow lubra want catch you now for benjamin.” {*} * “Plenty of women will want to get you now for a husband.”
Gerrard's own wound, although painful, did not prevent him from either walking or riding. The soft wattle gum was a splendid styptic, and two whole days and nights of complete rest did much to accelerate his recovery; and game being plentiful at and about the waterholes, he and Tommy made themselves as contented as possible, for there was still a clear week before the pearling lugger was due at the mouth of the Coen. He had changed his mind about letting Tommy go back alone along the beach, and decided to take him with him in the vessel. The boy's bravery had impressed him greatly, and although he knew his resourcefulness and abilities as a bushman, he thought it would not be fair--for the sake of two horses--to let him run the risk of being cut off by the coastal blacks, while on his way to the station. As for the horses, they would find their way home safely in all likelihood, unless they came across poison bush. The blacks did not often succeed in spearing loose horses, the slower-moving cattle being their favoured victims.
They left the Rocky Waterholes as the strength of the afternoon sun began to wane, and headed due west As they rode round the side of the largest pool, the three horses of the dead men, which were camped under the shade of the Leichhardt trees, brushing the flies off each other's noses with their long tails, raised their heads inquiringly as if to say. “Are you going to leave us here?” and then sedately trotted after them.
Gerrard turned in his saddle. “Let them follow us, if they like, Tommy. They will be company for 'Dutchman' and 'Waterboy.' I think they'll all turn up at the station by and by.”
The unexplored country from the Waterholes to the coast was very pleasant to see in all its diversified beauties: deep water-worn gullies whose sides were clothed with wild fig, wattle, and cabbage palms, opening out into fair forest country, well timbered with huge acacias and a species of white cedar, whose pale blue flowers filled the air with their delicious perfume. Bird life was plentiful, the chattering of long-tailed pheasants and the call of many kinds of parrots resounding everywhere, and filling the tree-clad gullies with melodious, reverberating echoes.
Night came on swiftly, but a night of myriad stars in a sky of cloudless blue; and then, fifteen miles from the Rocky Waterholes, they came to a wide but shallow creek, whose banks were well grassed, and which offered a tempting resting-place. Here and there were clumps, or rather groves, of graceful pandanus palms, with long pendant leaves, rustling faintly to the cool night breeze.
“We'll camp here till daylight, Tommy. I'm feeling a bit stiff.”
As Tommy unsaddled and hobbled out the horses, Gerrard lit a fire, made the two quart pots of tea, and he and the native had their supper. Then, although they had seen no signs of blacks since they had left Hansen's, they took unusual precautions to prevent being surprised, for Gerrard especially was not in a fit condition for much exertion. Letting the horses graze where they listed, they put out the fire, and carried their saddles, blankets, arms, etc., out to a sandbank in the middle of the creek, and made themselves comfortable for the night on the soft, warm sand--too far away from either bank to fear any danger from a shower of spears.
The night wore all too quickly away for Gerrard, for as he lay on his blanket, gazing upward to the star-studded heavens, he forgot the pain of his wounds in his thoughts of Kate, and he sighed contentedly. In two weeks or so he would be by her side at Ocho Rios.
There had never been what some people call “courtship” between Kate and Gerrard. When she came to the station on her promised visit, her father had come with her. He stayed a few days at Ocho Rios, and then set out on his return to Black Bluff Creek, accompanied by Gerrard, who was going part of the way with him. They had ridden for a mile or two from the station, chatting on various matters, when Gerrard suddenly drew rein.
“Mr Fraser!”
The old man looked up, wondering at the “Mr.” “What is it, Gerrard?”
“I am going to ask your daughter to marry me.”
Fraser could not help a smile. “There's no beating about the bush with you, Tom Gerrard.” Then he put out his hand, and said with grave kindness: “You are the one man whom I should like to see her marry.”
“Thank you,” and the younger man's face flushed with pleasure.
Then Fraser, like the tactful man he was, said not a word more on the matter.
“Look here, Gerrard, what is the use of your coming any further with me when you have so much to do? Get back, my son--and I wish you luck. Give Kate my love, and tell her I said so,” and then shaking hands with his friend, he struck into a smart canter.
Gerrard rode slowly home. Kate, Jim, and Mary were engaged in making a seine in the cool back verandah. Kate looked up with a smile, surprised and pleased to see him back so soon.
“Will you come with me and shoot some guinea-fowl, Miss Fraser?” Then he hurriedly turned to Jim: “You need not come, Jim. Go on with the seine.”
An hour later they returned--without any guinea-fowl. Gerrard was in high spirits. He slapped Jim on the back.
“Let the seine rip, Jim, and get your gun, and we'll try and get some pheasants. We couldn't see a blessed guinea-fowl anywhere; could we, _Kate? _” “No, _Tom_, we could not; they are horribly scarce to-day, Jim,” she replied demurely, as she fled to her room.
After a quiet, restful night, Gerrard and Tommy made an early start, driving the pack-horse in front of them, and followed by the three spare horses. All that day they travelled slowly, and at sunset reached the mouth of the alligator-haunted Coen, where, to Gerrard's delight, they saw a smart, white-painted lugger lying at anchor. In answer to their loud _coo-e-e! _ a boat manned by two Malays, put off, and the master jumped ashore.
“How are you, Mr Gerrard? You see I'm three days sooner than I said, but we got a rattling north-westerly as soon as we rounded Cape York. But what is wrong with your face, Mr Gerrard?” he added sympathetically; “and you're lame too, I see. Niggers, I suppose?”
“No, we haven't even seen a nigger, Captain Lowry. But I'll tell you the whole yarn by and by, after we get aboard. Got any arnica?”
“Plenty, and whips of plaster too. I'll soon fix you up, ship-shape and Bristol fashion.”
“Thank you, captain,” said Gerrard, as he and Tommy began to unsaddle the horses; “I'll be glad if you will. I don't want to get back to the station until I look a little bit less patchy. And so if you are agreeable, I'll be glad if we go on a bit of a cruise along the coast for about ten days or so.”
“I'm agreeable--more days, more dollars. But it will cost you another fifty pounds or so above the charter money.”
“Well, I shall spend it for the benefit of my complexion, Lowry. Now, hurry up with our traps, Tommy, I'm going to eat a supper that will astonish you, Lowry.”
As soon as he reached the vessel he went below, and wrote letters to his sister and Kate, enclosed them in an old piece of an oilskin coat given him by Lowry, then called Tommy, and told him to go on shore again, and secure it to Waterboy's mane. His object was to allay any fears about him if the two station horses got to Ocho Rios before the lugger. The yellow packet would be sure to be noticed, and opened. He had carefully avoided any mention of his encounter with Aulain, and had also cautioned Tommy on the subject: he did not want his sister and Kate to know anything of the matter, from himself at least. He had decided upon a pardonable fiction--he would tell them that he had been thrown from his horse, and received a rather bad cut; of his bullet wound and the tragedy at the Rocky Waterholes he made no allusion.
“It's no use worrying them over nothing,” he said to Lowry, when he had told the seaman the story of the attack by Forreste and his gang. “In a week or so I'll be as fit as you are. But you'll have to back me up in what I have written about you being afraid that we are in for a week or two of calm; they won't forgive me in a hurry if they ascertain that instead of being becalmed, the _Fanny Sabina_ was cruising merrily about the Gulf of Carpentaria.”
Lowry gave his promise, and then he and his passenger had supper on deck under the awning which covered the smart little vessel's deck from bow to stern.
At dawn next morning, Gerrard, after a delightfully refreshing sleep, was awakened by the captain.
“Rouse up, Mr Gerrard. We're underway, and I want to know the programme.”
“How far to Cape Keerweer?”
“Four days' sail in such light weather as this.”
“That will suit me. I'll be able to begin to enjoy myself by then, and I want to see those big lagoons near the Cape. Tommy says that they are alive with game, and you and I can put in a day or two there.”
“Just the thing. I've a couple of good guns on board,” then he turned to the man at the tiller.
“Keep her south, my lad. For'ard there, set the squaresail. Now, Mr Gerrard, you'll see what the little _Fanny Sabina_ can do even in a light wind like this,” and Lowry looked with an air of pride at his dainty little craft.
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{
"id": "24270"
}
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32
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On the evening of the eleventh day, after leaving the Coen, the cutter let go her anchor at a spot about a mile from the wreck of the old Dutch ship, and Gerrard prepared to go on shore, for he meant to walk to the station that night. He had now so completely recovered from both the bullet wound and the slash inflicted by Aulain's whip, that Lowry declared he looked all the better for what he had gone through.
“Well, I should not grumble, I suppose, Lowry,” said his passenger, as he surveyed his features in the cabin mirror over the captain's table, “but it is enough to make any one swear. Just as I was getting rid of the alligator beauty marks on one side of my face, I get a thundering slash on the other, which will take another three months to get tanned up to the rich, soiled leather hue of the rest of my hide.”
As he was speaking, Tommy put his black face down through the open skylight, and said that he could see a camp fire on shore--just above the landing-place.
“It must be some one from the station, Lowry,” cried Gerrard, as he and the captain came on deck, and as he spoke, there came a _coo-e-e! _ from the shore. It was Jim's voice. He answered at once.
Bidding the mate hang a riding light on the forestay, Lowry got his night glasses, and turned them upon the fire.
“There are four people, Mr Gerrard, with six or seven horses. Ah, they are rigging a tent. I suppose it is a party from the station. They must have seen us before dark, and have come to meet you. Well, the boat is all ready for you, sir.”
In a few minutes Gerrard and Tommy were being paddled swiftly to the shore, and as they drew nearer the fire, they were able to make out the four figures as those of Kate, Mary Rayner, Jim, and a white stockman. All were busied about the tent, and as yet had not seen the boat. Then Gerrard gave a loud hail.
“Hallo there, you people!”
An answering yell from Jim and a shriek of delight from Mary, and as the boat's bows cut into the soft sand, they rushed towards it, followed by Kate. Disengaging himself from their frantic embraces he met Kate, and drew her to him.
“All well, Kate?”
“Yes, Tom,” she whispered.
“What brought you here?”
“Your letter, of course! Waterboy and the other horse came home this afternoon, and Lizzie said that if we liked we could come and camp here until you came. And just after dark, as we got here, we fancied we heard the sound of the vessel anchoring, and so Jim _coo-e-e-d_.”
Gerrard bent towards her again.
“Mary and Jim, run along and help poor Harry with the tent.” Then in a whisper: “Tom, keep quiet--we are right in the light of the fire.”
“Yes, run along,” added Gerrard; “we'll be with you in a minute. Oh, Jim, stop a moment! Would you and Mary like to go on board the vessel to-morrow morning, and see Captain Lowry's curios?”
“Oh, yes, Uncle,” was the unsuspecting reply.
“Then you and Harry can camp here tonight, and have a good time on board in the morning. I'm in no end of a hurry to get home, and see your Aunt Lizzie. But I'll be back before breakfast to-morrow.”
“Are you staying with us too, Miss Fraser?” asked Jim.
“No, I think I had better go on with your uncle. It wouldn't be fair to let him ride home alone, would it?”
“No, I suppose not,” observed Jim with unnecessary dryness in his voice; “he might get lost.”
Gerrard laughed, and tried to seize the lad by his arm, but he was too quick for him.
“How are you, Harry?” he said to the stockman, as he held out his hand. “Cattle all right?”
“Right as rain, boss. How's yourself?”
“Bully. Oh, I say, Harry; the youngsters want very much to have a look at the ship to-morrow. I daresay you would too.”
“I would, boss, seein' 'as I never was on board a real sailin' boat.”
“Well, you can all go on board to-morrow. Miss Fraser and I will push on home, so if you'll saddle our horses for us, I'll finish the tent for you.”
A quarter of an hour later everything had been finished--the tent set up, and the horses saddled and in readiness.
“Good-night, youngsters,” cried Gerrard, swinging himself into his saddle, and then with Kate by his side, they turned their horses heads toward the dark line of sleeping forest.
“Oh, Tom, I forgot,” said Kate, after they had ridden for a mile or so; “I have some letters for you,” and she took them out of her saddle pouch.
The master of Ocho Rios let fall his reins, and glanced at the superscriptions on the envelopes.
“Pull up a minute, Kate. I want to look at this one--the others can wait.”
He opened the letter, lit a match, and glanced at the few lines it contained. Then he threw away the match, and placed the letter in his pocket.
“Kate.”
“Yes, Tom dear?”
“It's from Templeton” (the Gold Commissioner).
“Well, Tom?”
“Well, Kate? He will be at Ocho Rios on the 27th. Are you glad, or is it too soon for you?”
“No, Tom,” she whispered.
He drew her to him once more, and pressed his lips to hers, and then in happy silence, side by side, they cantered home through the darkened forest and under the star-lit sky.
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{
"id": "24270"
}
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1
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WHO WILL BE THE NEW BISHOP?
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In the latter days of July in the year 185-, a most important question was for ten days hourly asked in the cathedral city of Barchester, and answered every hour in various ways--Who was to be the new Bishop?
The death of old Dr Grantly, who had for many years filled the chair with meek authority, took place exactly as the ministry of Lord - was going to give place to that Lord -. The illness of the good old man was long and lingering, and it became at last a matter of intense interest to those concerned whether the new appointment should be made by a conservative or liberal government.
Bishop Grantly died as he had lived, peaceably, slowly, without pain and without excitement. The breath ebbed from him almost imperceptibly, and for a month before his death, it was a question whether he was alive or dead.
A trying time was this for the archdeacon, for whom was designed the reversion of his father's see by those who then had the giving away of episcopal thrones. I would not be understood to say that the prime minister had in so many words promised the bishopric to Dr Grantly. He was too discreet a man for that. There is a proverb with reference to the killing of cats, and those who know anything either of high or low government places, will be well aware that a promise may be made without positive words, and that an expectant may be put into the highest state of encouragement, though the great man on whose breath he hangs may have done no more than whisper that 'Mr So-and-so is certainly a rising man.'
Such a whisper had been made, and was known by those who heard it to signify that the cures of the diocese of Barchester should not be taken out of the hands of the archdeacon. The then prime minister was all in all at Oxford, and had lately passed a night at the house of the master of Lazarus. Now the master of Lazarus--which is, by the bye, in many respects the most comfortable, as well as the richest college at Oxford,--was the archdeacon's most intimate friend and most trusted counsellor. On the occasion of the prime minister's visit, Dr Grantly was of course present, and the meeting was very gracious. On the following morning Dr Gwynne, the master, told the archdeacon that in his opinion the matter was settled.
At this time the bishop was quite on his last legs; but the ministry was also tottering. Dr Grantly returned from Oxford happy and elated, to resume his place in the palace, and to continue to perform for the father the last duties of a son; which, to give him his due, he performed with more tender care than was to be expected from his usual somewhat worldly manners.
A month since the physicians had named four weeks as the outside period during which breath could be supported within the body of the dying man. At the end of the month the physicians wondered, and named another fortnight. The old man lived on wine alone, but at the end of the fortnight he still lived; and the tidings of the fall of the ministry became more frequent. Sir Lamda Mewnew and Sir Omicron Pie, the two great London doctors, now came down for the fifth time, and declared, shaking their learned heads, that another week of life was impossible; and as they sat down to lunch in the episcopal dining-room, whispered to the archdeacon their own private knowledge that the ministry must fall within five days. The son returned to his father's room, and after administering with his own hands the sustaining modicum of madeira, sat down by the bedside to calculate his chances.
The ministry were to be out within five days: his father was to be dead within--No, he rejected that view of the subject. The ministry were to be out, and the diocese might probably be vacant at the same period. There was much doubt as to the names of the men who were to succeed to power, and a week must elapse before a Cabinet was formed. Would not vacancies be filled by the out-going men during that week? Dr Grantly had a kind of idea that such would be the case, but did not know; and then he wondered at his own ignorance of such a question.
He tried to keep his mind away from the subject, but he could not. The race was so very close, and the stakes were so very high. He then looked at the dying man's impassive, placid face. There was no sign there of death or disease; it was something thinner than of yore, somewhat grayer, and the deep lines of age more marked; but, as far as he could judge, life might yet hang there for weeks to come. Sir Lamda Mewnew and Sir Omicron Pie had thrice been wrong, and might yet be wrong thrice again. The old bishop slept during twenty of the twenty-four hours, but during the short periods of his waking moments, he knew both his son and his dear friend Mr Harding, the archdeacon's father-in-law, and would thank them tenderly for their care and love. Now he lay sleeping like a baby, resting easily on his back, his mouth just open, and his few gray hairs straggling from beneath his cap; his breath was perfectly noiseless, and his thin, wan hand, which lay above the coverlid, never moved. Nothing could be easier than the old man's passage from this world to the next.
But by no means easy were the emotions of him who sat there watching. He knew it must be now or never. He was already over fifty, and there was little chance that his friends who were now leaving office would soon return to it. No probable British prime minister but he who was now in, he who was so soon to be out, would think of making a bishop of Dr Grantly. Thus he thought long and sadly, in deep silence, and then gazed at that still living face, and then at last dared to ask himself whether he really longed for his father's death.
The effort was a salutary one, and the question was answered in a moment. The proud, wishful, worldly man, sank on his knees by the bedside, and taking the bishop's hand within his own, prayed eagerly that his sins might be forgiven him.
His face was still buried in the clothes when the door of the bed-room opened noiselessly, and Mr Harding entered with a velvet step. Mr Harding's attendance at that bedside had been nearly as constant as that of the archdeacon, and his ingress and egress was as much a matter of course as that of his son-in-law. He was standing close beside the archdeacon before he was perceived, and would have also knelt in prayer had he not feared that his doing so might have caused some sudden start, and have disturbed the dying man. Dr Grantly, however, instantly perceived him, and rose from his knees. As he did so Mr Harding took both his hands, and pressed them warmly. There was more fellowship between them at that moment than there had ever been before, and it so happened that after circumstances greatly preserved the feeling. As they stood there pressing each other's hands, the tears rolled freely down their cheeks.
'God bless you, my dears,'--said the bishop with feeble voice as he woke--'God bless you--may God bless you both, my dear children:' and so he died.
There was no loud rattle in the throat, no dreadful struggle, no palpable sign of death; but the lower jaw fell a little from its place, and the eyes, which had been so constantly closed in sleep, now remained fixed and open. Neither Mr Harding nor Dr Grantly knew that life was gone, though both suspected it.
'I believe it's all over,' said Mr Harding, still pressing the other's hands. 'I think--nay, I hope it is.'
'I will ring the bell,' said the other, speaking all but in a whisper. 'Mrs Phillips should be here.'
Mrs Phillips, the nurse, was soon in the room, and immediately, with practised hand, closed those staring eyes.
'It's all over, Mrs Phillips?' asked Mr Harding.
'My lord's no more,' said Mrs Phillips, turning round and curtseying with a solemn face; 'His lordship's gone more like a sleeping baby than any that I ever saw.'
'It's a great relief, archdeacon,' said Mr Harding, 'A great relief--dear good, excellent old man. Oh that our last moments may be as innocent and peaceful as his!'
'Surely,' said Mrs Phillips. 'The Lord be praised for all his mercies; but, for a meek, mild, gentle-spoken Christian, his lordship was--' and Mrs Phillips, with unaffected but easy grief, put up her white apron to her flowing eyes.
'You cannot but rejoice that it is over,' said Mr Harding, still counselling his friend. The archdeacon's mind, however, had already travelled from the death chamber to the closet of the prime minister. He had brought himself to pray for his father's life, but now that that life was done, to dally with the fact of the bishop's death--useless to lose perhaps everything for the pretence of a foolish sentiment.
But how was he to act while his father-in-law stood there holding his hand? How, without appearing unfeeling, was he to forget his father in the bishop--to overlook what he had lost, and think only of what he might possibly gain?
'No; I suppose not,' said he, at last, in answer to Mr Harding. 'We have all expected it for so long.'
Mr Harding took him by the arm and led him from the room. 'We will see him again to-morrow morning,' said he; 'We had better leave the room now to the woman.' And so they went downstairs.
It was already evening and nearly dark. It was most important that the prime minister should know that night that the diocese was vacant. Everything might depend on it; and so, in answer to Mr Harding's further consolation, the archdeacon suggested that a telegraph message should be immediately sent off to London. Mr Harding who had really been somewhat surprised to find Dr Grantly, as he thought, so much affected, was rather taken aback; but he made no objection. He knew that the archdeacon had some hope of succeeding to his father's place, though he by no means knew how highly raised that hope had been.
'Yes,' said Dr Grantly, collecting himself and shaking off his weakness, 'We must send a message at once; we don't know what might be the consequences of delay. Will you do it?'
'I! Oh yes; certainly: I'll do it, only I don't know exactly what it is you want.'
Dr Grantly sat down before a writing table, and taking pen and ink, wrote on a slip of paper as follows:- By Electric Telegraph, For the Earl of -, Downing Street, or elsewhere. 'The Bishop of Barchester is dead.' Message sent by the Rev. Septimus Harding.
'There,' said he. 'Just take that to the telegraph office at the railway station, and give it as it is; they'll probably make you copy it on to one of their own slips; that's all you'll have to do: then you'll have to pay them half-a-crown.' And the archdeacon put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the necessary sum.
Mr Harding felt very much like an errand-boy, and also felt that he was called on to perform his duties as such at rather an unseemly time; but he said nothing, and took the slip of paper and the proffered coin.
'But you've put my name into it, archdeacon.'
'Yes,' said the other, 'There should be the name of some clergyman, you know, and what name so proper as that of so old a friend as yourself? The Earl won't look at the name you may be sure of that; but my dear Mr Harding, pray don't lose any time.'
Mr Harding got as far as the library door on his way to the station, when he suddenly remembered the news with which he was fraught when he entered to poor bishop's bedroom. He had found the moment so inopportune for any mundane tidings, that he had repressed the words which were on his tongue, and immediately afterwards all recollection of the circumstance was for the time banished by the scene which had occurred.
'But, archdeacon,' said, he turning back, 'I forgot to tell you--the ministry are out.'
'Out!' ejaculated the archdeacon, in a tone which too plainly showed the anxiety of his dismay, although under the circumstances of the moment he endeavoured to control himself: 'Out! Who told you so?'
Mr Harding explained that news to this effect had come down by electric telegraph, and that the tidings had been left at the palace door by Mr Chadwick.
The archdeacon sat silent for awhile, meditating, and Mr Harding stood looking at him. 'Never mind,' said the archdeacon at last; 'Send the message all the same. The news must be sent to some one, and there is at present no one else in a position to receive it. Do it at once, my dear friend; you know I would not trouble you, were I in a state to do it myself. A few minutes' time is of the greatest importance.'
Mr Harding went out and sent the message, and it may be as well that we should follow it to its destination. Within thirty minutes of its leaving Barchester it reached the Earl of - in his inner library. What elaborate letters, what eloquent appeals, what indignant remonstrances, he might there have to frame, at such a moment, may be conceived, but not described! How he was preparing his thunder for successful rivals, standing like a British peer with his back to the sea-coal fire, and his hands in his breeches pockets,--how his fine eye was lit up with anger, and his forehead gleamed with patriotism,--how he stamped his foot as he thought of his heavy associates,--how he all but swore as he remembered how much too clever one of them had been,--my creative readers may imagine. But was he so engaged? No; history and truth compel me to deny it. He was sitting easily in a lounging chair, conning over a Newmarket list, and by his elbow on the table was lying open an uncut French novel on which he was engaged.
He opened the cover in which the message was enclosed, and having read it, he took his pen and wrote on the back of it-- 'For the Earl of -, With the Earl of -'s compliments,' and sent off again on its journey.
Thus terminated our unfortunate friend's chance of possessing the glories of a bishopric.
The names of many divines were given in the papers as that of the bishop elect. The British Grandmother declared that Dr Gwynne was to be the man, in compliment to the late ministry.
This was a heavy blow to Dr Grantly, but he was not doomed to see himself superseded by his friend. The Anglican Devotee put forward confidently the claims of a great London preacher of austere doctrines; and The Eastern Hemisphere, an evening paper supposed to possess much official knowledge, declared in favour of an eminent naturalist, a gentleman most completely versed in the knowledge of rocks and minerals, but supposed by many to hold on religious subjects no special doctrines whatever. The Jupiter, that daily paper which, as we all know, is the only true source of infallibly correct information on all subjects, for a while was silent, but at last spoke out. The merits of all these candidates were discussed and somewhat irreverently disposed of, and then The Jupiter declared that Dr Proudie was to be the man.
Dr Proudie was the man. Just a month after the demise of the late bishop, Dr Proudie kissed the Queen's hand as his successor elect.
We must beg to be allowed to draw a curtain over the sorrows of the archdeacon as he sat, sombre and sad at heart, in the study of his parsonage at Plumstead Episcopi. On the day subsequent to the dispatch of the message he heard that the Earl of - had consented to undertake the formation of a ministry, and from that moment he knew that his chance was over. Many will think that he was wicked to grieve for the loss of episcopal power, wicked to have coveted it, nay, wicked even to have thought about it, in the way and at the moment he had done so.
With such censures, I cannot profess that I completely agree. The nolo episcopari, though still in use, is so directly at variance with the tendency of all human aspirations of rising priests in the Church of England. A lawyer does not sin in seeking to be a judge, or in compassing his wishes by all honest means. A young diplomat entertains a fair ambition when he looks forward to be the lord of a first-rate embassy; and a poor novelist when he attempts to rival Dickens or rise above Fitzjames, commits no fault, though he may be foolish.
Sydney Smith truly said that in these recreant days we cannot expect to find the majesty of St. Paul beneath the cassock of a curate. If we look to our clergymen to be more than men, we shall probably teach ourselves to think that they are less, and can hardly hope to raise the character of the pastor by denying to him the right to entertain the aspirations of a man.
Our archdeacon was worldly--who among us is not so? He was ambitious--who among us is ashamed to own that 'last infirmity of noble minds!' He was avaricious, my readers will say. No--it was not for love of lucre that he wished to be bishop of Barchester. He was his father's only child, and his father had left him great wealth. His preferment brought him in nearly three thousand a year. The bishopric, as cut down by the Ecclesiastical Commission, was only five. He would be a richer man as archdeacon, than he could be as a bishop. But he certainly did desire to play first fiddle; he did desire to sit in full lawn sleeves amongst the peers of the realm; and he did desire, if the truth must be out, to be called 'My Lord' by the reverend brethren.
His hopes, however, were they innocent or sinful, were not fated to be realised; and Dr Proudie was consecrated Bishop of Barchester.
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{
"id": "2432"
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2
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HIRAM'S HOSPITAL ACCORDING TO ACT OF PARLIAMENT
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It is hardly necessary that I should here give to the public any lengthened biography of Mr Harding, up to the period of the commencement of this tale. The public cannot have forgotten how ill that sensitive gentleman bore the attack that was made upon him in the columns of the Jupiter, with reference to the income which he received as warden of Hiram's Hospital, in the city of Barchester. Nor can it be forgotten that a law-suit was instituted against him on the matter of that charity by Mr John Bold, who afterwards married his, Mr Harding's, younger and then only unmarried daughter. Under the pressure of these attacks, Mr Harding had resigned his wardenship, though strongly recommended to abstain from doing so, both by his friends and his lawyers. He did, however, resign it, and betook himself manfully to the duties of the small parish of St. Cuthbert's, in the city, of which he was vicar, continuing also to perform those of precentor of the cathedral, a situation of small emoluments which had hitherto been supposed to be joined, as a matter of course, to the wardenship of the hospital above spoken of.
When he left the hospital from which he had been so ruthlessly driven, and settled himself down in his own modest manner in the High Street of Barchester, he had not expected that others would make more fuss about it than he was inclined to do himself; and the extent of his hope was, that the movement might have been made in time to prevent any further paragraphs in the Jupiter. His affairs, however, were not allowed to subside thus quietly, and people were quite as much inclined to talk about the disinterested sacrifice he had made, as they had before been to upbraid him for his cupidity.
The most remarkable thing that occurred, was the receipt of an autographed letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury, in which the primate very warmly praised his conduct, and begged to know what his intentions were for the future. Mr Harding replied that he intended to be rector of St. Cuthbert's in Barchester; and so that matter dropped. Then the newspapers took up his case, the Jupiter among the rest, and wafted his name in eulogistic strains through every reading-room in the nation. It was discovered also, that he was the author of that great musical work, Harding's Church Music,--and a new edition was spoken of, though, I believe, never printed. It is, however, certain that the work was introduced into the Royal Chapel at St James's, and that a long criticism appeared in the Musical Scrutator, declaring that in no previous work of its kind had so much research been joined with such exalted musical ability, and asserting that the name of Harding would henceforward be known wherever the Arts were cultivated, or Religion valued.
This was high praise, and I will not deny that Mr Harding was gratified by such flattery; for if Mr Harding was vain on any subject, it was on that of music. But here the matter rested. The second edition, if printed, was never purchased; the copies which had been introduced into the Royal Chapel disappeared again, and were laid by in peace, with a load of similar literature. Mr Towers, of the Jupiter, and his brethren occupied themselves with other names, and the underlying fame promised to our friend was clearly intended to be posthumous.
Mr Harding had spent much of his time with his friend the bishop, much with his daughter Mrs Bold, now, alas, a widow; and had almost daily visited the wretched remnants of his former subjects, the few surviving bedesmen now left at Hiram's Hospital. Six of them were still living. The number, according to old Hiram's will, should always have been twelve. But after the abdication of their warden, the bishop had appointed no successor to him, and it appeared as though the hospital at Barchester would fall into abeyance, unless the powers that be should take some steps towards putting it once more into working order.
During the past five years the powers that be had not overlooked Barchester Hospital, and sundry political doctors had taken the matter in hand. Shortly after Mr Harding's resignation, the Jupiter had very clearly shown what ought to be done. In about half a column it had distributed the income, rebuilt the building, put an end to all bickerings, regenerated kindly feeling, provided for Mr Harding, and placed the whole thing on a footing which could not but be satisfactory to the city and Bishop of Barchester, and to the nation at large. The wisdom of this scheme was testified by the number of letters which "Common Sense", "Veritas", and "One that loves fair play," sent to the Jupiter, all expressing admiration and amplifying on the details given. It is singular enough that no adverse letter appeared at all, and, therefore, none of course was written.
But Cassandra was not believed, and even the wisdom of the Jupiter sometimes falls on deaf ears. Though other plans did not put themselves forward in the columns of the Jupiter, reformers of church charities were not slack to make known in various places their different nostrums for setting Hiram's Hospital on its feet again. A learned bishop took occasion, in the Upper House, to allude to the matter, intimating that he had communicated on the subject with his right reverend brother of Barchester. The radical member for Staleybridge had suggested that the funds should be alienated for the education of the agricultural poor of the country, and he amused the House by some anecdotes touching the superstition and habits of the agriculturists in question. A political pamphleteer had produced a few dozen pages, which he called 'Who are Hiram's heirs?' intending to give an infallible rule for the governance of such establishments; and, at last, a member of the government promised that in the next session a short bill should be introduced for regulating the affairs of Barchester, and other kindred concerns.
The next session came, and, contrary to custom, the bill came also. Men's minds were then intent on other things. The first threatenings of a huge war hung heavily over the nation, and the question as to Hiram's heirs did not appear to interest very many people either in or out of the House. The bill, however, was read and reread, and in some undistinguished manner passed through its eleven stages without appeal or dissent. What would John Hiram have said in the matter, could he have predicted that some forty-five gentlemen would take on themselves to make a law altering the whole purport of the will, without in the least knowing at the moment of their making it, what it was that they were doing? It is however to be hoped that the under secretary for the Home Office knew, for to him had the matter been confided.
The bill, however, did pass, and at the time at which this history is supposed to commence, it had been ordained that there should be, as heretofore, twelve old men in Barchester Hospital, each with 1s 4d a day; that there should also be twelve old women, each with 1s 2d a day; that there should be a matron with a house and L 70 a year; a steward with L 150 a year, who should have the spiritual guidance of that appertaining to the male sex. The bishop, dean, and warden, were, as formerly, to appoint in turn the recipients of the charity, and the bishop was to appoint the officers. There was nothing said as to the wardenship being held by the precentor of the cathedral, nor a word as to Mr Harding's right to the situation.
It was not, however, till some months after the death of the old bishop, and almost immediately consequent on the installation of his successor, that notice was given that the reform was about to be carried out. The new law and the new bishop were among the earliest works of a new ministry, or rather of a ministry who, having for a while given place to their opponents, had then returned to power; and the death of Dr Grantly occurred, as we have seen, exactly at the period of change.
Poor Eleanor Bold! How well does that widow's cap become her, and the solemn gravity with which she devotes to her new duties. Poor Eleanor!
Poor Eleanor! I cannot say that with me John Bold was ever a favourite. I never thought him worthy of the wife he had won. But in her estimation he was most worthy. Hers was one of those feminine hearts which cling to a husband, not with idolatry, for worship can admit of no defect in its idol, but with the perfect tenacity of ivy. As the parasite plant will follow even the defects of the trunk which it embraces, so did Eleanor cling to and love the very faults of her husband.
She had once declared that whatever her father did should in her eyes be right. She then transferred her allegiance, and became ever ready to defend the worst failings of her lord and master.
And John Bold was a man to be loved by a woman; he was himself affectionate, he was confiding and manly; and that arrogance of thought, unsustained by first-rate abilities, that attempt at being better than his neighbours which jarred so painfully on the feelings of his acquaintances, did not injure him in the estimation of his wife.
Could she even have admitted that he had a fault, his early death would have blotted out the memory of it. She wept as for the loss of the most perfect treasure with which mortal woman had ever been endowed; for weeks after he was gone the idea of future happiness in this world was hateful to her; consolation, as it is called, was insupportable, and tears and sleep were her only relief.
But God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. She knew that she had within her the living source of other cares. She knew that there was to be created for her another subject of weal or woe, of unutterable joy or despairing sorrow, as God in his mercy might vouchsafe to her. At first this did not augment her grief! To be the mother of a poor infant, orphaned before it was born, brought forth to the sorrows of an ever desolate hearth, nurtured amidst tears and wailing, and then turned adrift into the world without the aid of a father's care! There was at first no joy in this.
By degrees, however, her heart became anxious for another object, and, before its birth, the stranger was expected with all the eagerness of a longing mother. Just eight months after the father's death a second John Bold was born, and if the worship of one creature can be innocent in another, let us hope that the adoration offered over the cradle of the fatherless infant may not be imputed as sin.
It will not be worth our while to define the character of the child, or to point out in how far the faults of the father were redeemed within that little breast by the virtues of the mother. The baby, as a baby, was all that was delightful, and I cannot foresee that it will be necessary for us to inquire into the facts of his after life. Our present business at Barchester will not occupy us above a year or two at the furthest, and I will leave it to some other pen to produce, if necessary, the biography of John Bold the Younger.
But, as a baby, this baby was all that could be desired. This fact no one attempted to deny. 'Is he not delightful?' she would say to her father, looking into his face from her knees, he lustrous eyes overflowing with soft tears, her young face encircled by her close widow's cap and her hands on each side of the cradle in which her treasure was sleeping. The grandfather would gladly admit that the treasure was delightful, and the uncle archdeacon himself would agree, and Mrs Grantly, Eleanor's sister, would re-echo the word with true sisterly energy; and Mary Bold--but Mary Bold was a second worshipper at the same shrine.
The baby was really delightful; he took his food with a will, struck out his toes merrily whenever his legs were uncovered, and did not have fits. These are supposed to be the strongest points of baby perfection, and in all these our baby excelled.
And in this the widow's deep grief was softened, and a sweet balm was poured into the wound which she had thought nothing but death could heal. How much kinder is God to us than we are willing to be to ourselves! At the loss of every dear face, at the last going of every well beloved one, we all doom ourselves to an eternity of sorrow, and look to waste ourselves away in an ever-running fountain of tears. How seldom does such grief endure! How blessed is the goodness which forbids it to do so! 'Let me ever remember my living friends, but forget them as soon as they are dead,' was the prayer of a wise man who understood the mercy of God. Few perhaps would have the courage to express such a wish, and yet to do so would only be to ask for that release from sorrow, which a kind Creator almost always extends to us.
I would not, however, have it imagined that Mrs Bold forgot her husband. She really thought of him with all conjugal love, and enshrined his memory in the innermost centre of her heart. But yet she was happy in her baby. It was so sweet to press the living toy to her breast, and feel that a human being existed who did owe, and was to owe everything to her; whose daily food was drawn from herself; whose little wants could all be satisfied by her; whose infant tongue would make his first effort in calling her by the sweetest name a woman can hear. And so Eleanor's bosom became tranquil, and she set about her new duties eagerly and gratefully.
As regards the concerns of the world, John Bold had left his widow in prosperous circumstances. He had bequeathed to her all that he possessed, and that comprised an income much exceeding what she or her friends thought necessary for her. It amounted to nearly a thousand a year; and when she reflected on its extent, her dearest hope was to hand it over, not only unimpaired, but increased, to her husband's son, to her own darling, to the little man who now lay sleeping on her knee, happily ignorant of the cares which were to be accumulated in his behalf.
When John Bold died, she earnestly implored her father to come and live with her, but this Mr Harding declined, though for some weeks he remained with her as a visitor. He could not be prevailed upon to forego the possession of some small house of his own, and so remained in the lodgings he had first selected over a chemist's shop in the High Street at Barchester.
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{
"id": "2432"
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3
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DR AND MRS PROUDIE
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This narrative is supposed to commence immediately after the installation of Dr Proudie. I will not describe the ceremony, as I do not precisely understand its nature. I am ignorant whether a bishop be chaired like a member of parliament, or carried in a gilt coach like a lord mayor, or sworn in like a justice of the peace, or introduced like a peer to the upper house, or led between two brethren like a knight of the garter; but I do know that every thing was properly done, and that nothing fit or becoming to a young bishop was omitted on the occasion.
Dr Proudie was not the man to allow anything to be omitted that might be becoming to his new dignity. He understood well the value of forms, and knew that the due observations of rank could not be maintained unless the exterior trappings belonging to it were held in proper esteem. He was a man born to move in high circles; at least so he thought himself and circumstances had certainly sustained him in this view. He was the nephew of a Irish baron by his mother's side, and his wife was the niece of a Scottish earl. He had for years held some clerical office appertaining to courtly matters, which had enabled him to live in London, and to entrust his parish to his curate. He had been a preacher to the royal beefeaters, curator of theological manuscripts in the Ecclesiastical Courts, chaplain of the Queen's Yeomanry Guard, and almoner to his Royal Highness the Prince of Rappe-Blankenburg.
His residence in the metropolis, rendered necessary by the duties entrusted to him, his high connections, and the peculiar talents and nature of the man, recommended him to persons in power; and Dr Proudie became known as a useful and rising clergyman.
Some few years since, even within the memory of many who are not yet willing to call themselves old, a liberal clergyman was a person not frequently to be met. Sydney Smith was such, and was looked on as a little better than an infidel; a few others also might be named, but they were 'rarae aves', and were regarded with doubt and distrust by their brethren. No man was so surely a tory as a country rector--nowhere were the powers that be so cherished as at Oxford.
When, however, Dr Whately was made an archbishop, and Dr Hampden some years afterwards regius professor, many wise divines saw that a change was taking place in men's minds, and that more liberal ideas would henceforward be suitable to the priests as well as to the laity. Clergymen began to be heard of who had ceased to anathematise papists on the one hand, or vilify dissenters on the other. It appeared clear that high church principles, as they are called, were no longer to be the surest claims to promotion with at any rate one section of statesmen, and Dr Proudie was one among those who early in life adapted himself to the views held by the whigs on most theological and religious subjects. He bore with the idolatry of Rome, tolerated even the infidelity of Socinianism, and was hand and glove with the Presbyterian Synods of Scotland and Ulster.
Such a man at such a time was found to be useful, and Dr Proudie's name began to appear in the newspapers. He was made one of a commission who went over to Ireland to arrange matters preparative to the working of the national board; he became honorary secretary to another commission nominated to inquire into the revenues of cathedral chapters; and had had something to do with both the regium donum and the Maynooth Grant.
It must not be on this account be taken as proved that Dr Proudie was a man of great mental powers, or even of much capacity for business, for such qualities had not been required in him. In the arrangement of those church reforms with which he was connected, the ideas and original conception of the work to be done were generally furnished by the liberal statesmen of the day, and the labour of the details was borne by officials of a lower rank. It was, however, thought expedient that the name of some clergyman should appear in such matters, and as Dr Proudie had become known as a tolerating divine, great use of this sort was made of his name. If he did not do much active good, he never did any harm; he was amenable to those who were really in authority, and at the sittings of the various boards to which he belonged maintained a kind of dignity which had its value.
He was certainly possessed of sufficient tact to answer the purpose for which he was required without making himself troublesome; but it must not therefore be surmised that he doubted his own power, or failed to believe that he could himself take a high part in high affairs when his own turn came. His was biding his time, and patiently looking forward to the days when he himself would sit authoritative at some board, and talk and direct, and rule the roost, while lesser stars sat round and obeyed, as he had so well accustomed himself to do.
His reward and his time had now come. He was selected for the vacant bishopric, and on the next vacancy which might occur in any diocese would take his place in the House of Lords, prepared to give not a silent vote in all matters concerning the weal of the church establishment. Toleration was to be the basis on which he was to fight his battles, and in the honest courage of his heart he thought no evil would come to him in encountering even such foes as his brethren of Exeter and Oxford.
Dr Proudie was an ambitious man, and before he was well consecrated Bishop of Barchester, he had begun to look up to archepiscopal splendour, and the glories of Lambeth, or at any rate of Bishopsthorpe. He was comparatively young, and had, as he fondly flattered himself, been selected as possessing such gifts, natural and acquired, as must be sure to recommend him to a yet higher notice, now that a higher sphere was opened to him. Dr Proudie was, therefore, quite prepared to take a conspicuous part in all theological affairs appertaining to these realms; and having such views, by no means intended to bury himself at Barchester as his predecessor had done. No: London should still be his ground: a comfortable mansion in a provincial city might be well enough for the dead months of the year. Indeed Dr Proudie had always felt it necessary to his position to retire from London when other great and fashionable people did so; but London should still be his fixed residence, and it was in London that he resolved to exercise that hospitality so peculiarly recommended to all bishops by St Paul. How otherwise could he keep himself before the world? How else give the government, in matters theological, the full benefit of his weight and talents?
This resolution was no doubt a salutary one as regarded the world at large, but was not likely to make him popular either with the clergy or the people of Barchester. Dr Grantly had always lived there; and in truth it was hard for a bishop to be popular after Dr Grantly. His income had averaged L 9000 a year; his successor was to be rigidly limited to L 5000. He had but one child on whom to spend his money; Dr Proudie had seven or eight. He had been a man of few personal expenses, and they had been confined to the tastes of a moderate gentleman; but Dr Proudie had to maintain a position in fashionable society, and had that to do with comparatively small means. Dr Grantly had certainly kept his carriages, as became a bishop; but his carriage, horses, and coachmen, though they did very well for Barchester, would have been almost ridiculous at Westminster. Mrs Proudie determined that her husband's equipage should not shame her, and things on which Mrs Proudie resolved, were generally accomplished.
From all this it was likely to result that Dr Proudie would not spend much money at Barchester; whereas his predecessor had dealt with the tradesmen of the city in a manner very much to their satisfaction. The Grantlys, father and son, had spent their money like gentlemen; but it soon became whispered in Barchester that Dr Proudie was not unacquainted with those prudent devices by which the utmost show of wealth is produced from limited means.
In person Dr Proudie is a good-looking man; spruce and dapper, and very tidy. He is somewhat below middle height, being about five feet four; but he makes up for the inches which he wants by the dignity with which he carries those which he has. It is no fault of his own if he has not a commanding eye, for he studies hard to assume it. His features are well formed, though perhaps the sharpness of his nose may give to his face in the eyes of some people an air of insignificance. If so, it is greatly redeemed by his mouth and chin, of which he is justly proud.
Dr Proudie may well be said to have been a fortunate man, for he was not born to wealth, and he is now bishop of Barchester; but nevertheless he has his cares. He has a large family, of whom the three eldest are daughters, now all grown up and fit for fashionable life; and he has a wife. It is not my intention to breathe a word against the character of Mrs Proudie, but still I cannot think that with all her virtues she adds much to her husband's happiness. The truth is that in matters domestic she rules supreme over her titular lord, and rules with a rod of iron. Nor is this all. Things domestic Dr Proudie might have abandoned to her, if not voluntarily, yet willingly. But Mrs Proudie is not satisfied with such home dominion, and stretches her power over all his movements, and will not even abstain from things spiritual. In fact, the bishop is henpecked.
The archdeacon's wife, in her happy home at Plumstead, knows how to assume the full privileges of her rank, and express her own mind in becoming tone and place. But Mrs Grantly's sway, if sway she has, is easy and beneficent. She never shames her husband; before the world she is a pattern of obedience; her voice is never loud, nor her looks sharp: doubtless she values power, and has not unsuccessfully striven to acquire it; but she knows what should be the limits of woman's rule.
Not so Mrs Proudie. This lady is habitually authoritative to all, but to her poor husband she is despotic. Successful as has been his career in the eyes of the world, it would seem that in the eyes of his wife he is never right. All hope of defending himself has long passed from him; indeed he rarely even attempts self-justification; and is aware that submission produces the nearest approach to peace which his own house can ever attain.
Mrs Proudie has not been able to sit at the boards and committees to which her husband has been called by the state; nor, as he often reflects, can she make her voice heard in the House of Lords. It may be that she will refuse to him permission to attend to this branch of a bishop's duties; it may be that she will insist on his close attendance to his own closet. He has never whispered a word on the subject to living ears, but he has already made his fixed resolve. Should such an attempt be made he will rebel. Dogs have turned against their masters, and even Neapolitans against their rulers, when oppression has been too severe. And Dr Proudie feels within himself that if the cord be drawn too tight, he also can muster courage and resist.
The state of vassalage in which our bishop had been kept by his wife has not tended to exalt his character in the eyes of his daughters, who assume in addressing their father too much of that authority which is not properly belonging, at any rate, to them. They are, on the whole, fine engaging young ladies. They are tall and robust like their mother, whose high cheek bones, and--we may say auburn hair, they all inherit. They think somewhat too much of their grand uncles, who have not hitherto returned the compliment by thinking much of them. But now that their father is a bishop, it is probable that family ties will be drawn closer. Considering their connection with the church, they entertain but few prejudices against the pleasures of the world; and have certainly not distressed their parents, as too many English girls have lately done, by any enthusiastic wish to devote themselves to the seclusion of a protestant nunnery. Dr Proudie's sons are still at school.
One other marked peculiarity in the character of the bishop's wife must be mentioned. Though not averse to the society and manners of the world, she is in her own way a religious woman; and the form in which this tendency shows itself in her is by a strict observance of the Sabbatarian rule. Dissipation and low dresses during the week are, under her control, atoned for by three services, an evening sermon read by herself, and a perfect abstinence from any cheering employment on Sunday. Unfortunately for those under her roof to whom the dissipation and low dresses are not extended, her servants namely and her husband, the compensating strictness of the Sabbath includes all. Woe betide the recreant housemaid who is found to have been listening to the honey of a sweetheart in the Regent's Park, instead of the soul-stirring evening discourse of Mr Slope. Not only is she sent adrift, but she is so sent with a character which leaves her little hope of a decent place. Woe betide the six-foot hero who escorts Mrs Proudie to her pew in red plush breeches, if he slips away to the neighbouring beer-shop, instead of falling into the back seat appropriated to his use. Mrs Proudie has the eyes of Argus for such offenders. Occasional drunkenness in the week may be overlooked, for six feet on low wages are hardly to be procured if the morals are always kept at a high pitch; but not even for the grandeur or economy will Mrs Proudie forgive a desecration of the Sabbath.
In such matters, Mrs Proudie allows herself to be often guided by that eloquent preacher, the Rev. Mr Slope, and as Dr Proudie is guided by his wife, it necessarily follows that the eminent man we have named has obtained a good deal of control over Dr Proudie in matters concerning religion. Mr Slope's only preferment has hitherto been that of reader and preacher in a London district church; and on the consecration of his friend the new bishop, he readily gave this up to undertake the onerous but congenial duties of domestic chaplain to the bishop.
Mr Slope, however, on his first introduction must not be brought before the public at the tail of a chapter.
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{
"id": "2432"
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4
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THE BISHOP'S CHAPLAIN
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Of the Rev. Mr Slope's parentage I am not able to say much. I have heard it asserted that he is lineally descended from that eminent physician who assisted at the birth of Mr T. Shandy, and that in early years he added an 'e' to his name, for the sake of euphony, as other great men have done before him. If this be so, I presumed he was christened Obadiah, for that is his name, in commemoration of the conflict in which his ancestor so distinguished himself. All my researches on the subject have, however, failed in enabling me to fix the date on which the family changed its religion.
He had been a sizar at Cambridge, and had there conducted himself at any rate successfully, for in due process of time he was an MA, having university pupils under his care. From thence he was transferred to London, and became preacher at a new district church built on the confines of Baker Street. He was in this position when congenial ideas on religious subjects recommended him to Mrs Proudie, and the intercourse had become close and confidential.
Having been thus familiarly thrown among the Misses Proudie, it was more than natural that some softer feeling than friendship should be engendered. There have been some passages of love between him and the eldest hope, Olivia; but they have hitherto resulted in no favourable arrangement. In truth, Mr Slope, having made a declaration of affection, afterwards withdrew it on finding that the doctor had no immediate worldly funds with which to endow his child; and it may easily be conceived that Miss Proudie, after such an announcement on his part, was not readily disposed to receive any further show of affection. On the appointment of Dr Proudie to the bishopric of Barchester, Mr Slope's views were, in truth, somewhat altered. Bishops, even though they be poor, can provide for clerical children, and Mr Slope began to regret that he had not been more disinterested. He no sooner heard the tidings of the doctor's elevation, than he recommenced his siege, not violently, indeed, but respectfully, and at a distance. Olivia Proudie, however, was a girl of spirit: she had the blood of two peers in her veins, and, better still, she had another lover on her books; so Mr Slope sighed in vain; and the pair soon found it convenient to establish a mutual bond of inveterate hatred.
It may be thought singular that Mrs Proudie's friendship for the young clergyman should remain firm after such an affair; but, to tell the truth, she had known nothing of it. Though very fond of Mr Slope herself, she had never conceived the idea that either of her daughters would become so, and remembering that their high birth and social advantages, expected for them matches of a different sort. Neither the gentleman nor the lady found it necessary to enlighten her. Olivia's two sisters had each known of the affair, so had all the servants, so had all the people living in the adjoining houses on either side; but Mrs Proudie had been kept in the dark.
Mr Slope soon comforted himself with the reflection that, as he had been selected as chaplain to the bishop, it would probably be in his power to get the good things in the bishop's gift, without troubling himself with the bishop's daughter; and he found himself able to endure the pangs of rejected love. As he sat himself down in the railway carriage, confronting the bishop and Mrs Proudie, as they started on their first journey to Barchester, he began to form in his own mind a plan of his future life. He knew well his patron's strong points, but he knew the weak ones as well. He understood correctly enough to what attempts the new bishop's high spirit would soar, and he rightly guessed that public life would better suit the great man's taste, than the small details of diocesan duty.
He, therefore, he, Mr Slope, would in effect be bishop of Barchester. Such was his resolve; and to give Mr Slope his due, he had both courage and spirit to bear him out in his resolution. He knew that he should have a hard battle to fight, for the power and patronage of the see would be equally coveted by another great mind--Mrs Proudie would also choose to be bishop of Barchester. Mr Slope, however, flattered himself that he could outmanoeuvre the lady. She must live much in London, while he would always be on the spot. She would necessarily remain ignorant of much while he would know everything belonging to the diocese. At first, doubtless, he must flatter and cajole, perhaps yield in some things; but he did not doubt of ultimate triumph. If all other means failed, he could join the bishop against the wife, inspire courage into the unhappy man, lay an axe to the rock of the woman's power, and emancipate the husband.
Such were his thoughts as he sat looking at the sleeping pair in the railway carriage, and Mr Slope is not the man to trouble himself with such thoughts for nothing. He is possessed of more than average abilities, and is of good courage. Though he can stoop to fawn, and stoop low indeed, if need be, he has still within him the power to assume the tyrant; and with the power he has certainly the wish. His acquirements are not of the highest order, but such as they are they are completely under control, and he knows the use of them. He is gifted with a certain kind of pulpit eloquence, not likely, indeed, to be persuasive with men, but powerful with the softer sex. In his sermons he deals greatly in denunciations, excites the minds of his weaker hearers with a not unpleasant terror, and leaves an impression on their minds that all mankind are in a perilous state, and all womankind too, except those who attend regularly to the evening lectures in Baker Street. His looks and tones are extremely severe, so much so that one cannot but fancy that he regards the greater part of the world as being infinitely too bad for his care. As he walks through the streets, his very face denotes his horror of the world's wickedness; and there is always an anathema lurking in the corner of his eye.
In doctrine, he, like his patron, is tolerant of dissent, if so strict a mind can be called tolerant of anything. With Wesleyan-Methodists he has something in common, but his soul trembles in agony at the iniquities of the Puseyites. His aversion is carried to things outward as well as inward. His gall rises at a new church with a high pitched roof; a full-breasted black silk waistcoat is with him a symbol of Satan; and a profane jest-book would not, in his view, more foully desecrate the church seat of a Christian, than a book of prayer printed with red letters, and ornamented with a cross on the back. Most active clergymen have their hobby, and Sunday observances are his. Sunday, however, is a word which never pollutes his mouth--it is always 'the Sabbath'. The 'desecration of the Sabbath' as he delights to call it, is to him meat and drink:--he thrives upon that as policemen do on the general evil habits of the community. It is the loved subject of all his evening discourses, the source of all his eloquence, the secret of his power over the female heart. To him, the revelation of God appears in that one law given for Jewish observance. To him the mercies of our Saviour speak in vain, to him in vain has been preached that sermon that fell from the divine lips on the mountain--'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth'--'Blessed are the merciful, for the they shall obtain mercy'. To him the New Testament is comparatively of little moment, for from it can he draw no fresh authority for that dominion which he loves to exercise over at least a seventh part of man's allotted time here below.
Mr Slope is tall, and not ill made. His feet and hands are large, as has ever been the case, with all his family, but he has a broad chest and wide shoulders to carry off these excrescences, and on the whole his figure is good. His countenance, however, is not specially prepossessing. His hair is lank, and of a dull pale reddish hue. It is always formed into three straight lumpy masses, each brushed with admirable precision, and cemented with much grease; two of them adhere closely to the sides of his face, and the other lies at right angles above them. He wears no whiskers, and is always punctiliously shaven. His face is nearly of the same colour as his hair, though perhaps a little redder: it is not unlike beef,--beef, however, one would say, of a bad quality. His forehead is capacious and high, but square and heavy, and unpleasantly shining. His mouth is large, though his lips are thin and bloodless; and his big, prominent, pale brown eyes inspire anything but confidence. His nose, however, is his redeeming feature: it is pronounced straight and well-formed; though I myself should have liked it better if it did not possess a somewhat spongy, porous appearance, as though it had been cleverly formed out of a red coloured cork.
I never could endure to shake hands with Mr Slope. A cold, clammy perspiration always exudes from him, the small drops are ever to be seen standing on his brow, and his friendly grasp is unpleasant.
Such is Mr Slope--such is the man who has suddenly fallen into the midst of Barchester Close, and is destined there to assume the station which has heretofore been filled by the son of the late bishop. Think, oh, my meditative reader, what an associate we have here for those comfortable prebendaries, those gentlemanlike clerical doctors, those happy well-used, well-fed minor canons, who have grown into existence at Barchester under the kindly wings of Bishop Grantly!
But not as a mere associate for those does Mr Slope travel down to Barchester with the bishop and his wife. He intends to be, if not their master, at least the chief among them. He intends to lead, and to have followers; he intends to hold the purse strings of the diocese, and draw round him an obedient herd of his poor and hungry brethren.
And here we can hardly fail to draw a comparison between the archdeacon and our new private chaplain; and despite the manifold faults of the former, one can hardly fail to make it much to his advantage.
Both men are eager, much too eager, to support and increase the power of their order. Both are anxious that the world should be priest-governed, though they have probably never confessed as much, even to themselves. Both begrudge any other kind of dominion held by man over man. Dr Grantly, if he admits the Queen's supremacy in things spiritual, only admits it as being due to the quasi priesthood conveyed on the consecrating qualities of her coronation; and he regards things temporal as being by their nature subject to those which are spiritual. Mr Slope's ideas of sacerdotal rule are of a quite different class. He cares nothing, one way or the other, for the Queen's supremacy; these to his ears are empty words, meaning nothing. Forms he regards but little, and such titular expressions of supremacy, consecration, ordination, and the like, convey of themselves no significance to him. Let him be supreme who can. The temporal king, judge, or gaoler, can work but on the body. The spiritual master, if he have the necessary gifts, and can duly use them, has a wider field of empire. He works upon the soul. If he can make himself be believed, he can be all powerful over those who listen. If he is careful to meddle with none who are too strong in intellect, or too weak in flesh, he may indeed be supreme. And such was the ambition of Mr Slope.
Dr Grantly interfered very little with the worldly doings of those who were in any way subject to him. I do not mean to say that he omitted to notice misconduct among his clergy, immorality in his parish, or omissions in his family; but he was not anxious to do so where the necessity could be avoided. He was not troubled with a propensity to be curious, and as long as those around him were tainted with no heretical leaning towards dissent, as long as they fully and freely admitted the efficacy of Mother Church, he was willing that that mother should be merciful and affectionate, prone to indulgence, and unwilling to chastise. He himself enjoyed the good things of this world, and liked to let it be known that he did so. He cordially despised any brother rector who thought harm of dinner-parties, or dreaded the dangers of a moderate claret-jug; consequently dinner-parties and claret-jugs were common in the diocese. He liked to give laws and to be obeyed in them implicitly, but he endeavoured that his ordinances should be within the compass of the man, and not unpalatable to the gentleman. He had ruled among his clerical neighbours now for sundry years, and as he had maintained his power without becoming unpopular, it may be presumed that he had exercised some wisdom.
Of Mr Slope's conduct much cannot be said, as his grand career is yet to commence; but it may be presumed that his tastes will be very different from those of the archdeacon. He conceives it to be his duty to know all the private doings and desires of the flock entrusted to his care. From the poorer classes he exacted and unconditional obedience to set rules of conduct, and if disobeyed he has recourse, like his great ancestor, to the fulminations of an Ernulfus: 'Thou shalt be damned in thy going in and in thy coming out--in thy eating and thy drinking,' &c &c &c. With the rich, experience has already taught him a different line of action is necessary. Men in the upper walks of life do not mind being cursed, and the women, presuming that it be done in delicate phrase, rather like it. But he has not, therefore, given up so important a portion of believing Christians. With the men, indeed, he is generally at variance; they are hardened sinners, on whom the voice of priestly charmer often falls in vain; but with the ladies, old and young, firm and frail, devout and dissipated, he is, as he conceives, all powerful. He can reprove faults with so much flattery, and utter censure in so caressing a manner, that the female heart, if it glow with a spark of low church susceptibility, cannot withstand him. In many houses he is thus an admired guest: the husbands, for their wives' sake, are fain to admit him; and when once admitted it is not easy to shake him off. He has, however, a pawing, greasy way with him, which does not endear him to those who do not value him for their souls' sake, and he is not a man to make himself at once popular in a large circle such as is now likely to surround him at Barchester.
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{
"id": "2432"
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5
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A MORNING VISIT
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It was known that Dr Proudie would immediately have to reappoint to the wardenship of the hospital under the act of Parliament to which allusion has been made; but no one imagined that any choice was left to him--no one for a moment thought that he could appoint any other than Mr Harding. Mr Harding himself, when he heard how the matter had been settled, without troubling himself much on the subject, considered it as certain that he would go back to his pleasant house and garden. And though there would be much that was melancholy, nay, almost heartrending, in such a return, he still was glad that it was to be so. His daughter might probably be persuaded to return there with him. She had, indeed, all but promised to do so, though she still entertained an idea that the greatest of mortals, that important atom of humanity, that little god upon earth, Johnny Bold her baby, ought to have a house of his own over his head.
Such being the state of Mr Harding's mind in the matter, he did not feel any peculiar personal interest in the appointment of Dr Proudie to the bishopric. He, as well as others at Barchester, regretted that a man should be sent among them who, they were aware, was not of their way of thinking; but Mr Harding himself was not a bigoted man on points of church doctrine, and he was quite prepared to welcome Dr Proudie to Barchester in a graceful and becoming manner. He had nothing to seek and nothing to fear; he felt that it behoved him to be on good terms with his bishop, and he did not anticipate any obstacle that would prevent it.
In such a frame of mind he proceeded to pay his respects at the palace the second day after the arrival of the bishop and his chaplain. But he did not go alone. Dr Grantly proposed to accompany him, and Mr Harding was not sorry to have a companion, who would remove from his shoulders the burden of conversation in such an interview. In the affair of the consecration of Dr Grantly had been introduced to the bishop, and Mr Harding had also been there. He had, however, kept himself in the background, and he was now to be presented to the great man for the first time.
The archdeacon's feelings were of a much stronger nature. He was not exactly the man to overlook his own slighted claims, or to forgive the preference shown to another. Dr Proudie was playing Venus to his Juno, and he was prepared to wage an internecine war against the owner of the wished for apple, and all his satellites private chaplains, and others.
Nevertheless, it behoved him also to conduct himself towards the intruder as an old archdeacon should conduct himself to an incoming bishop; and though he was well aware of all Dr Proudie's abominable opinions as regarded dissenters, church reform, the hebdomadal council, and such like; though he disliked the man, and hated the doctrines, still he was prepared to show respect to the station of the bishop. So he and Mr Harding called together at the palace.
His lordship was at home, and the two visitors were shown through the accustomed hall into the well-known room, where the good old bishop used to sit. The furniture had been bought at a valuation, and every chair and table, every bookshelf against the wall, and every square in the carpet, was as well known to each of them as their own bedrooms. Nevertheless they at once felt that they were strangers there. The furniture was for the most part the same, yet the place had been metamorphosed. A new sofa had been introduced, and horrid chintz affair, most unprelatical and almost irreligious; such a sofa as never yet stood in the study of any decent high church clergyman of the Church of England. The old curtains had also given away. They had, to be sure, become dingy, and that which had been originally a rich and goodly ruby had degenerated into a reddish brown. Mr Harding, however, thought the old reddish brown much preferable to the gaudy buff-coloured trumpery moreen which Mrs Proudie had deemed good enough for her husband's own room in the provincial city of Barchester.
Our friends found Dr Proudie sitting on the old bishop's chair, looking very nice in his new apron; they found, too, Mr Slope standing on the hearthrug, persuasive and eager, just as the archdeacon used to stand; but on the sofa they also found Mrs Proudie, an innovation for which a precedent might be in vain be sought in all the annals of the Barchester bishopric!
There she was, however, and they could only make the best of her. The introductions were gone through in much form. The archdeacon shook hands with the bishop and named Mr Harding, who received such an amount of greeting as was due from a bishop to a precentor. His lordship then presented them to his lady wife; the archdeacon first, with archidiaconal honours, and then the precentor with diminished parade. After this Mr Slope presented himself. The bishop, it is true, did mention his name, and so did Mrs Proudie too, in a louder tone; but Mr Slope took it upon himself the chief burden of his own introduction. He had great pleasure in making himself acquainted with Dr Grantly; he had heard much of the archdeacon's good works in that part of the diocese in which his duties as archdeacon had been exercised (thus purposely ignoring the archdeacon's hitherto unlimited dominion over the diocese at large). He was aware that his lordship depended greatly on the assistance which Dr Grantly would be able to give him in that portion of the diocese. He then thrust out his hand, and grasping that of his new foe, bedewed it unmercifully. Dr Grantly in return bowed, looked stiff, contracted his eyebrows, and wiped his hand with his pocket-handkerchief. Nothing abashed, Mr Slope then noticed the precentor, and descended to the grade of the lower clergy. He gave him a squeeze of the hand, damp indeed, but affectionate, and was very glad to make the acquaintance of Mr -; oh, yes, Mr Harding; he had not exactly caught the name-- 'Precentor in the cathedral' surmised Mr Slope. Mr Harding confessed that such was the humble sphere of his work. 'Some parish duties as well,' suggested Mr Slope. Mr Harding acknowledged the diminutive incumbency of St Cuthbert's. Mr Slope then left him alone, having condescended sufficiently, and joined the conversation among the higher powers.
There were four persons there, each of whom considered himself the most important personage in the diocese; himself indeed, or herself, as Mrs Proudie was one of them; and with such a difference of opinion it was not probable that they would get on pleasantly together. The bishop himself actually wore the visible apron, and trusted mainly to that--to that and to his title, both being facts which could not be overlooked. The archdeacon knew his subject, and really understood the business of bishoping, which the others did not; and this was his strong ground. Mrs Proudie had her sex to back her, and her habit of command, and was nothing daunted by the high tone of Dr Grantly's face and figure. Mr Slope had only himself and his own courage and tact to depend on, but he nevertheless was perfectly self-assured, and did not doubt but that he should soon get the better of weak men who trusted so much to externals, as both bishop and archdeacon appeared to do.
'Do you reside in Barchester, Dr Grantly?' asked the lady with the sweetest smile.
Dr Grantly explained that he lived in his own parish of Plumstead Episcopi, a few miles out of the city. Whereupon the lady hoped that the distance was not too great for country visiting, as she would be so glad to make the acquaintance of Mrs Grantly. She would take the earliest opportunity, after the arrival of her horses at Barchester; their horses were at present in London; their horses were not immediately coming down, as the bishop would be obliged in a few days, to return to town. Dr Grantly was no doubt aware that the bishop was at present much called upon by the 'University Improvement Committee': indeed, the Committee could not well proceed without him, as their final report had now to be drawn up. The bishop had also to prepare a scheme for the 'Manufacturing Towns Morning and Evening Sunday School Society', of which he was a patron, or president, or director, and therefore the horses would not come down to Barchester at present; but whenever the horses did come down, she would take the earliest opportunity of calling at Plumstead Episcopi, providing the distance was not too great for country visiting.
The archdeacon made his fifth bow: he had made one at each mention of the horses; and promised that Mrs Grantly would do herself the honour of calling at the palace on an early day. Mrs Proudie declared that she would be delighted: she hadn't liked to ask, not being quite sure whether Mrs Grantly had horses; besides, the distance might have been &c, &c. Dr Grantly again bowed, but said nothing. He could have bought every single individual possession of the whole family of the Proudies, and have restored them as a gift, without much feeling the loss; and had kept a separate pair of horses for the exclusive use of his wife since the day of their marriage; whereas Mrs Proudie had been hitherto jobbed about the streets of London at so much a month during the season; and at other times had managed to walk, or hire a smart fly from the livery stables.
'Are the arrangements with reference to the Sabbath-day schools generally pretty good in your archdeaconry?'
'Sabbath-day schools!' repeated the archdeacon with an affectation of surprise. 'Upon my word, I can't tell; it depends mainly on the parson's wife and daughters. There is none at Plumstead.'
This was almost a fib on the part of the Archdeacon, for Mrs Grantly has a very nice school. To be sure it is not a Sunday School exclusively, and is not so designated; but that exemplary lady always attends there an hour before church, and hears the children say their catechism, and sees that they are clean and tidy for church, with their hands washed, and their shoes tied; and Grisel and Florinda, her daughters, carry thither a basket of large buns, baked on the Saturday afternoon, and distribute them to all the children not especially under disgrace, which buns are carried home after church with considerable content, and eaten hot at tea, being then split and toasted. The children of Plumstead would indeed open their eyes if they heard their venerated pastor declare that there were no Sunday schools in the parish.
Mr Slope merely opened his eyes wider, and slightly shrugged his shoulders. He was not, however, prepared to give up his darling project.
'I fear there is a great deal of Sabbath travelling here,' said he, 'on looking at the 'Bradshaw', I see that there are three trains in and three trains out every Sabbath. Could nothing be done to induce the company to withdraw them? Don't you think, Dr Grantly, that a little energy might diminish the evil?'
'Not being a director, I really can't say. But if you can withdraw the passengers, their company, I dare say, will withdraw the trains,' said the doctor. 'It's merely a question of dividends.'
'But surely, Dr Grantly,' said the lady, 'surely we should look at it differently. You and I, for instance, in our position: surely we should do all that we can to control so grievous a sin. Don't you think so, Mr Harding?' and she turned to the precentor, who was sitting mute and unhappy.
Mr Harding thought that all porters and stokers, guards, breaksmen, pointsmen ought to have an opportunity of going to church, and he hoped that they all had.
'But surely, surely,' continued Mrs Proudie, 'surely that is not enough. Surely that will not secure such an observance of the Sabbath as we are taught to conceive is not only expedient by indispensable; surely--' Come what come might, Dr Grantly was not to be forced into a dissertation on a point of doctrine with Mrs Proudie, nor yet with Mr Slope; so without much ceremony he turned his back upon the sofa, and began to hope that Dr Proudie had found the palace repairs had been such as to meet his wishes.
'Yes, yes,' said his lordship; upon the whole he thought so--upon the whole, he didn't know that there was much ground for complaint; the architect, perhaps, might have--but his double, Mr Slope, who had sidled over to the bishop's chair, would not allow his lordship to finish his ambiguous speech.
'There is one point I would like to mention, Mr Archdeacon. His lordship asked me to step through the premises, and I see that the stalls in the second stable are not perfect.'
'Why--there's standing for a dozen horses,'said the archdeacon.
'Perhaps so,' said the other; 'indeed, I've no doubt of it; but visitors, you know, often require so much accommodation. There are many of the bishop's relatives who always bring their own horses.'
Dr Grantly promised that due provision for the relatives' horses should be made, as far at least as the extent of the original stable building would allow. He would himself communicate with the architect.
'And the coach-house, Dr Grantly,' continued Mr Slope; 'there is really hardly any room for a second carriage in the large coach-house, and the smaller one, of course, holds only one.'
'And the gas,' chimed in the lady; 'there is no gas through the house, none whatever, but in the kitchen and passages. Surely the palace should have been fitted through with pipes for gas, and hot water too. There is no hot water laid on anywhere above the ground floor. Surely there should be the means of getting hot water in the bed-rooms without having it brought in jugs from the kitchen.'
The bishop had a decided opinion that there should be pipes for hot water. Hot water was very essential for the comfort of the palace. It was, indeed, a requisite in any decent gentleman's house.
Mr Slope had remarked that the coping on the garden wall was in many places imperfect.
Mrs Proudie had discovered a large hole, evidently the work of rats, in the servants' hall.
The bishop expressed an utter detestation of rats. There was nothing, he believed, in this world, that he so much hated as a rat.
Mr Slope had, moreover, observed that the locks of the out-houses were very imperfect: he might specify the coal-cellar, and the wood-house.
Mrs Proudie had also seen that those on the doors of the servants' bedrooms were in an equally bad condition; indeed the locks all through the house were old-fashioned and unserviceable.
The bishop thought that a great deal depended on a good lock, and quite as much on the key. He had observed that the fault very often lay with the key, especially if the wards were in any way twisted.
Mr Slope was going on with his catalogue of grievances, when he was somewhat loudly interrupted by the archdeacon who succeeded in explaining that the diocesan architect, or rather his foreman, was the person to be addressed on such subjects; and that he, Dr Grantly, had inquired as to the comfort of the palace, merely as a point of compliment. He was very sorry, however, that so many things had been found amiss: and then he rose from his chair to escape.
Mrs Proudie, though she had contrived to lend her assistance in recapitulating the palatial dilapidations, had not on that account given up her hold of Mr Harding, nor ceased from her cross-examination as the iniquity of Sabbatical amusements. Over and over again had she thrown out her 'surely, surely,' at Mr Harding's devoted head, and ill had that gentleman been able to parry the attack.
He had never before found himself subjected to such a nuisance. Ladies hitherto, when they had consulted him on religious subjects, had listened to what he might choose to say with some deference, and had differed, it they differed, in silence. But Mrs Proudie interrogated him, and then lectured. 'Neither thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, nor thy man servant, nor thy maid servant,' said she, impressively, and more than once, as though Mr Harding had forgotten the words. She shook her finger at him as she quoted the favourite law, as though menacing him with punishment; and then called upon him categorically to state whether he did not think that travelling on the Sabbath was an abomination and a desecration.
Mr Harding had never been so hard pressed in his life. He felt that he ought to rebuke the lady for presuming so to talk to a gentleman and a clergyman so may years her senior; but he recoiled from the idea of scolding the bishop's wife, in the bishop's presence, on his first visit to the palace; moreover, to tell the truth, he was somewhat afraid of her. She, seeing him sit silent and absorbed, by no means refrained from the attack.
'I hope, Mr Harding,' said she, shaking her head slowly and solemnly, 'I hope you will not leave me to think that you approve of Sabbath travelling,' and she looked a look of unutterable meaning into his eyes.
There was no standing for this, for Mr Slope was now looking at him, and so was the bishop, and so was the archdeacon, who had completed his adieux on that side of the room. Mr Harding therefore got up also, and putting out his hand to Mrs Proudie, said: 'If you will come to St Cuthbert's some Sunday, I will preach you a sermon on the subject.'
And so the archdeacon and the precentor took their departure, bowing low to the lady, shaking hands with the lord, and escaping from Mr Slope in the best manner each could. Mr Harding was again maltreated; but Dr Grantly swore deeply in the bottom of his heart, that no earthly consideration should ever again induce him to touch the paw of that impure and filthy animal.
And now, had I the pen of a might poet, would I sing in epic verse the noble wrath of the archdeacon. The palace steps descend to a broad gravel sweep, from whence a small gate opens out into the street, very near the covered gateway leading to the close. The road from the palace door turns to the left, through the spacious gardens, and terminates on the London-road, half a mile from the cathedral.
Till they had passed this small gate and entered the close, neither of them spoke a word; but the precentor clearly saw from his companion's face that a tornado was to be expected, nor was he himself inclined to stop it. Though, by nature far less irritable than the archdeacon, even he was angry: he even--that mild and courteous man--was inclined to express himself in anything but courteous terms.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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6
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WAR
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'Good heavens!' exclaimed the archdeacon, as he placed his foot on the gravel walk of the close, and raising his hat with one hand, passed the other somewhat violently over his now grizzled locks; smoke issued from the uplifted beaver as it were a cloud of wrath, and the safety-valve of his anger opened, and emitted a visible steam, preventing positive explosion and probably apoplexy. 'Good heavens!' --and the archdeacon looked up to the gray pinnacles of the cathedral tower, making a mute appeal to that still living witness which had looked down on the doings of so many bishops of Barchester.
'I don't think I shall ever like that Mr Slope,' said Mr Harding.
'Like him!' roared the archdeacon, standing still for a moment to give more force to his voice; 'like him!' All the ravens of the close cawed their assent. The old bells of the tower, in chiming the hour, echoed the words; and the swallows flying out from their nests mutely expressed a similar opinion. Like Mr Slope! Why no, it was not very probable that any Barchester-bred living thing should like Mr Slope!
'Nor Mrs Proudie either,' said Mr Harding.
The archdeacon thereupon forgot himself. I will not follow his example, nor shock my readers by transcribing the term in which he expressed his feelings as to the lady who had been named. The ravens and the last lingering notes of the clock bells were less scrupulous, and repeated in corresponding echoes the very improper exclamation. The archdeacon again raised his hat; and another salutary escape of steam was effected.
There was a pause, during which the precentor tried to realise the fact that the wife of the bishop of Barchester had been thus designated, in the close of the cathedral, by the lips of its own archdeacon: but he could not do it.
'The bishop seems a quiet man enough,' suggested Mr Harding, having acknowledged to himself his own failure.
'Idiot!' exclaimed the doctor, who for the nonce was not capable of more than spasmodic attempts at utterance.
'Well, he did not seem very bright,' said Mr Harding, 'and yet he has always had the reputation of a clever man. I suppose he's cautious and not inclined to express himself very freely.'
The new bishop of Barchester was already so contemptible a creature in Dr Grantly's eyes, that he could not condescend to discuss his character. He was a puppet to be played by others; a mere wax doll, done up in an apron and a shovel hat, to be stuck on a throne or elsewhere and pulled about by wires as others chose. Dr Grantly did not choose to let himself down low enough to talk about Dr Proudie; but he saw that he would have to talk about the other members of his household, the coadjutor bishops, who had brought his lordship down, as it were, in a box, and were about to handle the wires as they willed. This in itself was a terrible vexation to the archdeacon. Could he have ignored the chaplain, and have fought the bishop, there would have been, at any rate, nothing degrading in such a contest. Let the Queen make whom she would bishop of Barchester; a man, or even an ape, when once a bishop, would be a respectable adversary, if he would but fight, himself. But what was such a person as Dr Grantly to do, when such another person as Mr Slope was put forward as his antagonist?
If he, our archdeacon, refused to combat, Mr Slope would walk triumphant over the field, and have the diocese of Barchester under his heel.
If, on the other hand, the archdeacon accepted as his enemy the man whom the new puppet bishop put before him as such, he would have to talk about Mr Slope, and write about Mr Slope, and in all matters treat with Mr Slope, as a being standing, in some degree, on ground similar to his own. He would have to meet Mr Slope; to--Bah! The idea was sickening. He could not bring himself to have to do with Mr Slope.
'He is the most thoroughly bestial creature that ever I set my eyes upon,' said the archdeacon.
'Who--the bishop?'
'Bishop! No--I'm not talking about the bishop. How on earth such a creature got ordained! --they'll ordain anybody now, I know; but he's been in the church these ten years; and they used to be a little careful ten years ago.'
'Oh! You mean Mr Slope.'
'Did you ever see any animal less like a gentleman?'
'I can't say I felt myself much disposed to like him.'
'Like him!' again shouted the doctor, and the assenting ravens again cawed an echo; 'of course you don't like him; it's not a question of liking. But what are we to do with him?'
'Do with him?' asked Mr Harding.
'Yes--what are we to do with him? How are we to treat him? There he is, and there he'll stay. He has put his foot in that palace, and he will never take it out again till he's driven. How are we to get rid of him?'
'I don't suppose he can do us much harm.'
'Not do harm! --Well I think you'll find yourself of a different opinion before a month is gone. What would you say now, if he got himself put into the hospital? Would that be harm?'
Mr Harding mused awhile, and then said he didn't think the new bishop would put Mr Slope into the hospital.
'If he doesn't put him there, he'll put him somewhere else where he'll be as bad. I tell you that that man, to all intents and purposes, will be Bishop of Barchester;' and again, Dr Grantly raised his hat, and rubbed his hand thoughtfully and sadly over his head.
'Impudent scoundrel!' he exclaimed after a while. 'To dare to cross-examine me about Sunday schools in the diocese, and Sunday travelling too: I never in my life met his equal for sheer impudence. Why, he must have thought we were two candidates for ordination.'
'I declare I thought Mrs Proudie the worst of the two,' said Mr Harding.
'When a woman is impertinent one must only put up with it, and keep out of her way in future; but I am not inclined to put up with Mr Slope. "Sabbath travelling!"' and the doctor attempted to imitate the peculiar drawl of the man he so much disliked: '"Sabbath travelling!" Those are the sort of men who will ruin the Church of England, and make the profession of clergyman disreputable. It is not the dissenters or the papists that we should fear, but the set of canting, low-bred hypocrites who are wriggling their way in among us; men who have no fixed principle, no standard ideas of religion or doctrine, but who take up some popular cry, as this fellow has done about "Sabbath travelling."'
Dr Grantly did not again repeat the question aloud, but he did so constantly to himself, 'What were they to do with Mr Slope?' How was he openly, before the world, to show that he utterly disapproved of and abhorred such a man?
Hitherto Barchester had escaped the taint of any extreme rigour of church doctrine. The clergymen of the city and the neighbourhood, though very well inclined to promote high-church principles, privileges, and prerogatives, had never committed themselves to tendencies, which are somewhat too loosely called Puseyite practices. They all preached in their black gowns, as their fathers had done before them; they wore ordinary black cloth waistcoats; they had not candles on their altars, either lighted or unlighted; they made no private genuflexions, and were contented to confine themselves to such ceremonial observances as had been in vogue for the last hundred years. The services were decently and demurely read in their parish churches, chanting was confined to the cathedral, and the science of intoning was unknown. One young man who had come direct from Oxford as a curate at Plumstead had, after the lapse of two or three Sundays, made a faint attempt, much to the bewilderment of the poorer part of the congregation. Dr Grantly had not been present on the occasion; but Mrs Grantly, who had her own opinion on the subject, immediately after the service expressed a hope that the young gentleman had not been taken ill, and offered to send him all kinds of condiments supposed to be good for a sore throat. After that there had been no more intoning at Plumstead Episcopi.
But now the archdeacon began to meditate on some strong measures of absolute opposition. Dr Proudie and his crew were of the lowest possible order of Church of England clergymen, and therefore it behoved him, Dr Grantly, to be of the very highest. Dr Proudie would abolish all forms and ceremonies, and therefore Dr Grantly felt the sudden necessity of multiplying them. Dr Proudie would consent to deprive the church of all collective authority and rule, and therefore Dr Grantly would stand up for the full power of convocation, and the renewal of its ancient privileges.
It was true that he could not himself intone the service, but he could pressure the co-operation of any number of gentlemanlike curates well trained in the mystery of doing so. He would not willingly alter his own fashion of dress, but he could people Barchester with young clergymen dressed in the longest frocks, and the highest breasted silk waistcoats. He certainly was not prepared to cross himself, or to advocate the real presence; but, without going this length, there were various observances, by adopting which he could plainly show his antipathy to such men as Dr Proudie and Mr Slope.
All these things passed through his mind as he paced up and down the close with Mr Harding. War, war, internecine war was in his heart. He felt that as regarded himself and Mr Slope, one of the two must be annihilated as far as the city of Barchester was concerned; and he did not intend to give way until there was not left to him an inch of ground on which he could stand. He still flattered himself that he could make Barchester too hot to hold Mr Slope, and he had no weakness of spirit to prevent his bringing about such consummation if it were in his power.
'I suppose Susan must call at the palace,' said Mr Harding.
'Yes, she shall call there; but it shall be once and once only. I dare say "the horses" won't find it convenient to come to Plumstead very soon, and when that once is done the matter may drop.'
'I don't suppose Eleanor need call. I don't think Eleanor would get on at all well with Mrs Proudie.'
'Not the least necessity in life,' replied the archdeacon, not without the reflection that a ceremony which was necessary for his wife, might not be at all binding on the widow of John Bold. 'Not the slightest reason on earth why she should do so, if she doesn't like it. For myself, I don't think that any decent young woman should be subjected to the nuisance of being in the same room with that man.'
And so the two clergymen parted. Mr Harding going to his daughter's house, and the archdeacon seeking the seclusion of his brougham.
The new inhabitants of the palace did not express any higher opinion of their visitors than their visitors had expressed of them. Though they did not use quite such strong language as Dr Grantly had done, they felt as much personal aversion, and were quite as well aware as he was that there would be a battle to be fought, and that there was hardly room for Proudieism in Barchester as long as Grantlyism was predominant.
Indeed, it may be doubted whether Mr Slope had not already within his breast a better prepared system of strategy, a more accurately-defined line of hostile conduct than the archdeacon. Dr Grantly was going to fight because he found that he hated the man. Mr Slope had predetermined to hate the man because he foresaw the necessity of fighting him. When he had first reviewed the carte de pays, previous to his entry into Barchester, the idea had occurred to him of conciliating the archdeacon, of cajoling and flattering him into submission, and of obtaining the upper hand by cunning instead of courage. A little inquiry, however, sufficed to convince him that all his cunning would fail to win over such a man as Dr Grantly to such a mode of action as that to be adopted by Mr Slope; and then he determined to fall back upon his courage. He at once saw that open battle against Dr Grantly and all Dr Grantly's adherents was a necessity of his position, and he deliberately planned the most expedient method of giving offence.
Soon after his arrival the bishop had intimated to the dean that, with the permission of the canon then in residence, his chaplain would preach in the cathedral on the next Sunday. The canon in residence happened to be the Honourable and Reverend Dr Vesey Stanhope, who at this time was very busy on the shores of Lake Como, adding to that unique collection of butterflies for which he is so famous. Or, rather, he would have been in residence but for the butterflies and other such summer-day considerations; and the vicar-choral, who was to take his place in the pulpit, by no means objected to having his word done for him by Mr Slope.
Mr Slope accordingly preached, and if a preacher can have satisfaction in being listened to, Mr Slope ought to have been gratified. I have reason to think that he was gratified, and that he left the pulpit with the conviction that he had done what he intended to do when he entered it.
On this occasion the new bishop took his seat for the first time in the throne allotted to him. New scarlet cushions and drapery had been prepared, with new gilt binding and new fringe. The old carved oak-wood of the throne, ascending with its numerous grotesque pinnacles, half-way up to the rood of the choir, had been washed, and dusted, and rubbed, and it all looked very smart. Ah! How often sitting there, in happy early days, on those lowly benches in front of the altar, have I whiled away the tedium of a sermon considering how best I might thread my way up amidst those wooden towers, and climb safely to the topmost pinnacle!
All Barchester went to hear Mr Slope; either for that or to gaze at the new bishop. All the best bonnets of the city were there, and moreover all the best glossy clerical hats. Not a stall but had its fitting occupant; for though some of the prebendaries might be away in Italy or elsewhere, their places were filled by brethren, who flocked into Barchester on the occasion. The dean was there, a heavy old man, now too old, indeed, to attend frequently in his place; and so was the archdeacon. So also were the chancellor, the treasurer, the precentor, sundry canons and minor canons, and every lay member of the choir, prepared to sing the new bishop in with due melody and harmonious expression of sacred welcome.
The service was certainly well performed. Such was always the case at Barchester, as the musical education of the choir had been good, and the voices had been carefully selected. The psalms were beautifully chanted; the Te Deum was magnificently sung; and the litany was given in a manner, which is still to be found at Barchester, but, if my taste be correct, is to be found nowhere else. The litany of Barchester cathedral has long been the special task to which Mr Harding's skill and voice have been devoted. Crowded audiences generally make good performers, and though Mr Harding was not aware of any extraordinary exertion on his part, yet probably he rather exceeded his usual mark. Others were doing their best, and it was natural that he should emulate his brethren. So the service went on, and at last Mr Slope got into the pulpit.
He chose for his text a verse from the precept addressed by St Paul to Timothy, as to the conduct necessary in a spiritual pastor and guide, and it was immediately evident that the good clergy of Barchester were to have a lesson.
'Study to show thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.' These were the words of the text, and with such a subject in such a place, it may be supposed that such a preacher would be listened to by such an audience. He was listened to with breathless attention, and not without considerable surprise. Whatever opinion of Mr Slope might have been held in Barchester before he commenced, his discourse, none of his hearers, when it was over, could mistake him for either a fool or a coward.
It would not be becoming were I to travesty a sermon, or even repeat the language of it in the pages of a novel. In endeavouring to depict the characters of the persons of whom I write, I am to a certain extent forced to speak of sacred things. I trust, however, that I shall not be thought to scoff at the pulpit, though some may imagine that I do not feel the reverence that is due to the cloth. I may question the infallibility of the teachers, but I hope that I shall not therefore be accused of doubt as to the thing to be taught.
Mr Slope, in commencing his sermon, showed no slight tact in his ambiguous manner of hinting that, humble as he was himself, he stood there as the mouthpiece of the illustrious divine who sat opposite to him; and having presumed so much, he gave forth a very accurate definition of the conduct which that prelate would rejoice to see in the clergymen now brought under his jurisdiction. It is only necessary to say, that the peculiar points insisted on were exactly those which were most distasteful to the clergy of the diocese, and most averse to their practices and opinions; and that all those peculiar habits and privileges which have always been dear to high-church priests, to that party which is now scandalously called the high-and-dry church, were ridiculed, abused, and anathematised. Now, the clergymen of the diocese of Barchester are all of the high-and-dry church.
Having thus, according to his own opinion, explained how a clergyman should show himself approved unto God, as a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, he went on to explain how the word of truth should be divided; and here he took a rather narrow view of the question; and fetched arguments from afar. His object was to express his abomination of all ceremonious modes of utterance, to cry down any religious feeling which might be excited, not by the sense, but by the sound of words, and in fact to insult the cathedral practices. Had St Paul spoken of rightly pronouncing instead of rightly dividing the word of truth, this part of his sermon would have been more to the purpose; but the preacher's immediate object was to preach Mr Slope's doctrine, and not St Paul's, and he contrived to give the necessary twist to the text with some skill.
He could not exactly say, preaching from a cathedral pulpit, that chanting should be abandoned in cathedral services. By such an assertion, he would have overshot his mark and rendered himself absurd, to the delight of his hearers. He could, however, and did, allude with heavy denunciations to the practice of intoning in parish churches, although the practice was not but unknown in the diocese; and from thence he came round to the undue preponderance, which he asserted, music over meaning in the beautiful service which they had just heard. He was aware, he said, that the practices of our ancestors could not be abandoned at a moment's notice; the feelings of the aged would be outraged, and the minds of respectable men would be shocked. There were many, he was aware, of not sufficient calibre of thought to perceive, of not sufficient education to know, that a mode of service, which was effective when outward ceremonies were of more moment than inward feelings, had become all but barbarous at a time when inward conviction was everything, when each word of the minister's lips should fall intelligibly into the listener's heart. Formerly the religion of the multitude had been an affair of the imagination: now, in these latter days, it had become necessary that a Christian should have a reason for his faith--should not only believe, but digest--not only hear, but understand. The words of our morning service, how beautiful, how apposite, how intelligible they were, when read with simple and distinct decorum! But how much of the meaning of the words was lost when they were produced with all the meretricious charms of melody! &c &c.
Here was a sermon to be preached before Mr Archdeacon Grantly, Mr Precentor Harding, and the rest of them! Before a whole dean and chapter assembled in their own cathedral! Before men who had grown old in the exercise of their peculiar services, with a full conviction of their excellence for all intended purposes! This too from such a man, a clerical parvenu, a man without a cure, a mere chaplain, an intruder among them; a fellow raked up, so said Dr Grantly, from the gutters of Marylebone! They had to sit through it! None of them, not even Dr Grantly, could close his ears, nor leave the house of God during the hours of service. They were under an obligation of listening, and that too, without any immediate power of reply.
There is, perhaps, no greater hardship at present inflicted on mankind in civilised and free countries than the necessity of listening to sermons. No one but a preaching clergyman has, in these realms, the power of compelling audiences to sit silent, and be tormented. No one but a preaching clergyman can revel in platitudes, truisms, and untruisms, (sic) and yet receive, as his undisputed privilege, the same respectful demeanour as though words of impassioned eloquence, or persuasive logic, fell from his lips. Let a professor of law or physic find his place in a lecture-room, and there pour forth jejune words and useless empty phrases, and he will pour them forth to empty benches. Let a barrister attempt to talk without talking well, and he will talk but seldom. A judge's charge need be listened to per force by none but the jury, prisoner, and gaoler (sic). A member of parliament can be coughed down or counted out. Town-councillors can be tabooed. But no one can rid himself of the preaching clergyman. He is the bore of the age, the old man whom we Sindbads cannot shake off, the nightmare that disturbs our Sunday's rest, the incubus that overloads our religion and makes God's service distasteful. We are not forced into church! No: but we desire more than that. We desire not to be forced to stay away. We desire, nay, we are resolute, to enjoy the comfort of public worship; but we desire also that we may do so without an amount of tedium which ordinary human nature cannot endure with patience; that we may be able to leave the house of God without that anxious longing for escape, which is the common consequence of common sermons.
With what complacency will a young parson deduce false conclusions from misunderstood texts, and then threaten us with all the penalties of Hades if we neglect to comply with the injunctions he has given us! Yes, my too self-confident juvenile friend, I do believe in those mysteries, which are so common in your mouth; I do believe in the unadulterated word which you hold there in your hand; but you must pardon me if, in some things, I doubt your interpretation. The bible is good, the prayer-book is good, nay, you yourself would be acceptable, if you would read to me some portion of those time-honoured discourses which our great divines have elaborated in the full maturity of their powers. But you must excuse me, my insufficient young lecturer, if I yawn over your imperfect sentences, your repeated phrases, your false pathos, your drawlings (sic) and denouncings (sic), your humming and hawing, your oh-ing and ah-ing, your black gloves and your white handkerchief. To me, it all means nothing; and hours are too precious to be so wasted--if one could only avoid it.
And here I must make a protest against the pretence, so often put forward by the working clergy, that they are overburdened by the multitude of sermons to be preached. We are all too fond of our own voices, and a preacher is encouraged in the vanity of making his heard by the privilege of a compelled audience. His sermon is the pleasant morsel of his life, his delicious moment of self-exaltation. 'I have preached nine sermons this week, four the week before. I have preached twenty-three sermons this month. It is really too much.' 'Too much for the strength of any one.' 'Yes,' he answered meekly, 'indeed it is; I am beginning to feel it painfully.' 'Would,' said I, 'you could feel it--would that you could be made to feel it.' But he never guessed that my heart was wrung for the poor listeners.
There was, at any rate, no tedium felt in listening to Mr Slope on the occasion in question. His subject came too home to his audience to be dull; and, to tell the truth, Mr Slope had the gift of using words forcibly. He was heard through his thirty minutes of eloquence with mute attention and open ears; but with angry eyes, which glared found form one enraged parson to another, with wide-spread nostrils from which already burst forth fumes of indignation, and with many shufflings (sic) of the feet and uneasy motions of the body, which betokened minds disturbed, and hearts not at peace with all the world.
At last the bishop, who, of all the congregation, had been most surprised, and whose hair almost stood on end with terror, gave the blessing in a manner not at all equal to that in which he had long been practising it in his own study, and the congregation was free to go their way.
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{
"id": "2432"
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7
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THE DEAN AND CHAPTER TAKE COUNSEL
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All Barchester was in a tumult. Dr Grantly could hardly get himself out of the cathedral porch before he exploded in his wrath. The old dean betook himself silently to his deanery, afraid to speak; and there sat, half stupefied, pondering many things in vain. Mr Harding crept forth solitary and unhappy; and, slowly passing beneath the elms of the close, could scarcely bring himself to believe that the words which he had heard had proceeded from the pulpit of the Barchester Cathedral. Was he again to be disturbed? Was his whole life to be shown up as a useless sham a second time? would he have to abdicate his precentorship, as he had his wardenship, and to give up chanting, as he had given up his twelve old bedesmen? And what if he did! Some other Jupiter, some other Mr Slope, would come and turn him out of St Cuthbert's. Surely he could not have been wrong all his life in chanting the litany as he had done! He began, however, to have doubts. Doubting himself was Mr Harding's weakness. It is not, however, the usual fault of his order.
Yes! All Barchester was in a tumult. It was not only the clergy who were affected. The laity also had listened to Mr Slope's new doctrine, all with surprise, some with indignation, and some with a mixed feeling, in which dislike of the preacher was not so strongly blended. The old bishop and his chaplain, the dean and his canons and minor canons, the old choir, and especially Mr Harding who was at the head of it, had all been popular in Barchester. They had spent their money and done good; the poor had not been ground down; the clergy in society had neither been overbearing nor austere; and the whole repute of the city was due to its ecclesiastical importance. Yet there were those who had heard Mr Slope with satisfaction.
It is so pleasant to receive a fillip of excitement when suffering from the dull routine of everyday life! The anthems and Te Deums were in themselves delightful, but they had been heard so often! Mr Slope was certainly not delightful, but he was new, and, moreover, clever. They had long thought it slow, so said now may of the Barchesterians, to go on as they had done in their old humdrum way, giving ear to none of the religious changes which were moving the world without. People in advance of the age now had new ideas, and it was quite time that Barchester should go in advance. Mr Slope might be right. Sunday certainly had to been strictly kept in Barchester, except as regarded the cathedral services. Indeed the two hours between services had long been appropriated to morning calls and hot luncheons. Then Sunday schools; Sabbath-day schools Mr Slope had called them. The late bishop had really not thought of Sunday schools as he should have done. (These people probably did not reflect that catechisms and collects are quite hard work to the young mind as book-keeping is to the elderly; and that quite as little feeling of worship enters into one task as the other.) And then, as regarded that great question of musical services, there might be much to be said on Mr Slope's side of the question. It certainly was the fact, that people went to the cathedral to hear the music &c &c. And so a party absolutely formed itself in Barchester on Mr Slope's side of the question! This consisted, among the upper classes, chiefly of ladies. No man--that is, no gentleman--could possibly be attracted by Mr Slope, or consent to sit at the feet of so abhorrent a Gamaliel. Ladies are sometimes less nice in their appreciation of physical disqualification; and, provided that a man speak to them well, they will listen, though he speak from a mouth never so deformed and hideous. Wilkes was most fortunate as a lover; and the damp, sandy-haired, saucer-eyed, red-fisted Mr Slope was powerful only over the female breast.
There were, however, one or two of the neighbouring clergy who thought it not quite safe to neglect the baskets in which for the nonce were stored the loaves and fishes of the diocese of Barchester. They, and they only, came to call on Mr Slope after his performance in the cathedral pulpit. Among them Mr Quiverful, the rector of Puddingdale, whose wife still continued to present him from year to year with fresh pledges of her love, and so to increase his cares and, it is to be hoped, his happiness equally. Who can wonder that a gentleman, with fourteen living children and a bare income of L 400 a year, should look after the loaves and fishes, ever when they are under the thumb of Mr Slope?
Very soon after the Sunday on which the sermon was preached, the leading clergy of the neighbourhood held high debate together as to how Mr Slope should be put down. In the first place he should never again preach from the pulpit of Barchester cathedral. This was Dr Grantly's earliest dictum; and they all agreed, providing only that they had the power to exclude him. Dr Grantly declared that the power rested with the dean and chapter, observing that no clergyman out of the chapter had a claim to preach there, saving only the bishop himself. To this the dean assented, but alleged that contests on such a subject would be unseemly; to which rejoined a meagre little doctor, one of the cathedral prebendaries, that the contest must be all on the side of Mr Slope if every prebendary were always there ready to take his own place in the pulpit. Cunning little meagre doctor, whom it suits well to live in his own cosy house within Barchester close, and who is well content to have his little fling at Dr Vesey Stanhope and other absentees, whose Italian villas, or enticing London homes, are more tempting than cathedral stalls and residences!
To this answered the burly chancellor, a man rather silent indeed, but very sensible, that absent prebendaries had their vicars, and that in such case the vicar's right to the pulpit was the same as that of the higher order. To which the dean assented, groaning deeply at these truths. Thereupon, however, the meagre doctor remarked that they would be in the hands of their minor canons, one of whom might at any hour betray his trust. Whereon was heard from the burly chancellor an ejaculation sounding somewhat like 'Pooh, pooh, pooh!' but it might have been that the worthy man was but blowing out the heavy breath from his windpipe. Why silence him at all, suggested Mr Harding. Let them not be ashamed to hear what any man might have to preach to them, unless he preached false doctrine; in which case, let the bishop silence him. So spoke our friend; vainly; for human ends must be attained by human means. But the dean saw a ray of hope out of those purblind old eyes of his. Yes, let them tell the bishop how distasteful to them was this Mr Slope: new bishop just come to his seat could not wish to insult his clergy while the gloss was yet fresh on his first apron.
Then up rose Dr Grantly; and, having thus collected the scattered wisdom of his associates, spoke forth with words of deep authority. When I say up rose the archdeacon, I speak of the inner man, which then sprang up to more immediate action, for the doctor had, bodily, been standing all along with his back to the dean's empty fire-grate, and the tails of his frock coat supported over his two arms. His hands were in his breeches pockets.
'It is quite clear that this man must not be allowed to preach again in the cathedral. We all see that, except our dear friend here, the milk of whose nature runs so softly, that he would not have the heart to refuse the Pope, the loan of his pulpit, if the Pope would come and ask it. We must not, however, allow the man to preach again here. It is not because his opinion on church matters may be different from ours--with that one would not quarrel. It is because he has purposely insulted us. When he went up into that pulpit last Sunday, his studied object was to give offence to men who had grown old in reverence to those things of which he dared to speak so slightingly. What! To come here a stranger, a young, unknown, and unfriended stranger, and tell us, in the name of the bishop, his master, that we are ignorant of our duties, old-fashioned, and useless! I don't know whether to most admire his courage or his impudence! And one thing I will tell you: that sermon originated solely with the man himself. The bishop was no more a party to it than was the dean here. You all know how grieved I am to see a bishop in this diocese holding the latitudinarian ideas by which Dr Proudie has made himself conspicuous. You all know how greatly I should distrust the opinion of such a man. But in this matter I hold him to be blameless. I believe Dr Proudie has lived too long among gentlemen to be guilty, or to instigate another to be guilty, of so gross an outrage. No! That man uttered what was untrue when he hinted that he was speaking as the mouthpiece of the bishop. It suited his ambitious views at once to throw down the gauntlet to us--here within the walls of our own loved cathedral--here where we have for so many years exercised our ministry, without schism and with good repute. Such an attack upon us, coming from such a quarter, is abominable.'
'Abominable,' groaned the dean. 'Abominable,' muttered the meagre doctor. 'Abominable,' re-echoed the chancellor, uttering a sound from the bottom of his deep chest. 'I really think it was,' said Mr Harding.
'Most abominable, and most unjustifiable,' continued the archdeacon. 'But, Mr Dean, thank God, that pulpit is still our own: your own, I should say. That pulpit belongs to the dean and chapter of Barchester Cathedral, and, as yet, Mr Slope is no part of that chapter. You, Mr Dean, have suggested that we should appeal to the bishop to abstain from forcing this man on us; but what if the bishop allow himself to be ruled by his chaplain? In my opinion, the matter is in our own hands. Mr Slope cannot preach there without permission asked and obtained, and let that permission be invariable refused. Let all participation in the ministry of the cathedral service be refused to him. Then, if the bishop choose to interfere, we shall know what answer to make to the bishop. My friend here has suggested that this man may again find his way into the pulpit by undertaking the duty of some of your minor canons; but I am sure that we may fully trust to these gentlemen to support us, when it is known that the dean objects to any such transfer.'
'Of course you may,' said the chancellor.
There was much more discussion among the learned conclave, all of which, of course, ended in obedience to the archdeacon's commands. They had too long been accustomed to his rule to shake it off so soon; and in this particular case they had none of them a wish to abet the man whom he was so anxious to put down.
Such a meeting as that we have just recorded is not held in such a city as Barchester unknown and untold of. Not only was the fact of the meeting talked of in every respectable house, including the palace, but the very speeches of the dean, the archdeacon, and chancellor were repeated; not without many additions and imaginary circumstances, according to the tastes and opinions of the relaters.
All, however, agreed in saying that Mr Slope was to be debarred from opening his mouth in the cathedral of Barchester; many believed that the vergers were to be ordered to refuse him even the accommodation of a seat; and some of the most far-going advocates for strong measures, declared that this sermon was looked upon as an indictable offence, and that proceedings were to be taken against him for brawling.
The party who were inclined to him--the enthusiastically religious young ladies, and the middle-aged spinsters desirous of a move--of course took up his defence the more warmly on account of this attack. If they could not hear Mr Slope in the cathedral, they would hear him elsewhere; they would leave the dull dean, the dull old prebendaries, and the scarcely less dull young minor canons, to preach to each other; they would work slippers and cushions, and hem bands for Mr Slope, make him a happy martyr, and stick him up in some new Sion (sic) or Bethesda, and put the cathedral quite out of fashion.
Dr and Mrs Proudie at once returned to London. They thought it expedient not to have to encounter any personal applications from the dean and chapter respecting the sermon till the violence of the storm had expended itself; but they left Mr Slope behind them nothing daunted, and he went about his work zealously, flattering such as would listen to his flattery, whispering religious twaddle into the ears of foolish women, ingratiating himself with the very few clergy who would receive him, visiting the houses of the poor, inquiring into all people, prying into everything, and searching with the minutest eye into all palatial dilapidation. He did not, however, make any immediate attempt to preach again in the cathedral.
And so all Barchester was by the ears.
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8
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THE EX-WARDEN REJOICES IN HIS PROBABLE RETURN TO THE HOSPITAL
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Among the ladies in Barchester who have hitherto acknowledged Mr Slope as their spiritual director, must not be reckoned either the widow Bold, or her sister-in-law. On the first outbreak of the wrath of the denizens of the close, none had been more animated against the intruder than those two ladies. And this was natural. Who could be so proud of the musical distinction of their own cathedral as the favourite daughter of the precentor? Who would be so likely to resent an insult offered to the old choir? And in such matters Miss Bold and her sister-in-law had but one opinion.
This wrath, however, has in some degree been mitigated, and I regret to say that these ladies allowed Mr Slope to be his own apologist. About a fortnight after the sermon had been preached, they were both of them not a little surprised by hearing Mr Slope announced, as the page in buttons opened Mrs Bold's drawing-room door. Indeed, what living man could, by a mere morning visit, have surprised them more? Here was the great enemy of all that was good in Barchester coming into their own drawing-room, and they had not strong arm, no ready tongue near at hand for their protection. The widow snatched her baby out of its cradle into her lap, and Mary Bold stood up ready to die manfully in that baby's behalf, should, under any circumstances, such a sacrifice be necessary.
In this manner was Mr Slope received. But when he left, he was allowed by each lady to take her hand, and to make his adieux as gentlemen do who have been graciously entertained! Yes; he shook hands with them, and was curtseyed out courteously, the buttoned page opening the door, as he would have done for the best canon of them all. He had touched the baby's little hand and blessed him with a fervid blessing; he had spoken to the widow of her early sorrows, and Eleanor's silent tears had not rebuked him; he had told Mary Bold that her devotion would be rewarded, and Mary Bold had heard the praise without disgust. And how had he done all this? How had he so quickly turned aversion into, at any rate, acquaintance? How had he overcome the enmity with which those ladies had been ready to receive him, and made his peace with them so easily?
My readers will guess from what I have written that I myself do not like Mr Slope; but I am constrained to admit that he is a man of parts. He knows how to say a soft word in the proper place; he knows how to adapt his flattery to the ears of his hearers; he knows the wiles of the serpent and he uses them. Could Mr Slope have adapted his manners to men as well as to women, could he ever have learnt the ways of a gentleman, he might have risen to great things.
He commenced his acquaintance with Eleanor by praising her father. He had, he said, become aware that he had unfortunately offended the feelings of a man of whom he could not speak too highly; he would not now allude to a subject which was probably too serious for drawing-room conversation, but he would say, that it had been very far from him to utter a word in disparagement of a man, of whom all the world, at least the clerical world, spoke of so highly as it did of Mr Harding. And so he went on, unsaying a great deal of his sermon, expressing his highest admiration for the precentor's musical talents, eulogising the father and the daughter and the sister-in-law, speaking in that low silky whisper which he always had specially prepared for feminine ears, and, ultimately, gaining his object. When he left, he expressed a hope that he might again be allowed to call; and though Eleanor gave no verbal assent to this, she did not express dissent; and so Mr Slope's right to visit at the widow's house was established.
The day after this visit Eleanor told her father of it, and expressed an opinion that Mr Slope was not quite so black as he had been painted. Mr Harding opened he eyes rather wider than usual when he heard what had occurred, but he said little; he could not agree in any praise of Mr Slope, and it was not his practice to say much evil of any one. He did not, however, like the visit, and simple-minded as he was, he felt sure that Mr Slope had some deeper motive than the mere pleasure of making soft speeches to two ladies.
Mr Harding, however, had come to see his daughter with other purpose than that of speaking either good or evil of Mr Slope. He had come to tell her that the place of warden in Hiram's hospital was again to be filled up, and that in all probability he would once more return to his old house and his twelve bedesmen.
'But,' he said, laughing, 'I shall be greatly shorn of my ancient glory.'
'Why so, papa?'
'This new act of parliament, that is to put us all on our feet again,' continued he, 'settles my income at four hundred and fifty pounds per annum.'
'Four hundred and fifty,' said she, 'instead of eight hundred! Well; that is rather shabby. But still, papa, you'll have the dear old house and garden?'
'My dear,' said he, 'it's worth twice the money;' and as he spoke he showed a jaunty kind of satisfaction in his tone and manner, and in the quick, pleasant way in which he paced Eleanor's drawing-room. 'It's worth twice the money. I shall have the house and the garden, and a larger income than I can possibly want.'
'At any rate, you'll have no extravagant daughter to provide for;' and as she spoke, the young widow put her arm within his, and made him sit on the sofa beside her; 'at any rate you'll not have that expense.'
'No, my dear; and I shall be rather lonely without her; but we won't think of that now. As regards income I shall have plenty for all I want. I shall have my old house; and I don't mind owning now that I have felt sometimes the inconvenience of living in a lodging. Lodgings are very nice for young men, but at my time of life there is a want of--I hardly know what to call it, perhaps not respectability--' 'Oh, papa! I'm sure there's been nothing like that. Nobody has thought it; nobody in all Barchester has been more respected than you have been since you took those rooms in High Street. Nobody! Not the dean in his deanery, or the archdeacon at Plumstead.'
'The archdeacon would not be much obliged to you if he heard you,' said he, smiling somewhat at the exclusive manner in which his daughter confined her illustration to the church dignitaries of the chapter of Barchester; 'but at any rate, I shall be glad to get back to the old house. Since I heard that it was all settled, I have begun to fancy that I can't be comfortable without my two sitting-rooms.'
'Come and stay with me, papa, till it is settled--there's a dear papa.'
'Thank ye, Nelly. But no; I won't do that. It would make two movings. I shall be very glad to get back to my old men again. Alas! Alas! There have six of them gone in the few last years. Six out of twelve! And the others I fear have had but a sorry life of it there. Poor Bunce, poor old Bunce!'
Bunce was one of the surviving recipients of Hiram's charity; and old man, now over ninety, who had long been a favourite of Mr Harding's.
'How happy old Bunce will be,' said Mrs Bold, clapping her soft hands softly. 'How happy they all will be to have you back again.' You may be sure there will soon be friendship among them again when you are there.'
'But,' said he, half laughing, 'I am to have new troubles, which will be terrible to me. There are to be twelve old women, and a matron. How shall I manage twelve women and a matron!'
'The matron will manage the women of course.'
'And who'll manage the matron?' said he.
'She won't want to be managed. She'll be a great lady herself, I suppose. But, papa, where will the matron live? She is not to live in the warden's house with you, is she?'
'Well, I hope not, my dear.'
'Oh, papa, I tell you fairly. I won't have a matron for a new step-mother.'
'You shan't, my dear; that is if I can help it. But they are going to build another house for the matron and the women; and I believe they haven't even fixed yet on the site of the building.'
'And have they appointed the matron?' said Eleanor.
'They haven't appointed the warden yet,' replied he.
'But there's no doubt about that, I suppose,' said his daughter.
Mr Harding explained that he thought there was no doubt; that the archdeacon had declared as much, saying that the bishop and his chaplain between them had not the power to appoint any once else, even if they had the will to do so, and sufficient impudence to carry out such a will. The archdeacon was of the opinion, that though Mr Harding had resigned his wardenship, and had done so unconditionally, he had done so under circumstances which left the bishop no choice as to his re-appointment, now that the affair of the hospital had been settled on a new basis by act of parliament. Such was the archdeacon's opinion, and his father-in-law received it without a shadow of doubt.
Dr Grantly had always been strongly opposed to Mr Harding's resignation of the place. He had done all in his power to dissuade him from it. He had considered that Mr Harding was bound to withstand the popular clamour with which he was attacked for receiving so large an income as eight hundred a year from such a charity, and was not even satisfied that his father-in-law's conduct had not been pusillanimous and undignified. He looked also on this reduction of the warden's income as a paltry scheme on the part of government for escaping from a difficulty into which it had been brought by the public press. Dr Grantly observed that the government had no more right to dispose of a sum of four hundred and fifty pounds a year out of the income of Hiram's legacy, than of nine hundred; whereas, as he said, the bishop, dean and chapter clearly had a right to settle what sum should be paid. He also declared that the government had no more right to saddle the charity with twelve old women than with twelve hundred; and he was, therefore, very indignant on the matter. He probably forgot when so talking that government had done nothing of the kind, and had never assumed any such might or any such right. He made the common mistake of attributing to the government, which in such matters is powerless, the doings of parliament, which in such matters is omnipotent.
But though he felt that the glory and honour of the situation of warden of Barchester hospital was indeed curtailed by the new arrangement; that the whole establishment had to a certain degree been made vile by the touch of Whig commissioners; that the place with the lessened income, its old women, and other innovations, was very different from the hospital of former days; still the archdeacon was too practical a man of the world to wish that his father-in-law, who had at present little more than L 200 per annum for all his wants, should refuse the situation, defiled, undignified, and commission-ridden as it was.
Mr Harding had, accordingly, made up his mind that he would return to his old house at the hospital, and to tell the truth, had experienced almost a childish pleasure in the idea of doing so. The diminished income was to him not even the source of momentary regret. The matron and the old women did rather go against the grain; but he was able to console himself with the reflection, that, after all, such an arrangement might be of real service to the poor of the city. The thought that he must receive his re-appointment as the gift of the new bishop, and probably through the hands of Mr Slope, annoyed him a little; but his mind was set at rest by the assurance of the archdeacon that there would be no favour in such a presentation. The re-appointment of the old warden would be regarded by all the world as a matter of course. Mr Harding, therefore, felt no hesitation in telling his daughter that they might look upon his return to his old quarters as a settled matter.
'And you won't have to ask for it, papa.'
'Certainly not, my dear. There is no ground on which I could ask for any favour from the bishop, whom, indeed, I hardly know. Nor would I ask a favour, that granting of which might possibly be made a question to be settled by Mr Slope. No,' said he, moved for a moment by a spirit very unlike his own, 'I certainly shall be very glad to go back to the hospital; but I should never go there, if it were necessary that my doing so should be the subject of a request to Mr Slope.'
This little outbreak of her father's anger jarred on the present tone of Eleanor's mind. She had not learnt to like Mr Slope, but she had learnt to think that he had much respect for her father; and she would, therefore, willingly use her efforts to induce something like good feeling between them.
'Papa,' said she, 'I think you somewhat mistake Mr Slope's character.'
'Do I?' said he, placidly.
'I think you do, papa. I think he intended no personal disrespect to you when he preached the sermon which made the archdeacon and the dean so angry. !'
'I never supposed that he did, my dear. I hope I never inquired within myself whether he did or no. Such a matter would be unworthy of any inquiry, and very unworthy of the consideration of the chapter. But I fear he intended disrespect to the ministration's of God's services, as conducted in conformity with the rules of the Church of England.'
'But might it not be that he thought it his duty to express his dissent from that which you, and the dean, and all of us here approve?'
'It can hardly be the duty of any young man rudely to assail the religious convictions of his elders of the church. Courtesy should have kept him silent, even if neither charity nor modesty could do so.'
'But Mr Slope would say that on such a subject the commands of his heavenly Master do not admit of his being silent.'
'Nor of being courteous, Eleanor?'
'He did not say that, papa.'
'Believe me, my child, that Christian ministers are never called on by God's word to insult the convictions, or even the prejudices, of their brethren; and that religion is at any rate not less susceptible to urbane and courteous conduct among men, than any other study which men take up. I am sorry to say that I cannot defend Mr Slope's sermon in the cathedral. But come, my dear, put on your bonnet, and let us walk round the dear old gardens at the hospital. I have never yet had the heart to go beyond the court-yard since we left the place. Now I think I can venture to enter.'
Eleanor rang the bell, and gave a variety of imperative charges as to the welfare of the precious baby, whom, all but unwillingly, she was about to leave for an hour or so, and then sauntered forth with her father to revisit the old hospital. It had been forbidden ground to her as well as to him since the day on which they had walked forth together from its walk.
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9
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THE STANHOPE FAMILY
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It is now three months since Dr Proudie began his reign, and changes had already been affected in the diocese which show at least the energy of an active mind. Among other things, absentee clergymen have been favoured with hints much too strong to be overlooked. Poor dear old Bishop Grantly had on this matter been too lenient, and the archdeacon had never been inclined to be severe with those who were absent on reputable pretences, and who provided for their duties in a liberal way.
Among the greatest of the diocesan sinners in this respect was Dr Vesey Stanhope. Years had now passed since he had done a day's duty; and yet there was no reason against his doing duty except a want of inclination on his own part. He held a prebendal stall in the diocese; one of the best residences in the close; and the two large rectories of Crabtree Canonicorum, and Stogpingum. Indeed, he had the cure of three parishes, for that of Eiderdown was joined to Stogpingum. He had resided in Italy for twelve years. His first going there had been attributed to a sore throat; and that sore throat, though never repeated in any violent manner had stood him in such stead, that it had enabled him to live in easy idleness ever since.
He had now been summoned home,--not indeed, with rough violence, or by any peremptory command, but by a mandate which he found himself unable to disregard. Mr Slope had written to him by the bishop's desire. In the first place, the bishop much wanted the valuable co-operation of Dr Vesey Stanhope in the diocese; in the next, the bishop thought it his imperative duty to become personally acquainted with the most conspicuous of his diocesan clergy; then the bishop thought it essentially necessary for Dr Stanhope's own interests, that Dr Stanhope should, at any rate for a time, return to Barchester; and lastly, it was said that so strong a feeling was at the present moment evinced by the hierarchs of the church with reference to the absence of its clerical members, that it behoved Dr Vesey Stanhope not to allow his name to stand among those which would probably in a few months be submitted to the councils of the nation.
There was something so ambiguously frightful in this last threat that Dr Stanhope determined to spend two or three summer months at his residence in Barchester. His rectories were inhabited by his curates, and he felt himself from disuse to be unfit for parochial duty; but his prebendal home was kept empty for him, and he thought it probable that he might be able now and again to preach a prebendal sermon. He arrived, therefore, with all his family at Barchester, and he and they must be introduced to my readers.
The great family characteristic of the Stanhopes might probably be said to be heartlessness; but the want of feeling was, in most of them, accompanied by so great an amount of good nature that their neighbours failed to perceive how indifferent to them was the happiness and well-being of those around them. The Stanhopes would visit you in your sickness (provided it were not contagious), would bring you oranges, French novels, and the last new bit of scandal, and then hear of your death or your recovery with an equally indifferent composure. Their conduct to each other was the same as to the world; they bore and forbore: and there was sometimes, as will be seen, much necessity for forbearing: but their love among themselves rarely reached above this. It is astonishing how much each of the family was able to do, and how much each did, to prevent the well-being of the other four.
For there were five in all; the doctor, namely, and Mrs Stanhope, two daughters, and one son. The doctor, perhaps, was the least singular and most estimable of them all, and yet such good qualities as he possessed were all negative. He was a good looking rather plethoric gentleman of about sixty years of age. His hair was snow white, very plentiful, and somewhat like wool of the finest description. His whiskers were large and very white, and gave to his face the appearance of a benevolent sleepy old lion. His dress was always unexceptionable. Although he had lived so many years in Italy it was invariably of a decent clerical hue, but it never was hyperclerical. He was a man not given to much talking, but what little he did say was generally well said. His reading seldom went beyond romances and poetry of the lightest and not always most moral description. He was thoroughly a bon vivant; an accomplished judge of wine, though he never drank to excess; and a most inexorable critic in all affairs touching the kitchen. He had had much to forgive in his own family, since a family had grown up around him, and had forgiven everything--except inattention to his dinner. His weakness in that respect was now fully understood, and his temper but seldom tried. As Dr Stanhope was a clergyman, it may be supposed that his religious convictions made up a considerable part of his character; but this was not so. That he had religious convictions must be believed; but he rarely obtruded them, even on his children. This abstinence on his part was not systematic, but very characteristic of the man. It was not that he had predetermined never to influence their thoughts; but he was so habitually idle that his time for doing so had never come till the opportunity for doing so was gone forever. Whatever conviction the father may have had, the children were at any rate but indifferent members of the church from which he drew his income.
Such was Dr Stanhope. The features of Mrs Stanhope's character were even less plainly marked than those of her lord. The far niente of her Italian life had entered into her very soul, and brought her to regard a state of inactivity as the only earthly good. In manner and appearance she was exceedingly prepossessing. She had been a beauty, and even now, at fifty-five, she was a handsome woman. Her dress was always perfect: she never dressed but once in the day, and never appeared till between three and four; but when she did appear, she appeared at her best. Whether the toil rested partly with her, or wholly with her handmaid, it is not for such a one as the author to imagine. The structure of her attire was always elaborate, and yet never over laboured. She was rich in apparel, but not bedizened with finery; her ornaments were costly, rare, and such as could not fail to attract notice, but they did not look as though worn with that purpose. She well knew the great architectural secret of decorating her constructions, and never condescended to construct a decoration. But when we have said that Mrs Stanhope knew how to dress, and used her knowledge daily, we have said all. Other purpose in life she had none. It was something, indeed, that she did not interfere with the purposes of others. In early life she had undergone great trials with reference to the doctor's dinners; but for the last ten or twelve years her eldest daughter Charlotte had taken that labour off her hands, and she had had little to trouble her;--little, that is, till the edict for this terrible English journey had gone forth; since, then, indeed, her life had been laborious enough. For such a one, the toil of being carried from the shores of Como to the city of Barchester is more than labour enough, let the cares of the carriers be ever so vigilant. Mrs Stanhope had been obliged to have every one of her dresses taken in from the effects of the journey.
Charlotte Stanhope was at this time about thirty-five years old; and, whatever may have been her faults, she had none of those which belong particularly to old young ladies. She neither dressed young, nor talked young, nor indeed looked young. She appeared to be perfectly content with her time of life, and in no way affected the grace of youth. She was a fine young woman; and had she been a man, would have been a very fine young man. All that was done in the house, and that was not done by servants, was done by her. She gave the orders, paid the bills, hired and dismissed the domestics, made the tea, carved the meat, and managed everything in the Stanhope household. She, and she alone, could ever induce her father to look into the state of his worldly concerns. She, and she alone, could in any degree control the absurdities of her sister. She, and she alone, prevented the whole family from falling into utter disrepute and beggary. It was by her advice that they now found themselves very unpleasantly situated in Barchester.
So far, the character of Charlotte Stanhope is not unprepossessing. But it remains to be said, that the influence which she had in her family, though it had been used to a certain extent for their worldly well-being, had not been used to their real benefit, as it might have been. She had aided her father in his indifference to his professional duties, counselling him that his livings were as much as his individual property as the estates of his elder brother were the property of that worthy peer. She had for years past stifled every little rising wish for a return to England which the doctor had from time to time expressed. She had encouraged her mother in her idleness in order that she herself might be mistress and manager of the Stanhope household. She had encouraged and fostered the follies of her sister, though she was always willing, and often able, to protect her from their probable result. She had done her best, and had thoroughly succeeded in spoiling her brother, and turning him loose upon the world an idle man without a profession, and without a shilling that he could call his own.
Miss Stanhope was a clever woman, able to talk on most subjects, and quite indifferent as to what the subject was. She prided herself on her freedom from English prejudice, and she might have added, from feminine delicacy. On religion she was a pure freethinker, and with much want of true affection, delighted to throw out her own views before the troubled mind of her father. To have shaken what remained of his Church of England faith would have gratified her much; but the idea of his abandoning his preferment in the church had never once presented itself to her mind. How could he indeed, when he had no income from any other sources?
But the two most prominent members of the family still remain to be described. The second child had been christened Madeline, and had been a great beauty. We need not say had been, for she was never more beautiful than at the time of which we write, though her person for many years had been disfigured by an accident. It is unnecessary that we should give in detail the early history of Madeline Stanhope. She had gone to Italy when seventeen years of age, and had been allowed to make the most of her surpassing beauty in the saloons of Milan, and among the crowded villas along the shores of the Lake of Como. She had become famous for adventures in which her character was just not lost, and had destroyed the hearts of a dozen cavaliers without once being touched in her own. Blood had flowed in quarrels about her charms, and she heard of these encounters with pleasurable excitement. It had been told of her that on one occasion she had stood by in the disguise of a page, and had seen her lover fall.
As is so often the case, she had married the very worst of those who sought her hand. Why she had chosen Paulo Neroni, a man of no birth and no property, a mere captain in the pope's guard, one who had come up to Milan either simply as an adventurer or as a spy, a man of harsh temper and oily manners, mean in figure, swarthy in face, and so false in words as to be hourly detected, need not now be told. When the moment for doing so came, she had probably no alternative. He, at any rate, had become her husband; and after a prolonged honeymoon among the lakes, they had gone together to Rome, the papal captain having vainly endeavoured to induce his wife to remain behind him.
Six months afterwards she arrived at her father's house a cripple and a mother. She had arrived without even notice, with hardly clothes to cover her, and without one of those many ornaments which had graced her bridal trousseaux. Her baby was in the arms of a poor girl from Milan, whom she had taken in exchange for the Roman maid who had accompanied her thus far, and who had then, as her mistress said, become homesick and had returned. It was clear that the lady had determined that there should be no witness to tell stories of her life in Rome.
She had fallen, she said, in ascending a ruin and had fatally injured the sinews of her knee; so fatally, that when she stood she lost eight inches of her accustomed height; so fatally, that when she essayed to move, she could only drag herself painfully along, with protruded hip and extended foot in a manner less graceful than that of a hunchback. She had consequently made up her mind, once and for ever, that she would never stand, and never attempt to move herself.
Stories were not slow to follow her, averring that she had been cruelly ill-used by Neroni, and that to his violence had she owed her accident. Be that as it may, little had been said about her husband, but that little had made it clearly intelligible to the family that Signor Neroni was to be seen and heard of no more. There was no question as to re-admitting the poor ill-used beauty to her old family rights, no question as to adopting her infant daughter, beneath the Stanhope roof tree. Though heartless, the Stanhopes were not selfish. The two were taken in, petted, made much of, for a time all but adored, and then felt by the two parents to be great nuisances in the house. But in the house the lady was, and there she remained, having her own way, though that way was not very comfortable with the customary usages of an English clergyman.
Madame Neroni, though forced to give up all motion in the world, had no intention whatever of giving up the world itself. The beauty of her face was uninjured, and that beauty was of a peculiar kind. Her copious rich brown hair was worn in Grecian bandeaux round her head, displaying as much as possible of her forehead and cheeks. Her forehead, though rather low, was very beautiful from its perfect contour and pearly whiteness. Her eyes were long and large, and marvellously bright; might I venture to say, bright as Lucifer's, I should perhaps best express the depth of their brilliancy. They were dreadful eyes to look at, such as would absolutely deter any man of quiet mind and easy spirit from attempting a passage of arms with such foes. There was talent in them, and the fire of passion and the play of wit, but there was no love. Cruelty was there instead, and courage, a desire for masterhood, cunning, and a wish for mischief. And yet, as eyes, they were very beautiful. The eyelashes were long and perfect, and the long steady unabashed gaze, with which she would look into the face of her admirer, fascinated while it frightened him. She was a basilisk from whom an ardent lover of beauty could make no escape. Her nose and mouth more so at twenty-eight than they had been at eighteen. What wonder that with such charms still glowing in her face, and with such deformity destroying her figure, she should resolve to be seen, but only to be seen reclining on a sofa.
Her resolve had not been carried out without difficulty. She had still frequented the opera at Milan; she had still been seen occasionally in the saloons of the noblesse; she had caused herself to be carried in and out from her carriage, and that in such a manner as in no wise to disturb her charms, disarrange her dress, or expose her deformities. Her sister always accompanied her and a maid, a manservant also, and on state occasions, two. It was impossible that her purpose could have been achieved with less: and yet, poor as she was, she had achieved her purpose. And then again the more dissolute Italian youths of Milan frequented the Stanhope villa and surrounded her couch, not greatly to her father's satisfaction. Sometimes his spirit would rise, a dark spot would show itself on his cheek, and he would rebel; but Charlotte would assuage him with some peculiar triumph of her culinary art, and all again would be smooth for a while.
Madeline affected all manner of rich and quaint devices in the garniture of her room, her person, and her feminine belongings. In nothing was this more apparent than in the visiting card which she had prepared for her use. For such an article one would say that she, in her present state, could have but small need, seeing how improbable it was that she should make a morning call; but not such was her own opinion. Her card was surrounded by a deep border of gilding; on this she had imprinted, in three lines:- La Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni. - Nata Stanhope.
And over the name she had a bright gilt coronet, which certainly looked very magnificent. How she had come to concoct such a name for herself it would be difficult to explain. Her father had been christened Vesey, as another man is christened Thomas; and she had no more right to assume it than would have the daughter of a Mr Josiah Jones to call herself Mrs Josiah Smith, on marrying a man of the latter name. The gold coronet was equally out of place, and perhaps inserted with even less excuse. Paul Neroni had not the faintest title to call himself a scion of even Italian nobility. Had the pair met in England Neroni would probably have been a count; but they had met in Italy, and any such pretence on his part would have been simply ridiculous. A coronet, however, was a pretty ornament, and if it could solace a poor cripple to have such on her card, who could begrudge it to her?
Of her husband, or of his individual family, she never spoke; but with her admirers she would often allude in a mysterious way to her married life and isolated state, and, pointing to her daughter, would call her the last of the blood of the emperors, thus referring Neroni's extraction to the old Roman family from which the worst of the Caesars sprang.
The 'Signora' was not without talent, and not without a certain sort of industry; she was an indomitable letter writer, and her letters were worth the postage: they were full of wit, mischief, satire, love, latitudinarian philosophy, free religion, and, sometimes, alas! loose ribaldry. The subject, however, depended entirely on the recipient, and she was prepared to correspond with any one, but moral young ladies or stiff old women. She wrote also a kind of poetry, generally in Italian, and short romances, generally in French. She read much of a desultory sort of literature, and as a modern linguist had really made great proficiency. Such was the lady who had now come to wound the hearts of the men of Barchester.
Ethelbert Stanhope was in some respects like his younger sister, but he was less inestimable as a man than she was as a woman. His great fault was an entire absence of that principle which should have induced him, as the son of a man without fortune, to earn his own bread. Many attempts had been made to get him to do so, but these had all been frustrated, not so much by idleness on his part, as by a disinclination to exert himself in any way not to his taste. He had been educated at Eton, and had been intended for the Church, but had left Cambridge in disgust after a single term, and notified to his father his intention to study for the bar. Preparatory to that, he thought it well that he should attend a German university, and consequently went to Leipzig. There he remained two years, and brought away a knowledge of German and a taste for the fine arts. He still, however, intended himself for the bar, took chambers, engaged himself to sit at the feet of a learned pundit, and spent a season in London. He there found that all his aptitudes inclined him to the life of an artist, and he determined to live by painting. With this object he retired to Milan, and had himself rigged out for Rome. As a painter he might have earned his bread, for he wanted only diligence to excel; but when at Rome his mind was carried away by other things: he soon wrote home for money, saying that he had been converted to the Mother Church, that he was already an acolyte of the Jesuits, and that he was about to start with others to Palestine on a mission for converting Jews. He did go to Judea, but being unable to convert the Jews, was converted by them. He again wrote home, to say that Moses was the only giver of perfect laws to the world, that the coming of the true Messiah was at hand, that great things were doing in Palestine, and that he had met one of the family of Sidonis, a most remarkable man, who was now on his way to Western Europe, and whom he had induced to deviate from his route with the object of calling at the Stanhope villa. Ethelbert then expressed his hope that his mother and sisters would listen to this wonderful prophet. His father he knew could not do so from pecuniary considerations. This Sidonia, however, did not take so strong a fancy to him as another of that family once did to a young English nobleman. At least he provided him with no hope of gold as large as lions; so that the Judaised Ethelbert was again obliged to draw on the revenues of the Christian Church.
It is needless to tell how the father swore that he would send no more money and receive no Jew; nor how Charlotte declared that Ethelbert could not be left penniless in Jerusalem; and how 'La Signora Neroni' resolved to have Sidonia at her feet. The money was sent, and the Jew did come. The Jew did come, but he was not at all to the taste of 'la Signora'. He was a dirty little old man, and though he had provided no golden lions, he had, it seems, relieved young Stanhope's necessities. He positively refused to leave the villa till he got a bill from the doctor on his London bankers.
Ethelbert did not long remain a Jew. He soon reappeared at the villa without prejudices on the subject of his religion, and with a firm resolve to achieve fame and fortune as a sculptor. He brought with him some models which he had originated at Rome, and which really gave much fair promise that his father was induced to go to further expense in furthering these views. Ethelbert opened an establishment, or rather took lodgings and workshop, at Carrara, and there spoilt much marble, and made some few pretty images. Since that period, now four years ago, he had alternated between Carrara and the villa, but his sojourns at the workshop became shorter and shorter, and those at the villa longer and longer. 'Twas no wonder; for Carrara is not a spot in which an Englishman would like to dwell.
When the family started for England he had resolved not to be left behind, and with the assistance of his elder sister had earned his point against his father's wishes. It was necessary, he said, that he should come to England for orders. How otherwise was he to bring his profession to account?
In personal appearance Ethelbert Stanhope was the most singular of beings. He was certainly very handsome. He had his sister Madeline's eyes without their stare, and without their hard cunning cruel firmness. They were also very much lighter, and of so light and clear a blue as to make his face remarkable, if nothing else did so. On entering a room with him, Ethelbert's blue eyes would be the first thing you would see, and on leaving it almost the last thing you would forget. His light hair was very long and silky, coming down over his coat. His beard had been prepared in the holy land, and was patriarchal. He never shaved, and rarely trimmed it. It was glossy, soft, clean, and altogether not unprepossessing. It was such that ladies might desire to reel it off and work it into their patterns in lieu of floss silk. His complexion was fair and almost pink, he was small in height, and slender in limb, but well-made, and his voice was of particular sweetness.manner and dress he was equally remarkable. He had none of the mauvaise honte of an Englishman. He required no introduction to make himself agreeable to any person. He habitually addressed strangers, ladies as well as men, without any such formality, and in doing so never seemed to meet with rebuke. His costume cannot be described, because it was so various; but it was always totally opposed in every principle of colour and construction to the dress of those with whom he for the time consorted.
He was habitually addicted to making love to ladies, and did so without scruple of conscience, or any idea that such a practice was amiss. He had no heart to touch himself, and was literally unaware that humanity was subject to such infliction. He had not thought much about it; but, had he been asked, would have said, that ill-treating a lady's heart meant injuring her promotion in the world. His principles therefore forbade him to pay attention to a girl, if he thought any man was present whom it might suit her to marry. In this manner, his good nature frequently interfered with his amusement; but he had no other motive in abstaining from the fullest declaration of love to every girl that pleased his eye.
Bertie Stanhope, as he was generally called, was, however, popular with both sexes; and with Italians as well as English. His circle of acquaintance was very large, and embraced people of all sorts. He had not respect for rank, and no aversion to those below him. He had lived on familiar terms with English peers, German shopkeepers, and Roman priests. All people were nearly alike to him. He was above, or rather below, all prejudices. No virtue could charm him, no vice shock him. He had about him a natural good manner, which seemed to qualify him for the highest circles, and yet he was never out of place in the lowest. He had no principle, no regard for others, no self-respect, no desire to be other than a drone in a hive, if only he could, as a drone, get what honey was sufficient for him. Of honey, in his latter days, it may probably be presaged, that he will have but short allowance.
Such was the family of the Stanhopes, who, at this period, suddenly joined themselves to the ecclesiastical circle of Barchester close. Any stranger union, it would be impossible perhaps to conceive. And it was not as though they all fell down into the cathedral precincts hitherto unknown and untalked of. In such case no amalgamation would have been at all probable between the new comers and either the Proudie set or the Grantly set. But such was far from being the case. The Stanhopes were all known by name in Barchester, and Barchester was prepared to receive them with open arms. The doctor was one of the prebendaries, one of her rectors, one of her pillars of strength; and was, moreover, counted on, as a sure ally, both by Proudies and Grantlys.
He himself was the brother of one peer, and his wife was the sister of another--and both these peers were lords of whiggish tendency, with whom the new bishop had some sort of alliance. This was sufficient to give to Mr Slope high hope that he might enlist Dr Stanhope on his side, before his enemies could out-manoeuvre him. On the other hand, the old dean had many many years ago, in the days of the doctor's clerical energies, been instrumental in assisting him in his views as to preferment; and many many years ago also, the two doctors, Stanhope and Grantly, had, as young parsons, been joyous together in the common rooms of Oxford. Dr Grantly, consequently, did not doubt but that the new comer would range himself under his banners.
Little did any of them dream of what ingredients the Stanhope family was now composed.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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10
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MRS PROUDIE'S RECEPTION--COMMENCED
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The bishop and his wife had only spent three or four days in Barchester on the occasion of their first visit. His lordship had, as we have seen, taken his seat on his throne; but his demeanour there, into which it had been his intention to infuse much hierarchical dignity, had been a good deal disarranged by the audacity of his chaplain's sermon. He had hardly dared to look his clergy in the face, and to declare by the severity of his countenance that in truth he meant all that his factotum was saying on his behalf; nor yet did he dare throw Mr Slope over, and show to those around him that he was no party to the sermon, and would resent it.
He had accordingly blessed his people in a shambling manner, not at all to his own satisfaction, and had walked back to his palace with his mind very doubtful as to what he would say to his chaplain on the subject. He did not remain long in doubt. He had hardly doffed his lawn when the partner of all his toils entered his study, and exclaimed even before she had seated herself-- 'Bishop, did you ever hear a more sublime, more spirit-moving, more appropriate discourse than that?'
'Well, my love; ha-hum-he!' The bishop did not know what to say.
'I hope, my lord, you don't mean to say you disapprove?'
There was a look about the lady's eye which did not admit of my lord's disapproving at that moment. He felt that if he intended to disapprove, it must be now or never; but he also felt that it could not be now. It was not in him to say to the wife of his bosom that Mr Slope's sermon was ill-timed, impertinent and vexatious.
'No, no,' replied the bishop. 'No, I can't say I disapprove--a very clever sermon and very well intended, and I dare say will do a great deal of good.' This last praise was added, seeing that what he had already said by no means satisfied Mrs Proudie.
'I hope it will,' said she. 'I am sure it was well deserved. Did you ever in your life, bishop, hear anything so like play-acting as the way in which Mr Harding sings the litany? I shall beg Mr Slope to continue a course of sermons on the subject till all that is altered. We will have at any rate, in our cathedral, a decent, godly, modest morning service. There must be no more play-acting here now;' and so the lady rang for lunch.
This bishop knew more about cathedrals and deans, and precentors and church services than his wife did, and also more of the bishop's powers. But he thought it better at present to let the subject drop.
'My dear,' said he, 'I think we must go back to London on Tuesday. I find that my staying here will be very inconvenient to the Government.'
The bishop knew that to this proposal his wife would not object; and he also felt that by thus retreating from the ground of battle, the heat of the fight might be got over in his absence.
'Mr Slope will remain here, of course,' said the lady.
'Oh, of course,' said the bishop.
Thus, after less than a week's sojourn in his palace, did the bishop fly from Barchester; nor did he return to it for two months, the London season being then over. During that time Mr Slope was not idle, but he did not again assay to preach in the cathedral. In answer to Mrs Proudie's letters, advising a course of sermons, he had pleaded that he would at any rate wish to put off such an undertaking till she was there to hear them.
He had employed his time in consolidating a Proudie and Slope party--or rather a Slope and Proudie party, and he had not employed his time in vain. He did not meddle with the dean and chapter, except by giving them little teasing intimations of the bishop's wishes about this and the bishop's feelings about that, in a manner which was to them sufficiently annoying, but which they could not resent. He preached once or twice in a distant church in the suburbs of the city, but made no allusion to the cathedral service. He commenced the establishment of the 'Bishop of Barchester's Sabbath-day Schools,' gave notice of a proposed 'Bishop of Barchester Young Men's Sabbath Evening Lecture Room,'--and wrote three or four letters to the manager of the Barchester branch railway, informing him how anxious the bishop was that the Sunday trains should be discontinued.
At the end of two months, however, the bishop and the lady reappeared; and as a happy harbinger of their return, heralded their advent by the promise of an evening party on the largest scale. The tickets of invitation were sent out from London--they were dated from Bruton Street, and were dispatched by the odious Sabbath-breaking railway, in a huge brown paper parcel to Mr Slope. Everybody calling himself a gentleman, or herself a lady, within the city of Barchester, and a circle of two miles round it, was included. Tickets were sent to all the diocesan clergy, and also to many other persons of priestly note, of whose absence the bishop, or at least the bishop's wife, felt tolerably confident. It was intended, however, to be a thronged and noticeable affair, and preparations were made for receiving some hundreds.
And now there arose considerable agitation among the Grantleyites whether or not they would attend the bidding. The first feeling with them all was to send the briefest excuses both for themselves and their wives and daughters. But by degrees policy prevailed over passion. The archdeacon perceived that he would be making a false step if he allowed the cathedral clergy to give the bishop just ground of umbrage. They all met in conclave and agreed to go. The old dean would crawl in, if it were but for half an hour. The chancellor, treasurer, archdeacon, prebendaries, and minor canons would all go, and would take their wives. Mr Harding was especially bidden to go, resolving in his heart to keep himself removed from Mrs Proudie. And Mrs Bold was determined to go, though assured by her father that there was no necessity for such a sacrifice on her part. When all Barchester was to be there, neither Eleanor nor Mary Bold understood why they should stay away. Had they not been invited separately? And had not a separate little note from the chaplain couched in the most respectful language, been enclosed with the huge episcopal card?
And the Stanhopes would be there, one and all. Even the lethargic mother would so far bestir herself on such an occasion. They had only just arrived. The card was at the residence waiting for them. No one in Barchester had seen them; and what better opportunity could they have of showing themselves to the Barchester world? Some few old friends, such as the archdeacon and his wife, had called, and had found the doctor and his eldest daughter; but the elite of the family were not yet known.
The doctor indeed wished in his heart to prevent the signora from accepting the bishop's invitation; but she herself had fully determined that she would accept it. If her father was ashamed of having his daughter carried into a bishop's palace, she had no such feeling.
'Indeed, I shall,' she said to her sister who had greatly endeavoured to dissuade her, by saying that the company would consist wholly of parsons and parsons' wives. 'Parsons, I suppose, are much the same as other men, if you strip them of their black coats; and as to their wives, I dare say they won't trouble me. You may tell papa I don't mean to be left at home.'
Papa was told, and felt that he could do nothing but yield. He also felt that it was useless of him now to be ashamed of his children. Such as they were, they had become such under his auspices; as he had made his bed, so he must lie upon it; as he had sown his seed, so must he reap his corn. He did not indeed utter such reflections in such language, but such was the gist of his thoughts. It was not because Madeline was a cripple that he shrank from seeing her made one of the bishop's guests; but because he knew that she would practise her accustomed lures, and behave herself in a way that could not fail of being distasteful to the propriety of Englishwomen. These things had annoyed but not shocked him in Italy. There they had shocked no one; but here in Barchester, here among his fellow parsons, he was ashamed that they should be seen. Such had been his feelings, but he repressed them. What if his brother clergymen were shocked! They could not take it from his preferment because the manners of his married daughter were too free.
La Signora Neroni had, at any rate, no fear that she would shock anybody. Her ambition was to create a sensation, to have parsons at her feet, seeing that the manhood of Barchester consisted mainly of parsons, and to send, if possible, every parson's wife home with a green fit of jealousy. None could be too old for her, and hardly any too young. None too sanctified, and none too worldly. She was quite prepared to entrap the bishop himself, and then to turn up her nose at the bishop's wife. She did not doubt of success, for she had always succeeded; but one thing was absolutely necessary, she must secure the entire use of a sofa.
The card sent to Dr and Mrs Stanhope and family, had been sent in an envelope, having on the cover Mr Slope's name. The signora soon learnt that Mrs Proudie was not yet at the palace, and that the chaplain was managing everything. It was much more in her line to apply to him than to the lady, and she accordingly wrote to him the prettiest little billet in the world. In five lines she explained everything, declared how impossible it was for her not to be desirous to make the acquaintance of such persons as the bishop of Barchester and his wife, and she might add also of Mr Slope, depicted her own grievous state, and concluded by being assured that Mrs Proudie would forgive her extreme hardihood in petitioning to be allowed to be carried to a sofa. She then enclosed one of her beautiful cards. In return she received as polite an answer from Mr Slope--a sofa should be kept in the large drawing-room, immediately at the top of the grand stairs, especially for her use.
And now the day of the party had arrived. The bishop and his wife came down from town, only on the morning of the eventful day, as behoved such great people to do; but Mr Slope had toiled day and night to see that everything should be in right order. There had been much to do. No company had been seen in the palace since heaven knows when. New furniture had been required, new pots and pans, new cups and saucers, new dishes and plates. Mrs Proudie had first declared that she would condescend to nothing so vulgar as eating and drinking; but Mr Slope had talked, or rather written her out of economy! --bishops should be given to hospitality, and hospitality meant eating and drinking. So the supper was conceded; the guests, however, were to stand as they consumed it.
There were four rooms opening into each other on the first floor of the house, which were denominated the drawing-rooms, the reception-room, and Mrs Proudie's boudoir. In olden days one of these had been Bishop Grantly's bed-room, and another his common, sitting-room and study. The present bishop, however, had been moved down into a back parlour, and had been given to understand that he could very well receive his clergy in the dining-room, should they arrive in too large a flock to be admitted to his small sanctum. He had been unwilling to yield, but after a short debate had yielded.
Mrs Proudie's heart beat high as she inspected her suite of rooms. They were really very magnificent, or at least would be so by candlelight; and they had nevertheless been got up with commendable economy. Large rooms when full of people, and full of light look well, because they are large, and are full, and are light. Small rooms are those which require costly fittings and rich furniture. Mrs Proudie knew this, and made the most of it; she had therefore a huge gas lamp with a dozen burners hanging from each of the ceilings.
People were to arrive at ten, supper was to last from twelve to one, and at half-past one everybody was to be gone. Carriages were to come in at the gate in the town and depart at the gate outside. They were desired to take up at a quarter before one. It was managed excellently, and Mr Slope was invaluable.
At half-past nine the bishop and his wife and their three daughters entered the great reception-room, and very grand and very solemn they were. Mr Slope was down-stairs giving the last orders about the wine. He well understood that curates and country vicars with their belongings did not require so generous an article as the dignitaries of the close. There is a useful gradation in such things, and Marsala at 20s a dozen did very well for the exterior supplementary tables in the corner.
'Bishop,' said the lady, as his lordship sat himself down, 'don't sit on that sofa, if you please; it is to be kept separate for a lady.'
The bishop jumped up and seated himself on a cane-bottomed chair. 'A lady?' he inquired meekly; 'do you mean one particular lady, my dear?'
'Yes, bishop, one particular lady,' said his wife, disdaining to explain.
'She has got no legs, papa,' said the youngest daughter, tittering.
'No legs!' said the bishop, opening his eyes.
'Nonsense, Netta, what stuff you talk,' said Olivia. 'She has got legs, but she can't use them. She has always to be kept lying down, and three or four men carry her about everywhere.'
'Laws, how odd!' said Augusta. 'Always carried about by four men! I'm quite sure I wouldn't like it. Am I right behind, mama? I feel as if I was open;' and she turned her back to her anxious parent.
'Open! To be sure you are,' said she, 'and a yard of petticoat strings hanging out. I don't know why I pay such high wages to Mrs Richards, if she can't take the trouble to see whether or no you are fit to be looked at,' and Mrs Proudie poked the strings here, and twitched the dress there, and gave her daughter a shove and a shake, and then pronounced it all right.
'But,' rejoined the bishop, who was dying with curiosity about the mysterious lady and her legs, 'who is it that is to have the sofa? What is her name, Netta?'
A thundering rap at the front door interrupted the conversation. Mrs Proudie stood up and shook herself gently, and touched her cap on each side as she looked in the mirror. Each of the girls stood on tiptoe, and re-arranged the bows on their bosoms; and Mr Slope rushed up stairs three steps at a time.
'But who is it, Netta?' whispered the bishop to his youngest daughter.
'La Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni,' whispered back the daughter; 'and mind you don't let any one sit upon the sofa.'
'La Signora Madeline Vicinironi!' muttered, to himself, the bewildered prelate. Had he been told that the Begum of Oude was to be there, or Queen Pomara of the Western Isles, he could not have been more astonished. La Signora Madeline Vicinironi, who, having no legs to stand on, had bespoken a sofa in his drawing-room! --who could she be? He however could now make no further inquiry, as Dr and Mrs Stanhope were announced. They had been sent on out of the way a little before the time, in order that the signora might have plenty of time to get herself conveniently packed into the carriage.
The bishop was all smiles for the prebendary's wife, and the bishop's wife was all smiles for the prebendary. Mr Slope was presented, and was delighted to make the acquaintance of one of whom he had heard so much. The doctor bowed very low, and then looked as though he could not return the compliment as regarded Mr Slope, of whom, indeed, he had heard nothing. The doctor, in spite of his long absence, knew an English gentleman when he saw him.
And then the guests came in shoals; Mr and Mrs Quiverful and their three grown daughters. Mr and Mrs Chadwick and their three daughters. The burly chancellor and his wife and clerical son from Oxford. The meagre little doctor without encumbrance. Mr Harding with Eleanor and Miss Bold. The dean leaning on a gaunt spinster, his only child now living with him, a lady very learned in stones, ferns, plants, and vermin, and who had written a book about petals. A wonderful woman in her way was Miss Trefoil. Mr Finnie, the attorney, with his wife, was to be seen, much to the dismay of many who had never met him in a drawing-room before. The five Barchester doctors were all there, and old Scalpen, the retired apothecary and toothdrawer, who was first taught to consider himself as belonging to the higher orders by the receipt of the bishop's card. Then came the archdeacon and his wife, with their elder daughter Griselda, a slim pale retiring girl of seventeen, who kept close to her mother, and looked out on the world with quiet watchful eyes, one who gave promise of much beauty when time should have ripened it.
And so the room became full, and knots were formed, and every new comer paid his respects to my lord and passed on, not presuming to occupy too much of the great man's attention. The archdeacon shook hands very heartily with Dr Stanhope, and Mrs Grantly seated herself by the doctor's wife. And Mrs Proudie moved about with well regulated grace, measuring out the quantity of her favours to the quality of her guests, just as Mr Slope had been doing with the wine. But the sofa was still empty, and five-and-twenty ladies and five gentlemen had been courteously warned off it by the mindful chaplain.
'Why doesn't she come?' said the bishop to himself. His mind was so preoccupied with the signora, that he hardly remembered how to behave himself en bishop.
At last a carriage dashed up to the hall steps with a very different manner of approach from that of any other vehicle that had been there that evening. A perfect commotion took place. The doctor, who heard it as he was standing in the drawing-room, knew that his daughter was coming, and retired to the furthest corner, where he might not see her entrance. Mrs Proudie parked herself up, feeling that some important piece of business was in hand. The bishop was instinctively aware, that La Signora Vicinironi was come at last, and Mr Slope hurried to the hall to give his assistance.
He was, however, nearly knocked down and trampled on by the cortege that he encountered on the hall steps. He got himself picked up as well as he could, and followed the cortege up stairs. The signora was carried head foremost, her head being the care of her brother and an Italian man-servant who was accustomed to the work; her feet were in the care of the lady's maid and the lady's Italian page; and Charlotte Stanhope followed to see that all was done with due grace and decorum. In this manner they climbed easily into the drawing-room, and a broad way through the crowd having been opened, the signora rested safely on her couch. She had sent a servant beforehand to learn whether it was a right or a left hand sofa, for it required that she should dress accordingly, particularly as regarded her bracelets.
And very becoming her dress was. It was white velvet, without any other garniture than rich white lace worked with pearls across her bosom, and the same round the armlets of her dress. Across her brow she wore a band of red velvet, on the centre of which shone a magnificent Cupid in mosaic, the tints of whose wings were of the most lovely azure, and the colour of his chubby cheeks the clearest pink. On the one arm which her position required her to expose she wore three magnificent bracelets, each of different stones. Beneath her on the sofa, and over the cushion and head of it, was spread a crimson silk mantle or shawl, which went under her whole body and concealed her feet. Dressed as she was and looking as she did, so beautiful and yet so motionless, with the pure brilliancy of her white dress brought out and strengthened by the colour beneath it, with that lovely head, and those large bold bright staring eyes, it was impossible that either man or woman should do other than look at her.
Neither man nor woman for some minutes did do other.
Her bearers too were worthy of note. The three servants were Italian, and though perhaps not peculiar in their own country, were very much so in the palace at Barchester. The man, especially attracted notice, and created a doubt in the mind of some whether he were a friend or a domestic. The same doubt was felt as to Ethelbert. The man was attired in a loose-fitting common black cloth morning coat. He had a jaunty well-pleased clean face, on which no atom of beard appeared, and he wore round his neck a loose black silk neckhandkerchief. The bishop assayed to make him a bow, but the man, who was well-trained, took no notice of him, and walked out of the room, quite at his ease, followed by the woman and the boy.
Ethelbert Stanhope was dressed in light blue from head to foot. He had on the loosest possible blue coat, cut square like a shooting coat, and very short. It was lined with silk of azure blue. He had on a blue satin waistcoat, a blue handkerchief which was fastened beneath his throat with a coral ring, and very loose blue trousers which almost concealed his feet. His soft glossy beard was softer and more glossy than ever.
The bishop, who had made one mistake, thought that he also was a servant, and therefore tried to make way for him to pass. But Ethelbert soon corrected the error.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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11
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MRS PROUDIE'S RECEPTION--CONCLUDED
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'Bishop of Barchester, I presume?' said Bertie Stanhope, putting out his hand, frankly; 'I am delighted to make your acquaintance. We are in rather close quarters here, a'nt we?'
In truth they were. They had been crowded up behind the head of the sofa: the bishop in waiting to receive his guest, and the other in carrying her; and they now had hardly room to move themselves.
The bishop gave his hand quickly, and made a little studied bow, and was delighted to make--. He couldn't go on, for he did not know whether his friend was a signor, or a count, or a prince.
'My sister really puts you all to great trouble,' said Bertie.
'Not at all!' the bishop was delighted to have the opportunity of welcoming the Signora Vicinironi--so at least he said--and attempted to force his way round to the front of the sofa. He had, at any rate, learnt that his strange guests were brother and sister. The man, he presumed, must be Signor Vicinironi--or count, or prince, as it might be. It was wonderful what good English he spoke. There was just a twang of foreign accent, and no more.
'Do you like Barchester on the whole?' asked Bertie.
The bishop, looking dignified, said that he did like Barchester.
'You've not been here very long, I believe,' said Bertie.
'No--not long,' said the bishop, and tried again to make his way between the back of the sofa and a heavy rector, who was staring over it at the grimaces of the signora.
'You weren't a bishop before, were you?'
Dr Proudie explained that this was the first diocese he had held.
'Ah--I thought so,' said Bertie; 'but you are changed about sometimes, a'nt you?'
'Translations are occasionally made,' said Dr Proudie; 'but not so frequently as in former days.
'They've cut them all down to pretty nearly the same figure, haven't they?' said Bertie.
To this the bishop could not bring himself to make any answer, but again tried to move the rector.
'But the work, I suppose, is different?' continued Bertie. 'Is there much to do here at Barchester?' This was said exactly in the tone that a young Admiralty clerk might use in asking the same question of a brother acolyte in the Treasury.
'The work of a bishop of the Church of England,' said Dr Proudie, with considerable dignity, 'is not easy. The responsibility which he has to bear is very great indeed.'
'Is it?' said Bertie, opening wide his wonderful blue eyes. 'Well; I never was afraid of responsibility. I once thought of being a bishop myself.'
'Had thought of being a bishop?' said Dr Proudie, much amazed.
'That is, a parson--a parson first, you know, and a bishop afterwards. If I had once begun, I'd have stuck to it. But, on the whole, I like the Church of Rome the best.'
The bishop could not discuss the point, so he remained silent.
'Now, there's my father,' continued Bertie; 'he hasn't stuck to it. I fancy he didn't like saying the same thing so often. By the bye, bishop, have you seen my father?'
The bishop was more amazed than ever. Had he seen his father? 'No,' he replied; he had not yet had the pleasure; he hoped he might; and, as he said so, he resolved to bear heavy on that fat, immoveable rector, if ever he had the power of doing so.
'He's in the room somewhere,' said Bertie, 'and he'll turn up soon. By the bye, do you know much about the Jews?'
At last the bishop saw a way out. 'I beg your pardon,' said he; 'but I'm forced to go round the room.'
'Well--I believe I'll follow in your wake,' said Bertie. 'Terribly hot, isn't it?' This he addressed to the fat rector with whom he had brought himself into the closest contact. 'They've got this sofa into the worst possible part of the room; suppose we move it. Take care, Madeline.'
The sofa had certainly been so placed that those who were behind it found great difficulty in getting out;--there was but a narrow gangway, which one person could stop. This was a bad arrangement, and one which Bertie thought it might be well to improve.
'Take care, Madeline,' said he; and turning to the fat rector, added, 'Just help me with a slight push.'
The rector's weight was resting on the sofa, and unwittingly lent all its impetus to accelerate and increase the motion which Bertie intentionally originated. The sofa rushed from its moorings, and ran half-way into the middle of the room. Mrs Proudie was standing with Mr Slope in front of the signora, and had been trying to be condescending and sociable; but she was not in the very best of tempers; for she found that whenever she spoke to the lady, the lady replied by speaking to Mr Slope. Mr Slope was a favourite, no doubt; but Mrs Proudie had no idea of being less thought of than the chaplain. She was beginning to be stately, stiff, and offended, when unfortunately the castor of the sofa caught itself in her lace train, and carried away there is no saying how much of her garniture. Gathers were heard to go, stitches to crack, plaits to fly open, flounces were seen to fall, and breadths to expose themselves;--a long ruin of rent lace disfigured the carpet, and still clung to the vile wheel on which the sofa moved.
So, when a granite battery is raised, excellent to the eyes of warfaring men, is its strength and symmetry admired. It is the work of years. Its neat embrasures, its finished parapets, its casemated stories, show all the skill of modern science. But, anon, a small spark is applied to the treacherous fusee--a cloud of dust arises to the heavens--and then nothing is to be seen but dirt and dust and ugly fragments.
We know what was the wrath of Juno when her beauty was despised. We know too what storms of passion even celestial minds can yield. As Juno may have looked at Paris on Mount Ida, so did Mrs Proudie look on Ethelbert Stanhope when he pushed the leg of the sofa into her train.
'Oh, you idiot, Bertie!' said the signora, seeing what had been done, and what were the consequences.
'Idiot,' re-echoed Mrs Proudie, as though the word were not half strong enough to express the required meaning; 'I'll let him know -;' and then looking round to learn, at a glance, the worst, she saw that at present it behoved her to collect the scattered debris of her dress.
Bertie, when he saw what he had done, rushed over the sofa, and threw himself on one knee before the offended lady. His object, doubtless, was to liberate the torn lace from the castor; but he looked as though he were imploring pardon from a goddess.
'Unhand it, sir!' said Mrs Proudie. From what scrap of dramatic poetry she had extracted the word cannot be said; but it must have rested on her memory, and now seemed opportunely dignified for the occasion.
'I'll fly to the looms of the fairies to repair the damage, if you'll only forgive me,' said Ethelbert, still on his knees.
'Unhand it, sir!' said Mrs Proudie, with redoubled emphasis, and all but furious wrath. This allusion to the fairies was a direct mockery, and intended to turn her into ridicule. So at least it seemed to her. 'Unhand it, sir!' she almost screamed.
'It's not me; it's the cursed sofa,' said Bertie, looking imploringly in her face, and holding both his hands to show that he was not touching her belongings, but still remaining on his knees.
Hereupon the signora laughed; not loud, indeed, but yet audibly. And as the tigress bereft of her young will turn with equal anger on any within reach, so did Mrs Proudie turn upon her female guest.
'Madam,' she said--and it is beyond the power of prose to tell of the fire that flashed from her eyes.
By this time the bishop, and Mr Slope, and her three daughters were around her, and had collected together the wide ruins of her magnificence. The girls fell into circular rank behind their mother, and thus following her and carrying out the fragments, they left the reception-rooms in a manner not altogether devoid of dignity. Mrs Proudie had to retire to re-array herself.
As soon as the constellation had swept by, Ethelbert rose from his knees, and turning with mock anger to the fat rector, said: 'After all it was your doing, sir--not mine. But perhaps you are waiting for preferment, and so I bore it.'
Whereupon there was a laugh against the fat rector, in which both the bishop and the chaplain joined; and thus things got themselves again into order.
'Oh, my lord, I am so sorry for this accident,' said the signora, putting out her hand so as to force the bishop to take it. 'My brother is so thoughtless. Pray sit down, and let me have the pleasure of making your acquaintance. Though I am so poor a creature as to want a sofa, I am not so selfish as to require it all.' Madeline could always dispose herself so as to make room for a gentleman, though, as she declared, the crinoline of her lady friends was much too bulky to be so accommodated.
'It was solely for the pleasure of meeting you that I have had myself dragged here,' she continued. 'Of course, with your occupation, one cannot even hope that you should have time to come to us, that is, in the way of calling. And at your English dinner-parties all is so dull and so stately. Do you know, my lord, that in coming to England my only consolation has been the thought that I should know you;' and she looked at him with the look of a she-devil.
The bishop, however, thought that she looked very like an angel, and accepting the proffered seat, sat down beside her. He uttered some platitude as to this deep obligation for the trouble she had taken, and wondered more and more who she was.
'Of course you know my sad story?' she continued.
The bishop didn't know a word of it. He knew, however, or thought he knew, that she couldn't walk into a room like other people, and so made the most of that. He put on a look of ineffable distress, and said that he was aware how God had afflicted her.
The signora just touched the corner of her eyes with the most lovely of pocket-handkerchiefs. Yes, she said--she had been very sorely tried--tried, she thought, beyond the common endurance of humanity; but while her child was left to her, everything was left. 'Oh! My lord,' she exclaimed, 'you must see the infant--the last bud of a wondrous tree: you must let a mother hope that you will lay your holy hands on her innocent head, and consecrate her for female virtues. May I hope it?' said she, looking into the bishop's eye, and touching the bishop's arm with her hand.
The bishop was but a man, and said she might. After all, what was it but a request that he would confirm her daughter? --a request, indeed, very unnecessary to make, as he should do so as a matter of course, if the young lady came forward in the usual way.
'The blood of Tiberius,' said the signora, in all but a whisper; 'the blood of Tiberius flows in her veins. She is the last of the Neros!'
The bishop had heard of the last of the Visigoths, and had floating in his brain some indistinct idea of the last of the Mohicans, but to have the last of the Neros thus brought before him for a blessing was very staggering. Still he liked the lady: she had a proper way of thinking, and talked with more propriety than her brother. But who were they? It was now quite clear that that blue madman with the silky beard was not a Prince Vicinironi. The lady was married, and was of course one of the Vicinironis by right of the husband. So the bishop went on learning.
'When will you see her?' said the signora with a start.
'See whom?' said the bishop.
'My child,' said the mother.
'What is the young lady's age?' asked the bishop.
'She is just seven,' said the signora.
'Oh,' said the bishop, shaking his head; 'she is much too young--very much too young.'
'But in sunny Italy you know, we do not count by years,' and the signora gave the bishop one of her very sweetest smiles.
'But indeed, she is a great deal too young,' persisted the bishop; 'we never confirm before--' 'But you might speak to her; you might let her hear from your consecrated lips, that she is not a castaway because she is a Roman; that she may be a Nero and yet a Christian; that she may owe her black locks and dark cheeks to the blood of the pagan Caesars, and yet herself be a child of grace; you will tell her this, won't you, my friend?'
The friend said he would, and asked if the child could say her catechisms.
'No,' said the signora, 'I would not allow her to learn lessons such as those in a land ridden by priests, and polluted by the idolatry of Rome. It is here, here in Barchester, that she must first be taught to lisp those holy words. Oh, that you could be her instructor!'
Now, Dr Proudie certainly liked the lady, but, seeing that he was a bishop, it was not probable that he was going to instruct a little girl in the first rudiments of her catechism; so he said he'd send a teacher.
'But you will see her yourself, my lord?'
The bishop said he would, but where should he call.
'At papa's house,' said the signora, with an air of some little surprise at the question.
The bishop actually wanted the courage to ask her who was her papa; so he was forced at last to leave her without fathoming her mystery. Mrs Proudie, in her second best, had now returned to the rooms, and her husband thought it as well that he should not remain in too close conversation with the lady whom his wife appeared to hold in such slight esteem. Presently he came across his youngest daughter.
'Netta,' said he, 'do you know who is the father of that Signora Vicinironi?'
'It isn't Vicinironi, papa,' said Netta; 'but Vesey Neroni, and she's Dr Stanhope's daughter. But I must go and do the civil to Griselda Grantly; I declare nobody has spoken a word to the poor girl this evening.
Dr Stanhope! Dr Vesey Stanhope! Dr Vesey Stanhope's daughter, of whose marriage with a dissolute Italian scamp he now remembered to have heard something! And that impertinent blue cub who had examined him as to his episcopal bearings was old Stanhope's son, and the lady who had entreated him to come and teach her child the catechism was old Stanhope's daughter! The daughter of one of his own prebendaries! As these things flashed across his mind, he was nearly as angry as his wife had been. Nevertheless he could not but own that the mother of the last of the Neros was an agreeable woman.
Dr Proudie tripped out into the adjoining room, in which were congregated a crowd of Grantlyite clergymen, among whom the archdeacon was standing pre-eminent, while the old dean was sitting nearly buried in a huge armchair by the fire-place. The bishop was very anxious to be gracious, and, if possible, to diminish the bitterness which his chaplain had occasioned. Let Mr Slope do the fortiter in re, he himself would pour in the suaviter in modo.
'Pray don't stir, Mr Dean, pray don't stir,' he said, as the old man essayed to get up; 'I take it as a great kindness, your coming to such an omnium gatherum as this. But we have hardly got settled yet, and Mrs Proudie has not been able to see her friends as she would wish to do. Well, Mr Archdeacon, after all, we have not been so hard upon you at Oxford.'
'No,' said the archdeacon; 'you've only drawn our teeth and cut out our tongues; you've allowed us still to breathe and swallow.'
'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed the bishop; 'it's not quite so easy to cut out the tongue of an Oxford magnate,--and as for teeth,--ha, ha, ha! Why, in the way we've left the matter, it's very odd if the heads of colleges don't have their own way quite as fully as when the hebdomadal board was in all its glory; what do you say, Mr Dean?'
'An old man, my lord, never likes changes,' said the dean.
'You must have been sad bunglers if it is so,' said the archdeacon; 'and indeed, to tell the truth, I think you have bungled it. At any rate, you must own this; you have not done the half what you boasted you would do.'
'Now, as regards your system of professors--' began the chancellor slowly. He was never destined to get beyond the beginning.
'Talking of professors,' said a soft clear voice close behind the chancellor's elbow; 'how much you Englishmen might learn from Germany; only you are all too proud.'
The bishop looking round, perceived that abominable young Stanhope had pursued him. The dean stared at him, as though he was some unearthly apparition; so also did two or three prebendaries and minor canons. The archdeacon laughed.
'The German professors are men of learning,' said Mr Harding, 'but--' 'German professors!' groaned out the chancellor, as though his nervous system had received a shock which nothing but a week of Oxford air would cure.
'Yes,' continued Ethelbert; not at all understanding why a German professor should be contemptible in the eyes of an Oxford don. 'Not but what the name is best earned at Oxford. In Germany the professors do teach; at Oxford, I believe they only profess to do so, and sometimes not even that. You'll have those universities of yours about your ears soon, if you don't consent to take a lesson from Germany.'
There was no answering this. Dignified clergymen of sixty years of age could not condescend to discuss such a matter with a young man with such clothes and such a beard.
'Have you got good water out at Plumstead, Mr Archdeacon?' said the bishop by way of changing the conversation.
'Pretty good,' said the archdeacon.
'But by no means so good as his wine, my lord,' said a witty minor canon.
'Nor so generally used,' said another; 'that is for inward application.'
'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed the bishop, 'a good cellar of wine is a very comfortable thing in a house.'
'Your German professors, sir, prefer beer, I believe,' said the sarcastic little meagre prebendary.
'They don't think much of either,' said Ethelbert; 'and that perhaps accounts for their superiority. Now the Jewish professor -' The insult was becoming too deep for the spirit of Oxford to endure, so the archdeacon walked off one way and the chancellor another, followed by their disciples, and the bishop and the young reformer were left together on the hearth-rug.
'I was a Jew once myself,' said Bertie.
The bishop was determined not to stand another examination, or be led on any terms into Palestine; so he again remembered that he had to do something very particular, and left young Stanhope with the dean. The dean did not get the worst of it, for Ethelbert gave him a true account of his remarkable doings in the Holy Land.
'Oh, Mr Harding,' said the bishop, overtaking the ci-devant warden; 'I wanted to say one word about the hospital. You know, of course, that it is to be filled up.'
Mr Harding's heart beat a little, and he said that he had heard so.
'Of course,' continued the bishop; 'there can be only one man whom I could wish to see in that situation. I don't know what your own views may be, Mr Harding--' 'They are very simply told, my lord,' said the other; 'to take the place if it be offered me, and to put up with the want of it should another man get it.'
The bishop professed himself delighted to hear it; Mr Harding might be quite sure that no other man would get it. There were some few circumstances which would in a slight degree change the nature of the duties. Mr Harding was probably aware of this, and would, perhaps, not object to discuss the matter with Mr Slope. It was a subject to which Mr Slope had given a good deal of attention.
Mr Harding felt, he knew not why, oppressed and annoyed. What could Mr Slope do to him? He knew that there were to be changes. The nature of them must be communicated to the warden through somebody, and through whom so naturally as the bishop's chaplain. 'Twas thus that he tried to argue himself back to an easy mind, but in vain.
Mr Slope in the mean time had taken the seat which the bishop had vacated on the signora's sofa, and remained with that lady till it was time to marshal the folk to supper. Not with contented eyes had Mrs Proudie seen this. Had not this woman laughed at her distress, and had not Mr Slope heard it? Was she not an intriguing Italian woman, half wife and half not, full of affectation, airs, and impudence? Was she not horribly bedizened with velvet and pearls, with velvet and pearls, too, which had been torn off her back? Above all, did she not pretend to be more beautiful than her neighbours? To say that Mrs Proudie was jealous would give a wrong idea of her feelings. She had not the slightest desire that Mr Slope should be in love with herself. But she desired the incense of Mr Slope's spiritual and temporal services, and did not choose that they should be turned out of their course to such an object as Signora Neroni. She considered also that Mr Slope ought in duty to hate the signora; and it appeared from his manner that he was very far from hating her.
'Come, Mr Slope,' she said, sweeping by, and looking all that she felt; 'can't you make yourself useful? Do pray take Mrs Grantly down to supper.'
Mrs Grantly heard and escaped. The words were hardly out of Mrs Proudie's mouth, before the intended victim had stuck her hand through the arm of one of her husband's curates, and saved herself. What would the archdeacon have said had he seen her walking down stairs with Mr Slope?
Mr Slope heard also, but was by no means so obedient as was expected. Indeed, the period of Mr Slope's obedience to Mrs Proudie was drawing to a close. He did not wish yet to break with her, nor to break with her at all, if it could be avoided. But he intended to be master in that palace, and as she had made the same resolution, it was not improbable that they might come to blows.
Before leaving the signora he arranged a little table before her, and begged to know what he should bring her. She was quite indifferent, she said--nothing--anything. It was now she felt the misery of her position, now that she must be left alone. Well, a little chicken, some ham, and a glass of champagne.
Mr Slope had to explain, not without blushing for his patron, that there was no champagne.
Sherry would do just as well. And then Mr Slope descended with the learned Miss Trefoil on his arm. Could she tell him, he asked, whether the ferns of Barsetshire were equal to those of Cumberland? His strongest worldly passion was for ferns--and before she could answer him he left her wedged between the door and the sideboard. It was fifty minutes before she escaped, and even then unfed.
'You are not leaving us, Mr Slope,' said the watchful lady of the house, seeing her slave escaping towards the door, with stores of provisions held high above the heads of the guests.
Mr Slope explained that the Signora Neroni was in want of her supper.
'Pray, Mr Slope, let her brother take it to her,' said Mrs Proudie, quite out loud. 'It is out of the question that you should be so employed. Pray, Mr Slope, oblige me; I am sure Mr Stanhope will wait upon his sister.'
Ethelbert was most agreeably occupied in the furthest corner of the room, making himself both useful and agreeable to Mrs Proudie's youngest daughter.
'I couldn't get out, madam, if Madeline were starving for her supper,' said he; 'I'm physically fixed, unless I could fly.'
The lady's anger was increased by seeing that her daughter had gone over to the enemy; and when she saw, that in spite of her remonstrances, in the teeth of her positive orders, Mr Slope went off to the drawing-room, the cup of her indignation ran over, and she could not restrain herself. 'Such manners I never saw,' she said, muttering. 'I cannot, and will not permit it;' and then, after fussing and fuming for a few minutes, she pushed her way through the crowd, and followed Mr Slope.
When she reached the room above, she found it absolutely deserted, except for the guilty pair. The signora was sitting very comfortably up for her supper, and Mr Slope was leaning over her and administering to her wants. They had been discussing the merits of Sabbath-day schools, and the lady suggested that as she could not possibly go to the children, she might be indulged in the wish of her heart by having the children brought to her.
'And when shall it be, Mr Slope?' said she.
Mr Slope was saved the necessity of committing himself to a promise by the entry of Mrs Proudie. She swept close up to the sofa so as to confront the guilty pair, stared full at them for a moment, and then said as she passed on to the next room, 'Mr Slope, his lordship is especially desirous of your attendance below; you will greatly oblige me if you will join him.' And so she stalked on.
Mr Slope muttered something in reply, and prepared to go down stairs. As for the bishop's wanting him, he knew his lady patroness well enough to take that assertion at what it was worth; but he did not wish to make himself the hero of a scene, or to become conspicuous for more gallantry than the occasion required.
'Is she always like this?' said the signora.
'Yes--always--madam,' said Mrs Proudie, returning; 'always the same--always equally adverse to the impropriety of conduct of every description;' and she stalked back through the room again, following Mr Slope out of the door.
The signora couldn't follow her, or she certainly would have done so. But she laughed loud, and sent the sound of it ringing through the lobby and down the stairs after Mrs Proudie's feet. Had she been as active as Grimaldi, she could probably have taken no better revenge.
'But she's lame, Mrs Proudie, and cannot move. Somebody must have waited upon her.'
'Lame,' said Mrs Proudie; 'I'd lame her if she belonged to me. What business had she here at all? --such impertinence--such affectation.'
In the hall and adjacent rooms all manner of cloaking and shawling was going on, and the Barchester folk were getting themselves gone. Mrs Proudie did her best to smirk at each and every one, as they made their adieux, but she was hardly successful. Her temper had been tried fearfully. By slow degrees, the guests went.
'Send back the carriage quick,' said Ethelbert, as Dr and Mrs Stanhope took their departure.
The younger Stanhopes were left to the very last, and an uncomfortable party they made with the bishop's family. They all went into the dining-room, and then the bishop observing that the 'lady' was alone in the drawing-room, they followed him up. Mrs Proudie kept Mr Slope and her daughters in close conversation, resolving that he should not be indulged, nor they polluted. The bishop, in mortal dread of Bertie and the Jews, tried to converse with Charlotte Stanhope about the climate of Italy. Bertie and the signora had not resource but in each other.
'Did you get your supper at last, Madeline?' said the impudent or else mischievous young man.
'Oh, yes,' said Madeline; 'Mr Slope was so very kind to bring it me. I fear, however, he put himself to more inconvenience than I wished.'
Mrs Proudie looked at her, but said nothing. The meaning of her look might have been translated: 'If ever you find yourself within these walls again, I'll give you leave to be as impudent and affected, and as mischievous as you please.'
At last the carriage returned with the three Italian servants, and la Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni was carried out, as she had been carried in.
The lady of the palace retired to her chamber by no means contented with the result of her first grand party at Barchester.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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12
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SLOPE VERSUS HARDING
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Two or three days after the party, Mr Harding received a note, begging him to call on Mr Slope, at the palace, at an early hour the following morning. There was nothing uncivil in the communication, and yet the tone of it was thoroughly displeasing. It was as follows: "My dear Mr Harding, Will you favour me by calling on me at the palace to-morrow morning at 9.30am. The bishop wishes me to speak to you touching the hospital. I hope you will excuse my naming so early an hour. I do so as my time is greatly occupied. If, however, it is positively inconvenient to you, I will change it to 10. You will, perhaps, be kind enough to give me a note in reply.
"Believe me to be, My dear Mr Harding, Your assured friend, OBH. SLOPE "The Palace, Monday morning, "20th August, 185-" Mr Harding neither could nor would believe anything of the sort; and he thought, moreover, that Mr Slope was rather impertinent to call himself by such a name. His assured friend, indeed! How many assured friends generally fall to the lot of a man in this world? And by what process are they made? And how much of such process had taken place as yet between Mr Harding and Mr Slope? Mr Harding could not help asking himself these questions as he read and re-read the note before him. He answered it, as follows: "Dear Sir,--I will call at the palace to-morrow at 9.30 AM as you desire.
"Truly yours, S. HARDING" And on the following morning, punctually at half-past nine, he knocked at the palace door, and asked for Mr Slope.
The bishop had one small room allotted to him on the ground-floor, and Mr Slope had another. Into this latter Mr Harding was shown, and asked to sit down. Mr Slope was not yet there. The ex-warden stood up at the window looking into the garden, and could not help thinking how very short a time had passed since the whole of that house had been open to him, as though he had been a child of the family, born and bred in it. He remembered how the old servants used to smile as they opened the door to him; how the familiar butler would say, when he had been absent for a few hours longer than usual: 'A sight of you, Mr Harding, is good for sore eyes;' how the fussy housekeeper would swear that he couldn't have dined, or couldn't have breakfasted, or couldn't have lunched. And then, above all, he remembered the pleasant gleam of inward satisfaction which always spread itself over the old bishop's face, whenever his friend entered his room.
A tear came into his eyes as he reflected that all this was gone. What use would the hospital be to him now? He was alone in the world, and getting old; he would soon, very soon, have to go, and leave it all, as his dear old friend had gone;--go, and leave the hospital, and his accustomed place in the cathedral, and his haunts and pleasures, to younger and perhaps wiser men, in truth, the time for it had gone by. He felt as though the world were sinking from his feet; as though this, this was the time for him to turn with confidence to others. 'What,' said he to himself, 'can a man's religion be worth, if it does not support him against the natural melancholy of declining years?' and, as he looked out through his dimmed eyes into the bright parterres of the bishop's garden, he felt that he had the support which he wanted.
Nevertheless, he did not like to be thus kept waiting. If Mr Slope did not really wish to see him at half-past nine o'clock, why force him to come away from his lodgings with his breakfast in his throat? To tell the truth, it was policy on the part of Mr Slope. Mr Slope had made up his mind that Mr Harding should either accept the hospital with abject submission, or else refuse it altogether; and had calculated that he would probably be more quick to do the latter, if he could be got to enter upon the subject in all ill-humour. Perhaps Mr Slope was not altogether wrong in his calculation.
It was nearly ten when Mr Slope hurried into the room, and, muttering something about the bishop and diocesan duties, shook Mr Harding's hand ruthlessly, and begged him to be seated.
Now the airy superiority which this man assumed, did go against the grain of Mr Harding; and yet he did not know how to resent it. The whole tendency of his mind and disposition was opposed to any contra-assumption of grandeur on his own part, and he hadn't the worldly spirit or quickness necessary to put down insolent pretensions by downright and open rebuke, as the archdeacon would have done. There was nothing for Mr Harding but to submit and he accordingly did so.
'About the hospital, Mr Harding,' began Mr Slope, speaking of it as the head of college at Cambridge might speak of some sizarship which had to be disposed of.
Mr Harding crossed one leg over the other, and then one hand over the other on the top of them, and looked Mr Slope in the face; but he said nothing.
'It's to be filled up again,' said Mr Slope. Mr Harding said that he had understood so.
'Of course, you know, the income is very much reduced,' continued Mr Slope. 'The bishop wished to be liberal, and he therefore told the government that he thought it ought to be put at not less than L 450. I think on the whole the bishop was right; for though the service required will not be of a very onerous nature, they will be more so than they were before. And it is, perhaps, well that the clergy immediately attached to the cathedral town should be made comfortable to the extent of the ecclesiastical means at our disposal will allow. Those are the bishop's ideas, and I must say mine also.'
Mr Harding sat rubbing one hand on the other, but said not a word.
'So much for the income, Mr Harding. The house will, of course, remain to the warden as before. It should, however, I think be stipulated that he should paint inside every seven years, and outside every three years, and be subject to dilapidations, in the event of vacating either by death or otherwise. But this is a matter on which the bishop must yet be consulted.'
Mr Harding still rubbed his hands, and still sat silent, gazing up into Mr Slope's unprepossessing face.
'Then, as to duties,' continued he, 'I believe, if I am rightly informed, there can hardly be said to have been any duties hitherto,' and he gave a sort of half laugh, as though to pass off the accusation in the guise of a pleasantry.
Mr Harding thought of the happy, easy years he had passed in his old house; of the worn-out, aged men whom he had succoured; of his good intentions; and of his work, which had certainly been of the lightest. He thought of those things, doubting for a moment whether he did or did not deserve the sarcasm. He gave his enemy the benefit of the doubt, and did not rebuke him. He merely observed, very tranquilly, and perhaps with too much humility, that the duties of the situation, such as they were, had, he believed, been done to the satisfaction of the late bishop.
Mr Slope again smiled, and this time the smile was intended to operate against the memory of the late bishop, rather than against the energy of the ex-warden; and so it was understood by Mr Harding. The colour rose in his cheeks, and he began to feel very angry.
'You should be aware, Mr Harding, that things are a good deal changed in Barchester,' said Mr Slope.
Mr Harding said that he was aware of it. 'And not only in Barchester, Mr Harding, but in the world at large. It is not only in Barchester that a new man is carrying out new measures and casting away the useless rubbish of past centuries. The same thing is going on throughout the country. Work is now required from every man who receives wages; and they who have superintended the doing of the work, and the paying of the wages, are bound to see that this rule is carried out. New men, Mr Harding, are now needed, and are now forthcoming in the church, as well as in other professions.'
All this was wormwood to our old friend. He had never rated very high his own abilities or activity; but all the feelings of his heart were with the old clergy, and any antipathies of which his heart was susceptible, were directed against those new, busy uncharitable, self-lauding men, of whom Mr Slope was so good an example.
'By no means,' said Mr Slope. 'The bishop is very anxious that you should accept the appointment; but he wishes you should understand beforehand what will be the required duties. In the first place, a Sabbath-day school will be attached to the hospital.'
'What! For the old men?' asked Mr Harding.
'No, Mr Harding, not for the old men, but for the benefit of the children of such of the poor of Barchester as it may suit. The bishop will expect that you shall attend this school, and the teachers shall be under your inspection and care.'
Mr Harding slipped his topmost hand off the other, and began to rub the calf of the leg which was supported.
'As to the old men,' continued Mr Slope, 'and the old women who are to form part of the hospital, the bishop is desirous that you shall have morning and evening service on the premises every Sabbath, and one week-day service; that you shall preach to them once at least on Sundays; and that the whole hospital be always collected for morning and evening prayer. The bishop thinks that this will render it unnecessary that any separate seats in the cathedral should be reserved for the hospital inmates.'
Mr Slope paused, but Mr Harding still said nothing.
'Indeed, it would be difficult to find seats for the women; and, on the whole, Mr Harding, I may as well say at once, that for people of that class the cathedral service does not appear to me to be the most useful,--even if it be so for any class of people.'
'We will not discuss that, if you please,' said Mr Harding.
'I am not desirous of doing so; at least, not at the present moment. I hope, however, you fully understand the bishop's wishes about the new establishment of the hospital; and if, as I do not doubt, I shall receive from you an assurance that you will accord with his lordship's views, it will give me very great pleasure to be the bearer from his lordship to you of the presentation of the appointment.'
'But if I disagree with his lordship's views?' asked Mr Harding.
'But I hope you do not,' said Mr Slope.
'But if I do?' again asked the other.
'If such unfortunately should be the case, which I can hardly conceive, I presume your own feelings will dictate to you the propriety of declining the appointment.'
'But if I accept the appointment, and yet disagree with the bishop, what then?'
This question rather bothered Mr Slope. It was true that he had talked the matter over with the bishop, and had received a sort of authority for suggesting to Mr Harding the propriety of a Sunday school, and certain hospital services; but he had no authority for saying that those propositions were to be made peremptory conditions attached to the appointment. The bishop's idea had been that Mr Harding would of course consent, and that the school would become, like the rest of those new establishments in the city, under the control of his wife and his chaplain. Mr Slope's idea had been more correct. He intended that Mr Harding should refuse the situation, and that an ally of his own should get it; but he had not conceived the possibility of Mr Harding openly accepting the appointment, and as openly rejecting the condition.
'It is not, I presume, probable,' said he, 'that you will accept from the hands of the bishop a piece of preferment, with a fixed predetermination to disacknowledge the duties attached to it.'
'If I become warden,' said Mr Harding, 'and neglect my duty, the bishop has means by which he can remedy the grievance.'
'I hardly expected such an argument from you, or I may say the suggestion of such a line of conduct,' said Mr Slope, with a great look of injured virtue.
'Nor did I expect such a proposition.'
'I shall be glad at any rate to know what answer I am to make to his lordship,' said Mr Slope.
'I will take an early opportunity of seeing his lordship myself,' said Mr Harding.
'Such an arrangement,' said Mr Slope, 'will hardly give his lordship satisfaction. Indeed, it is impossible that the bishop should himself see every clergyman in the diocese on every subject of patronage that may arise. The bishop, I believe, did see you on the matter, and I really cannot see why he should be troubled to do so again.'
'Do you know, Mr Slope, how long I have been officiating as a clergyman in this city?' Mr Slope's wish was now nearly fulfilled. Mr Harding had become very angry, and it was probable that he might commit himself.
'I really do not see what that has to do with the question. You cannot think that the bishop would be justified in allowing you to regard as a sinecure a situation that requires an active man, merely because you have been employed for many years in the cathedral.'
'But it might induce the bishop to see me, if I asked him to do so. I shall consult my friends in this matter, Mr Slope; but I mean to be guilty of no subterfuge,--you may tell the bishop that as I altogether disagree with his views about the hospital, I shall decline the situation if I find that any such conditions are attached to it as those you have suggested;' and so saying, Mr Harding took his hat and went his way.
Mr Slope was contented. He considered himself at liberty to accept Mr Harding's last speech as an absolute refusal of the appointment. At least, he so represented it to the bishop and to Mrs Proudie.
'That is very surprising,' said the bishop.
'Not at all,' said Mrs Proudie; 'you little know how determined the whole set of them are to withstand your authority.'
'But Mr Harding was so anxious for it,' said the bishop.
'Yes,' said Mr Slope, 'if he can hold it without the slightest acknowledgement of your lordship's jurisdiction.'
'That is out of the question,' said the bishop.
'I should imagine it to be quite so,'said the chaplain.
'Indeed, I should think so,' said the lady.
'I really am sorry for it,' said the bishop.
'I don't know that there is much cause for sorrow,' said the lady. 'Mr Quiverful is a much more deserving man, more in need of it, and one who will make himself much more useful in the close neighbourhood of the palace.'
'I suppose I had better see Quiverful?' said the chaplain.
'I suppose you had,' said the bishop.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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13
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THE RUBBISH CART
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Mr Harding was not a happy man as he walked down the palace pathway, and stepped out into the close. His preferment and pleasant house were a second time gone from him; but that he could endure. He had been schooled and insulted by a man young enough to be his son; but that he could put up with. He could even draw from the very injuries, which had been inflicted on him, some of that consolation, which we may believe martyrs always receive from the injuries of their own sufferings, and which is generally proportioned in it strength to the extent of cruelty with which martyrs are treated. He had admitted to his daughter that he wanted the comfort of his old home, and yet he could have returned to his lodgings in the High Street, if not with exultation, at least with satisfaction, had that been all. But the venom of the chaplain's harangue had worked into his blood, and had sapped the life of his sweet contentment.
'New men are carrying out new measures, and are eating away the useless rubbish of past centuries.' What cruel words these had been; and how often are they now used with all the heartless cruelty of a Slope! A man is sufficiently condemned if it can only be shown that either in politics or religion he does not belong to some new school established within the last score of years. He may then regard himself as rubbish and expect to be carted away. A man is nothing now unless he has within him a full appreciation of the new era; an ear in which it would seem that neither honesty nor truth is very desirable, but in which success is the only touchstone of merit. We must laugh at every thing that is established. Let the joke be ever so bad, ever so untrue to the real principles of joking; nevertheless we must laugh--or else beware the cart. We must talk, think, and live up to the spirit of the times, and write up to it too, if that cacoethes be upon us, or else we are nought. New men and now measures, long credit and few scruples, great success and wonderful ruin, such are now the tastes of Englishmen who know how to live. Alas, alas! under the circumstances Mr Harding could not but feel that he was an Englishman who did not know how to live. This new doctrine of Mr Slope and the rubbish cart, new at least at Barchester, sadly disturbed his equanimity.
'The same thing is going on throughout the whole country!' 'Work is now required from every man who receives wages!' and had he been living all his life receiving wages and doing no work? Had he in truth so lived as to be now in his old age justly reckoned as rubbish fit only to be hidden away in some huge dust hole? The school of men to whom he professes to belong, the Grantlys, the Gwynnes, and the old high set of Oxford divines, are afflicted with no such self-accusations as these which troubled Mr Harding. They, as a rule, are as satisfied with the wisdom and propriety of their own conduct as can be any Mr Slope, or any Dr Proudie, with his own. But unfortunately for himself, Mr Harding had little of this self-reliance. When he heard himself designated as rubbish by the Slopes of the world, he had no other recourse than to make inquiry within his own bosom as to the truth of the designation. Alas, alas! the evidence seemed generally to go against him.
He had professed to himself in the bishop's parlour that in these coming sources of the sorrow of the age, in these fits of sad regret from which the latter years of few reflecting men can be free, religion would suffice to comfort him. Yes, religion could console him for the loss of any worldly good; but was his religion of that active sort which would enable him so to repent of misspent years as to pass those that were left to him in a spirit of hope for the future? And such repentance itself, is it not a work of agony and of tears? It is very easy to talk of repentance; but a man has to walk over hot ploughshares before he can complete it; to be skinned alive as was St Bartholomew; to be stuck full of arrows as was St Sebastian; to lie broiling on a gridiron like St Lorenzo! How if his past life required such repentance as this? had he the energy to go through with it?
Mr Harding after leaving the palace, walked slowly for an hour or so beneath the shady elms of the close, and then betook himself to his daughter's house. He had at any rate made up his mind that he would go out to Plumstead to consult Dr Grantly, and that he would in the first instance tell Eleanor what had occurred.
And now he was doomed to undergo another misery. Mr Slope had forestalled him at the widow's house. He had called there on the preceding afternoon. He could not, he had said, deny himself the pleasure of telling Mrs Bold that her father was about to return to the pretty house at Hiram's hospital. He had been instructed by the bishop to inform Mr Harding that the appointment would now be made at once. The bishop was of course only too happy to be able to be the means of restoring to Mr Harding the preferment which he had so long adorned. And then by degrees Mr Slope had introduced the subject of the pretty school which he had hoped before long to see attached to the hospital. He had quite fascinated Mrs Bold by his description of this picturesque, useful, and charitable appendage, and she had gone so far as to say that she had no doubt her father would approve, and that she herself would gladly undertake a class.
Anyone who had heard the entirely different tone, and seen the entirely different manner in which Mr Slope had spoken of this projected institution to the daughter and to the father, would not have failed to own that Mr Slope was a man of genius. He said nothing to Mrs Bold about the hospital sermons and services, nothing about the exclusion of the old men from the cathedral, nothing about dilapidation and painting, nothing about carting away the rubbish. Eleanor had said to herself that certainly she did not like Mr Slope personally, but that he was a very active, zealous, clergyman, and would no doubt be useful in Barchester. All this paved the way for much additional misery to Mr Harding.
Eleanor put on her happiest face as she heard her father on the stairs, for she thought she had only to congratulate him; but directly she saw his face, she knew that there was but little matter for congratulation. She had seen him with the same weary look of sorrow on one or two occasions before, and remembered it well. She had seen him when he first read that attack upon himself in the Jupiter, which had ultimately caused him to resign the hospital; and she had seen him also when the archdeacon had persuaded him to remain there against his own sense of propriety and honour. She knew at a glance that his spirit was in deep trouble.
'Oh, papa, what is it?' said she, putting down her boy to crawl upon the floor.
'I came to tell you, my dear,' said he, 'that I am going out to Plumstead: you won't come with me, I suppose?'
'To Plumstead, papa? Shall you stay there?'
'I suppose I shall tonight: I must consult the archdeacon about this weary hospital. Ah me! I wish I had never thought of it again.'
'Why, papa, what is the matter?'
'I've been with Mr Slope, my dear; and he isn't the pleasantest companion in the world, at least not to me.' Eleanor gave a sort of half blush; but she was wrong if she imagined that her father in any way alluded to her acquaintance with Mr Slope.
'Well, papa.'
'He wants to turn the hospital into a Sunday school and a preaching house; and I suppose he will have his way. I do not feel myself adapted for such an establishment, and therefore, I suppose, I must refuse the appointment.'
'What would be the harm of the school, papa?'
'The want of a proper schoolmaster, my dear.'
'But that would of course be supplied.'
'Mr Slope wishes to supply it by making me his schoolmaster. But as I am hardly fit for such work, I intend to decline.'
'Oh, papa! Mr Slope doesn't intend that. He was here yesterday, and what he intends--' 'He was here yesterday, was he?' asked Mr Harding.
'Yes, papa.'
'And talking about the hospital?'
'He was saying how glad he would be, and the bishop too, to see you back there again. And then he spoke about the Sunday school; and to tell the truth I agreed with him; and I thought you would have done so too. Mr Slope spoke of a school, not inside the hospital, but just connected with it, of which you would be the patron and visitor; and I thought you would have liked such a school as that; and I promised to look after it and to take a class--and it all seemed so very--. But, oh, papa! I shall be so miserable if I find that I have done wrong.'
'Nothing wrong at all, my dear,' said he, gently, very gently rejecting his daughter's caresses. 'There can be nothing wrong in your wishing to make yourself useful; indeed, you ought to do so by all means. Every one must now exert himself who would not choose to go to the wall.' Poor Mr Harding thus attempted in his misery to preach the new doctrine to his child. 'Himself or herself, it's all the same,' he continued, 'you will be quite right, my dear, to do something of this sort; but--' 'Well, papa.'
'I am not quite sure that if I were you I would select Mr Slope for my guide.'
'But I have never done so, and never shall.'
'It would be very wicked of me to speak evil of him, for to tell the truth I know no evil of him; but I am not quite sure that he is honest. That he is not gentleman-like in his manners, of that I am quite sure.'
'I never thought of taking him for my guide, papa.'
'As for myself, my dear,' continued he, 'we know the old proverb--"It's a bad thing teaching an old dog new tricks." I must decline the Sunday school, and shall therefore probably decline the hospital also. But I will first see your brother-in-law.' So he took up his hat, kissed the baby, and withdrew, leaving Eleanor in as low spirits as himself.
All this was a great aggravation to his misery. He had so few with whom to sympathise, that he could not afford to be cut off from the one whose sympathy was of the most value to him. And yet it seemed probable that this would be the case. He did not own to himself that he wished his daughter to hate Mr Slope; yet had she expressed such a feeling there would have been very little bitterness in the rebuke he would have given her for so uncharitable a state of mind. The fact, however, was that she was on friendly terms with Mr Slope, that she coincided with his views, adhered at once to his plans, and listened with delight to his teaching. Mr Harding hardly wished his daughter to hate the man, but he would have preferred that to her loving him.
He walked away to the inn to order a fly, went home to put up his carpet bag, and then started for Plumstead. There was, at any rate, no danger that the archdeacon would fraternise with Mr Slope; but then he would recommend internecine war, public appeals, loud reproaches, and all the paraphernalia of open battle. Now that alternative was hardly more to Mr Harding's taste than the other.
When Mr Harding reached the parsonage he found that the archdeacon was out, and would not be home till dinner-time, so he began his complaint to his elder daughter. Mrs Grantly entertained quite as strong an antagonism to Mr Slope as did her husband; she was also quite as alive to the necessity of combatting the Proudie faction, of supporting the old church interest of the close, of keeping in her own set much of the loaves and fishes as duly belonged to it; and was quite as well prepared as her lord to carry on the battle without giving or taking quarter. Not that she was a woman prone to quarrelling, or ill inclined to live at peace with her clerical neighbours; but she felt, as did the archdeacon, that the presence of Mr Slope in Barchester was an insult to every one connected with the late bishop, and that his assumed dominion in the diocese was a spiritual injury to her husband. Hitherto people had little guessed how bitter Mrs Grantly could be. She lived on the best of terms with all the rectors' wives around her. She had been popular with all the ladies connected with the close. Though much the wealthiest of the ecclesiastical matrons of the county, she had so managed her affairs that her carriage and horses had given umbrage to none. She had never thrown herself among the county grandees so as to excite the envy of other clergymen's wives. She had never talked too loudly of earls and countesses, or boasted that she gave her governess sixty pounds a year, or her cook seventy. Mrs Grantly had lived the life of a wise, discreet, peace-making woman; and the people of Barchester were surprised at the amount of military vigour she displayed as general of the feminine Grantlyite forces.
Mrs Grantly soon learnt that her sister Eleanor had promised to assist Mr Slope in the affairs of the hospital; and it was on this point that her attention soon fixed itself.
'How can Eleanor endure him?' said she.
'He is a very crafty man,' said her father, 'and his craft has been successful in making Eleanor think that he is a meek, charitable, good clergyman. God forgive me, if I wrong him, but such is not his true character in my opinion.'
'His true character, indeed!' said she, with something approaching scorn for her father's moderation. 'I only hope he won't have craft enough to make Eleanor forget herself and her position.'
'Do you mean marry him?' said he, startled out of his usual demeanour by the abruptness and horror of so dreadful a proposition.
'What is there so improbable in it? Of course that would be his own object if he thought he had any chance of success. Eleanor has a thousand a year entirely at her own disposal, and what better fortune could fall to Mr Slope's lot than the transferring of the disposal of such a fortune to himself?'
'But you can't think she likes him, Susan?'
'Why not?' said Susan. 'Why shouldn't she like him? He's just the sort of man to get on with a woman left as she is, with no one to look after her.'
'Look after her!' said the unhappy father; 'don't we look after her?'
'Ah, papa, how innocent you are! Of course it was to be expected that Eleanor should marry again. I should be the last to advise her against it, if she would only wait the proper time, and then marry at least a gentleman.'
'But you don't really mean to say that you suppose Eleanor has ever thought of marrying Mr Slope? Why, Mr Bold has only been dead a year.'
'Eighteen months,' said his daughter. 'But I don't suppose Eleanor has ever thought about it. It is very probable, though, that he has, and that he will try and make her do so; and that he will succeed too, if we don't take care what we are about.'
This was quite a new phase of the affair to poor Mr Harding. To have thrust upon him as his son-in-law, as the husband of his favourite child, the only man in the world whom he really positively disliked, would be a misfortune which he felt he would not know how to endure patiently. But then, could there be any ground for so dreadful a surmise? In all worldly matters he was apt to look upon the opinion of his eldest daughter, as one generally sound and trustworthy. In her appreciation of character, of motives, and the probable conduct both of men and women, she was usually not far wrong. She had early foreseen the marriage of Eleanor and John Bold; she had at a glance deciphered the character of the new bishop and his chaplain; could it possibly be that her present surmise should ever come forth as true?'
'But you don't think that she likes him,' said Mr Harding again.
'Well, papa, I can't say that I think she dislikes him as she ought to do. Why is he visiting there as a confidential friend, when he never ought to have been admitted inside the house? Why is it that she speaks to him of about your welfare and your position, as she clearly has done? At the bishop's party the other night, I saw her talking to him for half an hour at the stretch.'
'I thought Mr Slope seemed to talk to nobody there but that daughter of Stanhope's,' said Mr Harding, wishing to defend his child.
'Oh, Mr Slope is a cleverer man than you think of, papa, and keeps more than one iron in the fire.'
To give Eleanor her due, any suspicion as to the slightest inclination on her part towards Mr Slope was a wrong to her. She had no more idea of marrying Mr Slope than she had of marrying the bishop; and the idea that Mr Slope would present himself as a suitor had never occurred to her. Indeed, to give her her due again, she had never thought about suitors since her husband's death. But nevertheless it was true that she had overcome all that repugnance to the man which was so strongly felt for him by the rest of the Grantly faction. She had forgiven him his sermon. She had forgiven him his low church tendencies, his Sabbath schools, and puritanical observances. She had forgiven his pharisaical arrogance, and even his greasy face and oily vulgar manners. Having agreed to overlook such offences as these, why should she not in time be taught to regard Mr Slope as a suitor?
And as to him, it must be affirmed that he was hitherto equally innocent of the crime imputed to him. How it had come to pass that a man whose eyes were generally widely open to everything had not perceived that this young widow was rich as well as beautiful, cannot probably now be explained. But such was the fact. Mr Slope had ingratiated himself with Mrs Bold, merely as he had done with other ladies, in order to strengthen his party in the city. He subsequently attended his error; but it was not till after the interview with him and Mr Harding.
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{
"id": "2432"
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14
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THE NEW CAMPAIGN
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The archdeacon did not return to the parsonage till close upon the hour of dinner, and there was therefore no time to discuss matters before that important ceremony. He seemed to be in an especial good humour, and welcomed his father-in-law with a sort of jovial earnestness that was usual with him when things on which was intent were going on as he would have them.
'It's all settled, my dear,' said he to his wife as he washed his hands in his dressing-room, while she, according to her wont, sat listening in the bedroom; 'Arabin has agreed to accept the living. He'll be here next week.' And the archdeacon scrubbed his hands and rubbed his face with a violent alacrity, which showed that Arabin's coming was a great point gained.
'Will he come here to Plumstead?' said the wife.
'He has promised to stay a month with us,' said the archdeacon, 'so that he may see what his parish is like. You'll like Arabin very much. He's a gentleman in every respect, and full of good humour.'
'He's very queer, isn't he?' asked the wife.
'Well--he is a little odd in some of his fancies; but there's nothing about him you won't like. He is as staunch a churchman as there is at Oxford. I really don't know what we should do without Arabin. It's a great thing for me to have him so near me; and if anything can put Slope down, Arabin will do it.'
The Reverend Francis Arabin was a fellow of Lazarus, the favoured disciple of the great Dr Gwynne, a high churchman at all points; so high, indeed, that at one period of his career he had all but toppled over into the cesspool of Rome; a poet and also a polemical writer, a great pet in the common rooms at Oxford, an eloquent clergyman, a droll, odd, humorous, energetic, conscientious man, and, as the archdeacon had boasted of him, a thorough gentleman. As he will hereafter be brought more closely to our notice, it is now only necessary to add, that he had just been presented to the vicarage of St Ewold by Dr Grantly, in whose gift as archdeacon the living lay. St Ewold's is a parish lying just without the city of Barchester. The suburbs of the new town, indeed, are partly within its precincts, and the pretty church and parsonage are not much above a mile distant from the city gate.
St Ewold is not a rich piece of preferment--it is worth some three or four hundred a year, at most, and has generally been held by a clergyman attached to the cathedral choir. The archdeacon, however, felt, when the living on this occasion became vacant, that it imperatively behoved him to aid the force of his party with some tower of strength, if any such tower could be got to occupy St Ewold's. He had discussed the matter with his brethren in Barchester; not in any weak spirit as the holder of patronage to be used for his own or his family's benefit, but as one to whom was committed a trust, on the due administration of which much of the church's welfare might depend. He had submitted to them the name of Mr Arabin, as though the choice had rested with them all in conclave, and they had unanimously admitted that, if Mr Arabin would accept St Ewold's no better choice could possibly be made.
If Mr Arabin would accept St Ewold's! There lay the difficulty. Mr Arabin was a man standing somewhat prominently before the world, that is, before the Church of England world. He was not a rich man, it is true, for he held no preferment but his fellowship; but he was a man not over anxious for riches, not married of course, and one whose time was greatly taken up in discussing, both in print and on platforms, the privileges and practices of the church to which he belonged. As the archdeacon had done battle for its temporalities, so did Mr Arabin do battle for its spiritualities; and both had done so conscientiously; that is, not so much each for his own benefit as for that of others.
Holding such a position as Mr Arabin did, there was much reason to doubt whether he would consent to become the parson of St Ewold's, and Dr Grantly had taken the trouble to go himself to Oxford on the matter. Dr Gwynne and Dr Grantly together had succeeded in persuading this eminent divine that duty required him to go Barchester. There were wheels within wheels in this affair. For some time past Mr Arabin had been engaged in a tremendous controversy with no less a person than Mr Slope, respecting the apostolic succession. These two gentlemen had never seen each other, but they had been extremely bitter in print. Mr Slope had endeavoured to strengthen his cause by calling Mr Arabin an owl, and Mr Arabin had retaliated by hinting that Mr Slope was an infidel. This battle had been commenced in the columns of the daily Jupiter, a powerful newspaper, the manager of which was very friendly to Mr Slope's view of the case. The matter, however, had become too tedious for the readers of the Jupiter, and a little note had therefore been appended to one of Mr Slope's most telling rejoinders, in which it had been stated that no further letters from the reverend gentlemen could be inserted except as advertisements.
Other methods of publication were, however, found less expensive than advertisements in the Jupiter; and the war went on merrily. Mr Slope declared that the main part of the consecration of a clergyman was the self-devotion of the inner man to the duties of the ministry. Mr Arabin contended that a man was not consecrated at all, had, indeed, no single attribute of a clergyman, unless he became so through the imposition of some bishop's hands, who had become a bishop through the imposition of other hands, and so on in a direct line to one of the apostles. Each had repeatedly hung the other on the horns of a dilemma; but neither seemed to a whit the worse for the hanging; and so the war went on merrily.
Whether or no the near neighbourhood of the foe may have acted in any way as an inducement to Mr Arabin to accept the living of St Ewold, we will not pretend to say; but it had at any rate been settled in Dr Gwynne's library, at Lazarus, that he would accept it, and that he would lend his assistance towards driving the enemy out of Barchester, or, at any rate, silencing him while he remained there. Mr Arabin intended to keep his rooms at Oxford, and to have the assistance of a curate at St Ewold; but he promised to give as much time as possible to the neighbourhood of Barchester, and from so great a man Dr Grantly was quite satisfied with such a promise. It was no small part of the satisfaction derivable from such an arrangement that Dr Proudie would be forced to institute into a living, immediately under his own nose, the enemy of his favourite chaplain.
All through the dinner the archdeacon's good humour shone brightly in his face. He ate of the good things heartily, he drank wine with his wife and daughter, he talked pleasantly of his doings at Oxford, told his father-in-law that he ought to visit Dr Gwynne at Lazarus, and launched out again in praise of Dr Arabin.
'Is Mr Arabin married, papa?' asked Griselda.
'No, my dear; the fellow of a college is never married.'
'Is he a young man, papa?'
'About forty, I believe,' said the archdeacon.
'Oh!' said Griselda. Had her father said eighty, Mr Arabin would not have appeared to her to be very much older.
When the two gentlemen were left alone over their wine, Mr Harding told his tale of woe. But even this, sad as it was, did not much diminish the archdeacon's good humour, though it greatly added to his pugnacity.
'He can't do it,' said Dr Grantly over and over again, as his father-in-law explained to him the terms on which the new warden of the hospital was to be appointed; 'he can't do it. What he says is not worth the trouble of listening to. He can't alter the duties of the place.'
'Who can't?' asked the ex-warden.
'Neither can the bishop nor the chaplain, nor yet the bishop's wife, who, I take it, has really more to say to such matters than either of the other two. The whole body corporate of the palace together have no power to turn the warden of the hospital into a Sunday schoolmaster.'
'But the bishop has the power to appoint whom he pleases, and--' 'I don't know that; I rather think he'll find he has no such power. Let him try it, and see what the press will say. For once we shall have the popular cry on our side. But Proudie, ass as he is, knows the world too well to get such a hornet's nest about his ears.'
Mr Harding winced at the idea of the press. He had had enough of that sort of publicity, and was unwilling to be shown up a second time either as a monster or as a martyr. He gently remarked that he hoped the newspapers would not get hold of his name again, and then suggested that perhaps it would be better that he should abandon his object. 'I am getting old,' said he; 'and after all I doubt whether I am fit to undertake new duties.'
'New duties!' said the archdeacon: 'don't I tell you there shall be no new duties?'
'Or, perhaps, old duties either,' said Mr Harding; 'I think I will remain content as I am.' The picture of Mr Slope carting away the rubbish was still present to his mind.
The archdeacon drank off his glass of claret, and prepared himself to be energetic. 'I do hope,' said he, 'that you are not going to be so weak as to allow such a man as Mr Slope to deter you from doing what you know is your duty to do. You know that it is your duty to resume your place at the hospital now that parliament has so settled the stipend as to remove those difficulties which induced you to resign it. You cannot deny this; and should your timidity now prevent you from doing so, your conscience will hereafter never forgive you;' and as he finished this clause of his speech, he pushed over the bottle to his companion.
'Your conscience will never forgive you,' he continued. 'You resigned the place from conscientious scruples, scruples which I greatly respected, though I did not share them. All your friends respected them, and you left your old house as rich in reputation as you were ruined in fortune. It is now expected that you will return. Dr Gwynne was saying only the other day--' 'Dr Gwynne does not reflect how much older a man I am now than when he last saw me.'
'Old--nonsense!' said the archdeacon; 'you never thought yourself old till you listened to the impudent trash of that coxcomb at the palace.'
'I shall be sixty-five if I live till November,' said Mr Harding.
'And seventy-five if you live till November ten years,' said the archdeacon. 'And you bid fair to be as efficient then as you were ten years ago. But for heaven's sake let us have no pretence in this matter. Your plea of old age is only a pretence. But you're not drinking your wine. It is only a pretence. The fact is, you are half afraid of this Slope, and would rather subject yourself to comparative poverty and discomfort, than come to blows with a man who will trample on you, if you let him.'
'I certainly don't like coming to blows, if I can help it.'
'Nor I neither--but sometimes we can't help it. This man's object is to induce you to refuse the hospital, that he may put some creature of his own into it; that he may show his power, and insult us all by insulting you, whose cause and character are so intimately bound up with that of the chapter. You owe it to us all to resist him in this, even if you have no solicitude for yourself. But surely, for your own sake, you will not be so lily-livered as to fall into this trap which he has baited for you, and let him take the very bread out of your mouth without a struggle.'
Mr Harding did not like being called lily-livered, and was rather inclined to resent it. 'I doubt there is any true courage,' said he, 'in squabbling for money.'
'If honest men did not squabble for money, in this world of ours, the dishonest men would get it all; and I do not see that the cause of virtue would be much improved. No,--we must use the means which we have. If we were to carry your argument home, we might give away every shilling of revenue which the church has; and I presume you are not prepared to say that the church would be strengthened by such a sacrifice.' The archdeacon filled his glass and then emptied it, drinking with much reverence a silent toast to the well-being and permanent security of those temporalities which were so dear to his soul.
'I think all quarrels between a clergyman and his bishop should be avoided,' said Mr Harding.
'I think so too; but it is quite as much the duty of the bishop to look to that as of his inferior. I tell you what, my friend; I'll see the bishop in this matter, that is, if you will allow me; and you may be sure I will not compromise you. My opinion is, that all this trash about Sunday-schools and the sermons has originated wholly with Slope and Mrs Proudie, and that the bishop knows nothing about it. The bishop can't very well refuse to see me, and I'll come upon him when he has neither his wife nor his chaplain by him. I think you'll find that it will end in his sending you the appointment without any condition whatever. And as to the seats in the cathedral, we may safely leave that to Mr Dean. I believe the fool positively thinks that the bishop could walk away with the cathedral, if he pleased.'
And so the matter was arranged between them. Mr Harding had come expressly for advice, and therefore felt himself bound to take the advice given him. He had known, moreover, beforehand, that the archdeacon would not hear of his giving the matter up, and accordingly though he had in perfect good faith put forward his own views, he was prepared to yield.
They therefore went into the drawing-room in good humour with each other, and the evening passed pleasantly in prophetic discussion on the future wars of Arabin and Slope. The frogs had the mice would be nothing to them, nor the angers of Agamemnon and Achilles. How the archdeacon rubbed his hands, and plumed himself on the success of his last move. He could not himself descend into the arena with Slope, but Arabin would have no such scruples. Arabin was exactly the man for such work, and the only man whom he knew that was fit for it.
The archdeacon's good humour and high buoyancy continued till, when reclining on his pillow, Mrs Grantly commenced to give him her view of the state of affairs in Barchester. And then certainly he was startled. The last words he said that night were as follows:-- 'If she does, by heaven, I'll never speak to her again. She dragged me into the mire once, but I'll not pollute myself with such filth as that--' And the archdeacon gave a shudder which shook the whole room, so violently was he convulsed with the thought which then agitated his mind.
Now in this matter, the widow Bold was scandalously ill-treated by her relatives. She had spoken to the man three or four times, and had expressed her willingness to teach in a Sunday-school. Such was the full extent of her sins in the matter of Mr Slope. Poor Eleanor! But time will show.
The next morning Mr Harding returned to Barchester, no further word having been spoken in his hearing respecting Mr Slope's acquaintance with his younger daughter. But he observed that the archdeacon at breakfast was less cordial than he had been on the preceding evening.
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15
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THE WIDOW'S SUITORS
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Mr Slope lost no time in availing himself of the bishop's permission to see Mr Quiverful, and it was in his interview with this worthy pastor that he first learned that Mrs Bold was worth the wooing. He rode out to Puddingdale to communicate to the embryo warden the good will of the bishop in his favour, and during the discussion on the matter, it was unnatural that the pecuniary resources of Mr Harding and his family should become the subject of remark.
Mr Quiverful, with his fourteen children and his four hundred a year, was a very poor man, and the prospect of this new preferment, which was to be held together with his living, was very grateful to him. To what clergyman so circumstanced would not such a prospect be very grateful? But Mr Quiverful had long been acquainted with Mr Harding, and had received kindness at his hands, so that his heart misgave him as he thought of supplanting a friend at the hospital. Nevertheless, he was extremely civil, cringingly civil, to Mr Slope; treated him quite as the great man; entreated this great man to do him the honour to drink a glass of sherry, at which, as it was very poor Marsala, the now pampered Slope turned up his nose; and ended by declaring his extreme obligation to the bishop and Mr Slope, and his great desire to accept the hospital, if--if it were certainly the case that Mr Harding had refused it.
What man, as needy as Mr Quiverful, would have been more disinterested?
'Mr Harding did positively refuse it,' said Mr Slope, with a certain air of offended dignity, 'when he heard of the conditions to which the appointment is now subjected. Of course, you understand, Mr Quiverful, that the same conditions will be imposed on yourself.'
Mr Quiverful cared nothing for the conditions. He would have undertaken to preach any number of sermons Mr Slope might have chosen to dictate, and to pass every remaining hour of his Sundays within the walls of a Sunday school. What sacrifices, or, at any rate, what promises, would have been too much to make for such an addition to his income, and for such a house! But his mind still recurred to Mr Harding.
'To be sure,' said he; 'Mr Harding's daughter is very rich, and why should he trouble himself with the hospital?'
'You mean Mrs Grantly,' said Slope.
'I meant the widowed daughter,' said the other. 'Mrs Bold has twelve hundred a year of her own, and I suppose Mr Harding means to live with her.'
'Twelve hundred a year of her own!' said Slope, and very shortly afterwards took his leave, avoiding, as far as it was possible for him to do, any further allusion to the hospital. Twelve hundred a year, said he to himself, as he rode slowly home. If it were the fact that Mrs Bold had twelve hundred a year of her own, what a fool would he be to oppose her father's return to his old place. The train of Mr Slope's ideas will probably be plain to all my readers. Why should he not make the twelve hundred a year his own? And if he did so, would it not be well for him to have a father-in-law comfortably provided with the good things of this world? Would it not, moreover, be much more easy for him to gain his daughter, if he did all in his power to forward his father's views?
These questions presented themselves to him in a very forcible way, and yet there were many points of doubt. If he resolved to restore to Mr Harding his former place, he must take the necessary steps for doing so at once; he must immediately talk over the bishop, quarrel on the matter with Mrs Proudie whom he knew he could not talk over, and let Mr Quiverful know that he had been a little too precipitate as to Mr Harding's positive refusal. That he could effect all this, he did not doubt; but he did not wish to effect it for nothing. He did not wish to give way to Mr Harding, and then be rejected by the daughter. He did not wish to lose one influential friend before he had gained another.
And thus he rode home, meditating the many things in his mind. It occurred to him that Mrs Bold was sister-in-law to the archdeacon; and that not even for twelve hundred a year would he submit to that imperious man. A rich wife was a great desideratum to him, but success in his profession was still greater; there were, moreover, other rich women who might be willing to become wives; and after all, this twelve hundred a year might, when inquired into, melt away into some small sum utterly beneath his notice. Then also he remembered that Mrs Bold had a son.
Another circumstance also much influenced him, though it was one which may almost be said to have influenced him against his will. The vision of Signora Neroni was perpetually before his eyes. It would be too much to say that Mr Slope was lost in love, but yet he thought, and kept continually thinking, that he had never seen so beautiful a woman. He was a man whose nature was open to such impulses, and the wiles of the Italianised charmer had been thoroughly successful in imposing upon his thoughts. We will not talk of his heart: not that he had no heart, but because his heart had little to do with his present feelings. His taste had been pleased, his eyes charmed, and his vanity gratified. He had been dazzled by a sort of loveliness which he had never before seen, and had been caught by an easy, free, voluptuous manner which was perfectly new to him. He had never been so tempted before, and the temptation was now irresistible. He had not owned to himself that he cared for this woman more than for others around him; but yet he thought often of the time when he might see her next, and made, almost unconsciously, little cunning plans for seeing her frequently.
He had called at Dr Stanhope's house the day after the bishop's party, and then the warmth of his admiration had been fed with fresh fuel. If the signora had been kind in her manner, and flattering in her speech when lying upon the bishop's sofa, with the eyes of so many on her, she had been much more so in her mother's drawing-room, with no one present but her sister to repress either her nature or her art. Mr Slope had thus left her quite bewildered, and could not willingly admit into his brain any scheme, a part of which would be the necessity of abandoning all further special relationship with this lady.
And so he slowly rode along very meditative.
And here the author must beg it to be remembered that Mr Slope was not in all things a bad man. His motives, like those of most men, were mixed; and though his conduct was generally very different from that which we would wish to praise, it was actuated perhaps as often as that of the majority of the world by a desire to do his duty. He believed in the religion which he taught, harsh, unpalatable, uncharitable as that religion was. He believed those whom he wished to get under his hoof, the Grantlys and Gwynnes of the church, to be the enemies of that religion. He believed himself to be the pillar of strength, destined to do great things; and with that subtle, selfish, ambiguous sophistry to which the minds of all men are so subject, he had taught himself to think that in doing much for the promotion of his own interests he was doing much also for the promotion of religion. Mr Slope had never been an immoral man. Indeed, he had resisted temptations to immorality with a strength of purpose that was creditable to him. He had early in life devoted himself to works which were not compatible with the ordinary pleasures of youth, and he had abandoned such pleasures not without a struggle. It must therefore be conceived that he did not admit to himself that he warmly admired the beauty of a married woman without heartfelt stings of conscience; and to pacify that conscience, he had to teach himself that the nature of his admiration was innocent.
And thus he rode along meditative and ill at ease. His conscience had not a word to say against his choosing the widow and her fortune. That he looked upon as a godly work rather than otherwise; as a deed which, if carried through, would redound to his credit as a Christian. On that side lay no future remorse, no conduct which he might probably have to forget, no inward stings. If it should turn out to be really the fact that Mrs Bold had twelve hundred a year at her own disposal, Mr Slope would rather look upon it as a duty which he owed his religion to make himself the master of the wife and the money; as a duty, too, in which some amount of self-sacrifice would be necessary. He would have to give up his friendship with the signora, his resistance to Mr Harding, his antipathy--no, he found on mature self-examination, that he could not bring himself to give up his antipathy to Dr Grantly. He would marry the lady as the enemy of her brother-in-law, if such an arrangement suited her; if not, she must look elsewhere for a husband.
It was with such resolve as this that he reached Barchester. He would at once ascertain what the truth might be as to the lady's wealth, and having done this, he would be ruled by circumstances in his conduct respecting the hospital. If he found that he could turn round and secure the place for Mr Harding without much self-sacrifice, he would do so; but if not, he would woo the daughter in opposition to the father. But in no case would he succumb to the archdeacon.
He saw his horse taken round to the stable, and immediately went forth to commence his inquiries. To give Mr Slope his due, he was not a man who ever let much grass grow under his feet.
Poor Eleanor! She was doomed to be the intended victim of more schemes than one.
About the time that Mr Slope was visiting the vicar of Puddingdale, a discussion took place respecting her charms and wealth at Dr Stanhope's house in the close. There had been morning callers there, and people had told some truth and also some falsehood respecting the property which John Bold had left behind him. By degrees the visitors went, and as the doctor went with them, and as the doctor's wife had not made her appearance, Charlotte Stanhope and her brother were left together. He was sitting idly at the table, scrawling caricatures of Barchester notable, then yawning, then turning over a book or two, and evidently at a loss how kill some time without much labour.
'You haven't done much, Bertie, about getting any orders,' said his sister.
'Orders!' said he; 'who on earth is there at Barchester to give some orders? Who among the people here could possibly think it worth his while to have his head done into marble?'
'Then you mean to give up your profession,' said she.
'No, I don't,' said he, going on with some absurd portrait of the bishop. 'Look at that, Lotte; isn't it the little man all over, apron and all? I'd go on with my profession at once, as you call it, if the governor would set me up with a studio in London; but as to sculpture at Barchester--I suppose half the people here don't know what a torso means.'
'The governor will not give you a shilling to start you in London,' said Lotte. 'Indeed, he can't give you what would be sufficient, for he has not got it. But you might start yourself very well, if you pleased.'
'How the deuce am I to do it?' said he.
'To tell you the truth, Bertie, you'll never make a penny by any profession.'
'That's what I often think myself,' said he, not in the least offended. 'Some men have a great gift of making money, but they can't spend it. Others can't put two shillings together, but they have a great talent for all sorts of outlay. I begin to think that my genius is wholly in the latter line.'
'How do you mean to live then?' asked the sister.
'I suppose I must regard myself as a young raven, and look for heavenly manna; besides, we have all got something when the governor goes.'
'Yes--you'll have enough to supply yourself with gloves and boots; that is, if the Jews have not got the possession of it all. I believe they have the most of it already. I wonder, Bertie, at your indifference; that you, with your talents and personal advantages, should never try to settle yourself in life. I look forward with dread to the time when the governor must go. Mother, and Madeline, and I,--we shall be poor enough, but you will have absolutely nothing.'
'Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,' said Bertie.
'Will you take my advice?' said the sister.
'Cela depend,' said the brother.
'Will you marry a wife with money?'
'At any rate,' said he, 'I won't marry one without; wives with money a'nt so easy to get now-a-days; the parsons pick them all up.'
'And a parson will pick up the wife I meant for you, if you do not look quickly about it; the wife I mean is Mrs Bold.'
'Whew-w-w-w!' whistled Bertie, 'a widow!'
'She is very beautiful,' said Charlotte.
'With a son and heir already to my hand,' said Bertie.
'A baby that will very likely die,' said Charlotte.
'I don't see that,' said Bertie. 'But however, he may live for me--I don't wish to kill him; only, it must be owned that a ready-made family is a drawback.'
'There is only one after all,' pleaded Charlotte.
'And that a very little one, as the maid-servant said,' rejoined Bertie.
'Beggars mustn't be choosers, Bertie; you can't have everything.'
'God knows I am not unreasonable,' said he, 'nor yet opinionated; and if you'll arrange it for me, Lotte, I'll marry the lady. Only mark this: the money must be sure, and the income at my own disposal, at any rate for the lady's life.'
Charlotte was explaining to her brother that he must make love for himself if he meant to carry on the matter, and was encouraging him to so, by warm eulogiums on Eleanor's beauty, when the signora was brought into the drawing-room. When at home, and subject to the gaze of none but her own family, she allowed herself to be dragged about by two persons, and her two bearers now deposited her on the sofa. She was not quite so grand in her apparel as she had been at the bishop's party, but yet she was dressed with much care, and though there was a look of care and pain about her eyes, she, was, even by daylight, extremely beautiful.
'Well, Madeline; so I'm going to be married,' Bertie began, as soon as the servants had withdrawn.
'There's no other foolish thing left, that you haven't done,' said Madeline, 'and therefore you are quite right to try that.'
'Oh, you think it's a foolish thing, do you?' said he. 'There's Lotte advising me to marry by all means. But on such a subject your opinion ought to be the best; you have experience to guide you.'
'Yes, I have,' said Madeline, with a sort of harsh sadness in her tone, which seemed to say--What is it to you if I am sad? I have never asked your sympathy.
Bertie was sorry when he saw that she was hurt by what he said, and he came and squatted on the floor close before her face to make his peace with her.
'Come, Mad, I was only joking; you know that. But in sober earnest, Lotte is advising me to marry. She wants me to marry Mrs Bold. She's a widow with lots of tin, a fine baby, a beautiful complexion, and the George and Dragon hotel up in High Street. By Jove, Lotte, if I marry her, I'll keep the public house myself--it's just the life that suits me.'
'What?' said Madeline, 'that vapid swarthy creature in the widow's cap, who looked as though her clothes had been stuck on her back with a pitchfork!' The signora never allowed any woman to be beautiful.
'Instead of being vapid,' said Lotte, 'I call her a very lovely woman. She was by far the loveliest woman in the rooms the other night; that is, excepting you, Madeline.'
Even the compliment did not soften the asperity of the maimed beauty. 'Every woman is charming according to Lotte,' she said; 'I never knew an eye with so little true appreciation. In the first place, what woman on earth could look well in such a thing as that she had on her head?'
'Of course she wears a widow's cap; but she'll put that off when Bertie marries her.'
'I don't see any "of course" in it,' said Madeline. 'The death of twenty husbands should not make me undergo such a penance. It is as much a relic of paganism as the sacrifice of a Hindu woman at the burning of her husband's body. If not so bloody, it is quite as barbarous, and quite as useless.'
'But you don't blame her for that,' said Bertie. 'She does it because it's the custom of the country. People would think ill of her if she didn't do it.'
'Exactly,' said Madeline. 'She is just one of those English nonentities who would tie her head up in a bag for three months every summer, if her mother and her grandmother had tied up their heads before her. It would never occur to her, to think whether there was any use in submitting to such a nuisance.'
'It's very hard, in a country like England, for a young woman to set herself in opposition to the prejudices of that sort,' said the prudent Charlotte.
'What you mean is, that it's very hard for a fool not to be a fool,' said Madeline.
Bertie Stanhope had so much knocked about the world from his earliest years, that he had not retained much respect for the gravity of English customs; but even to his mind an idea presented itself, that, perhaps in a wife, true British prejudice would not in the long run be less agreeable than Anglo-Italian freedom from restraint. He did not exactly say so, but he expressed the idea in another way.
'I fancy,' said he, 'that if I were to die, and then walk, I should think that my widow looked better in one of those caps than any other kind of head-dress.'
'Yes--and you'd fancy also that she could do nothing better than shut herself up and cry for you, or else burn herself. But she would think differently. She'd probably wear one of those horrid she-helmets, because she'd want the courage not to do so; but she'd wear it with a heart longing for the time when she might be allowed to throw it off. I hate such shallow false pretences. For my part, I would let the world say what it pleased, and show no grief if I felt none;--and perhaps not, if I did.'
'But wearing a widow's cap won't lessen her fortune,' said Charlotte.
'Or increase it,' said Madeline. 'Then why on earth does she do it?'
'But Lotte's object is to make her put it off,' said Bertie.
'If it be true that she has got twelve hundred a year quite at her own disposal, and she be not utterly vulgar in her manners, I would advise you to marry her. I dare say she is to be had for the asking; and as you are not going to marry her for love, it doesn't much matter whether she is good-looking or not. As to your really marrying a woman for love, I don't believe you are fool enough for that.'
'Oh, Madeline!' cried her sister.
'And oh, Charlotte!' said the other.
'You don't mean to say that no man can love a woman unless he is a fool?'
'I mean very much the same thing,--that any man who is willing to sacrifice his interest to get possession of a pretty face is a fool. Pretty faces are to be had cheaper than that. I hate your mawkish sentimentality, Lotte. You know as well as I do in what way husbands and wives generally live together; you know how far the warmth of conjugal affection can withstand the trial of a bad dinner, of a rainy day, or of the least privation which poverty brings with it; you know what freedom a man claims for himself, what slavery he would exact from his wife if he could! And you know also how wives generally obey. Marriage means tyranny on one side and deceit on the other. I say that a man is a fool to sacrifice his interests for such a bargain. A woman, too generally, has no other way of living.'
'But Bertie has no other way of living,' said Charlotte.
'Then, in God's name, let him marry Mrs Bold,' said Madeline. And so it was settled between them.
But let the gentle-hearted reader be under no apprehension whatsoever. It is not destined that Eleanor shall marry Mr Slope or Bertie Stanhope. And here, perhaps, it may be allowed to the novelist to explain his views on a very important point in the art of telling tales. He ventures to reprobate that system which goes so far to violate all proper confidence between the author and his readers, by maintaining nearly to the end of the third volume a mystery as to the fate of their favourite personage. Nay, more, and worse than this, is too frequently done. Have not often the profoundest efforts of genius been used to baffle the aspirations of the reader, to raise false hopes and false fears, and to give rise to expectations which are never realised? Are not promises all but made of delightful horrors, in lieu of which the writer produces nothing but commonplace realities in his final chapter? And is there not a species of deceit in this to which the honesty of the present age should lend no countenance?
And what can be the worth of that solicitude which a peep into the third volume can utterly dissipate? What the value of those literary charms which are absolutely destroyed by their enjoyment? When we have once learnt what was the picture before which was hung Mrs Radcliffe's solemn curtain, we feel no further interest about either the frame or the veil. They are to us, merely a receptacle for old bones, and inappropriate coffin, which we would wish to have decently buried out of our sight.
And then, how grievous a thing it is to have the pleasure of your novel destroyed by the ill-considered triumph of a previous reader. 'Oh, you needn't be alarmed, for Augusta, of course, she accepts Gustavus in the end.' 'How very ill-natured you are, Susan,' says Kitty, with tears in her eyes; 'I don't care a bit about it now.' Dear Kitty, if you will read my book, you may defy the ill-nature of your sister. There shall be no secret that she can tell you. Nay, take the last chapter, if you please--learn from its pages all the results of our troubled story, and the story shall have lost none of its interest, if indeed, there be any interest in it to lose.
Our doctrine is, that the author and the reader should move along together in full confidence with each other. Let the personages of the drama undergo ever so completely a comedy of errors among themselves, but let the spectator never mistake the Syracusan for the Ephesian; otherwise he is one of the dupes, and the part of a dupe is never dignified.
I would not for the value of this chapter have it believed by a single reader that my Eleanor could bring herself to marry Mr Slope, or that she should be sacrificed to a Bertie Stanhope. But among the good folk of Barchester many believed both the one and the other.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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16
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BABY WORSHIP
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'Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum,' said, or sung Eleanor Bold.
'Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum,' continued Mary Bold, taking up the second part in the concerted piece.
The only audience at the concert was the baby, who however gave such vociferous applause, that the performers presuming it to amount to an encore, commenced again.
'Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum: hasn't he got lovely legs?' said the rapturous mother.
'H'm, 'm, 'm, 'm, 'm,' simmered Mary, burying her lips in the little fellow's fat neck, by way of kissing him.
'H'm, 'm, 'm, 'm, 'm,' simmered the mamma, burying her lips also in his fat round short legs. 'He's a dawty little bold darling, so he is; and he has the nicest little pink legs in all the world, so he has;' and the simmering and the kissing went on over again, and as though the ladies were very hungry, and determined to eat him.
'Well, then, he's his own mother's own darling: well, he shall--oh, oh,--Mary, Mary--did you ever see? What am I to do? My naughty, naughty, naughty little Johnny.' All these energetic exclamations were elicited by the delight of the mother in finding that her son was strong enough and mischievous enough, to pull all her hair out from under her cap. 'He's been and pulled down all mamma's hair, and he's the naughtiest, naughtiest, naughtiest little man that ever, ever, ever, ever, ever--' A regular service of baby worship was going on. Mary Bold was sitting on a low easy chair, with the boy in her lap, and Eleanor was kneeling before the object of her idolatry. As she tried to cover up the little fellow's face with her long, glossy, dark brown locks, and permitted him to pull them hither and thither, as he would, she looked very beautiful in spite of the widow's cap which she still wore. There was a quiet, enduring, grateful sweetness about her face, which grew so strongly upon those who knew her, as to make the great praise of her beauty which came from her old friends, appear marvellously exaggerated to those who were only slightly acquainted with her. Her loveliness was like that of many landscapes, which require to be often seen to be fully enjoyed. There was a depth of dark clear brightness in her eyes which was lost upon a quick observer, a character about her mouth which only showed itself to those with whom she familiarly conversed, a glorious form of head the perfect symmetry of which required the eyes of an artist for its appreciation. She had none of that dazzling brilliancy, of that voluptuous Rubens beauty, of that pearly whiteness, and those vermilion tints, which immediately entranced with the power of a basilisk men who came within reach of Madeline Neroni. It was all be impossible to resist the signora, but no one was called upon for any resistance towards Eleanor. You might begin to talk to her as though she were your sister, and it would not be till your head was on your pillow, that the truth and intensity of her beauty would flash upon you; that the sweetness of her voice would come upon your ear. A sudden half-hour with the Neroni, was like falling into a pit; an evening spent with Eleanor like an unexpected ramble in some quiet fields of asphodel.
'We'll cover him up till there shan't be a morsel of his little 'ittle, 'ittle, 'ittle nose to be seen,' said the mother, stretching her streaming locks over the infant's face. The child screamed with delight, and kicked till Mary Bold was hardly able to hold him.
At this moment the door opened, and Mr Slope was announced. Up jumped Eleanor, and with a sudden quick motion of her hands pushed back her hair over her shoulders. It would have been perhaps better for her that she had not, for she thus showed more of her confusion than she would have done had she remained as she was. Mr Slope, however, immediately recognised the loveliness, and thought to himself, that irrespective of her fortune, she would be an inmate that a man might well desire for his house, a partner for his bosom's care very well qualified to make care lie easy. Eleanor hurried out of the room to re-adjust her cap, muttering some unnecessary apology about her baby. And while she was gone, we will briefly go back and state what had been hitherto the results of Mr Slope's meditations on his scheme of matrimony.
His inquiries as to the widow's income had at any rate been so far successful as to induce him to determine to go on with the speculation. As regarded Mr Harding, he had also resolved to do what he could without injury to himself. To Mrs Proudie he determined not to speak on the matter, at least not at present. His object was to instigate a little rebellion on the part of the bishop. He thought that such a state of things would be advisable, not only in respect to Messrs Harding and Quiverful, but also in the affairs of the diocese generally. Mr Slope was by no means of the opinion that Dr Proudie was fit to rule, but he conscientiously thought it wrong that his brother clergy should be subjected to petticoat government. He therefore made up his mind to infuse a little of his spirit into the bishop, sufficient to induce him to oppose his wife, though not enough to make him altogether insubordinate.
He had therefore taken the opportunity of again speaking to his lordship about the hospital, and had endeavoured to make it appear that after all it would be unwise to exclude Mr Harding from the appointment. Mr Slope, however, had a harder task than he had imagined. Mrs Proudie, anxious to assume to herself as much as possible of the merit of patronage, had written to Mrs Quiverful, requesting her to call at the palace; and had then explained to that matron, with much mystery, condescension, and dignity, the good that was in store for her and her progeny. Indeed Mrs Proudie had been so engaged at the very time that Mr Slope had been doing the same with her husband at Puddingdale Vicarage, and had thus in a measure committed herself. The thanks, the humility, the gratitude, the surprise of Mrs Quiverful had been very overpowering; she had all but embraced the knees of her patroness; and had promised that the prayers of fourteen unprovided babes (so Mrs Quiverful had described her own family, the eldest of which was a stout young woman of three-and-twenty) should be put up to heaven morning and evening for the munificent friend whom God had sent to them. Such incense as this was not unpleasing to Mrs Proudie, and she made the most of it. She offered her general assistance to the fourteen unprovided babes, if, as she had no doubt, she should find them worthy; expressed a hope that the eldest of them would be fit to undertake tuition in her Sabbath schools, and altogether made herself a very great lady in the estimation of Mrs Quiverful.
Having done this, she thought it prudent to drop a few words before the bishop, letting him know that she had acquainted the Puddingdale family with their good fortune; so that he might perceive that he stood committed to the appointment. The husband well understood the rule of his wife, but he did not resent it. He knew that she was taking the patronage out of his hands; he was resolved to put an end to her interference, and re-assume his powers. But then he thought this was not the best time to do it. He put off the evil hour, as many a man in similar circumstances has done before him.
Such having been the case, Mr Slope, naturally encountered a difficulty in talking over the bishop, a difficulty indeed which he found could not be overcome except at the cost of a general outbreak at the palace. A general outbreak at the present moment might be good policy, but it also might not. It was at any rate not a step to be lightly taken. He began by whispering to the bishop that he feared the public opinion would be against him if Mr Harding did not reappear at the hospital. The bishop answered with some warmth that Mr Quiverful had been promised the appointment on Mr Slope's advice. 'Not promised!' said Mr Slope. 'Yes, promised,' replied the bishop, 'and Mrs Proudie has seen Mrs Quiverful on the subject.' This was quite unexpected on the part of Mr Slope, but his presence of mind did not fail him, and he turned the statement to his own account.
'Ah, my lord,' said he, 'we shall all be in scrapes if the ladies interfere.'
This was too much in unison with his lordship's feelings to be altogether unpalatable, and yet such an allusion to interference demanded a rebuke. My lord was somewhat astounded also, though not altogether made miserable, by finding that there was a point of difference between his wife and his chaplain.
'I don't know what you mean by interference,' said the bishop mildly. 'When Mrs Proudie heard that Mr Quiverful was to be appointed, it was not unnatural that she should wish to see Mrs Quiverful about the schools. I really cannot say that I see any interference.'
'I only speak, my lord, for your own comfort,' said Slope; 'for your own comfort and dignity in the diocese. I can have no other motive. As far as personal feelings go, Mrs Proudie is the best friend I have. I must always remember that. But still, in my present position, my first duty is to your lordship.'
'I am sure of that, Mr Slope, I am quite sure of that;' said the bishop mollified: 'and I really think that Mr Harding should have the hospital.'
'Upon my word, I am inclined to think so. I am quite prepared to take upon myself the blame of first suggesting Mr Quiverful's name. But since doing so, I have found that there is so strong a feeling in the diocese in favour of Mr Harding, that I think your lordship should give way. I hear also that Mr Harding has modified his objections he first felt to your lordship's propositions. And as to what has passed between Mrs Proudie and Mrs Quiverful, the circumstance may be a little inconvenient, but I really do not think that that should weigh in a matter of so much moment.'
And thus the poor bishop was left in a dreadfully undecided state as to what he should do. His mind, however, slightly inclined itself to the appointment of Mr Harding, seeing that by such a step, he should have the assistance of Mr Slope in opposing Mrs Proudie.
Such was the state of affairs at the palace, when Mr Slope called at Mrs Bold's house, and found her playing with her baby. When she ran out of the room, Mr Slope began praising the weather to Mary Bold, then he praised the baby and kissed him, and then he praised the mother, and then he praised Miss Bold herself. Mrs Bold, however, was not long before she came back.
'I have to apologise for calling at so very early an hour,' began Mr Slope, 'but I was really so anxious to speak to you that I hope you and Miss Bold will excuse me.'
Eleanor muttered something in which the words 'certainly', and 'of course', and 'not early at all', were just audible, and then apologised for her own appearance, declaring with a smile, that her baby was becoming such a big boy that he was quite unmanageable.
'He's a great bit naughty boy,' said she to the child; 'and we must sent him away to a great big rough romping school, where they have great big rods, and do terrible things to naughty boys who don't do what their own mammas tell them;' and she then commenced another course of kissing, being actuated thereto by the terrible idea of sending her child away which her own imagination had depicted.
'And where the masters don't have such beautiful long hair to be dishevelled,' said Mr Slope, taking up the joke and paying a compliment at the same time.
Eleanor thought he might as well have left the compliment alone; but she said nothing and looked nothing, being occupied as she was with the baby.
'Let me take him,' said Mary. 'His clothes are nearly off his back with his romping,' and so saying she left the room with the child. Miss Bold had heard Mr Slope say he had something pressing to say to Eleanor, and thinking that she might be de trop, took the opportunity of getting herself out of the room.
'Don't be long, Mary,' said Eleanor, as Miss Bold shut the door.
'I am glad, Mrs Bold, to have the opportunity of having ten minutes' conversation with you alone,' began Mr Slope. 'Will you let me openly ask you a plain question?'
'Certainly,' said she.
'And I am sure you will give me a plain and open answer.'
'Either that or none at all,' said she, laughing.
'My question is this, Mrs Bold; is your father really anxious to get back to the hospital?'
'Why do you ask me?' said she. 'Why don't you ask himself?'
'My dear Mrs Bold, I'll tell you why. There are wheels within wheels, all of which I would explain to you, only I fear there is not time. It is essentially necessary that I should have an answer to this question, otherwise I cannot know how to advance your father's wishes; and it is quite impossible that I should ask himself. No one can esteem your father more than I do, but I doubt if this feeling is reciprocal.' It certainly was not. 'I must be candid with you as the only means of avoiding ultimate consequences, which may be most injurious to Mr Harding. I fear there is a feeling, I will not even call it a prejudice, with regard to myself in Barchester, which is not in my favour. You remember the sermon--' 'Oh! Mr Slope, we need not go back to that,' said Eleanor.
'For one moment, Mrs Bold. It is not that I may talk of myself, but because it is so essential that you should understand how matters stand. That sermon may have been ill-judged,--it was certainly misunderstood; but I will say nothing about that now; only this, that it did give rise to a feeling against myself which your father shares with others. It may be that he has proper cause, but the result is that he is not inclined to meet me on friendly terms. I put it to yourself whether you do not know this to be the case.'
Eleanor made no answer, and Mr Slope, in the eagerness of his address, edged his chair a little nearer to the widow's seat, unperceived by her.
'Such being so,' continued Mr Slope, 'I cannot ask him this question as I can ask it of you. In spite of my delinquencies since I came to Barchester you have allowed me to regard you as a friend.' Eleanor made a little motion with her head which was hardly confirmatory, but Mr Slope if he noticed it, did not appear to do so. 'To you I can speak openly, and explain the feelings of my heart. This your father would not allow. Unfortunately the bishop has thought it right that this matter of the hospital should pass through my hands. There have been some details to get up with which he would not trouble himself, and thus it has come to pass that I was forced to have an interview with your father on the matter.'
'I am aware of that,' said Eleanor.
'Of course,' said he. 'In that interview Mr Harding left the impression on my mind that he did not wish to return to the hospital.'
'How could that be?' said Eleanor, at last stirred up to forget the cold propriety of demeanour which she had determined to maintain.
'My dear Mrs Bold, I give you my word that such was the case,' said he, again getting a little nearer to her. 'And what is more than that, before my interview with Mr Harding, certain persons at the palace, I do not mean the bishop, had told me that such was the fact. I own, I hardly believed it; I own, I thought that your father would wish on every account, for conscience' sake, for the sake of those old men, for old association, and the memory of dear days gone by, on every account I thought that he would wish to resume his duties. But I was told that such was not his wish; and he certainly left me with the impression that I had been told the truth.'
'Well!' said Eleanor, now sufficiently roused on the matter.
'I fear Miss Bold's step,' said Mr Slope, 'would it be asking too great a favour to beg you to--I know you can manage anything with Miss Bold.'
Eleanor did not like the word manage, but still she went out, and asked Mary to leave them alone for another quarter of an hour.
'Thank you, Mrs Bold,--I am so very grateful for this confidence. Well, I left your father with this impression. Indeed, I may say that he made me understand that he declined the appointment.'
'Not the appointment,' said Eleanor. 'I am sure he did not decline the appointment. But he said that he would not agree,--that is, that he did not like the scheme about the schools, and the services, and all that. I am quite sure he never said he wished to refuse the place.'
'Oh, Mrs Bold!' said Mr Slope, in a manner almost impassioned. 'I would not, for the world, say to so good a daughter a word against so good a father. But you must, for his sake, let me show you exactly how the matter stands at present. Mr Harding was a little flurried when I told him of the bishop's wishes about the school. I did so, perhaps, with less caution because you yourself had so perfectly agreed with me on the same subject. He was a little put out and spoke warmly. "Tell the bishop," said he, "that I quite disagree with him,--and shall not return to the hospital as such conditions are attached to it." What he said was to that effect; indeed, his words were, if anything, stronger than those. I had no alternative but to repeat them to his lordship, who said that he could look on them in no other light than a refusal. He also had heard the report that your father did not wish for the appointment, and putting all these things together, he thought he had not choice but to look for some one else. He has consequently offered the place to Mr Quiverful.'
'Offered the place to Mr Quiverful!' repeated Eleanor, her eyes suffused with tears. 'Then, Mr Slope, there is an end of it.'
'No, my friend--not so,' said he. 'It is to prevent such being the end of it that I am now here. I may at any rate presume that I have got an answer to my question, and that Mr Harding is desirous of returning.'
'Desirous of returning--of course he is,' said Eleanor; 'of course he wishes to have back his house and his income, and his place in the world; to have back what he gave up with such self-denying honesty, if he can have them without restraints on his conduct to what at his age it would be impossible that he should submit. How can the bishop ask a man of his age to turn schoolmaster to a pack of children?'
'Out of the question,' said Mr Slope, laughing slightly; 'of course no such demand shall be made on your father. I can at any rate promise you that I will not be the medium of any so absurd a requisition. We wished your father to preach in the hospital, as the inmates may naturally be too old to leave it; but even that shall not be insisted on. We wished also to attach a Sabbath-day school to the hospital, thinking that such an establishment could not but be useful under the surveillance of so good a clergyman as Mr Harding, and also under your own. But, dear Mrs Bold; we won't talk of those things now. One thing is clear; we mustdo what we can to annul this rash offer the bishop made to Mr Quiverful. Your father wouldn't see Quiverful, would he? Quiverful is an honourable man, and would not, for a moment, stand in your father's way.'
'What?' said Eleanor; 'ask a man with fourteen children to give up his preferment! I am quite sure he will do no such thing.'
'I suppose not,' said Slope; and he again drew near to Mrs Bold, so that now they were very close to each other. Eleanor did not think much about it, but instinctively moved away a little. How greatly would she have increased the distance could he have guessed what had been said about her at Plumstead! 'I suppose not. But it is out of the question that Quiverful should supersede your father--quite out of the question. The bishop has been too rash. An idea occurs to me, which may, perhaps, with God's blessing, put us right. My dear Mrs Bold, would you object to seeing the bishop yourself?'
'Why should not my father see him?' said Eleanor. She had once before in her life interfered with her father's affairs, and then not to much advantage. She was older now, and felt that she should take no step in a matter so vital to him without his consent.
'Why, to tell the truth,' said Mr Slope, with a look of sorrow, as though he greatly bewailed the want of charity in his patron, 'the bishop fancies he has cause of anger against your father. I fear an interview would lead to further ill will.'
'Why,' said Eleanor, 'my father is the mildest, the gentlest man living.'
'I only know,' said Slope, 'that he has the best of daughters. So you would not see the bishop? As to getting an interview, I could manage that for you without the slightest annoyance to yourself.'
'I could do nothing, Mr Slope, without consulting my father.'
'Ah!' said he, 'that would be useless; you would then only be your father's messenger. Does anything occur to yourself? Something must be done. Your father shall not be ruined by so ridiculous a misunderstanding.'
Eleanor said that nothing occurred to her, but that it was very hard; and the tears came to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Mr Slope would have given much to have had the privilege of drying them; but he had tact enough to know that he had still a great deal to do before he could even hope for any privilege with Mrs Bold.
'It cuts me to the heart to see you so grieved,' said he. 'But pray let me assure you that your father's interests shall not be sacrificed if it be possible for me to protect them. I will tell the bishop openly what are the facts. I will explain to him that he has hardly the right to appoint any other than your father, and will show him that if he does so he will be guilty of great injustice--and you, Mrs Bold, you will have the charity at any rate to believe this of me, that I am truly anxious for your father's welfare,--for his and for your own.'
The widow hardly knew what answer to make. She was quite aware that her father would not be at all thankful to Mr Slope; she had a strong wish to share her father's feelings; and yet she could not but acknowledge that Mr Slope was very kind. Her father, who was generally charitable to all men, who seldom spoke ill of any one, had warned against Mr Slope, and yet she did not know how to abstain from thanking him. What interest could he have in the matter but that which he professed? Nevertheless there was that in his manner which even she distrusted. She felt, and she did not know why, that there was something about him which ought to put her on her guard.
Mr Slope read all this in her hesitating manner just as plainly as though she had opened her heart to him. It was the talent of the man that he could so read the inward feelings of women with whom he conversed. He knew that Eleanor was doubting him, and that if she thanked him she would only do so because she could not help it; but yet this did not make him angry or even annoy him. Rome was not built in a day.
'I did not come for thanks,' continued he, seeing her hesitation; 'and do not want them--at any rate before they are merited. But this I do want, Mrs Bold, that I may make myself friends in this fold to which it has pleased God to call me as one of the humblest of his shepherds. If I cannot do so, my task here must indeed be a sad one. I will at any rate endeavour to deserve them.'
'I'm sure,' said she, 'you will soon make plenty of friends.' She felt herself obliged to say something.
'That will be nothing unless they are such as will sympathise with my feelings; unless they are such as I can reverence and admire--and love. If the best and purest turn away from me, I cannot bring myself to be satisfied with the friendship of the less estimable. In such case I must live alone.'
'Oh! I'm sure you will not do that, Mr Slope.' Eleanor meant nothing, but it suited him to appear that some special allusion had been intended.
'Indeed, Mrs Bold, I shall live alone, quite alone as far as the heart is concerned, if those with whom I yearn to ally myself turn away from me. But enough of this; I have called you my friend, and I hope you will not contradict me. I trust the time may come when I may also call your father so. My God bless you, Mrs Bold, you and your darling boy. And tell your father from me that what can be done for his interest shall be done.'
And so he took his leave, pressing the widow's hand rather more closely than usual. Circumstances, however, seemed just then to make this intelligible, and the lady did not feel called on to resent it.
'I cannot understand him,' said Eleanor to Mary Bold, a few minutes afterwards. 'I do not know whether he is a good man or a bad man--whether he is true or false.'
'Then give him the benefit of the doubt,' said Mary, 'and believe the best.'
'On the whole I think I do,' said Eleanor. 'I think I do believe that he means well--and if so, it is a shame that we should revile him, and make him miserable while he is among us. But, oh Mary, I fear papa will be disappointed in the hospital.'
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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17
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WHO SHALL BE COCK OF THE WALK?
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All this time things were going on somewhat uneasily at the palace. The hint or two which Mr Slope had given was by no means thrown away upon the bishop. He had a feeling that if he ever meant to oppose the now almost unendurable despotism of his wife, he must lose no further time in doing so; that if he even meant to be himself master in his own diocese, let alone his own house, he should begin at once. It would have been easier to have done so from the day of his consecration than now, but easier now than when Mrs Proudie should have succeeded in thoroughly mastering the diocesan details. Then the proffered assistance of Mr Slope was a great thing for him, a most unexpected and invaluable aid. Hitherto he had looked on the two as allied forces; and had considered that as allied they were impregnable. He had begun to believe that his only chance of escape would be by the advancement of Mr Slope to some distant and rich preferment. But now it seemed that one of his enemies, certainly the least potent of them, but nevertheless one very important, was willing to desert his own camp. He walked up and down his little study, almost thinking that the time had come when he would be able to appropriate to his own use the big room upstairs, in which his predecessor had always sat.
As he resolved these things in his mind a note was brought to him from Archdeacon Grantly, in which that divine begged his lordship to do him the honour of seeing him on the morrow--would his lordship have the kindness to name the hour? Dr Grantly's proposed visit would have reference to the re-appointment of Mr Harding to the wardenship of Hiram's hospital. The bishop having read this note was informed that the archdeacon's servant was waiting for an answer.
Here at once a great opportunity offered itself to the bishop of acting on his own responsibility. He bethought himself of his new ally, and rang the bell for Mr Slope. It turned out that Mr Slope was not in the house; and then, greatly daring, the bishop with his own unassisted spirit wrote a note to the archdeacon saying that he would see him, and naming the hour for doing so. Having watched from his study-window that the messenger got safely off the premises with this despatch, he began to turn over in his mind what step he should next take.
To-morrow he would have to declare to the archdeacon either that Mr Harding should have the appointment, or that he should not have it. The bishop felt that he could not honestly throw over Mr Quiverful without informing Mrs Proudie, and he resolved at last to brave the lioness in her own den and tell her that circumstances were such that it behoved him to reappoint Mr Harding. He did not feel that he should at all derogate from his new courage by promising Mrs Proudie that the very first piece of available preferment at his disposal should be given to Quiverful to atone for the injury done to him. If he could mollify the lioness with such a sop, how happy would he think his first efforts had been?
Not without many misgivings did he find himself in Mrs Proudie's boudoir. He had at first thought of sending for her. But it was not at all impossible that she might choose to take such a message amiss, and then also it might be some protection to him to have his daughters present at the interview. He found her sitting with her account books before her nibbling the end of her pencil evidently mersed in pecuniary difficulties, and harassed in mind by the multiplicity of palatial expenses, and the heavy cost of episcopal grandeur. Her daughters were around her. Olivia was reading a novel, Augusta was crossing a note to her bosom friend in Baker Street, and Netta was working diminutive coach wheels for the bottom of a petticoat. If the bishop could get the better of his wife in her present mood, he would be a man indeed. He might then consider victory his own for ever. After all, in such cases the matter between husband and wife stands much the same as it does between two boys at the same school, two cocks in the same yard, or two armies on the same continent. The conqueror once is generally the conqueror for ever after. The prestige of victory is everything.
'Ahem--my dear,' began the bishop, 'if you are disengaged, I wished to speak to you.' Mrs Proudie put her pencil down carefully at the point to which she had dotted her figures, marked down in her memory the sum she had arrived at, and then looked up, sourly enough, into her helpmate's face. 'If you are busy, another time will do as well,' continued the bishop, whose courage like Bob Acres' had oozed out, now that he found himself on the ground of battle.
'What is it about, bishop?' asked the lady.
'Well--it was about those Quiverfuls--but I see you are engaged. Another time will do just as well for me.'
'What about the Quiverfuls? It is quite understood I believe, that they are to come to the hospital. There is to be no doubt about that, is there?' And as she spoke she kept her pencil sternly and vigorously fixed on the column of figures before her.
'Why, my dear, there is a difficulty,' said the bishop.
'A difficulty!' said Mrs Proudie, 'What difficulty? The place has been promised to Mr Quiverful, and of course he must have it. He has made all his arrangements. He has written for a curate for Puddingdale, he has spoken to the auctioneer about selling his farm, horses, and cows, and in all respects considers the place as his own. Of course he must have it.'
Now, bishop, look well to thyself, and call up all the manhood that is in thee. Think how much is at stake. If now thou art not true to thy guns, no Slope can hereafter aid thee. How can he who deserts his own colours at the final smell of gunpowder expect faith in any ally. Thou thyself hast sought the battlefield; fight out the battle manfully now thou art there. Courage, bishop, courage! Frowns cannot kill, nor can sharp words break any bones. After all the apron is thine own. She can appoint no wardens, give away no benefices, nominate no chaplains, an' thou art but true to thyself. Up, man, and at her with a constant heart.
Some little monitor within the bishop's breast so addressed him. But then there was another monitor there which advised him differently, and as follows. Remember, bishop, she is a woman, and such a woman is the very mischief. Were it not better for thee to carry on this war, if it must be waged, from behind thine own table in thine own study? Does not every cock fight best on is own dunghill? Thy daughters also are here, the pledges of thy love, the fruits of thy loins; is it well that they should see thee in the hour of thy victory over their mother? Nay, is it well that they should see thee in the possible hour of thy defeat? Besides, hast thou not chosen thy opportunity with wonderful little skill, indeed with no touch of sagacity for which thou art famous? Will it not turn out that thou art wrong in this matter, and thine enemy right; that thou hast actually pledged thyself in this matter of the hospital, and that now thou wouldst turn upon thy wife because she requires from thee but the fulfilment of thy promise? Art thou not a Christian bishop, and is not thy word to be held sacred whatever be the result? Return, bishop, to thy sanctum on the lower floor, and postpone thy combative propensities for some occasion in which at least thou mayest fight the battle against odds less tremendously against thee.
All this passed within the bishop's bosom while Mrs Proudie stall sat with her fixed pencil, and the figures of her sum still enduring on the tablets of her memory. 'L4 17s 7d,' she said to herself. 'Of course Mr Quiverful must have the hospital,' she said out loud to her lord.
'Well, my dear, I merely wanted to suggest to you that Mr Slope seems to think that if Mr Harding be not appointed, public feeling in the matter would be against us and that the press might perhaps take it up.'
'Mr Slope seems to think!' said Mrs Proudie, in a tone of voice which plainly showed the bishop that he was right in looking for a breach in that quarter. 'And what has Mr Slope to do with it? I hope, my lord, you are not going to allow yourself to be governed by a chaplain.' and now in her eagerness the lady lost her place in her account.
'Certainly not, my dear. Nothing I can assure you is less probable. But still Mr Slope may be useful in finding how the wind blows, and I really thought that if we could give something good to Mr Quiverful--' 'Nonsense,' said Mrs Proudie; 'it would be years before you could give them anything else that could suit them half as well, and as for the press and the public, and all that, remember there are two ways of telling a story. If Mr Harding is fool enough to tell his tale, we can also tell ours. The place was offered to him, and he refused it. It has now been given to someone else, and there's an end of it. At least, I should think so.'
'Well, my dear, I rather believe you are right;' said the bishop, and sneaking out of the room, he went down stairs, troubled in his mind as to how he should receive the archdeacon on the morrow. He felt himself not very well just at present; and began to consider that he might, not improbably, be detained in his room the next morning by an attack of bile. He was, unfortunately, very subject to bilious annoyances.
'Mr Slope, indeed! I'll Slope him,' said the indignant matron to her listening progeny. 'I don't know what has come to Mr Slope. I believe he thinks he is to be Bishop of Barchester himself, because I have taken him by the hand, and got your father to make him his domestic chaplain.'
'He was always full of impudence,' said Olivia; 'I told you so once before, mamma.' Olivia, however, had not thought him too impudent when once before he had proposed to make her Mrs Slope.
'Well, Olivia, I always thought you liked him,' said Augusta, who at that moment had some grudge against her sister. 'I always disliked the man because I think him thoroughly vulgar.'
'There you're wrong,' said Mrs Proudie; 'he's not vulgar at all; and what is more, he is a soul-stirring, eloquent preacher; but he must be taught to know his place if he is to remain in this house.'
'He has the horridest eyes I ever saw in a man's head,' said Netta; 'and I tell you what, he's terribly greedy; did you see the current pie he ate yesterday?'
When Mr Slope got home he soon learnt from the bishop, as much from his manner as his words, that Mrs Proudie's behests in the matter of the hospital were to be obeyed. Dr Proudie let fall something as to 'this occasion only,' and 'keeping all affairs about patronage exclusively in his own hands.' But he was quite decided about Mr Harding; and as Mr Slope did not wish to have both the prelate and the prelatess against him, he did not at present see that he could do anything but yield.
He merely remarked that he would of course carry out the bishop's views, and that he was quite sure that if the bishop trusted to his own judgment things in the diocese would certainly be well ordered. Mr Slope knew that if you hit a nail on the head often enough, it will penetrate at last.
He was sitting alone in his room on the same evening when a light knock was made on his door, and before he could answer it the door was opened, and his patroness appeared. He was all smiles in a moment, but so was not she also. She took, however, the chair that was offered to her, and thus began her expostulation :- 'Mr Slope, I did not at all approve your conduct the other night with that Italian woman. Any one would have thought that you were her lover.'
'Good gracious, my dear madam,' said Mr Slope, with a look of horror. 'Why, she is a married woman.'
'That's more than I know,' said Mrs Proudie; 'however she chooses to pass for such. But married or not married, such attention as you paid her was improper. I cannot believe that you would wish to give offence in my drawing-room, Mr Slope; but I owe it to myself and my daughters to tell you that I disapprove your conduct.'
Mr Slope opened wide his huge protruding eyes, and stared out of them with a look of well-dignified surprise. 'Why, Mrs Proudie,' said he, 'I did but fetch her something to eat when she was hungry.'
'And you have called on her since,' continued she, looking at the culprit with the stern look of a detective policeman in the act of declaring himself.
Mr Slope turned over in his mind whether it would be well for him to tell this termagant at once that he should call on whom he liked, and do what he liked; but he remembered that his footing in Barchester was not yet sufficiently firm, and that it would be better for him to pacify her.
'I certainly called since at Dr Stanhope's house, and certainly saw Madame Neroni.'
'Yes, and you saw her alone,' said the episcopal Argus.
'Undoubtedly I did,' said Mr Slope, 'but that was because nobody else happened to be in the room. Surely it was no fault of mine if the rest of the family were out.'
'Perhaps not; but I assure you, Mr Slope, you will fall greatly in my estimation if I find that you allow yourself to be caught by the lures of that woman. I know women better than you do, Slope, and you may believe me that that signora, as she calls herself, is not a fitting companion for a strict evangelical, unmarried young clergyman.'
How Mr Slope would have liked to laugh at her, had he dared! But he did not dare. So he merely said, 'I can assure you, Mrs Proudie, the lady in question is nothing to me.'
'Well, I hope not, Mr Slope. But I have considered it my duty to give you this caution; and now there is another thing I feel myself called upon to speak about; it is your conduct to the bishop, Mr Slope.'
'My conduct to the bishop,' said he, now truly surprised and ignorant what the lady alluded to.
'Yes, Mr Slope; your conduct to the bishop. It is by no means what I would wish to see it.'
'Has the bishop said anything, Mrs Proudie?'
'No, the bishop has said nothing. He probably thinks that any remarks on the matter will come better from me, who first introduced you to his lordship's notice. The fact is, Mr Slope, you are a little inclined to take too much upon yourself.'
An angry spot showed itself upon Mr Slope's cheeks, and it was with difficulty that he controlled himself. But he did do so, and sat quite silent while the lady went on.
'It is the fault of many young men in your position, and therefore the bishop is not inclined at present to resent it. You will, no doubt, soon learn what is required from you, and what is not. If you will take my advice, however, you will be careful not to obtrude advice upon the bishop in any matter concerning patronage. If his lordship wants advice, he knows where to look for it.' And then having added to her counsel a string of platitudes as to what was desirable and what not desirable in the conduct of a strictly evangelical, unmarried young clergyman, Mrs Proudie retreated, leaving the chaplain to his thoughts.
The upshot of his thoughts was this, that there certainly was not room in the diocese for the energies of both himself and Mrs Proudie, and that it behoved him quickly to ascertain whether his energies or hers would prevail.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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18
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THE WIDOW'S PERSECUTION
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Early on the following morning, Mr Slope was summoned to the bishop's dressing-room, and went there fully expecting that he should find his lordship very indignant, and spirited up by his wife to repeat the rebuke which she had administered on the previous day. Mr Slope had resolved that at any rate from him he would not stand it, and entered the dressing-room in rather a combative disposition; but he found the bishop in the most placid and gentle of humours. His lordship complained of being rather unwell, had a slight headache, and was not quite the thing in his stomach; but there was nothing the matter with his temper.
'Oh, Slope,' said he, taking the chaplain's proffered hand. 'Archdeacon Grantly is to call on me this morning, and I really am not fit to see him. I fear I must trouble you to see him for me;' and then Dr Proudie proceeded to explain what it was that must be said to Dr Grantly. He was to be told in fact in the civilest words in which the tidings could be conveyed, that Mr Harding having refused the wardenship, the appointment had been offered to Mr Quiverful and accepted by him.
Mr Slope again pointed out to his patron that he thought he was perhaps not quite wise in his decision, and this he did sotto voce. But even with this precaution it was not safe to say much, and during the little that he did say, the bishop made a very slight, but still a very ominous gesture with his thumb towards the door which opened from his dressing-room to some inner sanctuary. Mr Slope at once took the hint and said no more; but he perceived that there was to be confidence between him and his patron, that the league desired by him was to be made, and that this appointment of Mr Quiverful was to be the sacrifice offered on the altar of conjugal obedience. All this Mr Slope read in the slight motion of the bishop's thumb, and he read it correctly. There was no need of parchments and seals, of attestations, explanations, and professions. The bargain was understood between them, and Mr Slope gave the bishop his hand upon it. The bishop understood the little extra squeeze, and an intelligible gleam of assent twinkled in his eye.
'Pray be civil to the archdeacon, Mr Slope,' said he out loud; 'but make him quite understand that in this matter Mr Harding has put it out of my power to oblige him.'
It would be calumny on Mrs Proudie to suggest that she was sitting in her bed-room with her ear at the keyhole during this interview. She had within her a spirit of decorum which prevented her from descending to such baseness. To put her ear to a key-hole or to listen at a chink, was a trick for a housemaid.
Mrs Proudie knew this, and therefore she did not do it; but she stationed herself as near to the door as she well could, that she might, if possible, get the advantage which the housemaid would have had, without descending to the housemaid's artifice.
It was little, however, that she heard, and that little was only sufficient to deceive her. She saw nothing of that friendly pressure, perceived nothing of that concluded bargain; she did not even dream of the treacherous resolves which those two false men had made together to upset her in the pride of her station, to dash the cup from her lip before she had drank of it, to seep away all her power before she had tasted its sweets! Traitors that they were; the husband of her bosom, and the outcast whom she had fostered and brought into the warmth of the world's brightest fireside! But neither of them had the magnanimity of this woman. Though two men have thus leagued themselves together against her, even yet the battle is not lost.
Mr Slope felt pretty sure that Dr Grantly would decline the honour of seeing him, and such turned out to be the case. The archdeacon, when the palace door was opened to him, was greeted by a note. Mr Slope presented his compliments &c, &c. The bishop was ill in his room, and very greatly regretted, &c &c. Mr Slope had been charged with the bishop's views, and if agreeable to the archdeacon, would do himself the honour &c, &c. The archdeacon, however, was not agreeable, and having read his note in the hall, crumpled it up in his hand, and muttering something about sorrow for his lordship's illness, took his leave, without sending as much as a verbal message in answer to Mr Slope's note.
'Ill!' said the archdeacon to himself as he flung himself into his brougham. 'The man is absolutely a coward. He is afraid to see me. Ill, indeed!' The archdeacon was never ill himself, and did not therefore understand that any one else could in truth be prevented by illness from keeping an appointment. He regarded all such excuses as subterfuges, and in the present instance he was not far wrong.
Dr Grantly desired to be driven to his father-in-law's lodgings in the High Street, and hearing from the servant that Mr Harding was at his daughter's, followed him to Mrs Bold's house, and there he found him. The archdeacon was fuming with rage when he got into the drawing-room, and had by this time nearly forgotten the pusillanimity of the bishop in the villainy of the chaplain.
'Look at that,' said he, throwing Mr Slope's crumpled note to Mr Harding. 'I am to be told that if I choose I may have the honour of seeing Mr Slope, and that too, after a positive engagement with the bishop.'
'But he says the bishop is ill,' said Mr Harding.
'Pshaw! You don't mean to say that you are deceived by such an excuse as that. He was well enough yesterday. Now I tell you what, I will see the bishop; and I will tell him also very plainly what I think of his conduct. I will see him, or else Barchester will soon be too hot to hold him.'
Eleanor was sitting in the room, but Dr Grantly had hardly noticed her in his anger. Eleanor now said to him, with the greatest innocence, 'I wish you had seen Mr Slope, Dr Grantly, because I think perhaps it might have done good.'
The archdeacon turned on her with almost brutal wrath. Had she at once owned that she had accepted Mr Slope for her second husband, he could hardly have felt more convinced of her belonging body and soul to the Slope and Proudie party than he now did on hearing her express such a wish as this. Poor Eleanor!
'See him,' said the archdeacon, glaring at her; 'and why am I be called on to lower myself in the world's esteem an my own by coming in contact with such a man as that? I have hitherto lived among gentlemen, and do not mean to be dragged into other company by anybody.'
Poor Mr Harding knew well what the archdeacon meant, but Eleanor was as innocent as her own baby. She could not understand how the archdeacon could consider himself to be dragged into bad company by condescending to speak to Mr Slope for a few minutes when the interests of her father might be served by doing so.
'I was talking for a full hour yesterday with Mr Slope,' said she, with some little assumption of dignity, 'and I did not find myself to be lowered by it.'
'Perhaps not,' said he. 'But if you'll be good enough to allow me, I shall judge for myself in such matters. And I tell you what, Eleanor; it will be much better for you if you will allow yourself to be guided also by the advice of those who are your friends. If you do not you will be apt to find you have no friends left who can advise you.'
Eleanor blushed up to the roots of her hair. But even now she had not the slightest idea of what was passing in the archdeacon's mind. No thought of love-making or love-receiving had yet found its way to her heart since the death of poor John Bold; and if it were possible that such a thought should spring there, the man must be far different from Mr Slope that could give it birth.
Nevertheless Eleanor blushed deeply, for she felt she was charged with improper conduct, and she did so with the more inward pain because her father did not instantly rally to her side; that father for whose sake and love she had submitted to be the receptacle of Mr Slope's confidence. She had given a detailed account of all that had passed to her father; and though he had not absolutely agreed with her about Mr Slope's views touching the hospital, yet he had said nothing to make her think that she had been wrong in talking to him.
She was far too angry to humble herself before her brother- in-law. Indeed, she had never accustomed herself to be very abject before him, and they had never been confidential allies. 'I do not in the least understand what you mean, Dr Grantly,' said she. 'I do not know that I can accuse myself of doing anything that my friends should disapprove. Mr Slope called here expressly to ask what papa's views were about the hospital; and as I believe he called with friendly intentions I told him.'
'Friendly intentions!' sneered the archdeacon.
'I believe you greatly wrong Mr Slope,' continued Eleanor; 'but I have explained this to papa already; and as you do not seem to approve of what I say, Dr Grantly, I will with your permission leave you and papa together,' and so saying she walked out of the room.
All this made Mr Harding very unhappy. It was quite clear that the archdeacon and his wife had made up their minds that Eleanor was going to marry Mr Slope. Mr Harding could not really bring himself to think that she would do so, but yet he could not deny that circumstances made it appear that the man's company was not disagreeable to her. She was now constantly seeing him, and yet she received visits from no other unmarried gentleman. She always took his part when his conduct was canvassed, although she was aware how personally objectionable he was to her friends. Then, again, Mr Harding felt that if she should choose to become Mrs Slope, he had nothing that he could justly against her doing so. She had full right to please herself, and he, as a father could not say that she would disgrace herself by marrying a clergyman who stood so well before the world as Mr Slope did. As for quarrelling with his daughter on account of such a marriage, and separating himself from her as the archdeacon had threatened to do, that, with Mr Harding, would be out of the question. If she should determine to marry this man, he must get over his aversion as best he could. His Eleanor, his own old companion in their old happy home, must still be friend of his bosom, the child of his heart. Let who would cast her off, he would not. If it were fated, that he should have to sit in his old age at the same table with a man whom of all men he disliked the most, he would meet his fate as best he might. Anything to him would be preferable to the loss of his daughter.
Such being his feelings, he hardly knew how to take part with Eleanor against the archdeacon, or with the archdeacon against Eleanor. It will be said that he should never have suspected her. Alas! he never should have done so. But Mr Harding was by no means a perfect character. His indecision, his weakness, his proneness to be led by others, his want of self-confidence, he was very far from being perfect. And then it must be remembered that such a marriage as that which the archdeacon contemplated with disgust, which we who know Mr Slope so well would regard with equal disgust, did not appear so monstrous to Mr Harding, because in his charity he did not hate the chaplain as the archdeacon did, and as we do.
He was, however, very unhappy when his daughter left the room, and he had recourse to an old trick of his that was customary to him in his times of sadness. He began playing some slow tune upon an imaginary violoncello, drawing one hand slowly backwards and forwards as though he held a bow in it, and modulating the unreal chords with the other.
'She'll marry that man as sure as two and two makes four,' said the practical archdeacon.
'I hope not, I hope not,' said the father. 'But if she does, what can I say to her? I have no right to object to him.'
'No right!' exclaimed Dr Grantly.
'No right as her father. He is in my own profession, and for aught we know a good man.'
To this the archdeacon would by no means assent. It was not well, however, to argue the case against Eleanor in her own drawing-room, and so they both walked forth and discussed the matter in all the bearings under the elm trees of the close. Mr Harding also explained to his son-in-law what had been the purport, at any rate the alleged purport, of Mr Slope's last visit to the widow. He, however, stated that he could not bring himself to believe that Mr Slope had any real anxiety such as that he had pretended. 'I cannot forget his demeanour to myself,' said Mr Harding, 'and it is not possible that his ideas should have changed so soon.'
'I see it all,' said the archdeacon. 'The sly tartufe! He thinks to buy the daughter by providing for the father. He means to show how powerful he is, how good he is, and how much he is willing to do for her beaux yeux; yes, I see it all now. But we'll be too many for him yet, Mr Harding;' he said, turning to his companion with some gravity, and pressing his hand on the other's arm. 'It would, perhaps, be better for you to lose the hospital than get it on such terms.'
'Lose it!' said Mr Harding; 'why I've lost it already. I don't want it. I've made up my mind to do without it. I'll withdraw altogether. I'll just go and write a line to the bishop and tell him that I withdraw my claim altogether.'
Nothing would have pleased him better than to be allowed to escape from the trouble and difficulty in such a manner. But he was now going too fast for the archdeacon.
'No--no--no! We'll do no such thing,' said Dr Grantly; 'we'll still have the hospital. I hardly doubt but that we'll have it. But not by Mr Slope's assistance. If that be necessary, we'll lose it; but we'll have it, spite of his teeth, if we can. Arabin will be at Plumstead to-morrow; you must come over and talk to him.'
The two now turned into the cathedral library, which was used by the clergymen of the close as a sort of ecclesiastical club-room, for writing sermons and sometimes letters; also for reading theological works, and sometimes magazines and newspapers. The theological works were not disturbed, perhaps, quite as often as from the appearance of the building the outside public might have been led to expect. Here the two allies settled on their course of action. The archdeacon wrote a letter to the bishop, strongly worded, but still respectful, in which he put forward his father-in-law's claim to the appointment, and expressed his own regret that he had not been able to see his lordship when he called. Of Mr Slope me made no mention whatsoever. It was then settled that Mr Harding should go to Plumstead on the following day; and after considerable discussion on the matter, the archdeacon proposed to ask Eleanor there also, so as to withdraw her, if possible, from Mr Slope's attentions. 'A week or two,' said he, 'may teach her what he is, and while she is there she will be out of harm's way. Mr Slope won't come there after her.'
Eleanor was not a little surprised when her brother-in-law came back and very civilly pressed her to go out to Plumstead with her father. She instantly perceived that her father had been fighting her battles for her behind her back. She felt thankful to him, and for his sake she would not show her resentment to the archdeacon by refusing his invitation. But she could not, she said, go on the morrow; she had an invitation to drink tea at the Stanhopes which she had promised to accept. She would, she added, go with her father on the next day, if he would wait; or she would follow him.
'The Stanhopes!' said Dr Grantly; 'I did not know you were so intimate with them.'
'I did not know it myself,' said she, 'till Miss Stanhope called yesterday. However, I like her very much, and I have promised to go and play chess with some of them.'
'Have they a party there?' said the archdeacon, still fearful of Mr Slope.
'Oh, no,' said Eleanor; 'Miss Stanhope said there was to be nobody at all. But she had learnt that Mary had left me for a few weeks, and she had learnt from some one that I play chess, and so she came over on purpose to ask me to go in.'
'Well, that's very friendly,' said the ex-warden. 'They certainly do look more like foreigners than English people, but I dare say they are none the worse for that.'
The archdeacon was inclined to look upon the Stanhopes with favourable eyes, and had nothing to object on the matter. It was therefore arranged that Mr Harding should postpone his visit to Plumstead for one day, and then take with him Eleanor, the baby, and the nurse.
Mr Slope is certainly becoming of some importance in Barchester.
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{
"id": "2432"
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19
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BARCHESTER BY MOONLIGHT
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There was much cause for grief and occasional perturbation of spirits in the Stanhope family, but yet they rarely seemed to be grieved or to be disturbed. It was the peculiar gift of each of them that each was able to bear his or her own burden without complaint, and perhaps without sympathy. They habitually looked on the sunny side of the wall, if there was a gleam on the either side for them to look at; and, if there was none, they endured the shade with an indifference which, if not stoical, answered the end at which the Stoics aimed. Old Stanhope could not but feel that he had ill-performed his duties as a father and a clergyman; and could hardly look forward to his own death without grief at the position in which he would leave his family. His income for many years had been as high as L 3000 a year, and yet they had among them no other provision than their mother's fortune of L 10,000. He had not only spent his income, but was in debt. Yet, with all this, he seldom showed much outward sign of trouble.
It was the same with the mother. If she added little to the pleasures of her children she detracted still less: she neither grumbled at her lot, nor spoke much of her past or future sufferings; as long as she had a maid to adjust her dress, and had those dresses well made, nature with her was satisfied. It was the same with her children. Charlotte never rebuked her father with the prospect of their future poverty, nor did it seem to grieve her that she was becoming an old maid so quickly; her temper was rarely ruffled, and, if we might judge by her appearance, she was always happy. The signora was not so sweet-tempered, but she possessed much enduring courage; she seldom complained--never, indeed, to her family. Though she had a cause for affliction which would have utterly broken down the heart of most women as beautiful as she and as devoid of all religious support, yet, she bore her suffering in silence, or alluded to it only to elicit the sympathy and stimulate the admiration of the men with whom she flirted. As to Bertie, one would have imagined from the sound of his voice and the gleam of his eye that he had not a sorrow nor a care in the world. Nor had he. He was incapable of anticipating tomorrow's griefs. The prospect of future want no more disturbed his appetite than does that of the butcher's knife disturb the appetite of the sheep.
Such was the usual tenor of their way; but there were rare exceptions. Occasionally the father would allow an angry glance to fall from his eye, and the lion would send forth a low dangerous roar as though he meditated some deed of blood. Occasionally also Madame Neroni would become bitter against mankind, more than usually antagonistic to the world's decencies, and would seem as though she was about to break from her moorings and allow herself to be carried forth by the tide of her feelings to utter ruin and shipwreck. She, however, like the rest of them, had no real feelings, could feel no true passion. In that was her security. Before she resolved on any contemplated escapade she would make a small calculation, and generally summed up that the Stanhope villa or even Barchester close was better than the world at large.
They were most irregular in their hours. The father was generally the earliest in the breakfast-parlour, and Charlotte would soon follow and give him coffee; but the others breakfasted anywhere anyhow, and at any time. On the morning after the archdeacon's futile visit to the palace, Dr Stanhope came down stairs with an ominously dark look about his eyebrows; his white locks were rougher than usual, and he breathed thickly and loudly as he took his seat in his arm-chair. He had open letters in his hand, and when Charlotte came into the room he was still reading them. She went up and kissed him as was her wont, but he hardly noticed her as she did so, and she knew at once that something was the matter.
'What's the meaning of that?' said he, throwing over the table a letter with a Milan post-mark. Charlotte was a little frightened as she took it up, but her mind was relieved when she saw that it was merely the bill of their Italian milliner. The sum total was certainly large, but not so large as to create an important row.
'It's for our clothes, papa, for six months before we came here. The three of us can't dress for nothing you know.'
'Nothing, indeed!' said he, looking at the figures, which in Milanese denominations were certainly monstrous.
'The man should have sent it to me,' said Charlotte.
'I wish he had with all my heart--if you would have paid it. I see enough in it, to know that three quarters of it are for Madeline.'
'She has little else to amuse her, sir,' said Charlotte with true good nature.
'And I suppose he has nothing to amuse him,' said the doctor, throwing over another letter to his daughter. It was from some member of the family of Sidonia, and politely requested the father to pay a small trifle of L 700, being the amount of a bill discounted in favour of Mr Ethelbert Stanhope, and now overdue for a period of nine months.
Charlotte read the letter, slowly folded it up, and put it under the edge of the tea-tray.
'I suppose he has nothing to amuse him but discounting bills with Jews. Does he think I'll pay that?'
'I am sure he thinks no such thing,' said she.
'And who does he think will pay it?'
'As far as honesty goes, I suppose it won't much matter if it is never paid,' said she. 'I dare say he got very little of it.'
'I suppose it won't much matter either,' said the father, 'if he goes to prison and rots there. It seems to me that that's the other alternative.'
Dr Stanhope spoke the custom of his youth. But his daughter, though she lived so long abroad, was much more completely versed in the ways of the English world. 'If the man arrests him,' said she, 'he must go through the court.'
It is thus, thou great family of Sidonia--it is thus that we Gentiles treat thee, when, in our most extreme need, thou and thine have aided us with mountains of gold as big as lions--and occasionally with wine-warrants and orders for dozens of dressing-cases.
'What, and become an insolvent?' said the doctor.
'He's that already,' said Charlotte, wishing always to get over a difficulty.
'What a condition,' said the doctor, 'for the son of a clergyman of the Church of England.'
'I don't see why clergymen's sons should pay their debts more than other young men,' said Charlotte.
'He's had as much from me since he left school as is held sufficient for the eldest son of many a nobleman,' said the angry father.
'Well, sir,' said Charlotte, 'give him another chance.'
'What!' said the doctor, 'do you mean that I am to pay that Jew?'
'Oh, no! I wouldn't pay him, he must take his chance; and if the worst comes to the worst, Bertie must go abroad. But I want you to be civil to Bertie, and let him remain here as long as we stop. He has a plan in his head, that may put him on his feet after all.'
Just at that moment the door opened, and Bertie came in whistling. The doctor immediately devoted himself to his egg, and allowed Bertie to whistle himself round to his sister's side without noticing him.
Charlotte gave a little sign to him with her eye, first glancing at her father, and then at the letter, the corner of which peeped out from under the tea-tray. Bertie saw and understood, and with the quiet motion of a cat abstracted the letter, and made himself acquainted with its contents. The doctor, however, had seen him, deep as he appeared to be mersed in his egg-shell, and said in his harshest voice, 'Well, sir, do you know that gentleman?'
'Yes, sir,' said Bertie. 'I have a sort of acquaintance with him, but none that can justify him in troubling you. If you will allow me, sir, I will answer this.'
'At any rate I shan't,' said the father, and then he added, after a pause, 'Is it true, sir, that you owe the man L 700?'
'Well,' said Bertie, 'I think I should be inclined to dispute the amount, if I were in a condition to pay him such of it as I really do owe him.'
'Has he your bill for L 700?' said the father, speaking very loudly and very angrily.
'Well, I believe he has,' said Bertie; 'but all the money I ever got from him was L 150.'
'And what became of the L 550?'
'Why, sir; the commission was L 100, or so, and I took the remainder in paving-stones and rocking-horses.'
'Paving-stones and rocking-horses!' said the doctor, 'where are they?'
'Oh, sir, I suppose they are in London somewhere--but I'll inquire if you wish for them.'
'He's an idiot,' said the doctor, 'and it's sheer folly to waste more money on him. Nothing can save him from ruin,' and so saying, the unhappy father walked out of the room.
'Would the governor like to see the paving-stones?'
'I'll tell you what,' said she. 'If you don't take care, you will find yourself loose upon the world without even a house over your head: you don't know him as well as I do. He's very angry.'
Bertie stroked his big beard, sipped his tea, chatted over his misfortunes in a half comic, half serious tone, and ended by promising his sister that he would do his very best to make himself agreeable to the widow Bold. Then Charlotte followed her father to his own room and softened down his wrath, and persuaded him to say nothing more about the Jew bill discounter, at any rate for a few weeks. He even went so far as to say he would pay the L 700, or at any rate settle the bill, if he saw a certainty of his son's securing for himself anything like a decent provision in life. Nothing was said openly between them about poor Eleanor: but the father and the daughter understood each other.
They all met together in the drawing-room at nine o'clock, in perfect good humour with each other; and about that hour Mrs Bold was announced. She had never been in the house before, though she had of course called: and now she felt it strange to find herself there in her usual evening dress, entering the drawing-room of these strangers in this friendly unceremonious way, as though she had known them all her life. But in three minutes they made her at home. Charlotte tripped downstairs and took her bonnet from her, and Bertie came to relieve her from her shawl, and the signora smiled on her as she could smile when she chose to be gracious, and the old doctor shook hands with her in a kind and benedictory manner that went to her heart at once, and made her feel that he must be a good man.
She had not been seated for above five minutes when the door again opened, and Mr Slope was announced. She felt rather surprised, because she was told that nobody was to be there, and it was very evident from the manner of some of them that Mr Slope was unexpected. But still there was not much in it. In such invitations a bachelor or two more or less are always spoken of as nobodies, and there was no reason why Mr Slope should not drink tea at Dr Stanhope's as well as Eleanor herself. He, however, was very much surprised and not very much gratified at finding that his own embryo spouse made one of the party. He had come there to gratify himself by gazing on Madame Neroni's beauty, and listening to and returning her flattery: and though he had not owned as much to himself, he still felt that if he spent the evening as he had intended to do, he might probably not thereby advance his suit with Mrs Bold.
The signora, who had no idea of a rival, received Mr Slope with her usual marks of distinction. As he took her hand, she made some confidential communication to him in a low voice, declaring that she had a plan to communicate to him after tea, and was evidently prepared to go on with her work of reducing the chaplain to a state of captivity. Poor Mr Slope was rather beside himself. He thought that Eleanor could not but have learnt from his demeanour that he was an admirer of her own, and he had also flattered himself that the idea was not unacceptable to her. What would she think of him if he now devoted himself to a married woman?
But Eleanor was not inclined to be severe in her criticism on him in that respect, and felt no annoyance of any kind, when she found herself seated between Bertie and Charlotte Stanhope. She had not suspicion of Mr Slope's intentions; she had no suspicion even of the suspicion of other people; but still she felt well pleased not to have Mr Slope too near to her.
And she was not ill-pleased to have Bertie Stanhope near her. It was rarely indeed that he failed to make an agreeable impression on strangers. With a bishop indeed who thought much of his own dignity it was possible that he might fail, but hardly with a young lady and pretty woman. He possessed the tact of becoming instantly intimate with women without giving rise to any fear of impertinence. He had about him somewhat of the propensities of a tame cat. It seemed quite natural that he should be petted, caressed, and treated with familiar good nature, and that in return he should purr, and be sleek and graceful, and above all never show his claws. Like other tame cats, however, he had his claws, and sometimes, made them dangerous.
When tea was over Charlotte went to the open window and declared loudly that the full harvest moon was much too beautiful to be disregarded, and called them to look at it. To tell the truth, there was but one there who cared much about the moon's beauty, and that one was not Charlotte; but she knew how valuable an aid to her purpose the chaste goddess might become, and could easily create a little enthusiasm for the purpose of the moment. Eleanor and Bertie were soon with her. The doctor was now quiet in his arm- chair, and Mrs Stanhope in hers, both prepared for slumber.
'Are you a Whewellite or a Brewsterite, or a t'othermanite, Mrs Bold?' said Charlotte, who knew a little about everything, and had read about a third of each of the books to which she alluded.
'Oh!' said Eleanor; 'I have not read any of the books, but I feel sure that there is one man in the moon at least, if not more.'
'You don't believe in the pulpy gelatinous matter?' said Bertie.
'I heard about that,' said Eleanor; 'and I really think it's almost wicked to talk in such a manner. How can we argue about God's power in the other stars from the laws which he has given for our role in this one?'
'How indeed!' said Bertie. 'Why shouldn't there be a race of salamanders in Venus? And even if there be nothing but fish in Jupiter, why shouldn't the fish there be as wide awake as the men and women here?'
'That would be saying very little for them,' said Charlotte. 'I am for Dr Whewell myself; for I do not think that men and woman are worth being repeated in such countless worlds. There may be souls in other stars, but I doubt their having any bodies attached to them. But come, Mrs Bold, let us put our bonnets on and walk round the close. If we are to discuss sidereal questions, we shall do so much better under the towers of the cathedral, than stuck in this narrow window.
Mrs Bold made no objection, and a party was made to walk out. Charlotte Stanhope well knew the rule as to three being no company, and she had therefore to induce her sister to allow Mr Slope to accompany them.
'Come, Mr Slope,' she said; 'I'm sure you'll join us. We shall be in again in quarter of an hour, Madeline.'
Madeline read in her eye all that she had to say, knew her object, and as she had to depend on her sister for so many of her amusements, she felt that she must yield. It was hard to be left alone while others of her own age walked out to feel the soft influence of the bright night, but it would be harder still without the sort of sanction which Charlotte gave to all her flirtations and intrigues. Charlotte's eye told her that she must give up just at present for the good of the family, and so Madeline obeyed.
But Charlotte's eyes said nothing of the sort to Mr Slope. He had no objection at all to the tete-a-tete with the signora, which the departure of the other three would allow him, and gently whispered to her, 'I shall not leave you alone.'
'Oh, yes,' said she; 'go--pray go, pray go, for my sake. Do not think that I am so selfish. It is understood that nobody is kept within for me. You will understand this too when you know me better. Pray join them, Mr Slope, but when you come in speak to me for five minutes before you leave us.'
Mr Slope understood that he was to go, and he therefore joined the party in the hall. He would have had no objection at all to this arrangement, if he could have secured Mrs Bold's arm; but this was of course out of the question. Indeed, his fate was very soon settled, for no sooner had he reached the hall-door, than Miss Stanhope put her hand within his arm, and Bertie walked off with Eleanor just as naturally as though she were already his own property.
And so they sauntered forth: first they walked round the close, according to their avowed intent; then they went under the old arched gateway below St Cuthbert's little church, and then they turned behind the grounds of the bishop's palace, and so on till they came to the bridge just at the edge of the town, from which passers-by can look down into the gardens of Hiram's hospital; and her Charlotte and Mr Slope, who were in advance, stopped till the other two came up to them. Mr Slope knew that the gable-ends and old brick chimneys which stood up so prettily in the moonlight, were those of Mr Harding's late abode, and would not have stopped on such a spot, in such company, if he could have avoided it; but Miss Stanhope would not take the hint which he tried to give.
'This is a very pretty place, Mrs Bold,' said Charlotte; 'by far the prettiest place near Barchester. I wonder your father gave it up.'
It was a very pretty place, and now by the deceitful light of the moon looked twice larger, twice prettier, twice more antiquely picturesque than it would have done in truth-telling daylight. Who does not know the air of complex multiplicity and the mysterious interesting grace which the moon always lends to old gabled buildings half surrounded, as was the hospital, by fine trees! As seen from the bridge on the night of which we are speaking, Mr Harding's late abode did look very lovely; and though Eleanor did not grieve at her father's having left it, she felt at the moment an intense wish that he might be allowed to return.
'He is going to return to it immediately, is he not?' asked Bertie.
Eleanor made no immediate reply. Much such a question passed unanswered, without the notice of the questioner; but such was not now the case. They all remained silent as though expecting her to reply, and after a moment or two, Charlotte said, 'I believe it is settled that Mr Harding returns to the hospital, is it not?'
'I don't think anything about it is settled yet,' said Eleanor.
'But it must be a matter of course,' said Bertie; 'that is, if your father wishes it; who else on earth could hold it after what has occurred?'
Eleanor quietly made her companion to understand that the matter was one which she could not discuss in the present company; and then they passed on; Charlotte said she would go a short way up the hill out of the town so as to look back on the towers of the cathedral, and as Eleanor leant upon Bertie's arm for assistance in the walk, she told him how the matter stood between her father and the bishop.
'And, he,' said Bertie, pointing on to Mr Slope, 'what part does he take in it?'
Eleanor explained how Mr Slope had at first endeavoured to tyrannize over her father, but how he had latterly come round, and done all he could to talk the bishop over in Mr Harding's favour. 'But my father,' said she, 'is hardly inclined to trust him; they all say he is so arrogant to the old clergyman of the city.'
'Take my word for it,' said Bertie, 'your father is right. If I am not very much mistaken, that man is both arrogant and false.'
They strolled up the top of the hill, and then returned through the fields by a footpath which leads by a small wooden bridge, or rather a plank with a rustic rail to it, over the river to the other side of the cathedral from that at which they had started. They had thus walked round the bishop's grounds, through which the river runs, and round the cathedral and adjacent fields, and it was past eleven before they reached the doctor's door.
'It is very late,' said Eleanor, 'it will be a shame to disturb your mother at such an hour.'
'Oh,' said Charlotte, laughing, 'you won't disturb mamma; I dare say she is in bed by this time, and Madeline would be furious if you do not come in and see her. Come, Bertie, take Mrs Bold's bonnet from her.'
They went up stairs, and found the signora alone, reading. She looked somewhat sad and melancholy, but not more so perhaps than was sufficient to excite additional interest in the bosom of Mr Slope; and she was soon deep in whispered intercourse with that happy gentleman, who was allowed to find a resting-place on her sofa. The signora had a way of whispering that was peculiarly her own, and was exactly the reverse of that which prevails among great tragedians. The great tragedian hisses out a positive whisper, made with bated breath, and produced by inarticulate tongue-formed sounds, but yet he is audible through the whole house. The signora however used no hisses, and produced all her words in a clear silver tone, but they could only be heard by the ear into which they were poured.
Charlotte hurried and skurried about the room hither and thither, doing, or pretending to do many things; and then saying something about seeing her mother, ran up stairs. Eleanor was then left alone with Bertie, and she hardly felt and hour fly by her. To give Bertie his due credit, he could not have played his cards better. He did not make love to her, nor sigh, nor look languishing; but he was amusing and familiar, yet respectful; and when he left Eleanor at her own door at one o'clock, which he did by the bye with the assistance of the now jealous Slope, she thought he was one of the most agreeable men, and the Stanhopes decidedly the most agreeable family, that she had ever met.
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{
"id": "2432"
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20
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MR ARABIN
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The Reverend Francis Arabin, fellow of Lazarus, late professor of poetry at Oxford, and present vicar of St Ewold, in the diocese of Barchester, must now be introduced personally to the reader. And as he will fill a conspicuous place in this volume, it is desirable that he should be made to stand before the reader's eye by the aid of such portraiture as the author is able to produce.
It is to be regretted that no mental method of daguerreotype or photography has yet been discovered, by which the characters of men can be reduced to writing and put into grammatical language with an unerring precision of truthful description. How often does the novelist feel, ay, and the historian also and the biographer, that he has conceived within his mind and accurately depicted on the tablet of his brain the full character and personage of a man, and that nevertheless, when he flies to pen and ink to perpetuate the portrait, his words forsake, elude, disappoint, and play the deuce with him, till at the end of a dozen pages the man described has no more resemblance to the man conceived than the sign board at the corner of the street has to the Duke of Cambridge?
And yet such mechanical descriptive skill would hardly give more satisfaction to the reader than the skill of the photographer does to the anxious mother desirous to possess an absolute duplicate of her beloved child. The likeness is indeed true; but it is a dull, dead, unfeeling, inauspicious likeness. The face is indeed there, and those looking at it will know at once whose image it is; but the owner of the face will not be proud of the resemblance.
There is no royal road to learning; no short cut to the acquirement of any art. Let photographers and daguerreotypers do what they will, and improve as they may with further skill on that which skill has already done, they will never achieve a portrait of the human face as we may under the burdens which we so often feel too heavy for our shoulders; we must either bear them up like men, or own ourselves too weak for the work we have undertaken. There is no way of writing well and also of writing easily.
Labor omnia vincit improbus. Such should be the chosen motto of every labourer, and it may be that labour, if adequately enduring, may suffice at last to produce even some not untrue resemblance of the Rev. Francis Arabin.
Of his doings in the world, and of the sort of fame which he has achieved, enough has already been said. It has also been said that he is forty years of age, and still unmarried. He was the younger son of a country gentleman of small fortune in the north of England. At an early age he went to Winchester, and was intended by his father for New College; but though studious as a boy, he was not studious within the prescribed limits; and at the age of eighteen he left school with a character for talent, but without a scholarship. All that he had obtained, over and above the advantage of his character, was a gold medal for English verse, and hence was derived a strong presumption on the part of his friends that he was destined to add another name to the imperishable list of English poets.
From Winchester he went to Oxford, and was entered as a commoner at Balliol. Here his special career very soon commenced. He utterly eschewed the society of fast men, gave no wine parties, kept no horses, rowed no boats, joined no rows, and was the pride of his college tutor. Such at least was his career till he had taken his little go; and then he commenced a course of action which, though not less creditable to himself as a man, was hardly so much to the taste of his tutor. He became a member of a vigorous debating society, and rendered himself remarkable there for humorous energy. Though always in earnest, yet his earnestness was always droll. To be true in his ideas, unanswerable in his syllogisms, and just in his aspirations was not enough for him. He had failed, failed in his own opinion as well as that of others when others came to know him, if he could not reduce the arguments of his opponents to an absurdity, and conquer both by wit and reason. To say that his object was ever to raise a laugh, would be most untrue. He hated such common and unnecessary evidence of satisfaction on the part of his hearers. A joke that required to be laughed at was, with him, not worth uttering. He could appreciate by a keener sense than that of his ears the success of his wit, and would see in the eyes of his auditory whether or no he was understood and appreciated.
He had been a religious lad before he left school. That is, he had addicted himself to a party of religion, and having done so had received that benefit which most men do who become partisans in such a cause. We are much too apt to look at schism in our church as an unmitigated evil. Moderate schism, if there may be such a thing, at any rate calls attention to the subject, draws its supporters who would otherwise have been inattentive to the matter, and teaches men to think about religion. How great an amount of good of this description has followed that movement of the Church of England which commenced with the publication of Froude's Remains!
As a boy young Arabin took up the cudgels on the side of the Tractarians, and at Oxford he sat for a while at the feet of the great Newman. To this cause he lent all his faculties. For it he concocted verses, for it he made speeches, for it he scintillated the brightest sparks of his quiet wit. For it he ate and drank and dressed, and had his being. In due process of time he took his degree, and wrote himself B.A., but he did not do so with any remarkable amount of academical eclat. He had occupied himself too much with high church matters, and the polemics, politics, and outward demonstrations usually concurrent with high churchmanship, to devote himself with sufficient vigour to the acquisition of a double first. He was not a double first, nor even a first class man; but he revenged himself on the university by putting first and double firsts out of fashion for the year, and laughing down a species of pedantry which at the age of twenty-three leaves no room in a man's mind for graver subjects than conic sections or Greek accents.
Greek accents, however, and conic sections were esteemed necessaries at Balliol, and there was no admittance there for Mr Arabin within the list of its fellows. Lazarus, however, the richest and the most comfortable abode of Oxford dons, opened its bosom to the young champion of a church militant. Mr Arabin was ordained, and became a fellow soon after taking his degree, and shortly after that was chosen professor of poetry.
And now came the moment of his great danger. After many mental struggles, and an agony of doubt which may be well surmised, the great prophet of the Tractarians confessed himself a Roman Catholic. Mr Newman left the Church of England, and with him carried many a waverer. He did not carry off Mr Arabin, but the escape which that gentleman had was a very narrow one. He left Oxford for a while that he might meditate in complete peace on the step which appeared for him to be all but unavoidable, and shut himself up in a little village on the sea-shore of one of our remotest counties, that he might learn by communing with his own soul whether or no he could with a safe conscience remain within the pale of his mother church.
Things would have gone badly with him there had he been left entirely to himself. Every thing was against him: all his worldly interests required him to remain a Protestant; and he looked on his worldly interests as a legion of foes, to get the better of whom was a point of extremest honour. In his then state of ecstatic agony such a conquest would have cost him little; but it cost him much to get over the idea of choosing the Church of England he should be open in his own mind to the charge that he had been led to such a choice by unworthy motives. Then his heart was against him: he loved with a strong and eager love the man who had hitherto been his guide, and yearned to follow his footsteps. His tastes were against him: the ceremonies and pomps of the Church of Rome, their august feasts and solemn fasts, invited his imagination and pleased his eye. His flesh was against him: how great an aid would it be to a poor, weak, wavering man to be constrained to high moral duties, self-denial, obedience, and chastity by laws which were certain in their enactments, and not to be broken without loud, palpable, unmistakable sin! Then his faith was against him: he required to believe so much; panted so early to give signs of his belief; deemed it so insufficient to wash himself simply in the waters of Jordan; that some great deed, such as that of forsaking everything for a true church, had for him allurements almost past withstanding.
Mr Arabin was at this time a very young man, and when he left Oxford for his far retreat was much too confident in his powers of fence, and too apt to look down on the ordinary sense of ordinary people, to expect aid in the battle that he had to fight from any chance inhabitants on the spot which he had selected. But Providence was good to him; and there, in that all but desolate place, on the storm-beat shore of that distant sea, he met one who gradually changed his mind, quieted his imagination, and taught him something of a Christian's duty. When Mr Arabin left Oxford, he was inclined to look upon the rural clergymen of most English parishes almost with contempt. It was his ambition, should he remain within the fold of the church, to do somewhat towards redeeming and rectifying their inferiority, and to assist in infusing energy and faith into the hearts of Christian ministers, who were, as he thought, too often satisfied to go through life without much show of either.
And yet it was from such a one that Mr Arabin in his extremest need received that aid which he so much required. It was from a poor curate of a small Cornish parish that he first learnt to know that the highest laws for the governance of a Christian's duty must act from within and not from without; that no man can become a serviceable servant solely by obedience to written edicts; and that the safety which he was about to seek within the gates of Rome was no other than the selfish freedom from personal danger which the bad soldier attempts to gain who counterfeits illness on the eve of battle.
Mr Arabin returned to Oxford a humbler but a better and a happier man; and from that time forth he put his shoulder to the wheel as a clergyman of the Church for which he had been educated. The intercourse of those among whom he familiarly lived kept him staunch to the principles of that system of the Church to which he had always belonged. Since his severance from Mr Newman, no one had had so strong an influence over him as the head of his college. During the time of his expected apostasy, Dr Gwynne had not felt much predisposition in favour of the young fellow. Though a High Churchman himself within moderate limits, Dr Gwynne felt no sympathy with men who could not satisfy their faiths with the Thirty-nine Articles. He regarded the enthusiasm of such as Newman as a state of mind more nearly allied to madness than to religion; and when he saw it evinced by a very young men, was inclined to attribute a good deal of it to vanity. Dr Gwynne himself, though a religious man, was also a thoroughly practical man of the world, and he regarded with no favourable eye the tenets of any one who looked on the two things as incompatible. When he found Mr Arabin was a half Roman, he began to regret all that he done towards bestowing a fellowship on so unworthy a recipient; and when again he learnt that Mr Arabin would probably complete his journey to Rome, he regarded with some satisfaction the fact that in such case the fellowship would be again vacant.
When, however, Mr Arabin returned and professed himself a confirmed Protestant, the master of Lazarus again opened his arms to him, and gradually he became the pet of the college. For some little time he was saturnine, silent, and unwilling to take any prominent part in university broils; but gradually his mind recovered, or rather made its tone, and he became known as a man always ready at a moment's notice to take up the cudgels in opposition to anything which savoured of an evangelical bearing. He was great in sermons, great on platforms, great at after dinner conversations, and always pleasant as well as great. He took delight in elections, served on committees, opposed tooth and nail all projects of university reform, and talked jovially over his glass of port of the ruin to be committed by the Whigs. The ordeal through which he had gone, in resisting the blandishments of the lady of Rome, had certainly done much towards the strengthening of his character. Although in small and outward matters he was self-confident enough, nevertheless in things affecting the inner man he aimed at a humility of spirit which would never have been attractive to him but for that visit to the coast of Cornwall. This visit he now repeated every year.
Such is an interior view of Mr Arabin at the time when he accepted the living of St Ewold. Exteriorly, he was not a remarkable person. He was above the middle height, well made, and very active. His hair which had been jet black, was now tinged with gray, but his face bore no sign of years. It would perhaps be wrong to say that he was handsome, but his face was, nevertheless, high for beauty, and the formation of the forehead too massive and heavy: but his eyes, nose and mouth were perfect. There was a continual play of lambent fire about his eyes, which gave promise of either pathos or humour whenever he essayed to speak, and that promise was rarely broken. There was a gentle play about his mouth which declared that his wit never descended to sarcasm, and that there was no ill-nature in his repartee.
Mr Arabin was a popular man among women, but more so as a general than a special favourite. Living as a fellow at Oxford, marriage with him had been out of the question, and it may be doubted whether he had ever allowed his heart to be touched. Though belonging to a Church in which celibacy is not the required lot of its ministers, he had come to regard himself as one of those clergymen to whom to be a bachelor is almost a necessity. He had never looked for parochial duty, and his career at Oxford was utterly incompatible with such domestic joys as a wife and nursery. He looked on women, therefore, in the same light that one sees then regarded by many Romish priests. He liked to have near him that which was pretty and amusing, but women generally were little more to him than children. He talked to them without putting out all his powers, and listened to them without any idea that what he should hear from them could either actuate his conduct or influence his opinion.
Such was Mr Arabin, the new vicar of St Ewold, who is going to stay with the Grantlys, at Plumstead Episcopi.
Mr Arabin reached Plumstead the day before Mr Harding and Eleanor, and the Grantly family were thus enabled to make his acquaintance and discuss his qualifications before the arrival of the other guests. Griselda was surprised to find that he looked so young; but she told Florinda her younger sister, when they had retired for the night, that he did not talk at all like a young man: and she decided with the authority that seventeen has over sixteen, that he was not at all nice, although his eyes were lovely. As usual, sixteen implicitly acceded to the dictum of seventeen in such a matter, and said that he certainly was not nice. They then branched off on the relative merits of other clerical bachelors in the vicinity, and both determined without any feeling of jealousy between them that a certain Rev. Augustus Green was by many degrees the most estimable of the lot. The gentleman in question had certainly much in his favour, as, having a comfortable allowance from his father, he could devote the whole proceeds of his curacy to violet gloves and unexceptionable neck ties. Having thus fixedly resolved that the new comer had nothing about him to shake the pre-eminence of the exalted Green, the two girls went to sleep in each other's arms, contented with themselves and the world.
Mrs Grantly at first sight came to much the same conclusion about her husband's favourite as her daughters had done, though, in seeking to measure his relative value, she did not compare him to Mr Green; indeed, she made no comparison by name between him and any one else; but she remarked to her husband that one person's swans were very often another person's geese, thereby clearly showing that Mr Arabin had not yet proved his qualifications in swanhood to her satisfaction.
'Well, Susan,' said he, rather offended at hearing his friend spoken of so disrespectfully, 'if you take Mr Arabin for a goose, I cannot say that I think very highly of your discrimination.'
'A goose! No of course, he's not a goose. I've no doubt he's a very clever man. But you're so matter-of-fact, archdeacon, when it suits your purpose, that one can't trust oneself to any facon de parler. I've no doubt Mr Arabin is a very valuable man--at Oxford, and that he'll be a good vicar at St Ewold. All I mean is, that having passed one evening with him, I don't find him to be absolutely a paragon. In the first place, if I am not mistaken, he is a little inclined to be conceited.'
'Of all the men that I know intimately,' said the archdeacon, 'Arabin is, in my opinion, the most free from any taint of self-conceit. His fault is that he's too diffident.'
'Perhaps so,' said the lady; 'only I must own I did not find it out this evening.'
Nothing further was said about him. Dr Grantly thought that his wife was abusing Mr Arabin merely because he had praised him; and Mrs Grantly knew that it was useless arguing for or against any person in favour of, or in opposition to whom the archdeacon had already pronounced a strong opinion.
In truth they were both right. Mr Arabin was a diffident man in social intercourse with those whom he did not intimately know; when placed in situations which it was his business to fill, and discussing matters with which it was his duty to be conversant, Mr Arabin was from habit brazed-faced enough. When standing on a platform in Exeter Hall, no man would be less mazed than he by the eyes of the crowd before him; for such was the work which his profession had called on him to perform; but he shrank from a strong expression of opinion in general society, and his doing so not uncommonly made it appear that he considered the company not worth the trouble of his energy. He was averse to dictate when the place did not seem to him to justify dictation; and as those subjects on which people wished to hear him speak were such as he was accustomed to treat with decision, he generally shunned the traps there were laid to allure him into discussion, and, by doing so, not unfrequently subjected himself to such charges as those brought against him by Mrs Grantly.
Mr Arabin, as he sat at his open window, enjoying the delicious moonlight and gazing at the gray towers of the church, which stood almost within the rectory grounds, little dreamed that he was the subject of so many friendly or unfriendly criticisms. Considering how much we are all given to discuss the characters of others, and discuss them often not in the strictest spirit of charity, it is singular how little we are inclined to think that others can speak ill-naturedly of us, and how angry and hurt we are when proof reaches us that they have done so. It is hardly too much to say that we all of us occasionally speak of our dearest friends in a manner which those dearest friends would very little like to hear themselves mentioned; and that we nevertheless expect that our dearest friends shall invariably speak of us as though they were blind to all our faults, but keenly alive to every shade of our virtues.
It did not occur to Mr Arabin that he was spoken of at all. It seemed to him, when he compared himself with his host, that he was a person of so little consequence to any, that he was worth no one's words or thoughts. He was utterly alone in the world as regarded domestic ties and those inner familiar relations which are hardly possible between others than husbands and wives, parents and children, or brothers and sisters. He had often discussed with himself the necessity of such bonds for a man's happiness in this world, and had generally satisfied himself with the answer that happiness in this world was not a necessity. Herein he deceived himself, or rather tried to do so. He, like others, yearned for the enjoyment of whatever he saw enjoyable; and though he attempted, with the modern stoicism of so many Christians, to make himself believe that joy and sorrow were matters which here should be held as perfectly indifferent, those things were not indifferent to him. He was tired of his Oxford rooms and his college life. He regarded the wife and children of his friend with something like envy; he all but coveted the pleasant drawing-room, with its pretty windows opening on to lawns and flower-beds, the apparel of the comfortable house, and--above all--the air of home which encompassed all.
It will be said that no time can have been fitted for such desires on his part as this, of a living among fields and gardens, of a house which a wife would grace. It is true there was a difference between the opulence of Plumstead and the modest economy of St Ewold; but surely Mr Arabin was not a man to sigh after wealth! Of all men, his friends would have unanimously declared he was the last to do so. But how little our friends know us! In his period of stoical rejection of this world's happiness, he had cast from him as utter dross all anxiety as to fortune. He had, as it were, proclaimed himself to be indifferent to promotion, and those who chiefly admired his talents, and would mainly have exerted to secure them their deserved reward, had taken him at his word. And now, if the truth must out, he felt himself disappointed--disappointed not by them but by himself. The daydream of his youth was over, and at the age of forty he felt that he was not fit to work in the spirit of an apostle. He had mistaken himself, and learned his mistake when it was past remedy. He had professed himself indifferent to mitres and diaconal residences, to rich livings and pleasant glebes, and now he had to own to himself that he was sighing for the good things of other men, on whom in his pride he had ventured to look down.
Not for wealth, in its vulgar sense, had he ever sighed; not for the enjoyment of rich things had he ever longed; but for the allotted share of worldly bliss, which a wife, and children, and happy home could give him, for that usual amount of comfort which he had ventured to reject as unnecessary for him, he did now feel that he would have been wiser to search.
He knew that his talents, his position, and his friends would have won for him promotion, had he put himself in the way of winning it. Instead of doing so, he had allowed himself an income of some L 300 a year, should he, by marrying, throw up his fellowship. Such, at the age of forty, was the worldly result of labour, which the world had chosen to regard as successful. The world also thought that Mr Arabin was, in his own estimation, sufficiently paid. Alas! alas! the world was mistaken; and Mr Arabin was beginning to ascertain that such was the case.
And here, may I beg the reader not to be hard in the judgement upon this man. Is not the state at which he has arrived, the natural result of efforts to reach that which is not the condition of humanity? Is not modern stoicism, built though it be on Christianity, as great an outrage on human nature as was the stoicism of the ancients? The philosophy of Zeno was built on true laws, but on true laws misunderstood, and therefore misapplied. It is the same with our Stoics here, who would teach us that wealth and worldly comfort and happiness on earth are not worth the search. Also, for a doctrine which can find no believing pupils and no true teachers!
The case of Mr Arabin was the more singular, as he belonged to a branch of the Church of England well inclined to regard its temporalities with avowed favour, and had habitually lived with men who were accustomed to much worldly comfort. But such was his idiosyncrasy, that these very facts had produced within him, in early life, a state of mind that was not natural to him. He was content to be a High Churchman, if he could be so on principles of his own, and could strike out a course showing a marked difference from those with whom he consorted. He was ready to be a partisan as long as he was allowed to have a course of action and of thought unlike that of his party. His party had indulged him, and he began to feel that his party was right and himself wrong, but when such a conviction was too late to be of service to him. He discovered, when much was discovery was no longer serviceable, that it would have been worth his while to have worked for the usual pay assigned to work in this world, and have earned a wife and children, with a carriage for them to sit in; to have earned a pleasant dining-room, in which his friends could drink his wine, and the power of walking up in the high street of his country town, with the knowledge that all its tradesmen would have gladly welcomed him within their doors. Other men arrived at those convictions in their start of life, and so worked up to them. To him they had come when they were too late to be of use.
It has been said that Mr Arabin was a man of pleasantry and it may be thought that such a state of mind as that described, would be antagonistic to humour. But surely such is not the case. Wit is the outward mental casing of the man, and has no more to do with the inner mind of thought and feelings than have the rich brocaded garments of the priest at the altar with the asceticism of the anchorite below them, whose skin is tormented with sackcloth, and whose body is half flayed with rods. Nay, will not such a one often rejoice more than any other in the rich show of outer apparel? Will it not be food for his pride to feel that he groans inwardly, while he shines outwardly? So it is with the mental efforts which men make. Those which they show forth daily to the world are often the opposites of the inner workings of the spirit.
In the archdeacon's drawing-room, Mr Arabin had sparkled with his usual unaffected brilliancy, but when he retired to his bed-room, he sat there sad, at his open window, repining within himself that he also had no wife, no bairns, no soft award of lawn duly mown for him to be on, no herd of attendant curates, no bowings from the banker's clerks, no rich rectory. That apostleship that he had thought of had evaded his grasp, and he was now only vicar of St Ewold's, with a taste for a mitre. Truly he had fallen between two stools.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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21
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ST EWOLD'S PARSONAGE
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When Mr Harding and Mrs Bold reached the rectory on the following morning, the archdeacon and his friend were at St Ewold's. They had gone over that the new vicar might inspect his church, and be introduced to the squire, and were not expected back before dinner. Mr Harding rambled out by himself, and strolled, as was his wont at Plumstead, about the lawn and round the church; and as he did so, the two sisters naturally fell into conversation about Barchester.
There was not much sisterly confidence between them. Mrs Grantly was ten years older than Eleanor, and had been married while Eleanor was yet a child. They had never, therefore, poured into each other's ears their hopes and loves; and now that one was a wife and the other a widow, it was not probable that they would begin to do so. They lived too much asunder to be able to fall into that kind of intercourse which makes confidence between sisters almost a necessity; and, moreover, that which is so easy at eighteen is often very difficult at twenty-eight. Mrs Grantly knew this, and did not, therefore, expect confidence from her sister; and yet she longed to ask her whether in real truth Mr Slope was agreeable to her.
It was by no means difficult to turn the conversation to Mr Slope. That gentleman had become so famous at Barchester, had so much to do with all clergymen connected with the city, and was so specially concerned in the affairs of Mr Harding, that it would have been odd if Mr Harding's daughters had not talked about him. Mrs Grantly was soon abusing him, which she did with her whole heart; and Mrs Bold was nearly as eager to defend him. She positively disliked the man, would have been delighted to learn that he had taken himself off so that she should never see him again, had indeed almost a fear of him, and yet she constantly found herself taking his part. The abuse of other people, and abuse of a nature that she felt to be unjust, imposed that necessity on her, and at last made Mr Slope's defence an habitual course of argument with her.
From Mr Slope the conversation turned to the Stanhopes, and Mrs Grantly was listening with some interest to Eleanor's account of the family, when it dropped out that Mr Slope was one of the party.
'What!' said the lady of the rectory, 'was Mr Slope there too?'
Eleanor merely replied that such had been the case.
'Why, Eleanor, he must be very fond of you, I think; he seems to follow you everywhere.'
Even this did not open Eleanor's eyes. She merely laughed, and said that she imagined Mr Slope found other attraction at Dr Stanhope's. And so they parted. Mrs Grantly felt quite convinced that the odious match would take place; and Mrs Bold as convinced that that unfortunate chaplain, disagreeable as he must be allowed to be, was more sinned against than sinning.
The archdeacon of course heard before dinner that Eleanor had remained the day before at Barchester with the view of meeting Mr Slope, and that she had so met him. He remembered how she had positively stated that there were to be guests at the Stanhopes, and he did not hesitate to accuse her of deceit. Moreover, the fact, or rather the presumed fact, of her being deceitful on such a matter, spoke but too plainly in evidence against her as to her imputed crime of receiving Mr Slope as a lover.
'I am afraid that anything we can do will be too late,' said the archdeacon. 'I own I am fairly surprised. I never liked your sister's taste with regard to men; but still I did not give her credit for--ugh!'
'And so soon, too,' said Mrs Grantly, who thought more, perhaps, of her sister's indecorum in having a lover before she had put off her weeds, than her bad taste in having such a lover as Mr Slope.
'Well, my dear, I shall be sorry to be harsh, or to do anything that can hurt your father; but, positively, neither that man nor his wife shall come within my doors.'
Mrs Grantly sighed, and then attempted to console herself and her lord by remarking that, after all, the thing was not accomplished yet. Now that Eleanor was at Plumstead, much might be done to wean her from her fatal passion. Poor Eleanor!
The evening passed off without anything to make it remarkable. Mr Arabin discussed the parish of St Ewold with the archdeacon, and Mrs Grantly and Mr Harding, who knew the parsonages of the parish, joined in. Eleanor also knew them, but spoke little. Mr Arabin did not apparently take much notice of her, and she was not in a humour to receive at that time with any special grace any special favourite of her brother-in-law. Her first idea on reaching her bedroom was that a much more pleasant family party might be met at Dr Stanhope's than at the rectory. She began to think that she was getting tired of clergymen and their respectable humdrum wearisome mode of living, and that after all, people in the outer world, who had lived in Italy, London, or elsewhere, need not necessarily be regarded as atrocious and abominable. The Stanhopes, she had thought, were a giddy, thoughtless, extravagant set of people; but she had seen nothing wrong about them, and had, on the other hand, found that they thoroughly knew how to make their house agreeable. It was a thousand pities, she thought, that the archdeacon should not have a little of the same savoir vivre. Mr Arabin, as we have said, did not apparently take much notice of her; but yet he did not go to bed without feeling that he had been in company with a very pretty woman; and as is the case with most bachelors, and some married men, regarded the prospect of his month's visit at Plumstead in a pleasanter light, when he learnt that a very pretty woman was to share it with him.
Before they all retired it was settled that the whole party should drive over on the following day to inspect the parsonage at St Ewold. The three clergymen were to discuss dilapidations, and the two ladies were to lend their assistance in suggesting such changes as might be necessary for a bachelor's abode. Accordingly, soon after breakfast, the carriage was at the door. There was only room for four inside, and the archdeacon got upon the box. Eleanor found herself opposite to Mr Arabin, and was, therefore, in a manner forced into conversation with him. They were soon on comfortable terms together; and had she thought about it, she would have thought that, in spite of his black cloth, Mr Arabin would not have been a bad addition to the Stanhope family party.
Now that the archdeacon was away, they could all trifle. Mr Harding began by telling them in the most innocent manner imaginable an old legend about Mr Arabin's new parish. There was, he said, in days of yore, an illustrious priestess of St Ewold, famed through the whole country for curing all manner of diseases. She had a well, as all priestesses have ever had, which well was extant to this day, and shared in the minds of many of the people the sanctity which belonged to the consecrated grounds of the parish church. Mr Arabin declared that he should look on such tenets on the part of the parishioners as anything but orthodox. And Mrs Grantly replied that she so entirely disagreed with him as to think that no parish was in a proper estate that had not its priestess as well as its priest. 'The duties are never well done,' said she, 'unless they are so divided.'
'I suppose, papa,' said Eleanor, 'that in the oldest times the priestess bore all the sway herself. Mr Arabin, perhaps, thinks that such might be too much the case now if a sacred lady were admitted within the parish.'
'I think, at any rate,' said he, 'that it is safer to run no such risk. No priestly pride has ever exceeded that of sacerdotal females. A very lowly curate, I might, perhaps, essay to rule; but a curatess would be sure to get the better of me.'
'There are certainly examples of such accidents happening,' said Mrs Grantly. 'They do say that there is a priestess at Barchester who is very imperious in all things touching the altar. Perhaps the fear of such a fate as that is before your eyes.'
When they were joined by the archdeacon on the gravel before the vicarage, they descended again to grave dullness. Not that Archdeacon Grantly was a dull man; but his frolic humours were of a cumbrous kind; and his wit, when he was witty, did not generally extend itself to his auditory. On the present occasion, he was soon making speeches about wounded roofs and walls, which he declared to be in want of some surgeon's art. There was not a partition that he did not tap, nor a block of chimneys that he did not narrowly examine; all water-pipes, flues, cisterns, and sewers underwent his examination; and he even descended, in the care of his friend, so far as to bore sundry boards in the floors with a bradawl.
Mr Arabin accompanied him through the rooms, trying to look wise in such domestic matters, and the other three also followed. Mrs Grantly showed that she herself had not been priestess of a parish twenty years for nothing, and examined the bells and window panes in a very knowing way.
'You will, at any rate, have a beautiful prospect out of your own window, if this is to be your private sanctum,' said Eleanor. She was standing at the lattice of a little room up stairs, from which the view certainly was very lovely. It was from the back of the vicarage, and there was nothing to interrupt the eye between the house and the glorious gray pile of the cathedral. The intermediate ground, however, was beautifully studded with timber. In the immediate foreground ran the little river which afterwards skirted the city; and, just to the right of the cathedral the pointed gables and chimneys of Hiram's Hospital peeped out of the elms which encompass it.
'Yes,' said he, joining her. 'I shall have a beautifully complete view of my adversaries. I shall sit down before the hostile town, and fire away at them at a very pleasant distance. I shall just be able to lodge a shot in the hospital, should the enemy ever get possession of it; and as for the palace, I have it within full range.'
'I never saw anything like you clergymen,' said Eleanor; 'you are always thinking of fighting each other.'
'Either that,' said he, 'or else supporting each other. The pity is that we cannot do the one without the other. But are we not here to fight? Is not ours a church militant? What is all our work but fighting, and hard fighting, if it be well done?'
'But not with each other.'
'That's as it may be. The same complaint which you make of me for battling with another clergyman of our own church, the Mahometan would make against me for battling with the error of a priest of Rome. Yet, surely, you would not be inclined to say that I should be wrong to do battle with such as him. A pagan, too, with his multiplicity of gods, would think it equally odd that the Christian and the Mahometan should disagree.'
'Ah! But you wage your wars about trifles so bitterly.'
'Wars about trifles,' said he, 'are always bitter, especially among neighbours. When the differences are great, and the parties comparative strangers, men quarrel with courtesy. What combatants are ever so eager as two brothers?'
'But do not such contentions bring scandal on the church?'
'More scandal would fall on the church if there were no such contentions. We have but one way to avoid them--that of acknowledging a common head of our church, whose word on all points of doctrine shall be authoritative. Such a termination of our difficulties is alluring enough. It has charms which are irresistible to many, and all but irresistible, I own, to me.'
'You speak now of the Church of Rome?' said Eleanor.
'No,' said he, 'not necessarily the Church of Rome; but of a church with a head. Had it pleased God to vouchsafe to us such a church our path would have been easy. But easy paths have not been thought good for us.' He paused and stood silent for a while, thinking of the time when he had so nearly sacrificed all he had, his powers of mind, his free agency, the fresh running waters of his mind's fountain, his very inner self, for an easy path in which no fighting would be needed; and then he continued: 'What you say is partly true; our contentions do bring on us some scandal. The outer world, though it constantly reviles us for our human infirmities, and throws in our teeth the fact that being clergymen we are still no more then men, demands of us that we should do our work with godlike perfection. There is nothing godlike about us: we differ from each other with the acerbity common to man--we allow differences on subjects of divine origin to produce among us antipathies and enmities which are anything but divine. This is all true. But what would you have in place of it? There is no infallible head for a church on earth. This dream of believing man has been tried, and we see in Italy and in Spain what has become of it. Grant that there are and have been no bickerings within the pale of the Pope's Church. Such an assumption would be utterly untrue; but let us grant it, and then let us say which church has incurred the heaviest scandals.'
There was a quiet earnestness about Mr Arabin, as he half acknowledged and half defended himself from the charge brought against him, which surprised Eleanor. She had been used all her life to listen to clerical discussion; but the points at issue between the disputants had so seldom been of more than temporal significance as to have left on her mind no feeling of reverence for such subjects. There had always been a hard worldly leaven of the love either of income or power in the strains that she had heard; there had been no panting for the truth; no aspirations after religious purity. It had always been taken for granted by those around her that they were indubitably right, that there was no ground for doubt, that the hard uphill work of ascertaining what the duty of a clergyman should be had been already accomplished in full; and that what remained for an active militant parson to do, was to hold his own against all comers. Her father, it is true, was an exception to this; but then he was so essentially non-militant in all things, that she classed him in her own mind apart from all others. She had never argued the matter within herself, or considered whether this common tone was or was not faulty; but she was sick of it without knowing that she was so. And now she found to her surprise and not without a certain pleasurable excitement, that this new comer among them spoke in a manner very different from that to which she was accustomed.
'It is so easy to condemn,' said he, continuing the thread of his thoughts. 'I know no life that must be so delicious as that of a writer for newspapers, or a leading member of the opposition--to thunder forth accusations against men in power; show up the worst side of every thing that is produced; to pick holes in every coat; to be indignant, sarcastic, jocose, moral, or supercilious; to damn with faint praise, or crush with open calumny! What can be so easy as this when the critic has to be responsible for nothing? You condemn what I do; but put yourself in my position and do the reverse, and then see if I cannot condemn you.'
'Oh! Mr Arabin, I do not condemn you.'
'Pardon me, you do, Mrs Bold--you as one of the world; you are now the opposition member; you are now composing your leading article, and well and bitterly you do it. "Let dogs delight to bark and bite;" you fitly began with an elegant quotation; "but if we are to have a church at all, in heaven's name let the pastors who preside over it keep their hands from each other's throats. Lawyers can live without befouling each other's names; doctors do not fight duels. Why is that clergymen alone should indulge themselves in such unrestrained liberty of abuse against each other?" and so you go on reviling us for our ungodly quarrels, our sectarian propensities, and scandalous differences. It will, however, give you no trouble to write another article next week in which we, or some of us, shall be twitted with an unseemly apathy in matters of our vocation. It will not fall on you to reconcile the discrepancy; your readers will never ask you how the poor parson is to be urgent in season and out of season, and yet never come in contact with men who think widely differently from him. You, when you condemn this foreign treaty, or that official arrangement, will have to incur no blame for the graver faults of any different measure. It is so easy to condemn; and so pleasant too; for eulogy charms no listeners as detraction does.'
Eleanor only half followed him in his raillery; but she caught his meaning. 'I know I ought to apologise for presuming to criticise you,' she said; 'but I was thinking with sorrow of the ill-will that has lately come among us at Barchester, and I spoke more freely than I should have done.'
'Peace on earth and good-will among men, are, like heaven, promises for the future;' said he, following rather his own thoughts than hers. 'When that prophecy is accomplished, there will no longer be any need for clergymen.'
Here they were interrupted by the archdeacon, whose voice was heard from the cellar shouting to the vicar.
'Arabin, Arabin,'--and then turning to his wife, who was apparently at his elbow--'where is he gone to? This cellar is perfectly abominable. It would be murder to put a bottle of wine into it till it has been roofed, walled, and floored. How on earth old Goodenough ever got on with it, I cannot guess. But then Goodenough never had a glass of wine that any man could drink.'
'What is it, archdeacon?' said the vicar, running down stairs, and leaving Eleanor above to her meditations.
'This cellar must be roofed, walled, and floored,' repeated the archdeacon. 'Now mind what I say, and don't let the architect persuade you that it will do; half of those fellows know nothing about wine. This place as it is now would be damp and cold in winter, and hot and muggy in summer. I wouldn't give a straw for the best wine that ever was minted, after it had lain here a couple of years.'
Mr Arabin assented, and promised that the cellar should be reconstructed according to the archdeacon's receipt.
'And, Arabin, look here; was such an attempt at a kitchen grate ever seen?'
'The grate is really very bad,' said Mrs Grantly; 'I am sure the priestess won't approve of it, when she is brought here to the scene of future duties. Really, Mr Arabin, no priestess accustomed to such an excellent well as that above could put up with such a grate as this.'
'If there must be a priestess at St Ewold's at all, Mrs Grantly, I think we shall leave her to her well, and not call down her divine wrath on any of the imperfections rising from our human poverty. However, I own I am amenable to the attractions of a well-cooked dinner, and the grate shall certainly be changed.'
By this time the archdeacon had again ascended, and was now in the dining-room. 'Arabin,' said he, speaking in his usual loud clear voice, and with that tone of dictation which was so common to him; 'you must positively alter this dining-room, that is, remodel it altogether; look here, it is just sixteen feet by fifteen; did anybody ever hear of a dining-room of such proportions?' and the archdeacon stepped the room long-ways and cross-ways with ponderous steps, as though a certain amount of ecclesiastical dignity could be imparted even to such an occupation as that by the manner of doing it. 'Barely sixteen; you may call it a square.'
'It would do very well for a round table,' suggested the ex-warden.
Now there was something peculiarly unorthodox in the archdeacon's estimation in the idea of a round table. He had always been accustomed to a goodly board of decent length, comfortably elongating itself according to the number of guests, nearly black with perpetual rubbing, and as bright as a mirror. Now round dinner tables are generally of oak, or else of such new construction as not to have acquired the peculiar hue which was so pleasing to him. He connected them with what he called the nasty new fangled method of leaving cloth on the table, as though to warn people that they were not to sit long. In his eyes there was something democratic and parvenu in a round table. He imagined that dissenters and calico-printers chiefly used them, and perhaps a few literary lions more conspicuous for their wit than their gentility. He was a little flurried at the idea of such an article, being introduced into the diocese by a protege of his own, and at the instigation of his father-in-law.
'A round dinner-table,' said he, with some heat, 'is the most abominable article of furniture that ever was invented. I hope that Arabin has more taste than to allow such a thing in his house.'
Poor Mr Harding felt himself completely snubbed, and of course said nothing further; but Mr Arabin, who had yielded submissively in the small matters of the cellar and kitchen grate, found himself obliged to oppose reforms which might be of a nature too expensive for his pocket.
'But it seems to me, archdeacon, that I can't very well lengthen the room without pulling down the wall, and if I pull down the wall, I must build it up again; then if I throw out a bow on this side, I must do the same on the other, then if I do it for the ground floor, I must carry it up to the floor above. That will be putting a new front to the house, and will cost, I suppose, a couple of hundred pounds. The ecclesiastical commissioners will hardly assist me when they hear that my grievance consists in having a dining-room only sixteen feet long.'
The archdeacon proceeded to explain that nothing would be easier than adding six feet to the front of the dining-room, without touching any other of the house. Such irregularities of construction in small country houses were, he said, rather graceful than otherwise, and he offered to pay for the whole thing out of his own pocket if it cost more than forty pounds. Mr Arabin, however, was firm, and, although the archdeacon fussed and fumed about it, would not give way.
Forty pounds, he said, was a matter of serious moment to him, and his friends, if under such circumstances they would be good-natured enough to come to him at all, must put up with the misery of a square room. He was willing to compromise matters by disclaiming any intention of having a round table.
'But,' said Mrs Grantly, 'what if the priestess insists on have both the rooms enlarged?'
'The priestess in that case must do it for herself, Mrs Grantly.'
'I have no doubt she will be well able to do so,' replied the lady; 'to do that and many more wonderful things. I am quite sure that the priestess of St Ewold, when she does come, won't come empty-handed.'
Mr Arabin, however, did not appear well inclined to enter into speculative expenses on such a chance as this, and therefore, any material alterations in the house, the cost of which could not fairly be made to lie at the door either of the ecclesiastical commission or of the estate of the late incumbent, were tabooed. With this essential exception, the archdeacon ordered, suggested, and carried all points before him in a manner very much to his own satisfaction. A close observer, had there been one there, might have seen that his wife had been quite as useful in the matter as himself. No one knew better than Mrs Grantly the appurtenances necessary to a comfortable house. She did not, however, think it necessary to lay claim to any of the glory which her lord and master was so ready to appropriate as his own.
Having gone through their work effectively, and systematically, the party returned to Plumstead well satisfied with their expedition.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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22
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THE THORNES OF ULLATHORNE
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On the following Sunday Mr Arabin was to read himself in at his new church. It was agreed at the rectory that the archdeacon should go over with him and assist at the reading-desk, and that Mr Harding should take the archdeacon's duty at Plumstead Church. Mrs Grantly had her school and her buns to attend to, and professed that she could not be spared; but Mrs Bold was to accompany them. It was further agreed also, that they would lunch at the squire's house, and return home after the afternoon service.
Wilfred Thorne, Esq., of Ullathorne, was the squire of St Ewold's; or rather the squire of Ullathorne; for the domain of the modern landlord was of wider notoriety than the fame of the ancient saint. He was a fair specimen of what that race has come to in our days, which a century ago was, as we are told, fairly represented by Squire Western. If that representation be a true one, few classes of men can have made faster strides in improvement. Mr Thorne, however, was a man possessed of quite a sufficient number of foibles to lay him open to much ridicule. He was still a bachelor, being about fifty, and was not a little proud of his person. When living at home at Ullathorne there was not much room for such pride, and there therefore he always looked like a gentleman, and like that which he certainly was, the first man in his parish. But during the month or six weeks which he annually spent in London, he tried so hard to look like a great man there also, which he certainly was not, that he was put down as a fool by many at his club. He was a man of considerable literary attainment in a certain way and on certain subjects. His favourite authors were Montaigne and Burton, and he knew more perhaps than any other man in his own county, and the next to it, of the English essayists of the two last centuries. He possessed complete sets of the 'Idler', the 'Spectator,' the 'Tatler,' the 'Guardian,' and the 'Rambler;' and would discourse by hours together on the superiority of such publications to anything which has since been produced in our Edinburghs and Quarterlies. He was a great proficient in all questions of genealogy, and knew enough of almost every gentleman's family in England to say of what blood and lineage were descended all those who had any claim to be considered as possessors of any such luxuries. For blood and lineage he himself had a must profound respect. He counted back his own ancestors to some period long antecedent to the Conquest; and could tell you, if you would listen to him, how it had come to pass that they, like Cedric the Saxon, had been permitted to hold their own among the Norman barons. It was not, according to his showing, on account of any weak complaisance on the part of his family towards their Norman neighbours. Some Ealfried of Ullathorne once fortified his own castle, and held out, not only that, but the then existing cathedral of Barchester also, against one Godfrey de Burgh, in the time of King John; and Mr Thorne possessed the whole history of the siege written on vellum, and illuminated in a most costly manner. It little signified that no one could read the writing, as, had that been possible, no one could have understood the language. Mr Thorne could, however, give you all the particulars in good English, and had no objection to do so.
It would be unjust to say that he looked down in men whose families were of recent date. He did not do so. He frequently consorted with such, and had chosen many of his friends from among them. But he looked on them as great millionaires are apt to look on those who have small incomes; as men who have Sophocles at their fingers' ends regard those who know nothing of Greek. They might doubtless be good sort of people, entitled to much praise for virtue, very admirable for talent, highly respectable in every way; but they were without the one great good gift. Such was Mr Thorne's way of thinking on this matter; nothing could atone for the loss of good blood; nothing could neutralise its good effects. Few indeed were now possessed of it, but the possession was on that account the more precious. It was very pleasant to hear Mr Thorne descant on this matter. Were you in your ignorance to surmise that such a one was of a good family because the head of his family was a baronet of an old date, he would open his eyes with a delightful look of affected surprise, and modestly remind you that baronetcies only dated from James I. He would gently sigh if you spoke of the blood of the Fitzgeralds and De Burghs; would hardly allow the claims of the Howards and Lowthers; and has before now alluded to the Talbots as a family who had hardly yet achieved the full honours of a pedigree.
In speaking once of a wide spread race whose name had received the honours of three coronets, scions from which sat for various constituencies, some one of whose members had been in almost every cabinet formed during this present century, a brilliant race such as there are few in England, Mr Thorne called them all 'dirt'. He had not intended any disrespect to these men. He admired them in many senses, and allowed them their privileges without envy. He had merely meant to express his feeling that the streams which ran through their not veins were yet purified by time to that perfection, had not become so genuine an ichor, as to be worthy of being called blood in the genealogical sense.
When Mr Arabin was first introduced to him, Mr Thorne had immediately suggested that he was one of the Arabins of Uphill Stanton. Mr Arabin replied that he was a very distant relative of the family alluded to. To this Mr Thorne surmised that the relationship could not be very distant. Mr Arabin assured him that it was so distant that the families knew nothing of each other. Mr Thorne laughed his gentle laugh at this, and told Mr Arabin that there was not existing no branch of his family separated from the parent stock at an earlier date than the reign of Elizabeth; and that therefore Mr Arabin could not call himself distant. Mr Arabin himself was quite clearly an Arabin of Uphill Stanton.
'But,' said the vicar, 'Uphill Stanton has been sold to the De Greys, and has been in their hands for the last fifty years.'
'And when it has been there one hundred and fifty, if it unluckily remain there so long,' said Mr Thorne, 'your descendants will not be a whit the less entitled to describe themselves as being of the family of Uphill Stanton. Thank God, no De Grey can buy that--and, thank God--no Arabin, and no Thorne, can sell it.'
In politics, Mr Thorne was an unflinching conservative. He looked on those fifty-three Trojans, who, as Mr Dod tell us, censured free trade in November 1852, as the only patriots left among the public men of England. When that terrible crisis of free trade had arrived, when the repeal of the corn laws was carried by those very men whom Mr Thorne had hitherto regarded as the only possible saviours of his country, he was for a time paralysed. His country was lost; but that was comparatively a small thing. Other countries had flourished and fallen, and the human race still went on improving under God's providence. But now all trust in human faith must for ever be at an end. Not only must ruin come, but it must come through the apostasy of those who had been regarded as the truest of true believers. Politics in England, as a pursuit for gentlemen, must be at an end. Had Mr Thorne been trodden under foot by a Whig, he could have borne it as a Tory and a martyr; but to be so utterly thrown over and deceived by those he had so earnestly supported, so thoroughly trusted, was more than he could endure and live. He therefore ceased to live as a politician, and refused to hold any converse with the world at large on the state of the country.
Such were Mr Thorne's impressions for the first two or three years after Sir Robert Peel's apostasy; but by degrees his temper, as did that of others, cooled down. He began once more to move about, to frequent the bench and the market, and to be seen at dinners, shoulder to shoulder with some of those who had so cruelly betrayed him. It was a necessity for him to live, and that plan of his for avoiding the world did not answer. He, however, had others around him, who still maintained the same staunch principles of protection--men like himself, who were too true to flinch at the cry of a mob--had their own way of consoling themselves. They were, and felt themselves to be, the only true depositories left of certain Eleusinian mysteries, of certain deep and wondrous services of worship by which alone the gods could be rightly approached. To them and them only was it now given to know these things, and to perpetuate them, if that might still be done, by the careful and secret education of their children.
We have read how private and peculiar forms of worship have been carried on from age to age in families, which to the outer world have apparently adhered to the service of some ordinary church. And so by degrees it was with Mr Thorne. He learnt at length to listen calmly while protection was talked of as a thing dead, although he knew within himself that it was still quick with a mystic life. Nor was he without a certain pleasure that such knowledge though given to him should be debarred from the multitude. He became accustomed to hear, even among country gentlemen, that free trade was after all not so bad, and to bear this without dispute, although conscious within himself that everything good in England had gone with his old palladium. He had within him something of the feeling of Cato, who gloried that he could kill himself because Romans were no longer worthy of their name. Mr Thorne had no thought of killing himself, being a Christian, and still possessing his L 4000 a year; but the feeling was not on that account the less comfortable.
Mr Thorne was a sportsman, and had been active though not outrageous in his sports. Previous to the great downfall of politics in his country, he had supported the hunt by every means in his power. He had preserved game till no goose or turkey could show a tail in the parish of St Ewold's. He had planted gorse covers with more care than oaks and larches. He had been more anxious for the comfort of his foxes than of his ewes and lambs. No meet had been more popular than Ullathorne; no man's stables had been more liberally open to the horses of distant men than Mr Thorne's; no man had said more, written more, or done more to keep the club up. The theory of protection could expand itself so thoroughly in the practices of the country hunt! But the great ruin came; when the noble master of the Barchester hounds supported the recreant minister in the House of Lords, and basely surrendered his truth, his manhood, his friends, and his honour for the hope of a garter, then Mr Thorne gave up the hunt. He did not cut his covers, for that would not have been the act of a gentleman. He did not kill his foxes, for that according to his light would have been murder. He did not say that his covers should not be drawn, or his earths stopped, for that would have been illegal according to the by-laws prevailing among country gentlemen. But he absented himself from home on the occasions of every meet at Ullathorne, left the covers to their fate, and could not be persuaded to take his pink coat out of the press, or his hunters out of his stable. This lasted for two years, and then by degrees he came round. He first appeared at a neighbouring meet on a pony, dressed in his shooting coat, as though he had trotted in by accident; then he walked up one morning on foot to see his favourite gorse drawn, and when his groom brought his mare out by chance, he did not refuse to mount her. He was next persuaded, by one of the immortal fifty-three, to bring his hunting materials over to the other side of the county, and take a fortnight with the hounds there; and so gradually he returned to his old life. But in hunting as in other things he was only supported by the inward feeling of mystic superiority to those with whom he shared the common breath of outer life.
Mr Thorne did not live in solitude at Ullathorne. He had a sister, who was ten years older than himself, and who participated in his prejudices and feelings so strongly, that she was a living caricature of all his foibles. She would not open a modern quarterly, did not choose to see a magazine in her drawing-room, and would not have polluted her fingers with a shred of "The Times" for any consideration. She spoke of Addison, Swift, and Steele, as though they were still living, regarded De Foe as the best known novelist of his country, and thought of Fielding as a young but meritorious novice in the fields of romance. In poetry, she was familiar with then names as late as Dryden, and had once been seduced into reading the "Rape of the Lock"; but she regarded Spenser as the purest type of her country's literature in this line. Genealogy was her favourite insanity. Those things which are the pride of most genealogists were to her contemptible. Arms and mottoes set her beside herself. Ealfried of Ullathorne had wanted no motto to assist him in cleaving to the brisket Geoffrey De Burgh; and Ealfried's great grandfather, the gigantic Ullafrid, had required no other arms than those which nature gave him to hurl from the top of his own castle a cousin of the base invading Norman. To her all modern English names were equally insignificant. Hengist, Horsa, and such like, had for her the only true savour of nobility. She was not contented unless she could go beyond the Saxons; and would certainly have christened her children, had she had children, by the names of the ancient Britons. In some respects she was not unlike Scott's Ulrica, and had she been given to cursing, she would certainly have done so in the names of Mista, Skogula, and Zernebock. Not having submitted to the embraces of any polluting Normans, as poor Ulrica had done, and having assisted no parricide, the milk of human kindness was not curdled in her bosom. She never cursed, therefore, but blessed rather. This, however, she did in a strange uncouth Saxon manner, that would have been unintelligible to any peasants but her own.
As a politician, Miss Thorne had been so thoroughly disgusted with public life by base deeds long antecedent to the Corn Law question, that that had but little moved her. In her estimation her brother had been a fast young man, hurried away by a too ardent temperament into democratic tendencies. Now happily he was brought to sounder views by seeing the iniquity of the world. She had not yet reconciled herself to the Reform Bill, and still groaned in spirit over the defalcations of the Duke as touching the Catholic Emancipation. If asked whom she thought the Queen should take as her counsellor, she would probably have named Lord Eldon; and when reminded that that venerable man was no longer present in the flesh to assist us, she would probably have answered with a sigh that none now could help us but the dead.
In religion, Miss Thorne was a pure Druidess. We would not have it understood by that, that she did actually in these latter days assist at any human sacrifices, or that she was in fact hostile to the Church of Christ. She had adopted the Christian religion as a milder form of the worship of her ancestors, and always appealed to her doing so as evidence that she had no prejudices against reform, when it could be shown that reform was salutary. This reform was the most modern of any to which she had as yet acceded, it being presumed that British ladies had given up their paint and taken to some sort of petticoats before the days of St Augustine. That further feminine step in advance which combines paint and petticoats together, had not found votary in Miss Thorne.
But she was a Druidess in this, that she regretted she knew not what in the usages and practices of her Church. She sometimes talked and constantly thought of good things gone by, though she had but the faintest idea of what those good things had been. She imagined that a purity had existed which was now gone; that a piety had adorned our pastors and a simple docility our people, for which it may be feared history gave her but little true warrant. She was accustomed to speak of Cranmer as though he had been the firmest and most simple-minded of martyrs, and of Elizabeth as though the pure Protestant faith of her people had been the one anxiety of her life. It would have been cruel to undeceive her, had it been possible; but it would have been impossible to make her believe that the one was a time-serving priest, willing to go any length to keep his place, and that the other was in heart a papist, with this sole proviso, that she should be her own pope.
And so Miss Thorne went on sighing and regretting, looking back to the divine right of kings as the ruling axiom of a golden age, and cherishing, low down in the bottom of her hearts of hearts, a dear unmentioned wish for the restoration of some exiled Stuart. Who would deny her the luxury of her sighs, or the sweetness of her soft regrets!
In her person and her dress she was perfect, and well she knew her own perfection. She was a small elegantly made old woman, with a face from which the glow of her youth had not departed without leaving some streaks of a roseate hue. She was proud of her colour, proud of her grey hair which she wore in short crisp curls peering out all around her face from the dainty white cap. To think of all the money that she spent in lace used to break the heart of poor Mrs Quiverful with her seven daughters. She was proud of her teeth, which were still white and numerous, proud of her bright cheery eye, proud of her short jaunty step, and very proud of the neat, precise, small feet with which those steps were taken. She was proud also, ay, very proud, of the rich brocaded silk in which it was her custom to ruffle through her drawing-room.
We know what was the custom of the lady of Branksome-- "Nine and twenty knights of fame Hung their shields in Branksome Hall."
The lady of Ullathorne was not so martial in her habits, but hardly less costly. She might have boasted that nine-and-twenty silken shirts might have been produced in her chamber, each fit to stand alone. The nine-and-twenty shields of the Scottish heroes were less independent, and hardly more potent to withstand any attack that might be made on them. Miss Thorne when fully dressed might be said to have been armed cap-a-pie, and she was always fully dressed, as far as was ever known to mortal man.
For all this rich attire Miss Thorne was not indebted to the generosity of her brother. She had a very comfortable independence of her own, which she divided among juvenile relatives, the milliners, and the poor, giving much the largest share to the latter. It may be imagined, therefore, that with all her little follies she was not unpopular. All her follies have, we believe, been told. Her virtues were too numerous to describe, and not sufficiently interesting to deserve description.
While we are on the subject of the Thornes, one word must be said of the house they lived in. It was not a large house, nor a fine house, nor perhaps to modern ideas a very commodious house; but by those who love the peculiar colour and peculiar ornaments of genuine Tudor architecture it was considered a perfect gem. We beg to own ourselves among the number, and therefore take this opportunity to express our surprise that so little is known by English men and women of the beauties of English architecture. The ruins of the Colosseum, the Campanile at Florence, St Mark's, Cologne, the Bourse and Notre Dame, are with our tourists as familiar as household words; but they know nothing of the glories of Wiltshire, Dorsetshire, and Somersetshire. Nay, we much question whether many noted travellers, many who have pitched their tents perhaps under Mount Sinai, are not still ignorant that there are glories in Wiltshire, Dorsetshire and Somersetshire. We beg that they will go and see.
Mr Thorne's house was called Ullathorne Court, and was properly so called; for the house itself formed two sides of a quadrangle, which was completed in the other two sides by a wall about twenty feet high. This was built of cut stone, rudely cut indeed, and now much worn, but of a beautiful rich tawny yellow colour, the effect of that stonecrop of minute growth, which it had taken three centuries to produce. The top of this wall was ornamented by huge round stone balls of the same colour as the wall itself. Entrance into the court was had through a pair of iron gates, so massive that no one could comfortably open or close them, consequently they were rarely disturbed. From the gateway two paths led obliquely across the court; that to the left reaching the hall-door, which was in the corner made by the angle of the house, and that to the right leading to the back entrance, which was at the further end of the longer portion of the building.
With those who are now adept at contriving house accommodation, it will militate much against Ullathorne Court, that no carriage could be brought to the hall-door. If you enter Ullathorne at all, you must do so, fair reader, on foot, or at least in a bath-chair. No vehicle drawn by horses ever comes within that iron gate. But this is nothing to the next horror that will encounter you. On entering the front door, which you do by no very grand portal, you find yourself immediately in the dining-room. What--no hall? exclaims my luxurious friend, accustomed to all the comfortable appurtenances of modern life. Yes, kind sir; a noble hall, if you will but observe it; a true old English hall of excellent dimensions for a country gentleman's family; but, if you please, no dining-parlour.
But Mr and Miss Thorne were proud of this peculiarity of their dwelling, though the brother was once all but tempted by his friends to alter it. They delighted in the knowledge that they, like Cedric, positively dined in their true hall, even though they so dined tete-a-tete. But though they had never owned, they had felt and endeavoured to remedy the discomfort of such an arrangement. A huge screen partitioned off the front door and a portion of the hall, and from the angle so screened off a second door led into a passage, which ran along the larger side of the house next to the courtyard. Either my reader or I must be a bad hand at topography, if it be not clear that the great hall forms the ground-floor of the smaller portion of the mansion, that which was to your left as you entered the iron gate, and that it occupies the whole of this wing of the building. It must be equally clear that it looks out on a trim mown lawn, through three quadrangular windows with stone mullions, each window divided into a larger portion at the bottom, and a smaller portion at the top, and each portion again divided into five by perpendicular stone supporters. There may be windows which give a better light than such as those, and it may be, as my utilitarian friend observes, that the giving of light is the desired object of a window. I will not argue the point with him. Indeed I cannot. But I shall not the less die in the assured conviction that no sort of description of window is capable of imparting half as much happiness to mankind as that which has been adopted at Ullathorne Court. What--not an oriel? says Miss Diana de Midellage. No, Miss Diana; not even an oriel, beautiful as is an oriel window. It has not about it so perfect a feeling of quiet English homely comfort. Let oriel windows grace a college, or the half public mansion of a potent peer; but for the sitting room of quiet country ladies, of ordinary homely folk, nothing can equal the square mullioned windows of the Tudor architects.
The hall was hung round with family female insipidities by Lely, and unprepossessing male Thornes in red coats by Kneller; each Thorne having been let into a panel in the wainscoting in the proper manner. At the further end of the room was a huge fire-place, which afforded much ground of difference between the brother and sister. An antiquated grate that would hold about a hundred weight of coal, had been stuck on the hearth, by Mr Thorne's father. This hearth had of course been intended for the consumption of wood fagots, and the iron dogs for the purpose were still standing, though half buried in the masonry of the grate. Miss Thorne was very anxious to revert to the dogs. The dear good old creature was always to revert to anything, and had she been systematically indulged, would doubtless in time have reflected that fingers were made before forks, and have reverted accordingly. But in the affairs of the fire-place, Mr Thorne would not revert. Country gentlemen around him, all had comfortable grates in their dining-rooms. He was not exactly the man to have suggested a modern usage; but he was not so far prejudiced as to banish those which his father had prepared for his use. Mr Thorne had, indeed, once suggested that with very little contrivance the front door might have been so altered, as to open at least into the passage; but on hearing this, his sister Monica, such was Miss Thorne's name, had been taken ill, and had remained so for a week. Before she came down stairs she received a pledge from her brother that the entrance should never be changed in her lifetime.
At the end of the hall opposite to the fire-place a door led into the drawing-room, which was of equal size, and lighted with precisely similar windows. But yet the aspect of the room was very different. It was papered, and the ceiling, which in the hall showed the old rafters, was whitened and finished with a modern cornice. Miss Thorne's drawing-room, or, as she always called it, withdrawing-room, was a beautiful apartment. The windows opened on to the full extent of the lovely trim garden; immediately before the windows were plots of flowers in stiff, stately, stubborn little beds, each bed surrounded by a stone coping of its own; beyond, there was a low parapet wall, on which stood urns and images, fawns, nymphs, satyrs, and a whole tribe of Pan's followers; and then again, beyond that, a beautiful lawn sloped away to a sunk fence, which divided the garden from the park. Mr Thorne's study was at the end of the drawing-room, and beyond that were the kitchen and the offices. Doors opened into both Miss Thorne's withdrawing-room and Mr Thorne's sanctum from the passage above alluded to; which, as it came to the latter room, widened itself so as to make space for the huge black oak stairs, which led to the upper region.
Such was the interior of Ullathorne Court. But having thus described it, perhaps somewhat too tediously, we beg to say that it is not the interior to which we wish to call the English tourist's attention, though we advise him to lose no legitimate opportunity of becoming acquainted with it in a friendly manner. It is the outside of Ullathorne that is so lovely. Let the tourist get admission at least into the garden, and fling himself on that soft award just opposite to the exterior angle of the house. He will there get the double frontage, and enjoy that which is so lovely--the expanse of architectural beauty without the formal dullness of one long line.
It is the colour of Ullathorne that is so remarkable. It is all of that delicious tawny hue which no stone can give, unless it has on it the vegetable richness of centuries. Strike the wall with your hand, and you will think that the stone has on it no covering, but rub it carefully, and you will find that the colour comes off upon your finger. No colourist that ever yet worked from a palette has been able to come up to this rich colouring of years crowding themselves on years.
Ullathorne is a high building for a country house, for it possesses three stories; and in each storey, the windows are of the same sort as that described, though varying in size, and varying also in their lines athwart the house. Those of the ground floor are all uniform in size and position. But those above are irregular both in size and place, and this irregularity gives a bizarre and not unpicturesque appearance to the building. Along the top, on every side, runs a low parapet, which nearly hides the roof, and at the corners are more figures of fawns and satyrs.
Such is Ullathorne House. But we must say one word of the approach to it, which shall include all the description which we mean to give of the church also. The picturesque old church of St Ewold's stands immediately opposite to the iron gates which open into the court, and is all but surrounded by the branches of lime trees, which form the avenue leading up to the house from both sides. This avenue is magnificent, but it would lose much of its value in the eyes of many proprietors, by the fact that the road through it is not private property. It is a public lane between hedgerows, with a broad grass margin on each side of the road, from which the lime trees spring. Ullathorne Court, therefore, does not stand absolutely surrounded by its own grounds, though Mr Thorne is owner of all the adjacent land. This, however, is the source of very little annoyance to him. Men, when they are acquiring property, think much of such things, but they who live where their ancestors have lived for years, do not feel the misfortune. It never occurred to either Mr or Miss Thorne that they were not sufficiently private, because the world at large might, if it so wished, walk or drive by their iron gates. That part of the world which availed itself of the privilege was however very small.
Such a year or two since were the Thornes of Ullathorne. Such, we believe, are the inhabitants of many an English country home. May it be long before their number diminishes.
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{
"id": "2432"
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23
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MR ARABIN READS HIMSELF IN AT ST EWOLD'S
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On the Sunday morning the archdeacon with his sister-in-law and Mr Arabin drove over to Ullathorne, as had been arranged. On their way thither the new vicar declared himself to be considerably disturbed in his mind at the idea of thus facing his parishioners for the first time. He had, he said, been always subject to mauvaise honte and an annoying degree of bashfulness, which often unfitted him for any work of a novel description; and now he felt this so strongly that he feared he should acquit himself badly in St Ewold's reading-desk. He knew, he said, that those sharp little eyes of Miss Thorne would be on to him, and that they would not approve. All this the archdeacon greatly ridiculed. He himself knew not, and had never known, what it was to be shy. He could not conceive that Miss Thorne, surrounded as she would be by the peasants of Ullathorne, and a few of the poorer inhabitants of the suburbs of Barchester, could in any way affect the composure of a man well accustomed to address the learned congregations of St Mary's at Oxford, and he laughed accordingly at the idea of Mr Arabin's modesty.
Thereupon Mr Arabin commenced to subtilise. The change, he said, from St Mary's to St Ewold's was quite as powerful on the spirits as would be that from St Ewold's to St Mary's. Would not a peer who, by chance of fortune, might suddenly be driven to herd among the navvies be as afraid of the jeers of his companions, as would any navvy suddenly exalted to a seat among the peers? Whereupon the archdeacon declared with a loud laugh that he would tell Miss Thorne that her new minister had likened her to a navvy. Eleanor, however, pronounced such a conclusion unfair; a comparison might be very just in its proportions which did not at all assimilate the things compared. But Mr Arabin went in subtilising, regarding neither the archdeacon's raillery nor Eleanor's defence. A young lady, he said, would execute with most perfect self-possession a difficult piece of music in a room crowded with strangers, who would not be able to express herself in any intelligible language, even on any ordinary subject and among her most intimate friends, if she were required to do so standing on a box somewhat elevated among them. It was all an affair of education, and he at forty found it difficult to educate himself now.
Eleanor dissented on the matter of the box; and averred she could speak very well about dresses, or babies, or legs of mutton from any box, provided it were big enough for her to stand upon without fear, even though all her friends were listening to her. The archdeacon was sure she would not be able to say a word; but this proved nothing in favour of Mr Arabin. Mr Arabin said that he would try the question out with Mrs Bold, and get her on a box some day when the rectory might be full of visitors. To this Eleanor assented, making condition that the visitors should be of their own set, and the archdeacon cogitated in his mind, whether by such a condition it was intended that Mr Slope should be included, resolving also that, if so, the trial should certainly never take place in the rectory drawing-room at Plumstead.
And so arguing, they drove up to the iron gates of Ullathorne Court.
Mr and Miss Thorne were standing ready dressed for church in the hall, and greeted their clerical visitors with cordiality. The archdeacon was an old favourite. He was a clergyman of the old school, and this recommended him to the lady. He had always been an opponent of free trade as long as free trade was an open question; and now that it was no longer so, he, being a clergyman, had not been obliged, like most of his lay Tory companions, to read his recantation. He could therefore be regarded as a supporter of the immaculate fifty-three, and was on this account a favourite with Mr Thorne. The little bell was tinkling, and the rural population were standing about the lane, leaning on the church stile, and against the walls of the old court, anxious to get a look at their new minister as he passed from the house to the rectory. The archdeacon's servant had already preceded them thither with the vestments.
They all went together; and when the ladies passed into the church the three gentlemen tarried a moment in the lane, that Mr Thorne might name to the vicar with some kind of one-sided introduction, the most leading among his parishioners.
'Here are our churchwardens, Mr Arabin; Farmer Greenacre and Mr Stiles. Mr Stiles has the mill as you go into Barchester; and very good churchwardens they are.'
'Not very severe, I hope,' said Mr Arabin: the two ecclesiastical officers touched their hats, and each made a leg in the approved rural fashion, assuring the vicar that they were glad to have the honour of seeing him, and adding that the weather was very good for the harvest. Mr Stiles being a man somewhat versed in town life, had an impression of his own dignity, and did not quite like leaving his pastor under the erroneous idea that he being a churchwarden kept the children in order during church time. 'Twas thus he understood Mr Arabin's allusion to his severity, and hastened to put matters right by observing that 'Sexton Clodheave looked to the younguns, and perhaps sometimes there maybe a thought too much stick going on during sermon.' Mr Arabin's bright eye twinkled as he caught that of the archdeacon; and he smiled to himself as he observed how ignorant his officers were of the nature of their authority, and of the surveillance which it was their duty to keep even over himself.
Mr Arabin read the lessons and preached. It was enough to put a man a little out, let him have been ever so used to pulpit reading, to see the knowing way in which the farmers cocked their ears, and set about a mental criticism as to whether their new minister did or did not fall short of the excellence of him who had lately departed from them. A mental and silent criticism it was for the existing moment, but soon to be made public among the elders of St Ewold's over the green graves of their children and forefathers. The excellence, however, of poor old Mr Goodenough had not been wonderful, and there were few there who did not deem that Mr Arabin did his work sufficiently well, in spite of the slightly nervous affection which at first impeded him, and which nearly drove the archdeacon beside himself.
But the sermon was the thing to try the man. It often surprises us that very young men can muster courage to preach for the first time to a strange congregation. Men who are as yet little more than boys, who have but just left, what indeed we may not call a school, but a seminary intended for their tuition as scholars, whose thoughts have been mostly of boating, cricketing, and wine parties, ascend a rostrum high above the heads of the submissive crowd, not that they may read God's word to those below, but that they may preach their own word for the edification of their hearers. It seems strange to us that they are not stricken dumb by the new and awful solemnity of their position. How am I, just turned twenty-three, who have never yet passed then thoughtful days since the power of thought first came to me, how am I to instruct these grey beards, who with the weary thinking of so many years have approached so near the grave? Can I teach them their duty? Can I explain to them that which I so imperfectly understand, that which years of study may have made so plain to them? Has my newly acquired privileges, as one of God's ministers, imparted to me as yet any fitness for the wonderful work of a preacher?
It must be supposed that such ideas do occur to young clergymen, and yet they overcome, apparently with ease, this difficulty which to us appears to be all but insurmountable. We have never been subjected in the way of ordination to the power of a bishop's hands. It may be that there is in them something that sustains the spirit and banishes the natural modesty of youth. But for ourselves we must own that the deep affection which Dominie Sampson felt for his young pupils has not more endeared him to us than the bashful spirit which sent him mute and inglorious from the pulpit when he rose there with the futile attempt to preach God's gospel.
There is a rule in our church which forbids the younger order of our clergymen to perform a certain portion of the service. The absolution must be read by a minister in priest's orders. If there be no such minister present, the congregation can have the benefit of no absolution but that which each may succeed in administering to himself. The rule may be a good one, though the necessity for it hardly comes home to the general understanding. But this forbearance on the part of youth would be much more appreciated if it were extended likewise to sermons. The only danger would be that the congregation would be too anxious to prevent their young clergymen from advancing themselves to the ranks of the ministry. Clergymen who could not preach would be such blessings that they would be bribed to adhere to their incompetence.
Mr Arabin, however, had not the modesty of youth to impede him, and he succeeded with his sermon even better than with the lessons. He took for his text two verses out of the second epistle of St John: 'Whosoever trangresseth, and abideth not in the doctrine of Christ, hath not God. He that abideth in the doctrine of Christ he hath both the Father and Son. If there come any unto you and bring you not this doctrine, receive him not into your house, neither bid him God speed.' He told them that the house of theirs to which he alluded was this their church in which he now addressed them for the first time; that their most welcome and proper manner of bidding him God speed would be their patient obedience to this teaching of the gospel; but that he could put forward no claim to such conduct on their part unless he taught them the great Christian doctrine of works and faith combined. On this he enlarged, but not very amply, and after twenty minutes succeeded in sending his new friends home to their baked mutton and pudding well pleased with their new minister.
Then came the lunch at Ullathorne. As soon as they were in the hall Miss Thorne took Mr Arabin's hand, and assured him that she received him into her house, into the temple, she said, in which she worshipped, and bade him God speed with all her heart. Mr Arabin was touched, and squeezed the spinster's hand without uttering a word in reply. Then Mr Thorne expressed a hope that Mr Arabin found the church easy to fill, and Mr Arabin having replied that he had no doubt he should do so as soon as he had learnt to pitch his voice to the building, they all sat down to the good things before them.
Miss Thorne took special care of Mrs Bold. Eleanor still wore her widow's weeds, and therefore had about her that air of grave and sad maternity which is the lot of recent widows. This opened the soft heart of Miss Thorne, and made her look on her young guest as though too much could not be done for her. She heaped chicken and ham upon her plate, and poured out for her a full bumper of port wine. When Eleanor, who was not sorry to get it, had drunk a little of it, Miss Thorne at once essayed to fill it again. To this Eleanor objected, but in vain. Miss Thorne winked and nodded and whispered, saying that it was the proper thing and must be done, and that she knew all about it; and so she desired Mrs Bold to drink it up, and mind any body.
'It is your duty, you know, to support yourself,' she said into the ear of the young mother; 'there's more than yourself depending on it;' and thus she coshered up Eleanor with cold fowl and port wine. How it is that poor men's wives, who have no cold fowl and port wine on which to be coshered up, nurse their children without difficulty, whereas the wives of rich men, who eat and drink everything that is good, cannot do so, we will for the present leave to the doctors and mothers to settle between them.
And then Miss Thorne was great about teeth. Little Johnny Bold had been troubled for the last few days with his first incipient masticator, and with that freemasonry which exists between ladies, Miss Thorne became aware of the fact before Eleanor had half finished her wing. The old lady prescribed at once a receipt which had been much in vogue in the young days of her grandmother, and warned Eleanor with solemn voice against the fallacies of modern medicine.
'Take his coral, my dear,' said she, 'and rub it well with carrot-juice; rub it till the juice dries on it, and then give it to him to play with--' 'But he hasn't got a coral,' said Eleanor.
'Not got a coral!' said Miss Thorne, with almost angry vehemence. 'Not got a coral! --How can you expect that he should cut his teeth? Have you got Daffy's Elixir?'
Eleanor explained that she had not. It had not been ordered by Mr Rerechild, the Barchester doctor whom she employed; and then the young mother mentioned some shockingly modern succedaneum, which Mr Rerechild's new lights had taught him to recommend.
Miss Thorne looked awfully severe. 'Take care, my dear,' said she, 'that the man knows what he is about; take care he doesn't destroy your little boy. 'But'--and her voice softened into sorrow as she said it, and spoke more in pity than in anger--'but I don't know who there is in Barchester now that you can trust. Poor dear old Dr Bumpwell, indeed--' 'Why, Miss Thorne, he died when I was a little girl.'
'Yes, my dear, he did, and an unfortunate day it was for Barchester. As to those young men that have come up since' (Mr Rerechild, by the by, was quite as old as Miss Thorne herself), 'one doesn't know where they came from or who they are, or whether they know anything about their business or not.'
'I think there are very clever men in Barchester,' said Eleanor.
'Perhaps there may be; only I don't know them; and it's admitted on all sides that medical men aren't now what they used to be. They used to be talented, observing, educated men. But now any whipper-snapper out of an apothecary's shop can call himself a doctor. I believe no kind of education is now thought necessary.'
Eleanor was herself the widow of a medical man, and felt a little inclined to resent all these hard sayings. But Miss Thorne was so essentially good-natured that it was impossible to resent anything she said. She therefore sipped her wine and finished her chicken.
'At any rate, my dear, don't forget the carrot-juice, and by all means get him a coral at once. My grandmother Thorne had the best teeth in the county, and carried them to the grave with her at eighty. I have heard her say it was all the carrot-juice. She couldn't bear the Barchester doctors. Even poor Dr Bumpwell didn't please her.' It clearly never occurred to Miss Thorne that some fifty years ago Dr Bumpwell was only a rising man, and therefore as much in need of character in the eyes of the then ladies of Ullathorne, as the present doctors were in her own.
The archdeacon made a very good lunch, and talked to his host about turnip-drillers and new machines for reaping; while the host, thinking it only polite to attend to a stranger, and fearing that perhaps he might not care about turnip crops on a Sunday, mooted all manner of ecclesiastical subjects.
'I never saw a heavier lot of wheat, Thorne, than you've got there in the field beyond the copse. I suppose that's guano,' said the archdeacon.
'Yes, guano. I get it from Bristol myself. You'll find you often have a tolerable congregation of Barchester people out here, Mr Arabin. They are very fond of St Ewold's, particularly of an afternoon, when the weather is not too hot for a walk.'
'I am under an obligation to them for staying away today, at any rate,' said the vicar. 'The congregation can never be too small for a maiden sermon.'
'I got a ton and a half at Bradley's in High Street,' said the archdeacon, 'and it was a complete take in. I don't believe there was five hundred-weight of guano in it.'
'That Bradley never has anything good,' said Miss Tborne, who had just caught the name during her whisperings with Eleanor. 'And such a nice shop as there used to be in that very house before he came. Wilfred, don't you remember what good things old Ambleoff used to have?'
'There have been three men since Ambleoff's time,' said the archdeacon, 'and each as bad as the other. But who gets it for you at Bristol, Thorne?'
'I ran up myself this year and bought it out of the ship. I am afraid as the evenings get shorter, Mr Arabin, you'll find the reading desk too dark. I must send a fellow with an axe and make him lop off some of those branches.'
Mr Arabin declared that the morning light at any rate was perfect, and deprecated any interference with the lime trees. And then they took a stroll out among the trim parterres, and Mr Arabin explained to Mrs Bold the difference between a naiad and a dryad, and dilated on vases and the shapes of urns. Miss Thorne busied herself among the pansies; and her brother, finding it quite impracticable to give anything of a peculiarly Sunday tone to the conversation, abandoned the attempt, and had it out with the archdeacon about the Bristol guano.
At three o'clock they again went into church; and now Mr Arabin read the service and the archdeacon preached. Nearly the same congregation was present, with some adventurous pedestrians from the city, who had not thought the heat of the mid-day August sun too great to deter them. The archdeacon took his text from the Epistle of Philemon. 'I beseech thee for my son Onesimus, whom I have begotten in my bonds.' From such a text it may be imagined the kind of sermon which Dr Grantly preached, and on the whole it was neither dull, nor bad, nor out of place.
He told them it had become his duty to look about for a pastor for them; to supply the place of one who had been long among them; and that in this manner he regarded as a son him whom he had selected, as St Paul had regarded the young disciple whom he sent forth. Then he took a little merit to himself for having studiously provided the best man he could without reference to patronage or favour; but he did not say that the best man according to his views was he who was best able to subdue Mr Slope, and make that gentleman's situation in Barchester too hot to be comfortable. As to the bonds, they had consisted in the exceeding struggle which he had made to get a good clergyman for them. He deprecated any comparison between himself and St Paul, but said that he was entitled to beseech them for their good will towards Mr Arabin, in the same manner that the apostle had besought Philemon and his household with regard to Onesimus.
The archdeacon's sermon, text, blessing and all, was concluded within the half hour. Then they shook hands with their Ullathorne friends, and returned to Plumstead. 'Twas thus that Mr Arabin read himself in at St Ewold's.
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{
"id": "2432"
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24
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MR SLOPE'S MANAGES MATTERS VERY CLEVERLY AT PUDDINGDALE
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The next two weeks passed pleasantly enough at Plumstead. The whole party there assembled seemed to get on well together. Eleanor made the house agreeable, and the archdeacon and Mrs Grantly seemed to have forgotten her injury as regarded Mr Slope. Mr Harding had his violoncello, and played to them while his daughters accompanied him. Johnny Bold, by the help either of Mr Rerechild or else by that of his coral and carrot-juice, got through his teething troubles. There had been gaieties too of all sorts. They had dined at Ullathorne, and the Thornes had dined at the rectory. Eleanor had been duly put to stand on her box, and in that position had found herself quite unable to express her opinion on the merits of flounces, such having been the subject given to try her elocution. Mr Arabin had of course been much in his own parish, looking to the doings at his vicarage, calling on his parishioners, and taking on himself the duties of his new calling. But still he had been every evening at Plumstead, and Mrs Grantly was partly willing to agree with her husband that he was a pleasant inmate in a house.
They had also been at a dinner party at Dr Stanhope's, of which Mr Arabin had made one. He also, moth-like, burnt his wings in the flames of the signora's candle. Mrs Bold, too, had been there, and had felt somewhat displeased with the taste, want of taste she called it, shown by Mr Arabin in paying so much attention to Madame Neroni. It was as infallible that Madeline should displease and irritate the women, as that she should charm and captivate the men. The one result followed naturally on the other. It was quite true that Mr Arabin had been charmed. He thought her a very clever and a very handsome woman; he thought also that her peculiar afflictions entitled her to the sympathy of all. He had never, he said, met so much suffering joined to such perfect beauty and so clear a mind. 'Twas thus he spoke of the signora coming home in the archdeacon's carriage; and Eleanor by no means liked to hear the praise. It was, however, exceedingly unjust of her to be angry with Mr Arabin, as she had herself spent a very pleasant evening with Bertie Stanhope, who had taken her down to dinner, and had not left her side for one moment after the gentlemen came out of the dining-room. It was unfair that she should amuse herself with Bertie and yet begrudge her new friend his licence of amusing himself with Bertie's sister. And yet she did so. She was half angry with him in the carriage, and said something about meretricious manners. Mr Arabin did not understand the ways of women very well, or else he might have flattered himself that Eleanor was in love with him.
But Eleanor was not in love with him. How many shades there are between love and indifference, and how little the graduated scale is understood! She had now been nearly three weeks in the same house with Mr Arabin, and had received much of his attention, and listened daily to his conversation. He had usually devoted at least some portion of his evening to her exclusively. At Dr Stanhope's he had devoted himself exclusively to another. It does not require that a woman should be in love to be irritated at this; it does not require that she should even acknowledge to herself that it was unpleasant to her. Eleanor had no such self-knowledge. She thought in her own heart it was only on Mr Arabin's account that she regretted that he could condescend to be amused by the signora. 'I thought he had more mind,' she said to herself, as she sat watching her baby's cradle on her return from the party. 'After all, I believe Mr Stanhope is the pleasanter man of the two.' Alas for the memory of poor John Bold! Eleanor was not in love with Bertie Stanhope, nor was she in love with Mr Arabin. But her devotion to her late husband was fast fading, when she could revolve in her mind, over the cradle of his infant, the faults and failings of other aspirants to her favour.
Will any one blame my heroine for this? Let him or her rather thank God for all His goodness,--for His mercy endureth for ever.
Eleanor, in truth, was not in love; neither was Mr Arabin. Neither indeed was Bertie Stanhope, though he had already found occasion to say nearly as much as that he was. The widow's cap had prevented him from making a positive declaration, when otherwise he would have considered himself entitled to do so on a third or fourth interview. It was, after all, but a small cap now, and had but little of the weeping-willow left in its construction. It is singular how these emblems of grief fade away by unseen gradations. Each pretends to be the counterpart of the forerunner, and yet the last little bit of crimped white crape that sits so jauntily on the back of the head, is as dissimilar to the first huge mountain of woe which disfigured the face of the weeper, as the state of the Hindoo is to the jointure of the English dowager.
But let it be clearly understood that Eleanor was in love with no one, and that no one was in love with Eleanor. Under these circumstances her anger against Mr Arabin did not last long, and before two days were over they were both as good friends as ever. She could not but like him, for every hour spent in his company was spent pleasantly. And yet she could not quite like him, for there was always apparent in his conversation a certain feeling on his part that he hardly thought it worth his while to be in earnest. It was almost as though he were playing with a child. She knew well enough that he was in truth a sober thoughtful man, who in some matters and on some occasions could endure an agony of earnestness. And yet to her he was always gently playful. Could she have seen his brow once clouded she might have learnt to love him.
So things went on at Plumstead, and on the whole not unpleasantly, till a huge storm darkened the horizon, and came down upon the inhabitants of the rectory with all the fury of a water-spout. It was astonishing how in a few minutes the whole face of the heavens was changed. The party broke up from breakfast in perfect harmony; but fierce passions had arisen before the evening, which did not admit of their sitting at the same board for dinner. To explain this, it will be necessary to go back a little.
It will be remembered that the bishop expressed to Mr Slope in his dressing-room, his determination that Mr Quiverful should be confirmed in his appointment to the hospital, and that his lordship requested Mr Slope to communicate this decision to the archdeacon. It will also be remembered that the archdeacon had indignantly declined seeing Mr Slope, and had, instead, written a strong letter to the bishop, in which he all but demanded the situation of warden for Mr Harding. To this letter the archdeacon received an immediate formal reply from Mr Slope, in which it was stated, that the bishop had received and would give his best consideration to the archdeacon's letter.
The archdeacon felt himself somewhat checkmated by this reply. What could he do with a man who would neither see him, nor argue with him by letter, and who had undoubtedly the power of appointing any clergyman he pleased? He had consulted with Mr Arabin, who had suggested the propriety of calling in the aid of the master of Lazarus. 'If,' said he, 'you and Dr Gwynne formally declare your intention of waiting upon the bishop, the bishop will not dare to refuse to see you; and if two such men as you see him together, you will probably not leave him without carrying your point.'
The archdeacon did not quite like admitting the necessity of his being backed by the master of Lazarus before he could obtain admission into the episcopal palace of Barchester; but still he felt that the advice was good, and he resolved to take it. He wrote again to the bishop, expressing a hope that nothing further would be done in the matter of the hospital, till the consideration promised by his lordship had been given, and then sent off a warm appeal to his friend the master, imploring him to come to Plumstead and assist in driving the bishop into compliance. The master had rejoined, raising some difficulty, but not declining; and the archdeacon again pressed his point, insisting on the necessity for immediate action. Dr Gwynne unfortunately had the gout, and could therefore name no immediate day, but still agreed to come, if it should be finally found necessary. So the matter stood, as regarded the party at Plumstead.
But Mr Harding had another friend fighting the battle for him, quite as powerful as the master of Lazarus, and this was Mr Slope. Though the bishop had so pertinaciously insisted on giving way to his wife in the matter of the hospital, Mr Slope did not think it necessary to abandon the object. He had, he thought, daily more and more reason to imagine that the widow would receive his overtures favourably, and he could not but feel that Mr Harding at the hospital, and placed there by his means would be more likely to receive him as a son-in-law, than Mr Harding growling in opposition and disappointment under the archdeacon's wing at Plumstead. Moreover, to give Mr Slope due credit, he was actuated by greater motives even than these. He wanted a wife, and he wanted money, but he wanted power more than either. He had fully realised the fact that he must come to blows with Mrs Proudie. He had no desire to remain in Barchester as her chaplain. Sooner than do so, he would risk the loss of his whole connection with the diocese. What! Was he to feel within him the possession of no ordinary talents; was he to know himself to be courageous, firm, and, in matters where his conscience did not interfere, unscrupulous; and yet be contented to be the working factotum of a woman-prelate? Mr Slope had higher ideas of his own destiny. Either he or Mrs Proudie must go to the wall; and now had come the time when he would try which it would be.
The bishop had declared that Mr Quiverful should be the new warden. As Mr Slope went down stairs prepared to see the archdeacon if necessary, but fully satisfied that no such necessity would arise, he declared to himself that Mr Harding should be warden. With the object of carrying this point he rode over to Puddingdale, and had a further interview with the worthy expectant of clerical good things. Mr Quiverful was on the whole a worthy man. The impossible task of bringing up as ladies and gentlemen fourteen children on an income which was insufficient to give them with decency the common necessities of life, had had an effect upon him not beneficial either to his spirit, or his keen sense of honour. Who can boast that he would have supported such a burden with a different result? Mr Quiverful was an honest, pain- staking, drudging man; anxious, indeed, for bread and meat, anxious for means to quiet his butcher and cover with returning smiles the now sour countenance of the baker's wife, but anxious also to be right with his own conscience. He was not careful, as another might be who sat on an easier worldly seat, to stand well with those around him, to shun a breath which might sully his name, or a rumour which might affect his honour. He could not afford such niceties of conduct, such moral luxuries. It must suffice for him to be ordinarily honest according the ordinary honesty of the world's ways, and to let men's tongues wag as they would.
He had felt that his brother clergymen, men whom he had known for the last twenty years, looked coldly on him from the first moment that he had shown himself willing to sit at the feet of Mr Slope; he had seen that their looks grew colder still, when it became bruited about that he was to be the bishop's new warden at Hiram's hospital. This was painful enough; but it was the cross which he was doomed to bear. He thought of his wife, whose last new silk dress was six years in wear. He thought of all his young flock, whom he could hardly take to church with him on Sundays, for there was not decent shoes and stockings for them all to wear. He thought of the well-worn sleeves of his own black coat, and of the stern face of the draper from whom he would fain ask for cloth to make another, did he not know that the credit would be refused him. Then he thought of the comfortable house in Barchester, of the comfortable income, of his boys sent to school, of the girls with books in their hands instead of darning needles, of his wife's face again covered with smiles, and of his daily board again covered with plenty. He thought of all these things; and do thou also, reader, think of them, and then wonder, if thou canst, that Mr Slope had appeared to him to possess all those good gifts which would grace a bishop's chaplain. 'How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings.'
Why, moreover, should the Barchester clergy have looked so coldly on Mr Quiverful? Had they not all shown that they regarded with complacency the loaves and fishes of their mother church? Had they not all, by some hook or crook, done better for themselves than he had done? They were not burdened as he was burdened. Dr Grantly had five children, and nearly as many thousands a year on which to feed them. It was very well for him to turn up his nose at a new bishop who could do nothing for him, and a chaplain who was beneath his notice; but it was cruel in a man so circumstanced to set the world against the father of fourteen children because he was anxious to obtain for them an honourable support! He, Mr Quiverful, had not asked for the wardenship; he had not even accepted it till he had been assured that Mr Harding had refused it. How hard then that he should be blamed for doing that which not to have done would have argued a most insane imprudence!
Thus in this matter of the hospital poor Mr Quiverful had his trials; and he had also his consolations. On the whole the consolations were the more vivid of the two. The stern draper heard of the coming promotion, and the wealth of his warehouse was at Mr Quiverful's disposal. Coming events cast their shadows before, and the coming event of Mr Quiverful's transference to Barchester produced a delicious shadow in the shape of a new outfit for Mrs Quiverful and her three elder daughters. Such consolations come home to the heart of a man, and quite home to the heart of a woman. Whatever the husband might feel, the wife cared nothing for the frowns of the dean, archdeacon, or prebendary. To her the outsides and insides of her husband and fourteen children were everything. In her bosom every other ambition had been swallowed up in that maternal ambition of seeing them and him and herself duly clad and properly fed. It had come to that with her that life had now no other purpose. She recked nothing of the imaginary rights of others. She had no patience with her husband when he declared to her that he could not accept the hospital unless he knew that Mr Harding had refused it. Her husband had no right to be Quixotic at the expense of fourteen children. The narrow escape of throwing away his good fortune which her lord had had, almost paralysed her. Now, indeed, they had received the full promise not only from Mr Slope, but also from Mrs Proudie. Now, indeed, they might reckon with safety on their good fortune. But what if it all had been lost? What if her fourteen bairns had been resteeped to the hips in poverty by the morbid sentimentality of their father? Mrs Quiverful was just at present a happy woman, but yet it nearly took her breath away when she thought of the risk they had run.
'I don't know what your father means when he talks so much of what is due to Mr Harding,' she said to her eldest daughter. 'Does he think that Mr Harding would give him L 450 out of fine feeling? And what signifies it when he offends, as long as he gets the place? He does not expect anything better. It passes me to think how your father can be so soft, while everybody around him is so griping.'
This, while the rest of the world was accusing Mr Quiverful of rapacity for promotion and disregard for his honour, the inner world of his own household was falling foul of him, with equal vehemence, for his willingness to sacrifice their interest to a false feeling of sentimental pride. It is astonishing how much difference the point of view makes in the aspect of all that we look at!
Such was the feelings of the different members of the family at Puddingdale on the occasion of Mr Slope's second visit. Mrs Quiverful, as soon as she saw his horse coming up the avenue from the vicarage gate, hastily packed up her huge basket of needlework, and hurried herself and her daughter out of the room in which she was sitting with her husband. 'It's Mr Slope,' she said. 'He's come to settle with you about the hospital. I do hope we shall now be able to move at once.' And she hastened to bid the maid of all work to go to the door, so that the welcome great man might not be kept waiting.
Mr Slope thus found Mr Quiverful alone. Mrs Quiverful went off to her kitchen and back settlements with anxious beating heart, almost dreading that there might be some slip between the cup of her happiness and the lip of her fruition, but yet comforting herself with the reflection that after what had taken place, any such slip could hardly be possible.
Mr Slope was all smiles as he shook his brother clergyman's hand, and said that he had ridden over because he thought it right at once to put Mr Quiverful in possession of the facts of the matter regarding the wardenship of the hospital. As he spoke, the poor expectant husband and father saw at a glance that his brilliant hopes were to be dashed to the ground, and that his visitor was now there for the purpose of unsaying what on his former visit he had said. There was something in the tone of the voice, something in the glance of the eye, which told the tale. Mr Quiverful knew it all at once. He maintained his self-possession, however, smiled with a slight unmeaning smile, and merely said that he was obliged to Mr Slope for the trouble he was taking.
'It has been a troublesome matter from first to last,' said Mr Slope; 'and the bishop has hardly known how to act. Between ourselves--but mind this of course must go no farther, Mr Quiverful.'
Mr Quiverful said of course that it should not. 'The truth is, that poor Mr Harding has hardly known his own mind. You remember our last conversation, no doubt.'
Mr Quiverful assured him that he remembered it very well indeed.
'You will remember that I told you that Mr Harding had refused to return to the hospital.'
Mr Quiverful declared that nothing could be more distinct in his memory.
'And acting on this refusal I suggested that you should take the hospital,' continued Mr Slope.
'I understood you to say that the bishop had authorised you to offer it to me.'
'Did I? Did I go so far as that? Well, perhaps it may be, that in my anxiety on your behalf I did commit myself further than I should have done. So far as my own memory serves me, I don't think I did go quite so far as that. But I own I was very anxious that you should get it; and I may have said more than was quite prudent.'
'But,' said Mr Quiverful, in his deep anxiety to prove his case, 'my wife received as distinct a promise from Mrs Proudie as one human being could give to another.'
Mr Slope smiled, and gently shook his head. He meant that smile for a pleasant smile, but it was diabolical in the eyes of the man he was speaking to. 'Mrs Proudie!' he said. 'If we are to go to what passes between the ladies in these matters, we shall really be in a nest of troubles from which we shall never extricate ourselves. Mrs Proudie is a most excellent lady, kind-hearted, charitable, pious, and in every way estimable. But, my dear Mr Quiverful, the patronage of the diocese is not in her hands.'
Mr Quiverful for a moment sat panic-stricken and silent. 'Am I to understand, then, that I have received no promise?' he said, as soon as he had sufficiently collected his thoughts.
'If you will allow me, I will tell you exactly how the matter rests. You certainly did receive a promise conditional on Mr Harding's refusal. I am sure you will do me the justice to remember that you yourself declared that you could accept the appointment on no other condition than the knowledge that Mr Harding had declined it.'
'Yes,' said Mr Quiverful; 'I did say that, certainly.'
'Well; it now appears that he did not refuse it.'
'But surely you told me, and repeated it more than once, that he had done so in your hearing.'
'So I understood him. But it seems I was in error. But don't for a moment, Mr Quiverful, suppose that I mean to throw you over. No. Having held out my hand to a man in your position, with your large family and pressing claims, I am not now going to draw it back again. I only want you to act with me fairly and honestly.'
'Whatever I do, I shall endeavour at any rate to act fairly,' said the poor man, feeling that he had to fall back for support on the spirit of martyrdom within him.
'I am sure you will,' said the other. 'I am sure you have no wish to obtain possession of an income which belongs by all rights to another. No man knows better than you do Mr Harding's history, or can better appreciate his character. Mr Harding is very desirous of returning to his old position, and the bishop feels that he is at the present moment somewhat hampered, though of course he is not bound, by the conversation which took place on the matter between you and me.'
'Well,' said Mr Quiverful, dreadfully doubtful as to what his conduct under such circumstances should be, and fruitlessly striving to harden his nerves with some of that instinct of self-preservation which made his wife so bold.
'The wardenship of this little hospital is not the only thing in the bishop's gift, Mr Quiverful, nor is it by many degrees the best. And his lordship is not the man to forget any one whom he has once marked with approval. If you would allow me to advise you as a friend--' 'Indeed I shall be grateful to you,' said the poor vicar of Puddingdale-- 'I should advise you to withdraw from any opposition to Mr Harding's claims. If you persist in your demand, I do not think you will ultimately succeed. Mr Harding has all but a positive right to the place. But if you will allow me to inform his lordship that you decline to stand in Mr Harding's way, I think I may promise you--though, by the bye, it must not be taken as a formal promise--that the bishop will not allow you to be a poorer man than you would have been had you become warden.'
Mr Quiverful sat in his arm chair silent, gazing at vacancy. What was he to say? All this that came from Mr Slope was so true. Mr Harding had a right to the hospital. The bishop had a great many good things to give away. Both the bishop and Mr Slope would be excellent friends and terrible enemies to a man in his position. And then he had no proof of any promise; he could not force the bishop to appoint him.
'Well, Mr Quiverful, what do you say about it?'
'Oh, of course, whatever you think, Mr Slope. It's a great disappointment, a very great disappointment. I won't deny that I am a very poor man, Mr Slope.'
'In the end, Mr Quiverful, you will find that it will have been better for you.'
The interview ended in Mr Slope receiving a full renunciation from Mr Quiverful of any claim he might have to the appointment in question. It was only given verbally and without witnesses; but then the original promise was made in the same way.
Mr Slope assured him that he should not be forgotten, and then rode back to Barchester, satisfied that he would now be able to mould the bishop to his wishes.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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25
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FOURTEEN ARGUMENTS IN FAVOUR OF MR QUIVERFUL'S CLAIMS
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We have most of us heard of the terrible anger of a lioness when, surrounded by her cubs, she guards her prey. Few of us wish to disturb the mother of a litter of puppies when mouthing a bone in the midst of her young family. Medea and her children are familiar to us, and so is the grief of Constance. Mrs Quiverful, when she first heard from her husband the news which he had to impart, felt within her bosom all the rage of a lioness, the rapacity of the hound, the fury of the tragic queen, and the deep despair of a bereaved mother.
Doubting, but yet hardly fearing, what might have been the tenor of Mr Slope's discourse, she rushed back to her husband as soon as the front door was closed behind the visitor. It was well for Mr Slope that he had so escaped,--the anger of such a woman, at such a moment, would have cowed even him. As a general rule, it is highly desirable that ladies should keep their temper; a woman when she storms always makes herself ugly, and usually ridiculous also. There is nothing so odious to man as a virago. Though Theseus loved an Amazon, he showed his love but roughly; and from the time of Theseus downward, no man ever wished to have his wife remarkable rather for forward prowess than retiring gentleness.
Such may be laid down as a general rule; and few women should allow themselves to deviate from it, and then only on rare occasions. But if there be a time when a woman may let her hair to the winds, when she may loose her arms, and scream out trumpet-tongued to the ears of men, it is when nature calls out within her not for her own wants, but for the wants of those whom her womb has borne, whom her breasts have suckled, for those who look to her for their daily bread as naturally as man looks to his Creator.
There was nothing poetic in the nature of Mrs Quiverful. She was neither a Medea nor a Constance. When angry, she spoke out her anger in plain words, and in a tone which might have been modulated with advantage; but she did so, at any rate, without affectation. Now, without knowing it, she rose to a tragic vein.
'Well, my dear; we are not to have it.' Such were the words with which her ears were greeted when she entered the parlour, still hot from the kitchen fire. And the face of her husband spoke even more plainly than his words:--"E'en such a man, so faint, so spiritless, So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone, Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night."
'What!' said she,--and Mrs Siddons could not have put more passion into a single syllable,--'What! Not have it? Who says so?' And she sat opposite to her husband, with her elbows on the table, her hands clasped together, and her coarse, solid, but once handsome face stretched over it towards him.
She sat as silent as death while he told his story, and very dreadful to him her silence was. He told it very lamely and badly, but still in such a manner that she soon understood the whole of it.
'And so you have resigned it?' said she.
'I have had no opportunity of accepting it,' he replied. 'I had no witnesses to Mr Slope's offer, even if that offer would bind the bishop. It was better for me, on the whole, to keep on good terms with such men than to fight for what I should never get!'
'Witnesses!' she screamed, rising quickly to her feet, and walking up and down the room. 'Do clergymen require witnesses to their words? He made the promise in the bishop's name, and if it is to be broken I'll know the reason why. Did he not positively say that the bishop had sent him to offer you the place?'
'He did, my dear. But that is now nothing to the purpose.'
'It is everything to the purpose, Mr Quiverful. Witnesses indeed! And then to talk of your honour being questioned because you wish to provide for fourteen children. It is everything to the purpose; and so they shall know, if I scream it into their ears from the town cross of Barchester.'
'You forget, Letitia, that the bishop has so many things in his gift. We must wait a little longer. That is all.'
'Wait! Shall we feed the children by waiting? Will waiting put George and Tom, and Sam, out into the world? Will it enable my poor girls to give up some of their drudgery? Will waiting make Bessy and Jane fit even to be governesses? Will waiting pay for the things we got in Barchester last week?'
'It is all we can do, my dear. The disappointment is as much to me as to you; and yet, God knows, I feel it more for your sake than my own.'
Mrs Quiverful was looking full into her husband's face, and saw a small hot tear appear on each of those furrowed cheeks. This was too much for her woman's heart. He also had risen, and was standing with his back to the empty grate. She rushed towards him, and seizing him in her arms, sobbed aloud upon his bosom.
'Yes, you are too good, too soft, too yielding,' she said at last. 'These men, when they want you, they use you like a cat's-paw; and when they want you no longer, they throw you aside like an old shoe. This is twice they have treated you so.'
'In one way this will be for the better,' argued he. 'It will make the bishop feel that he is bound to do something for me.'
'At any rate, he shall hear of it,' said the lady, again reverting to her more angry mood. 'At any rate he shall hear of it, and that loudly; and so shall she. She little knows Letitia Quiverful, if she thinks I will sit down quietly with the loss after all that passed between us at the palace. If there's any feeling within her, I'll make her ashamed of herself,'--and she paced the room again, stamping the floor as she went with her fat heavy foot.
'Good heavens! What a heart she must have within her to treat in such a way as this the father of fourteen unprovided children!'
Mr Quiverful proceeded to explain that he didn't think that Mrs Proudie had anything to do with it.
'Don't tell me,' said Mrs Quiverful; 'I know more about it than that. Doesn't all the world know that Mrs Proudie is bishop of Barchester, and that Mr Slope is merely her creature? Wasn't it she that made me the promise just as though the thing was in her own particular gift? I tell you, it was that woman who sent him over here to-day because, for some reason of her own, she wants to go back on her word.'
'My dear, you're wrong--' 'Now, Q, don't be so soft,' she continued. 'Take my word for it, the bishop knows no more about it than Jemima does.' Jemima was the two-year old. 'And if you'll take my advice, you'll lose no time in going over and seeing him yourself.'
Soft, however, as Mr Quiverful might be, he would not allow himself to be talked out of his opinion on this occasion; and proceeded with much minuteness to explain to his wife the tone in which Mr Slope had spoken of Mrs Proudie's interference in diocesan matters. As he did so, a new idea gradually instilled itself into the matron's head, and a new course of action presented itself to her judgement. What if, after all, Mrs Proudie knew nothing of this visit of Mr Slope's? In that case, might it not be possible that that lady would still be staunch to her in this matter, still stand her friend, and, perhaps, possibly carry her through in opposition to Mr Slope? Mrs Quiverful said nothing as this vague hope occurred to her, but listened with more than ordinary patience to what her husband had to say. While he was still explaining that in all probability the world was wrong in its estimation of Mrs Proudie's power and authority, she had fully made up her mind as to her course of action. She did not, however, proclaim her intention. She shook her head continuously, as he continued his narration; and when he had completed she rose to go, merely observing that it was cruel, cruel treatment. She then asked if he would mind waiting for a late dinner instead of dining at their usual hour of three, and, having received from him a concession on this point, she proceeded to carry her purpose into execution.
She determined that she would at once go to the palace; that she would do so, if possible, before Mrs Proudie could have had an interview with Mr Slope; and that she would be either submissive, piteous and pathetic, or indignant violent and exacting, according to the manner in which she was received.
She was quite confident in her own power. Strengthened as she was by the pressing wants of fourteen children, she felt that she could make her way through legions of episcopal servants, and force herself, if need be, into the presence of the lady who had so wronged her. She had no shame about it, no mauvaise honte, no dread of archdeacons. She would, as she declared to her husband, make her wail heard in the market-place if she did not get redress and justice. It might be very well for an unmarried young curate to be shamefaced in such matters; it might be all right that a smug rector, really in want of nothing, but still looking for better preferment, should carry out his affairs decently under the rose. But Mrs Quiverful, with fourteen children, had given over being shamefaced, and, in some things, had given over being decent. If it were intended that she should be ill used in the manner proposed by Mr Slope, it should not be done under the rose. All the world would know of it.
In her present mood, Mrs Quiverful was not over careful about her attire. She tied her bonnet under her chin, threw her shawl over her shoulders, armed herself with the old family cotton umbrella, and started for Barchester. A journey to the palace was not quite so easy a thing for Mrs Quiverful as for our friend at Plumstead. Plumstead is nine miles from Barchester, and Puddingdale is but four. But the archdeacon could order round his brougham, and his high-trotting fast bay gelding would take him into the city within the hour. There was no brougham in the coach-house of Puddingdale Vicarage, no bay horse in the stables. There was no method of locomotion for its inhabitants but that which nature had assigned to man.
Mrs Quiverful was a broad heavy woman, not young, nor given to walking. In her kitchen, and in the family dormitories, she was active enough; but her pace and gait were not adapted for the road. A walk into Barchester and back in the middle of an August day would be to her a terrible task, if not altogether impracticable. There was living in the parish about half a mile from the vicarage on the road to the city, a decent, kindly farmer, well to do as regards this world, and so far mindful of the next that he attended his parish church with decent regularity. To him Mrs Quiverful had before now appealed in some of her more pressing family troubles, and had not appealed in vain. At his door she now presented herself, and, having explained to his wife that most urgent business required her to go at once to Barchester, begged that Farmer Subsoil would take her thither in his tax-cart. The farmer did not reject her plan; and, as soon as Prince could be got into his collar, they started on their journey.
Mrs Quiverful did not mention the purpose of her business, nor did the farmer alloy his kindness by any unseemly questions. She merely begged to be put down at the bridge going into the city, and to be taken up again at the same place in the course of two hours. The farmer promised to be punctual to his appointment, and the lady, supported by her umbrella, took the short cut to the close, and in a few minutes was at the bishop's door.
Hitherto she had felt no dread with regard to the coming interview. She had felt nothing but an indignant longing to pour forth her claims, and declare her wrongs, if those claims were not fully admitted. But now the difficulty of her situation touched her a little. She had been at the palace once before, but then she went to give grateful thanks. Those who have thanks to return for favours received find easy admittance to the halls of the great. Such is not always the case with men, or even women, who have favours to beg. Still less easy is access for those who demand the fulfilment of promises already made.
Mrs Quiverful had not been slow to learn the ways of the world. She knew all this, and she knew also that her cotton umbrella and all but ragged shawl would not command respect in the eyes of the palace servants. If she were too humble, she knew well that she would never succeed. To overcome by imperious overbearing with such a shawl as hers upon her shoulders, and such a bonnet on her head, would have required a personal bearing very superior to that which nature had endowed her. Of this also Mrs Quiverful was aware. She must make it known she was the wife of a gentleman and a clergyman, and must yet condescend to conciliate.
The poor lady knew but one way to overcome these difficulties at the very threshold of her enterprise, and to this she resorted. Low as were the domestic funds at Puddingdale, she still retained possession of a half-crown, and this she sacrificed to the avarice of Mrs Proudie's metropolitan sesquipedalian serving-man. She was, she said, Mrs Quiverful of Puddingdale, the wife of the Rev. Mr Quiverful. She wished to see Mrs Proudie. It was indeed quite indispensible that she should see Mrs Proudie. James Fitzplush looked worse than dubious, did not know whether his lady were out, or engaged, or in her bed-room; thought it most probable that she was subject to one of these or to some cause that would make her invisible; but Mrs Quiverful could sit down in the waiting-room, while inquiry was being made of Mrs Proudie.
'Look here, man,' said Mrs Quiverful; 'I must see her;' and she put her card and half-crown--think of it, my reader, think of it; her last half-crown--into the man's hand, and sat herself down on a chair in the waiting-room.
Whether the bribe carried the day, or whether the bishop's wife really chose to see the vicar's wife, it boots not now to inquire. The man returned, and begging Mrs Quiverful to follow him, ushered her into the presence of the mistress of the diocese.
Mrs Quiverful at once saw that her patroness was in a smiling humour. Triumph sat throned upon her brow, and all the joys of dominion hovered about her curls. Her lord had that morning contested with her a great point. He had received an invitation to spend a couple of days with the archbishop. His soul longed for the gratification. Not a word, however, in his grace's note alluded to the fact that he was a married man; and, if he went at all, he must go alone. This necessity would have presented an insurmountable bar to the visit, or have militated against the pleasure, had he been able to go without reference to Mrs Proudie. But this he could not do. He could not order his portmanteau to be packed, and start with his own man, merely telling the lady of his heart that he would probably be back on Saturday. There are men--may we not rather say monsters? --who do such things; and there are wives--may we not rather say slaves? --who put up with such usage. But Dr and Mrs Proudie were not among the number.
The bishop with some beating about the bush, made the lady understand that he very much wished to go. The lady, without any beating about the bush, made the bishop understand that she wouldn't hear of it. It would be useless here to repeat the arguments that were used on each side, and needless to record the result. Those who are married will understand very well how the battle was lost and won; and those who are single will never understand it till they learn the lesson which experience alone can give. When Mrs Quiverful was shown into Mrs Proudie's room, that lady had only returned a few minutes from her lord. But before she left him she had seen the answer to the archbishop's note written and sealed. No wonder that her face was wreathed with smiles as she received Mrs Quiverful.
She instantly spoke of the subject which was so near the heart of her visitor. 'Well, Mrs Quiverful,' said she, 'is it decided yet when you are to move to Barchester?'
'That woman', as she had an hour or two since been called, became instantly re-endowed with all the graces that can adorn a bishop's wife. Mrs Quiverful immediately saw that her business was to be piteous, and that nothing was to be gained by indignation; nothing, indeed, unless she could be indignant in company with her patroness.
'Oh, Mrs Proudie,' she began, 'I fear we are not to move to Barchester at all.'
'Why not?' said the lady sharply, dropping at a moment's notice her smiles and condescension, and turning with her sharp quick way to business which she saw at a glance was important.
And then Mrs Quiverful told her tale. As she progressed in the history of her wrongs she perceived that the heavier she leant upon Mr Slope the blacker became Mrs Proudie's brow, but that such blackness was not injurious to her own cause. When Mr Slope was at Puddingdale vicarage that morning she had regarded him as the creature of the lady-bishop; now she perceived that they were enemies. She admitted her mistake to herself without any pain or humiliation. She had but one feeling, and that was confined to her family. She cared little how she twisted and turned among these new-comers at the bishop's palace as long as she could twist her husband into the warden's house. She cared not which was her friend or which was her enemy, if only she could get this preference which she so sorely wanted.
She told her tale, and Mrs Proudie listened to it almost in silence. She told how Mr Slope had cozened her husband into resigning his claim, and had declared that it was the bishop's will that none but Mr Harding should be warden. Mrs Proudie's brow became blacker and blacker. At last she started from her chair, and begging Mrs Quiverful to sit and wait for her return, marched out of the room.
'Oh, Mrs Proudie, it's for fourteen children--for fourteen children.' Such was the burden that fell on her ear as she closed the door behind her.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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26
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MRS PROUDIE TAKES A FALL
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It was hardly an hour since Mrs Proudie had left her husband's apartment victorious, and yet so indomitable was her courage that she now returned thither panting for another combat. She was greatly angry with what she thought was his duplicity. He had so clearly given her a promise on this matter of the hospital. He had been already so absolutely vanquished on that point. Mrs Proudie began to feel that if every affair was to be thus discussed and battled about twice and even thrice, the work of the diocese would be too much even for her.
Without knocking at the door she walked quickly into her husband's room and found him seated at his office table, with Mr Slope opposite to him. Between his fingers was the very note which he had written to the archbishop in her presence--and it was open! Yes, he had absolutely violated the seal which had been made sacred by her approval. They were sitting in deep conclave, and it was too clear that the purport of the archbishop's invitation had been absolutely canvassed again, after it had been already debated and decided on in obedience to her behests! Mr Slope rose from his chair, and bowed slightly. The two opposing spirits looked each other fully in the face, and they knew that they were looking each at an enemy.
'What is this, bishop, about Mr Quiverful?' said she, coming to the end of the table and standing there.
Mr Slope did not allow the bishop to answer, but replied himself. 'I have been out to Puddingdale this morning, ma'am, and have seen Mr Quiverful. Mr Quiverful has abandoned his claim to the hospital, because he is now aware that Mr Harding is desirous to fill his old place. Under these circumstances I have strongly advised his lordship to nominate Mr Harding.'
'Mr Quiverful has not abandoned anything,' said the lady, with a very imperious voice. 'His lordship's word has been pledged to him, and it must be respected.'
The bishop still remained silent. He was anxiously desirous of making his old enemy bite the dust beneath his feet. His new ally had told him that nothing was more easy for him than to do so. The ally was there now at his elbow to help him, and yet his courage failed him. It is so hard to conquer when the prestige of the former victories is all against one. It is so hard for the cock who has once been beaten out of his yard to resume his courage and again take a proud place upon a dunghill.
'Perhaps I ought not to interfere,' said Mr Slope, 'but yet--' 'Certainly you ought not,' said the infuriated dame.
'But yet,' continued Mr Slope, not regarding the interruption, 'I have thought it my imperative duty to recommend to the bishop not to slight Mr Harding's claims.'
'Mr Harding should have known his own mind,' said the lady.
'If Mr Harding be not replaced at the hospital, his lordship will have to encounter much ill will, not only in the diocese, but in the world at large. Besides, taking a higher ground, his lordship, as I understood, feels it to be his duty to gratify, in this matter, so very worthy a man and so good a clergyman as Mr Harding.'
'And what is to become of the Sabbath-day school, and of the Sunday services in the hospital?' said Mrs Proudie, with something very nearly approaching to a sneer on her face.
'I understand that Mr Harding makes no objection to the Sabbath-day school,' said Mr Slope. 'And as to the hospital services, that matter will be best discussed after his appointment. If he has any personal objection, then, I fear, the matter must rest.'
'You have a very easy conscience in such matters, Mr Slope,' said she.
'I should not have an easy conscience,' he rejoined, 'but a conscience very far from being easy, if anything said or done by me should lead the bishop to act unadvisedly on this matter. It is clear that in the interview I had with Mr Harding, I misunderstood him--' 'And it is equally clear that you have misunderstood Mr Quiverful,' said she, not at the top of her wrath. 'What business have you at all with these interviews? Who desired you to go to Mr Quiverful this morning? Who commissioned you to manage this affair? Will you answer me, sir? --who sent you to Mr Quiverful this morning?'
There was a dead pause in the room. Mr Slope had risen from his chair, and was standing with his hand on the back of it, looking at first very solemn and now very black. Mrs Proudie was standing as she had at first placed herself, at the end of the table, and as she interrogated her foe she struck her hand upon it with almost more than feminine vigour. The bishop was sitting in his easy chair twiddling his thumbs, turning his eyes now to his wife, and now to his chaplain, as each took up the cudgels. How comfortable it would be if they could fight it out between them without the necessity of any interference on his part; fight it out so that one should kill the other utterly, as far as the diocesan life was concerned, so that he, the bishop, might know clearly by whom it behoved him to be led. There would be the comfort of quiet in either case; but if the bishop had a wish as to which might prove the victor, that wish was certainly not antagonistic to Mr Slope.
'Better the devil you know than the devil you don't know', is an old saying, and perhaps a true one; but the bishop had not yet realised the truth of it.
'Will you answer me, sir?' she repeated. 'Who instructed you to call on Mr Quiverful this morning?' There was another pause. 'Do you intend to answer me, sir?'
'I think, Mrs Proudie, that under all the circumstances it will be better for me not to answer such a question,' said Mr Slope. Mr Slope had many tones in his voice, all duly under his command; among them was a sanctified low tone, and a sanctified loud tone; and he now used the former.
'Did anyone send you, sir?'
'Mrs Proudie,' said Mr Slope, 'I am quite aware how much I owe to your kindness. I am aware also what is due by courtesy from a gentleman to a lady. But there are higher considerations than either of those, and I hope I shall be forgiven if I now allow myself to be actuated solely by them. My duty in this matter is to his lordship, and I can admit of no questioning but from him. He has approved of what I have done, and you must excuse me if I say, that having that approval and my own, I want none other.'
What horrid words were these which greeted the ear of Mrs Proudie? The matter was indeed too clear. There was premeditated mutiny in the camp. Not only had ill-conditioned minds become insubordinate by the fruition of a little power. The bishop had not yet been twelve months in this chair, and rebellion had already reared her hideous head within the palace. Anarchy and misrule would quickly follow, unless she took immediate and strong measures to put down the conspiracy which she had detected.
'Mr Slope,' she said, with slow and dignified voice, differing much from that which she had hitherto used, 'Mr Slope, I will trouble you, if you please, to leave the apartment. I wish to speak to my lord alone.'
Mr Slope also felt that everything depended on the present interview. Should the bishop now be repetticoated, his thraldom would be complete and for ever. The present moment was peculiarly propitious for rebellion. The bishop had clearly committed himself by breaking the seal of the answer to the archbishop; he had therefore fear to influence him. Mr Slope had told him that no consideration ought to induce him to refuse the archbishop's invitation; he had therefore hoped to influence him. He had accepted Mr Quiverful's resignation, and therefore dreaded having to renew that matter with his wife. He had been screwed up to the pitch of asserting a will of his own, and might possibly be carried on till by an absolute success he should have been taught how possible it was to succeed. Now was the moment for victory or rout. It was now that Mr Slope must make himself master of the diocese, or else resign his place and begin his search for fortune again. He saw all this plainly. After what had taken place any compromise between him and the lady was impossible. Let him once leave the room at her bidding, and leave the bishop in her hands, and he might at once pack up his portmanteau and bid adieu to episcopal honours, Mrs Bold, and the Signora Neroni.
And yet it was not so easy to keep his ground when he was bidden by a lady to go; or to continue to make a third in a party between husband and wife when the wife expressed a wish for a tete-a-tete with her husband.
'Mr Slope,' she repeated, 'I wish to be alone with my lord.'
'His lordship has summoned me on most important diocesan business,' said Mr Slope, glancing with uneasy eye at Dr Proudie. He felt that he must trust something to the bishop, and yet that trust was so woefully misplaced. 'My leaving him at the present moment is, I fear, impossible.'
'Do you bandy words with me, you ungrateful man?' said she. 'My lord, will you do me the favour to beg Mr Slope to leave the room?'
My lord scratched his head, but for the moment said nothing. This was as much as Mr Slope expected from him, and was on the whole, for him, an active exercise of marital rights.
'My lord,' said the lady, 'is Mr Slope to leave this room, or am I?'
Here Mrs Proudie made a false step. She should not have alluded to the possibility of retreat on her part. She should not have expressed the idea that her order for Mr Slope's expulsion could be treated otherwise than by immediate obedience. In answer to such a question the bishop naturally said in his own mind, that it was necessary that one should leave the room, perhaps it might be as well that Mrs Proudie did so. He did say so in his own mind, but externally he again scratched his head and again twiddled his thumbs.
Mrs Proudie was boiling over with wrath. Alas, alas! could she but have kept her temper as her enemy did, she would have conquered as she had ever conquered. But divine anger got the better of her, as it has done of other heroines, and she fell.
'My lord,' said she, 'am I to be vouchsafed an answer or am I not?'
At last he broke his deep silence and proclaimed himself a Slopeite. 'Why, my dear,' said he, 'Mr Slope and I are very busy.'
That was all. There was nothing more necessary. He had gone to the battle-field, stood the dust and heat of the day, encountered the fury of the foe, and won the victory. How easy is success to those who will only be true to themselves!
Mr Slope saw at once the full amount of his gain, and turned on the vanquished lady a look of triumph which she never forgot and never forgave. Here he was wrong. He should have looked humbly at her, and with meek entreating eye had deprecated her anger. He should have said by his glance that he asked pardon for his success, and that he hoped forgiveness for the stand which he had been forced to make in the cause of duty. So might he perchance have somewhat mollified that imperious bosom, and prepared the way for future terms. But Mr Slope meant to rule without terms. Ah, forgetful, inexperienced man! Can you cause that little trembling victim to be divorced from the woman who possesses him? Can you provide that they shall be separated at bed and board? Is he not flesh of her flesh and bone of her bone, and must he not so continue? It is very well now for you to stand your ground, and triumph as she is driven ignominiously from the room; but can you be present when those curtains are drawn, when that awful helmet of proof has been tied beneath the chin, when the small remnants of the bishop's prowess shall be cowed by the tassel above his head? Can you then intrude yourself when the wife wishes 'to speak to my lord alone?'
But for the moment Mr Slope's triumph was complete; for Mrs Proudie without further parley left the room, and did not forget to shut the door after her. Then followed a close conference between the new allies, to which was said much which it astonished Mr Slope to say and the bishop to hear. And yet the one said it and the other heard it without ill will. There was no mincing of matters now. The chaplain plainly told the bishop that the world gave him credit for being under the governance of his wife; that his credit and character in the diocese was suffering; that he would surely get himself into hot water if he allowed Mrs Proudie to interfere in matters which were not suitable for a woman's powers; and in fact that he would become contemptible if he did not throw off the yoke under which he groaned. The bishop at first hummed and hawed, and affected to deny the truth of what was said. But his denial was by silence and quickly broke down. He soon admitted by silence his state of vassalage, and pledged himself with Mr Slope's assistance, to change his courses. Mr Slope did not make out a bad case for himself. He explained how it grieved him to run counter to a lady who had always been his patroness, who had befriended him in so many ways, who had, in fact, recommended him to the bishop's notice; but, as he stated, his duty was now imperative; he held a situation of peculiar confidence, and was immediately and especially attached to the bishop's person. In such a situation his conscience required that he should regard solely the bishop's interests, and therefore he had ventured to speak out.
The bishop took this for what it was worth, and Mr Slope only intended that he should do so. It gilded the pill which Mr Slope had to administer, and which the bishop thought would be less bitter than that other pill which he had been so long taking.
'My lord,' had his immediate reward, like a good child. He was instructed to write and at once did write another note to the archbishop accepting his grace's invitation. This note Mr Slope, more prudent than the lady, himself took away and posted with his own hands. Thus he made sure that this act of self-jurisdiction should be as nearly as possible a fait accompli. He begged, and coaxed, and threatened the bishop with a view of making him also write at once to Mr Harding; but the bishop, though temporarily emancipated from his wife, was not yet enthralled to Mr Slope. He said, and probably said truly, that such an offer must be made in some official form; that he was not yet prepared to sign the form; and that he should prefer seeing Mr Harding before he did so. Mr Slope, might, however, beg Mr Harding to call upon him. Not disappointed with his achievement Mr Slope went his way. He first posted the precious note which he had in his pocket, and then pursued other enterprises in which we must follow him in other chapters.
Mrs Proudie, having received such satisfaction as was to be derived from slamming her husband's door, did not at once betake herself to Mrs Quiverful. Indeed for the first few moments after her repulse she felt that she could not again see that lady. She would have to own that she had been beaten, to confess that the diadem had passed from her brow, and the sceptre from her hand! No, she would send a message to her with the promise of a letter on the next day or the day after. Thus resolving, she betook herself to her bed-room; but here she again changed her mind. The air of that sacred enclosure restored her courage, and gave her some heart. As Achilles warmed at the sight of his armour, as Don Quixote's heart grew strong when he grasped his lance, so did Mrs Proudie look forward to fresh laurels, as her hey fell on her husband's pillow. She would not despair. Having so resolved, she descended with dignified mien and refreshed countenance to Mrs Quiverful.
This scene in the bishop's study took longer in the acting than in the telling. We have not, perhaps, had the whole of the conversation. At any rate Mrs Quiverful was beginning to be very impatient, and was thinking that farmer Subsoil would be tired of waiting for her, when Mrs Proudie returned. Oh! Who can tell the palpitations of that maternal heart, as the suppliant looked into the face of the great lady to see written there either a promise of a house, income, comfort, and future competence, or else the doom of continued and ever increasing poverty. Poor mother! Poor wife! There was little there to comfort you!
'Mrs Quiverful,' thus spoke the lady with considerable austerity, and without sitting down herself. 'I find that your husband has behaved in this matter in a very weak and foolish manner.'
Mrs Quiverful immediately rose upon her feet, thinking it disrespectful to remain sitting while the wife of the bishop stood. But she was desired to sit down again, and made to do so, so that Mrs Proudie might stand and preach over her. It is generally considered an offensive thing for a gentleman to keep his seat while another is kept standing before him, and we presume the same law holds with regard to ladies. It often is so felt; but we are inclined to say that it never produces half the discomfort or half the feeling of implied inferiority that is shown by a great man who desires his visitor to be seated while he himself speaks from his legs. Such a solecism in good breeding, when construed into English means this: "The accepted rule of courtesy in the world require that I should offer you a seat; if I did not do so, you would bring a charge against me in the world of being arrogant and ill-mannered; I will obey the world; but, nevertheless, I will not put myself on an equality with you. You may sit down, but I won't sit with you. Sit, therefore, at my bidding, and I'll stand and talk to you."
This was just what Mrs Proudie meant to say; and Mrs Quiverful, though she was too anxious and too flurried thus to translate the full meaning of the manoeuvre, did not fail to feel its effect. She was cowed and uncomfortable, and a second time essayed to rise from her chair.
'Pray be seated, Mrs Quiverful, pray keep your seat. Your husband, I say, has been most weak and most foolish. It is impossible, Mrs Quiverful, to help people who will not help themselves. I much fear that I can now do nothing for you in this matter.'
'Oh! Mrs Proudie--don't say so,' said the poor woman, again jumping up.
'Pray be seated, Mrs Quiverful. I much fear that I can do nothing further for you in this matter. Your husband has, in a most unaccountable manner, taken upon himself to resign that which I was empowered to offer him. As a matter of course, the bishop expects that his clergy shall know their own minds. What he may ultimately do--what we may finally decide on doing--I cannot say. Knowing the extent of your family--' 'Fourteen children, Mrs Proudie, fourteen of them! and hardly bread--barely bread! It's hard for the children of a clergyman, it's hard for one who has always done his duty respectably!' Not a word fell from her about herself; but the tears came running down her big coarse cheeks, on which the dust of the August road had left its traces.
Mrs Proudie has not been portrayed in these pages as an agreeable or amiable lady. There has been no intention to impress the reader much in her favour. It is ordained that all novels should have a male and female angel, and a male and female devil. If it be considered that this rule is obeyed in these pages, the latter character must be supposed to have fallen to the lot of Mrs Proudie. But she was not all devil. There was a heart inside that stiff-ribbed bodice, though not, perhaps, of large dimensions, and certainly not easily accessible. Mrs Quiverful, however, did gain access, and Mrs Proudie proved herself a woman. Whether it was the fourteen children with their probable bare bread and the possible bare backs, or the respectability of the father's work, or the mingled dust and tears on the mother's face, we will not pretend to say. But Mrs Proudie was touched.
She did not show it as other women might have done. She did not give Mrs Quiverful eau-de-Cologne, or order her a glass of wine. She did not take her to her toilet table, and offer her the use of brushes and combs, towels and water. She did not say soft little speeches and coax her kindly with equanimity. Mrs Quiverful, despite her rough appearance, would have been as amenable to such little tender cares as any lady in the land. But none such was forthcoming. Instead of that, Mrs Proudie slapped one hand upon the other, and declared--not with an oath; for as a lady and a Sabbatarian and a she-bishop, she could not swear,--but with an adjuration, that 'she wouldn't have it done.'
The meaning of this was that she wouldn't have Mr Quiverful's promised appointment cozened away by the treachery of Mr Slope and the weakness of her husband. This meaning she very soon explained to Mrs Quiverful.
'Why was your husband such a fool,' said she, now dismounted from her high horse and sitting confidentially down close to her visitor, 'as to take the bait which that man threw to him? If he had not been so utterly foolish, nothing could have prevented your going to the hospital.'
Poor Mrs Quiverful was ready enough with her own tongue in accusing her husband to his face of being soft, and perhaps she did not always speak of him to her children quite so respectfully as she might have done. But she did not like to hear him abused by others, and began to vindicate him, and to explain that of course he had taken Mr Slope to be an emissary of Mrs Proudie herself; that Mr Slope was thought to be peculiarly her friend; and that, therefore, Mr Quiverful would have been failing in respect to her had he assumed to doubt what Mr Slope had said.
Thus mollified Mrs Proudie again declared that she 'would not have it done,' and at last sent Mrs Quiverful home with an assurance that, to the furthest stretch of her power and influence in the palace, the appointment of Mr Quiverful should be insisted upon. As she repeated that word 'insisted', she thought of the bishop in his night-cap, and with compressed lips slightly shook her head. Oh! my aspiring pastors, divines to whose ears nolo episcopari are the sweetest of words, which of you would be a bishop on such terms as these?
Mrs Quiverful got home in the farmer's cart, not indeed with a light heart, but satisfied that she had done right in making her visit.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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27
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A LOVE SCENE
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Mr Slope, as we have said, left the palace with a feeling of considerable triumph. Not that he thought that his difficulties were over; he did not so deceive himself; but he felt that he had played his first move well, as well as the pieces on the board would allow; and that he had nothing with which to reproach himself. He first of all posted the letter to the archbishop, and having made that sure he proceeded to push the advantage which he had gained. Had Mrs Bold been at home, he would have called on her; but he knew that she was at Plumstead, as he wrote the following note. It was the beginning of what, he trusted, might be a long and tender series of epistles.
'My dear Mrs Bold,--You will understand perfectly that I cannot at present correspond with your father. I heartily wish that I could, and hope the day may be not long distant, when mists shall have cleared away, and we may know each other. But I cannot preclude myself from the pleasure of sending you these few lines to say that Mr Q. has to-day, in my presence, resigned any title that he ever had to the wardenship of the hospital, and that the bishop has assured me that it is his intention to offer it to your esteemed father.
'Will you, with my respectful compliments, ask him, who I believe is a fellow visitor with you, to call on the bishop either on Wednesday or Thursday, between ten and one. This is by the bishop's desire. If you will so far oblige me as to let me have a line naming either day, and the hour which will suit Mr Harding, I will take care that the servants shall have orders to show him in without delay. Perhaps I should say no more,--but still I wish you could make your father understand that no subject will be mooted between his lordship and him, which will refer at all to the method in which he may choose to perform his duty. I for one, am persuaded that no clergyman could perform it more satisfactorily than he did, or than he will do again.
'On a former occasion I was indiscreet and much too impatient, considering your father's age and my own. I hope he will not now refuse my apology. I still hope also that with your aid and sweet pious labours, we may live to attach such a Sabbath school to the old endowment, as may, by God's grace and furtherance, be a blessing to the poor of this city.
'You will see at once that this letter is confidential. The subject, of course, makes it so. But, equally, of course, it is for your parent's eye as well as for your own, should you think it proper to show it to him.
'I hope my darling little friend Johnny is as strong as ever,-- dear little fellow. Does he still continue his rude assaults on those beautiful long silken tresses?
'I can assure your friends miss you from Barchester sorely; but it would be cruel to begrudge you your sojourn among flowers and fields during this truly sultry weather.
'Pray believe me, my dear Mrs Bold Yours most sincerely, 'OBADIAH SLOPE. 'Barchester, Friday.'
Now this letter, taken as a whole, and with the consideration that Mr Slope wished to assume a great degree of intimacy with Eleanor, would not have been bad, but for the allusion to the tresses. Gentlemen do not write to ladies about their tresses, unless they are on very intimate terms indeed. But Mr Slope could not be expected to be aware of this. He longed to put a little affection into his epistle, and yet he thought it injudicious, as the letter would he knew be shown to Mr Harding. He would have insisted that the letter should be strictly private and seen by no eyes but Eleanor's own, had he not felt that such an injunction would have been disobeyed. He therefore restrained his passion, did not sign himself 'yours affectionately,' and contented himself instead with the compliment to the tresses.
We will now follow his letter. He took it to Mrs Bold's house, and learning there, from the servant, that things were to be sent out to Plumstead that afternoon, left it, with many injunctions, in her hands.
We will now follow Mr Slope so as to complete the day with him, and then return to his letter and its momentous fate in the next chapter.
There is an old song which gives us some very good advice about courting:-- "It's gude to be off with the auld luve Before ye be on wi' the new."
Of the wisdom of this maxim Mr Slope was ignorant, and accordingly, having written his letter to Mrs Bold, he proceeded to call upon the Signora Neroni. Indeed it was hard to say which was the old love and which was the new, Mr Slope having been smitten with both so nearly at the same time. Perhaps he thought it not amiss to have two strings to his bow. But two strings to Cupid's bow are always dangerous to him on whose behalf they are to be used. A man should remember that between two stools he may fall to the ground.
But in sooth Mr Slope was pursuing Mrs Bold in obedience to his better instincts, and the signora in obedience to his worse. Had he won the widow and worn her, no one could have blamed him. You, O reader, and I, and Eleanor's other friends would have received the story of such a winning with much disgust and disappointment; but we should have been angry with Eleanor, not with Mr Slope. Bishop, male and female, dean and chapter and diocesan clergy in full congress, could have found nothing to disapprove of in such an alliance. Convocation itself, that mysterious and mighty synod, could in no wise have fallen foul of it. The possession of L 1000 a year and a beautiful wife would not al all have hurt the voice of the pulpit character, or lessened the grace and piety of the exemplary clergyman.
But not of such a nature were likely to be his dealings with the Signora Neroni. In the first place he knew that her husband was living, and therefore he could not woo her honestly. Then again she had nothing to recommend her to his honest wooing had such been possible. She was not only portionless, but also from misfortune unfitted to be chosen as the wife of any man who wanted a useful mate. Mr Slope was aware that she was a helpless hopeless cripple.
But Mr Slope could not help himself. He knew that he was wrong in devoting his time to the back drawing-room in Dr Stanhope's house. He knew that what took place would if divulged utterly ruin him with Mrs Bold. He knew that scandal would soon come upon his heels and spread abroad among the black coats of Barchester some tidings, some exaggerated tidings, of the sighs which he poured into the lady's ears. He knew that he was acting against the recognised principles of his life, against those laws of conduct by which he hoped to achieve much higher success. But as we have said, he could not help himself. Passion, for the first time in his life, passion was too strong for him.
As for the signora, no such plea can be put forward for her, for in truth, she cared no more for Mr Slope than she did for twenty others who had been at her feet before him. She willingly, nay greedily, accepted his homage. He was the finest fly that Barchester had hitherto afforded to her web; and the signora was a powerful spider that made wondrous webs, and could in no way live without catching flies. Her taste in this respect was abominable, for she had no use for the victims when caught. She could not eat them matrimonially as young lady-flies do whose webs are most frequently of their mother's weaving. Nor could she devour them by any escapade of a less legitimate description. Her unfortunate affliction precluded her from all hope of levanting with a lover. It would be impossible to run away with a lady who required three servants to move her from a sofa.
The signora was subdued by no passion. Her time for love was gone. She had lived out her heart, such heart as she ever had ever had, in her early years, at an age when Mr Slope was thinking of his second book of Euclid and his unpaid bill at the buttery hatch. In age the lady was younger than the gentleman; but in feelings, in knowledge of the affairs of love, in intrigue, he was immeasurably her junior. It was necessary to her to have some man at her feet. It was the one customary excitement of her life. She delighted in the exercise of power which this gave her; it was now nearly the only food for her ambition; she would boast to her sister that she could make a fool of any man, and the sister, as little imbued with feminine delicacy as herself, good naturedly thought it but fair that such amusement should be afforded to a poor invalid who was debarred from the ordinary pleasures of life.
Mr Slope was madly in love, but hardly knew it. The signora spitted him, as a boy does a cockchafer on a cork, that she might enjoy the energetic agony of his gyrations. And she knew very well what she was doing.
Mr Slope having added to his person all such adornments as are possible to a clergyman making a morning visit, such as a clean neck tie, clean handkerchief, new gloves, and a soupcon of not necessary scent, called about three o'clock at the doctor's house. At about this hour the signora was almost always in the back drawing-room. The mother had not come down. The doctor was out or in his own room. Bertie was out, and Charlotte at any rate left the room if any one called whose object was specially with her sister. Such was her idea of being charitable and sisterly.
Mr Slope, as was his custom, asked for Mr Stanhope, and was told, as was the servant's custom, that the signora was in the drawing-room. Upstairs he accordingly went. He found her, as he always did, lying on her sofa with a French volume before her, and a beautiful little inlaid writing case open on her table. At the moment of his entrance she was in the act of writing.
'Ah, my friend,' said she, putting out her left hand to him across the desk, 'I did not expect you to-day and was this very instant writing to you--' Mr Slope, taking the soft fair delicate hand in his, and very soft and fair and delicate it was, bowed over it his huge red head and kissed it. It was a sight to see, a deed to record if the author could fitly do it, a picture to put on canvas. Mr Slope was big, awkward, cumbrous, and having his heart in his pursuit was ill at ease. The lady was fair, as we have said, and delicate; every thing about her was fine and refined; her hand in his looked like a rose lying among carrots, and when he kissed it he looked as a cow might do on finding such a flower among her food. She was graceful as a couchant goddess, and, moreover, as self-possessed as Venus must have been when courting Adonis.
Oh, that such grace and such beauty should have condescended to waste itself on such a pursuit!
'I was in the act of writing to you,' said she, 'but now my scrawl may go into the basket;' and she raised the sheet of gilded note paper from off her desk as though to tear it.
'Indeed it shall not,' said he, laying the embargo of half a stone weight of human flesh and blood upon the devoted paper. 'Nothing that you write for my eyes, signora, shall be so desecrated,' and he took up the letter, put that also among the carrots and fed on it, and then proceeded to read it.
'Gracious me! Mr Slope,' said she. 'I hope you don't mean to say that you keep all the trash I write to you. Half my time I don't know what I write, and when I do, I know it is only fit for the black of the fire. I hope you have not that ugly trick of keeping letters.'
'At any rate I don't throw them into a waste-paper basket. If destruction is their doomed lot, they perish worthily, and are burnt on a pyre, as Dido was of old.'
'With a steel pen stuck through them, of course,' said she, 'to make the simile more complete. Of all the ladies of my acquaintance I think Lady Dido was the most absurd. Why did she not do as Cleopatra did? Why did she not take out her ships and insist on going with him? She could not bear to lose the land she had got by a swindle; and then she could not bear the loss of her lover. So she fell between two stools. Mr Slope, whatever you do, never mingle love and business.'
Mr Slope blushed up to his eyes, and over his mottled forehead to the very roots of his hair. He felt sure that the signora knew all about his intentions with reference to Mrs Bold. His conscience told him that he was detected. His doom was to be spoken; he was to be punished for his duplicity, and rejected by the beautiful creature before him. Poor man. He little dreamt that had all his intentions with reference to Mrs Bold been known to the signora, it would only have added zest to that lady's amusement. It was all very well to have Mr Slope at her feet, to show her power by making an utter fool of a clergyman, to gratify her own infidelity by thus proving the little strength which religion had in controlling the passions even of a religious man; but it would be an increased gratification if she could be made to understand that she was at the same time alluring her victim away from another, whose love if secured would be in every way beneficial and salutary.
The signora had indeed discovered with the keen instinct of such a woman, that Mr Slope was bent on matrimony with Mrs Bold, but in alluding to Dido she had not thought of it. She instantly perceived, however, from her lover's blushes, what was on his mind, and was not slow in taking advantage of it.
She looked at him full in the face, not angrily, nor yet with a smile, but with an intense and overpowering gaze; and then holding up her forefinger, and slightly shaking her head she said:- 'Whatever you do, my friend, do not mingle love and business. Either stick to your treasure and your city of wealth, or else follow your love like a true man. But never attempt both. If you do, you'll have to die with a broken heart as did poor Dido. Which is it to be with you, Mr Slope, love or money?'
Mr Slope was not so ready with a pathetic answer as he usually was with touching episodes in his extempore sermons. He felt that he ought to say something pretty, something also that should remove the impression on the mind of his lady love. But he was rather put about how to do it.
'Love,' said he, 'true overpowering love, must be the strongest passion a man can feel; it must control every other wish, and put aside every other pursuit. But with me love will never act in that way unless it is returned;' and he threw upon the signora a look of tenderness which was intended to make up for all the deficiencies of his speech.
'Take my advice,' said she. 'Never mind love. After all, what is it? The dream of a few weeks. That is all its joy. The disappointment of a life is its Nemesis. Who was ever successful in true love? Success in love argues that the love is false. True love is always despondent or tragical. Juliet loved. Haidee loved. Dido loved, and what came of it? Troilus loved and ceased to be a man.'
'Troilus loved and he was fooled,' said the more manly chaplain. 'A man may love and yet not be a Troilus. All women are not Cressids.'
'No; all women are not Cressids. The falsehood is not always on the woman's side. Imogen was true, but now was she rewarded? Her lord believed her to be the paramour of the first he who came near her in his absence. Desdemona was true and was smothered. Ophelia was true and went mad. There is no happiness in love, except at the end of an English novel. But in wealth, money, houses, lands, goods and chattels, in the good things of this world, yes, in them there is something tangible, something that can be retained and enjoyed.'
'Oh, no,' said Mr Slope, feeling himself bound to enter some protest against so very unorthodox a doctrine, 'this world's wealth will make no one happy.'
'And what will make you happy--you--you?' said she, raising herself up, and speaking to him with energy across the table. 'From what source do you look for happiness? Do not say that you look for none? I shall not believe you. It is a search in which every human being spends an existence.'
'And the search is always in vain,' said Mr Slope. 'We look for happiness on earth, while we ought to be content to hope for it in heaven.'
'Pshaw! you preach a doctrine which you know you don't believe. It is the way with you all. If you know that there is no earthly happiness, why do you long to be a bishop or a dean? Why do you want lands and income?'
'I have the natural ambition of a man,' said he.
'Of course you have, and the natural passions; and therefore I say that you don't believe the doctrine you preach. St Paul was an enthusiast. He believed so that his ambition and passions did not war against his creed. So does the Eastern fanatic who passes half his life erect upon a pillar. As for me, I will believe in no belief that does not make itself manifest by outward signs. I will think no preaching sincere that is not recommended by the practice of the preacher.'
Mr Slope was startled and horrified, but he felt that he could not answer. How could he stand up and preach the lessons of his Master, being there as he was, on the devil's business? He was a true believer, otherwise this would have been nothing to him. He had audacity for most things, but he had not audacity to make a plaything of the Lord's word. All this the signora understood, and felt much interest as she saw her cockchafer whirl round upon her pin.
'Your wit delights in such arguments,' said he, 'but your heart and your reason do not quite go along with them.'
'My heart!' said she; 'you quite mistake the principles of my composition if you imagine that there is such a thing about me.' After all, there was very little that was false in anything the signora said. If Mr Slope allowed himself to be deceived it was his own fault. Nothing could have been more open than her declarations about herself.
The little writing table with her desk was still standing before her, a barrier, as it were, against the enemy. She was sitting as nearly upright as she ever did, and he had brought a chair close to the sofa, so that there was only the corner of the table between him and her. It so happened that as she spoke her hand lay upon the table, and as Mr Slope answered her he put his hand upon hers.
'No heart!' said he. 'That is a very heavy charge which you bring against yourself, and one of which I cannot find you guilty--' She withdrew her hand, not quickly and angrily, as though insulted by his touch, but gently and slowly.
'You are in no condition to give a verdict on the matter,' said she, 'as you have not tried me. No; don't say that you intend doing so, for you know you have no intention of the kind; nor indeed have I either. As for you, you will take your vows where they will result in something more substantial than the pursuit of such a ghostlike, ghastly love as mine--' 'Your love should be sufficient to satisfy the dream of a monarch,' said Mr Slope, not quite clear as to the meaning of his words.
'Say an archbishop, Mr Slope,' said she. Poor fellow! She was very cruel to him. He went round again upon his cork on this allusion to his profession. He tried, however, to smile, and gently accused her of joking on a matter, which was, he said, to him of such vital moment.
'Why--what gulls do you men make of us,' she replied. 'How you fool us to the top of our bent; and of all men you clergymen are the most fluent of your honeyed caressing words. Now look me in the face, Mr Slope, boldly and openly.'
Mr Slope did look at her with a languishing loving eye, and as he did so, he again put forth his hand to get hold of hers.
'I told you to look at me boldly, Mr Slope; but confine your boldness to your eyes.'
'Oh, Madeline,' he sighed.
'Well, my name is Madeline,' said she; 'but none except my own family usually call me so. Now look me in the face, Mr Slope. Am I to understand that you say you love me?'
Mr Slope never had said so. If he had come there with any formed plan at all, his intention was to make love to the lady without uttering any such declaration. It was, however, quite impossible that he should now deny his love. He had, therefore, nothing for it, but to go down on his knees distractedly against the sofa, and swear that he did love her with a love passing the love of man.'
The signora received the assurance with very little palpitations or appearance of surprise. 'And now answer me another question,' said she; 'when are you to be married to Eleanor Bold?'
Poor Mr Slope went round and round in mortal agony. In such a condition as his it was really very hard for him to know what answer to give. And yet no answer would be his surest condemnation. He might as well at once plead guilty to the charge brought against him.
'And why do you accuse me of such dissimulation?'
'Dissimulation! I said nothing of dissimulation. I made no charge against you, and make none. Pray don't defend yourself to me. You swear that you are devoted to my beauty, and yet you are on the eve of matrimony with another. I feel this to be rather a compliment. It is to Mrs Bold that you must defend yourself. That you may find difficult; unless, indeed, you can keep her in the dark. You clergymen are cleverer than other men.'
'Signora, I have told you that I loved you, and now you rail at me?'
'Rail at you. God bless the man; what would he have? Come, answer me this at your leisure,--not without thinking now, but leisurely and with consideration,--are you not going to be married to Mrs Bold?'
'I am not,' said he. And as he said it, he almost hated, with an exquisite hatred, the woman whom he could not help loving with an exquisite love.
'But surely you are a worshipper of hers?'
'I am not,' said Mr Slope, to whom the word worshipper was peculiarly distasteful. The signora had conceived that it would be so.
'I wonder at that,' said she. 'Do you not admire her? To my eyes she is the perfection of English beauty. And then she is rich too. I should have thought she was just the person to attract you. Come, Mr Slope, let me give you advice on this matter. Marry the charming widow! She will be a good mother to your children and an excellent mistress of a clergyman's household.'
'Oh, signora, how can you be so cruel?'
'Cruel,' said she, changing the voice of her banter which she had been using for one which was expressively earnest in its tone; 'is that cruelty?'
'How can I love another, while my heart is entirely your own?'
'If that were cruelty, Mr Slope, what might you say of me if I were to declare that I returned your passion? What would you think if I bound you even by a lover's oath to do daily penance at this couch of mine? What can I give in return for a man's love? Ah, dear friend, you have not realised the condition of my fate.'
Mr Slope was not on his knees all this time. After his declaration of love he had risen from them as quickly as he thought consistent with the new position which he now filled, and as he stood was leaning on the back of his chair. This outburst of tenderness on the Signora's part quite overcame him, and made him feel for the moment that he could sacrifice everything to be assured of the love of the beautiful creature before him, maimed, lame, and already married as she was.
'And can I not sympathise with your lot?' said he, now seating himself on her sofa, and pushing away the table with his foot.
'Sympathy is so near to pity!' said she. 'If you pity me, cripple as I am, I shall spurn you from me.'
'Oh, Madeline, I will only love you,' and again he caught her hand and devoured it with kisses. Now she did not draw from him, but sat there as he kissed it, looking at him with her great eyes, just as a great spider would look at a great fly that was quite securely caught.
'Suppose Signor Neroni were to come to Barchester,' said she, 'would you make his acquaintance?'
'Signor Neroni!' said he.
'Would you introduce him to the bishop, and Mrs Proudie, and the young ladies?' said she, again having recourse to that horrid quizzing voice which Mr Slope so particularly hated.
'Why do you ask me such a question?' said he.
'Because it is necessary that you should know that there is a Signor Neroni. I think you had forgotten it.'
'If I thought that you retained for that wretch one particle of the love of which he was never worthy, I would die before I would distract you by telling you what I feel. No! were your husband the master of your heart, I might perhaps love you; but you should never know it.'
'My heart again! How you talk. And you consider then, that if a husband be not master of his wife's heart, he has not right to her fealty; if a wife ceases to love, she may cease to be true. Is that your doctrine on this matter, as a minister of the Church of England?'
Mr Slope tried hard within himself to cast off the pollution with which he felt that he was defiling his soul. He strove to tear himself away from the noxious siren that had bewitched him. He had looked for rapturous joy in loving this lovely creature, and he already found that he met with little but disappointment and self-rebuke. He had come across the fruits of the Dead Sea, so sweet and delicious to the eye, so bitter and nauseous to the taste. He had put the apple to his mouth, and it had turned to ashes between his teeth. Yet he could not tear himself away. He knew, he could not but know, that weakness of his religion. But she half permitted his adoration, and that half permission added such fuel to his fire that all the fountain of piety could not quench it. He began to feel savage, irritated, and revengeful. He meditated some severity of speech, some taunt that should cut her, as her taunts cut him. He reflected as he stood there for a moment, silent before her, that if he desired to quell her proud spirit, he should do so by being prouder even than herself; that if he wished to have her at his feet suppliant for his love it behoved him to conquer her by indifference. All this passed through his mind. As far as dead knowledge went, he knew, or thought he knew, how a woman should be tamed. But when he essayed to bring his tactics to bear, he failed like a child. What chance has dead knowledge with experience in any of the transactions between man and man? What possible between man and woman? Mr Slope loved furiously, insanely, and truly; but he had never played the game of love. The signora did not love at all, but she was up to every move on the board. It was Philidor pitched against a school-boy.
And so she continued to insult him, and he continued to bear it.
'Sacrifice the world for love!' said she, in answer to some renewed rapid declaration of his passion, 'how often has the same thing been said, and how invariably with the same falsehood!'
'Falsehood,' said he. 'Do you say that I am false to you? Do you say that my love is not real?'
'False? Of course it is false, false as the father of falsehood--if indeed falsehoods need a sire and are not self-begotten since the world began. You are ready to sacrifice the world for love? Come let us see what you will sacrifice. I care nothing for nuptial vows. The wretch, I think you were kind enough to call him so, whom I swore to love and obey, is so base that he can only be thought of with repulsive disgust. In the council chamber of my heart I have divorced him. To me that is as good as though aged lords had gloated for months over the details of his licentious life. I care nothing for what the world can say. Will you be as frank? Will you take me to your home as your wife? Will you call me Mrs Slope before bishop, dean, and prebendaries?' The poor tortured wretch stood silent, not knowing what to say. 'What! You won't do that. Tell me then, what part of the world is it that you will sacrifice for my charms?'
'Were you free to marry, I would take you to my house to-morrow and wish no higher privilege.'
'I am free;' said she, almost starting up in her energy. For though there was no truth in her pretended regard for her clerical admirer, there was a mixture of real feeling in the scorn and satire with which she spoke of love and marriage generally. 'I am free; free as the winds. Come, will you take me as I am? Have your wish; sacrifice the world, and prove yourself a true man.'
Mr Slope should have taken her at her word. She would have drawn back, and he would have had the full advantage of the offer. But he did not. Instead of doing so, he stood wrapt in astonishment, passing his fingers through his lank red hair, and thinking as he stared upon her animated countenance that her wondrous beauty grew more and more wonderful as he gazed on it. 'Ha! Ha! Ha! ,' she laughed out loud. 'Come, Mr Slope, don't talk of sacrificing the world again. People beyond one-and-twenty should never dream of such a thing. You and I, if we have the dregs of any love left in us, if we have the remnants of a passion remaining in our hearts, should husband our resources better. We are not in our premiere jeunesse. The world is a very nice place. Your world, at any rate, is so. You have all manner of fat rectories to get, and possible bishoprics to enjoy. Come, confess; on second thoughts you would not sacrifice such things for the smiles of a lame lady?'
It was impossible for him to answer this. In order to be in any way dignified, he felt that he must be silent.
'Come,' said she--'don't boody with me: don't be angry because I speak out some home truths. Alas, the world, as I have found it, has taught me bitter truths. Come, tell me that I am forgiven. Are we not to be friends?' and she again put her hand to him.
He sat himself down on the chair beside her, and took her proffered hand and leant over her.
'There,' said she, with her sweetest, softest smile--a smile to withstand which a man should be cased in triple steel, 'there; seal your forgiveness on it,' and she raised it towards his face. He kissed it again and again, and stretched over her as though desirous of extending the charity of his pardon beyond the hand that was offered to him. She managed, however, to check his ardour. For one so easily allured as this poor chaplain, her hand was surely enough.
'Oh, Madeline!' said he, 'tell me that you love me--do you--do you love me?'
'Hush,' said she. 'There is mother's step. Our tete-a-tete has been of monstrous length. Now you had better go. But we shall see you soon again, shall we not?'
Mr Slope promised that he would call again on the following day.
'And Mr Slope,' she continued, 'pray answer my note. You have it in your hand, though, I declare during these two hours you have not been gracious enough to read it. It is about the Sabbath school and the children. You know how anxious I am to have them here. I have been learning the catechism myself, on purpose. You must manage it for me next week. I will teach them, at any rate, to submit themselves to their spiritual pastors and masters.'
Mr Slope said but little on the subject of Sabbath schools, but he made his adieu, and betook himself home with a sad heart, troubled mind, and uneasy conscience.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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28
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MRS BOLD IS ENTERTAINED BY DR AND MRS GRANTLY AT PLUMSTEAD
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It will be remembered that Mr Slope, when leaving his billet doux with Mrs Bold, had been informed that it would be sent out to her at Plumstead that afternoon. The archdeacon and Mr Harding had in fact come into town together in the brougham, and it had been arranged that they should call for Eleanor's parcels as they left on their way home. Accordingly they did so call, and the maid, as she handed to the coachman a small basket and large bundle carefully and neatly packec, gave in at the carriage window Mr Slope's epistle. The archdeacon, who was sitting next to the window, took it, and immediately recognised the hand-writing of his enemy.
'Who left this?' said he.
'Mr Slope called with it himself, your reverence,' said the girl; ' and was very anxious that missus should have it to-day.'
So the brougham drove off, and the letter was left in the archdeacon's hand. He looked at it as though he held a basket of adders. He could not have thought worse of the document had he read it and discovered it to be licentious and atheistical. He did, moreover, what so many wise people are accustomed to do in similar circumstances; he immediately condemned the person to whom the letter was written, as though she were necessarily a particeps criminis.
Poor Mr Harding, though by no means inclined to forward Mr Slope's intimacy with his daughter, would have given anything to have kept the letter from his son-in-law. But that was now impossible. There it was in his hand; and he looked as thoroughly disgusted as though he were quite sure that it contained all the rhapsodies of a favoured lover.
'It's very hard on me,' said he, after a while, 'that this should go on under my roof.'
Now here the archdeacon was certainly the most unreasonable. Having invited his sister-in-law to his house, it was a natural consequence of that she should receive her letters there. And if Mr Slope chose to write to her, his letter would, as a matter of course, be sent after her. Moreover, the very fact of an invitation to one's house implies confidence on the part of the inviter. He had shown that he thought Mrs Bold to be a fit person to stay with him by his making her to do so, and it was most cruel to her that he should complain of her violating the sanctity of his roof-tree, when the laches committed were none of her committing.
Mr Harding felt this; and felt also that when the archdeacon talked thus about his roof, what he said was most offensive to himself as Eleanor's father. If Eleanor did receive a letter from Mr Slope, what was there in that to pollute the purity of Dr Grantly's household. He was indignant that his daughter should be so judged and so spoken of; and, he made up his mind that even as Mrs Slope she must be dearer to him than any other creature on God's earth. He almost broke out, and said as much; but for the moment he restrained himself.
'Here,' said the archdeacon, handing the offensive missile to his father-in-law; 'I am not going to be the bearer of his love letters. You are her father, and may do as you think fit with it.'
By doing as he thought fit with it, the archdeacon certainly meant that Mr Harding would be justified in opening and reading the letter, and taking any steps which might in consequence be necessary. To tell the truth, Dr Grantly did feel rather a stronger curiosity than was justified by his outraged virtue, to see the contents of the letter. Of course he could not open it himself, but he wished to make Mr Harding understand that he, as Eleanor's father, would be fully justified in doing so. The idea of such a proceeding never occurred to Mr Harding. His authority over Eleanor ceased when she became the wife of John Bold. He had not the slightest wish to pry into her correspondence. He consequently put the letter into his pocket, and only wished that he had been able to do so without the archdeacon's knowledge. They both sat silent during the journey home, and then Dr Grantly said, 'Perhaps Susan had better give it to her. She can explain to her sister, better than you or I can do, how deep is the disgrace of such an acquaintance.'
'I think you are very hard upon Eleanor,' replied Mr Harding. 'I will not allow that she has disgraced herself, nor do I think it likely that she will do so. She has a right to correspond with whom she pleases, and I shall not take upon myself to blame her because she gets a letter from Slope.'
'I suppose,' said Dr Grantly, 'you don't wish her to marry this man. I suppose you'll admit that she would disgrace herself if she did so.'
'I do not wish her to marry him,' said the perplexed father; 'I do not like him, and do not think he would make a good husband. But if Eleanor decides to do so, I shall certainly not think that she has disgraced herself.'
'Good heavens!' exclaimed Dr Grantly, and threw himself back into the corner of his brougham. Mr Harding said nothing more, but commenced playing a dirge, with an imaginary fiddle bow upon an imaginary violoncello, for which there did not appear to be quite room enough in the carriage; and he continued the tune, with sundry variations, till he arrived at the rectory door.
The archdeacon had been meditating sad things in his mind. Hitherto he had always looked on his father-in-law as a true partisan, though he knew him to be a man devoid of all the combative qualifications for that character. He had felt no fear that Mr Harding would go over to the enemy, though he had never counted much on the ex-warden's prowess in breaking the battle ranks. Now, however, it seemed that Eleanor, with her wiles, had completely trepanned and bewildered her father, cheated him out of his judgement, robbed him of the predilections and tastes of life, and caused him to be tolerant of a man whose arrogance and vulgarity would, in a few years since, have been unendurable to him. That the whole thing was as good as arranged between Eleanor and Mr Slope there was no longer any room to doubt. That Mr Harding knew that such was the case, even this could hardly be doubted. It was too manifest that he at any rate suspected it, and was prepared to sanction it.
And to tell the truth, such was the case. Mr Harding disliked Mr Slope as much as it was in his nature to dislike any man. Had his daughter wished to do her worst to displease him by a second marriage, she could hardly have succeeded better than by marrying Mr Slope. But, as he said to himself now very often, what right had he to condemn her if she did nothing that was really wrong? If she liked Mr Slope it was her affair. It was indeed miraculous to him, that a woman with such a mind, so educated, so refined, so nice in her tastes, should like such a man. Then he asked himself whether it was possible that she did so.
Ah, thou weak man; most charitable, most Christian, but weakest of men! Why couldst thou not have asked herself? Was she not the daughter of thy loins, the child of thy heart, the most beloved of thee of all humanity? Had she not proved to thee, by years of closest affection, her truth and goodness and filial obedience? And yet, groping in darkness, hearing her name in strains which wounded thy loving heart, and being unable to defend her as thou shouldst have done!
Mr Harding had not believed, did not believe, that his daughter meant to marry this man; but he feared to commit himself to such an opinion. If she did do it there would be then no means of retreat. The wishes of his heart were--First, that there should be no truth in the archdeacon's surmises; and in this wish he would have fain trusted entirely, had he dared to do so; Secondly, that the match might be prevented, if unfortunately, it had been contemplated by Eleanor; Thirdly, that should she be so infatuated as to marry this man, he might justify his conduct, and declare that no cause existed for his separating himself from her.
He wanted to believe her incapable of such a marriage; he wanted to show that he so believed of her; but he wanted also to be able to say hereafter, that she had done nothing amiss, if she could unfortunately prove herself to be different from what he thought her to be.
Nothing but affection could justify such fickleness; but affection did justify it. There was but little of the Roman about Mr Harding. He could not sacrifice his Lucretia even though she should be polluted by the accepted addresses of the clerical Tarquin at the palace. If Tarquin could be prevented, well and good; but if not, the father would still open his heart to his daughter, and accept her as she present herself, Tarquin and all.
Dr Grantly's mind was of a stronger calibre, and he was by no means deficient in heart. He loved with an honest genuine love his wife and children and friends. He loved his father-in-law; and he was quite prepared to love Eleanor too, if she would be one of his party, if she would be on his side, if she would regard the Slopes and the Proudies as the enemies of mankind, and acknowledge and feel the comfortable merits of the Gwynnes and Arabins. He wished to be what he called "safe" with all those whom he had admitted to the penetralia of his house and heart. He could luxuriate in no society that was deficient in a certain feeling of faithful staunch high-churchism, which to him was tantamount to freemasonry. He was not strict in his lines of definition. He endured without impatience many different shades of Anglo-church conservatism; but with the Slopes and Proudies he could not go on all fours.
He was wanting in, moreover, or perhaps it would be more correct to say, he was not troubled by that womanly tenderness which was so peculiar to Mr Harding. His feelings towards his friends were, that while they stuck to him he would stick to them; that he would work with them shoulder to shoulder; that he would be faithful to the faithful. He knew nothing of that beautiful love which can be true to a false friend.
And thus these two men, each miserable enough in his own way, returned to Plumstead.
It was getting late when they arrived there, and the ladies had already gone up to dress. Nothing more was said as the two parted in the hall. As Mr Harding passed to his own room, he knocked at Eleanor's door and handed in the letter. The archdeacon hurried to his own territory, there to unburden his heart to his faithful partner.
What colloquy took place between the marital chamber and the adjoining dressing-room shall not be detailed. The reader, now intimate with the persons concerned, can well imagine it. The whole tenor of it also might be read in Mrs Grantly's brow as she came down to dinner.
Eleanor, when she received the letter from her father's hand, had no idea from whom it came. She had never seen Mr Slope's handwriting, or if so, had forgotten it; and did not think of him as she twisted the letter as people do twist letters when they do not immediately recognise their correspondents either by the writing or the seal. She was sitting at her glass brushing her hair, and rising every other minute to play with her boy who was sprawling on the bed, and who engaged pretty nearly the whole attention of the maid as well as of the mother.
At last, sitting before her toilet table, she broke the seal, and turning over the leaf saw Mr Slope's name. She first felt surprised, and then annoyed, and then anxious. As she read it she became interested. She was so delighted to find that all obstacles to her father's return to the hospital were apparently removed that she did not observe the fulsome language in which the tidings were conveyed. She merely perceived that she was commissioned to tell her father that such was the case, and she did not realise the fact that such a commission should not have been made, in the first instance, to her by an unmarried young clergyman. She felt, on the whole, grateful to Mr Slope, and anxious to get on her dress that she might run with the news to her father. Then she came to the allusion to her own pious labours, and she said in her heart that Mr Slope was an affected ass. Then she went on again and was offended by her boy being called Mr Slope's darling--he was nobody's darling but her own; or at any rate not the darling of a disagreeable stranger like Mr Slope. Lastly she arrived at the tresses and felt a qualm of disgust. She looked up in the glass, and there they were before her, long and silken, certainly, and very beautiful. I will not say but that she knew them to be so, but she felt angry with them and brushed them roughly and carelessly. She crumpled the letter with angry violence, and resolved, almost without thinking of it, that she would not show it to her father. She would merely tell him the contents of it. She then comforted herself again with her boy, and her dress fastened, she went down to dinner.
As she tripped down the stairs she began to ascertain that there was some difficulty in her situation. She could not keep from her father the news about the hospital, nor could she comfortably confess the letter from Mr Slope before the Grantlys. Her father had already gone down. She had heard his step upon the lobby. She resolved therefore to take him aside, and tell him her little bit of news. Poor girl! She had no idea how severely the unfortunate letter had already been discussed.
When she entered the drawing-room the whole party were there, including Mr Arabin, and the whole party looked glum and sour. The two girls sat silent and apart as though they were aware that something was wrong. Even Mr Arabin was solemn and silent. Eleanor had not seen him since breakfast. He had been the whole day at St Ewold's, and such having been the case it was natural that he should tell how matters were going on there. He did nothing of the kind, however, but remained solemn and silent. They were all solemn and silent. Eleanor knew in her heart that they had been talking about her, and her heart misgave her as she thought of Mr Slope and his letter. At any rate she felt it to be quite impossible to speak to her father alone while matters were in this state.
Dinner was soon announced, and Dr Grantly, as was his wont, gave Eleanor his arm. But he did so as though the doing it were an outrage on his feelings rendered necessary by sternest necessity. With quick sympathy Eleanor felt this, and hardly put her fingers on his coat sleeve. It may be guessed in what way the dinner-hour was passed. Dr Grantly said a few words to Mr Arabin, Mr Arabin said a few words to Mrs Grantly, she said a few words to her father, and he tried to say a few words to Eleanor. She felt that she had been tried and found guilty of something, though she knew not what. She longed to say out to them all, 'Well, what is it that I have done; out with it; and let me know my crime; for heaven's sake let me hear the worst of it;' but she could not. She could say nothing, but sat there silent, half feeling that she was guilty, and trying in vain to pretend even to eat her dinner.
At last the cloth was drawn, and the ladies were not long following it. When they were gone the gentlemen were somewhat more sociable but not much so. They could not of course talk over Eleanor's sins. The archdeacon had indeed so far betrayed his sister-in-law as to whisper into Mr Arabin's ear in the study, as they met there before dinner, a hint of what he feared. He did so with the gravest and saddest of fears, and Mr Arabin became grave and apparently sad enough as he heard it. He opened his eyes and his mouth and said in a sort of whisper, 'Mr Slope!' in the same way as he might have said, The Cholera!' had his friend told him that that horrid disease was in his nursery. 'I fear so, I fear so,' said the archdeacon, and then together they left the room.
We will not accurately analyse Mr Arabin's feelings on receipt of such astounding tidings. It will suffice to say that he was surprised, vexed, sorrowful, and ill at ease. He had not perhaps thought very much about Eleanor, but he had appreciated her influence, and had felt that close intimacy with her in a country house was pleasant to him, and also beneficial. He had spoken highly of her intelligence to the archdeacon, and had walked about the shrubberies with her, carrying her boy on his back. When Mr Arabin had called Johnny his darling, Eleanor was not angry.
Thus the three men sat over their wine, all thinking of the same subject, but unable to speak of it to each other. So we will leave them, and follow the ladies into the drawing-room.
Mrs Grantly had received a commission from her husband, and had undertaken it with some unwillingness. He had desired her to speak gravely to Eleanor, and to tell her that, if she persisted in her adherence to Mr Slope, she could no longer look for the countenance of her present friends. Mrs Grantly probably knew her sister better than the doctor did, and assured him that it would be in vain to talk to her. The only course likely to be of any service in her opinion was to keep Eleanor away from Barchester. Perhaps she might have added, for she had a very keen eye in such things, that there might be some ground for hope in keeping Eleanor near Mr Arabin. Of this, however, she said nothing. But the archdeacon would not be talked over; he spoke much of his conscience, and declared that if Mrs Grantly would not do it he would. So instigated, the lady undertook the task, stating, however, her full conviction that her interference would be worse than useless. And so it proved.
As soon as they were in the drawing-room Mrs Grantly found some excuse for sending her girls away, and then began her task. She knew well that she could exercise but very slight authority over her sister. Their various modes of life, and the distance between their residences, had prevented very close confidence. They had hardly lived together since Eleanor was a child. Eleanor had moreover, especially in latter years, resented in a quiet sort of way, the dictatorial authority which the archdeacon seemed to exercise over her father, and on this account had been unwilling to allow the archdeacon's wife to exercise authority over herself.
'You got a letter just before dinner, I believe,' began the eldest sister.
Eleanor acknowledged that she had done so, and felt that she turned red as she acknowledged it. She would have given anything to have kept her colour, but the more she tried to do so, the more she signally failed.
'Was it not from Mr Slope?'
Eleanor said that the letter was from Mr Slope.
'Is he a regular correspondent of yours, Eleanor?'
'Not exactly,' said she, already beginning to feel angry at the cross-examination. She determined, and why it would be difficult to say, that nothing would induce her to tell her sister Susan what was the subject of the letter. Mrs Grantly, she knew, was instigated by the archdeacon, and she would not plead to any arraignment made against her by him.
'But, Eleanor dear, why do you get letters from Mr Slope at all, knowing, as you do, he is a person so distasteful to papa, and to the archdeacon, and indeed to all your friends?'
'In the first place, Susan, I don't get letters from him; and in the next place, as Mr Slope wrote the one letter which I have got, and as I only received it, which I could not very well help doing, as papa handed it to me, I think you had better ask Mr Slope instead of me.'
'What was the letter about, Eleanor?'
'I cannot tell you,' said she, 'because it was confidential. It was on business respecting a third person.'
'It was in no way personal to yourself, then?'
'I won't exactly say that, Susan,' said she, getting more and more angry at her sister's questions.
'Well I must say it's rather singular,' said Mrs Grantly, affecting to laugh, 'that a young lady in your position should receive a letter from an unmarried gentleman of which she will not tell the contents, and which she is ashamed to show her sister.'
'I am not ashamed,' said Eleanor, blazing up; 'I am not ashamed of anything in the matter; only I do not choose to be cross-examined as to my letters by any one.'
'Well, dear,' said the other, 'I cannot tell you that I do not think that Mr Slope a proper correspondent for you.'
'If he be ever so improper, how can I help his having written to me? But you are all prejudiced against him to such an extent, that that which would be kind and generous in another man is odious and impudent in him. I hate a religion that teaches one to be so onesided to one's charity.'
'I am sorry, Eleanor, that you hate the religion you find here; but surely you should remember that in such matters the archdeacon must know more of the world than you do. I don't ask you to respect or comply with me, although I am, unfortunately, so many years your senior; but surely, in such a matter as this, you might consent to be guided by the archdeacon. He is most anxious to be your friend if you will let him.'
'In such a matter as what?' said Eleanor very testily. 'Upon my word I don't know what this is all about.'
'We all want you to drop Mr Slope.'
'You all want me to be illiberal as yourselves. That I shall never be. I see no harm in Mr Slope's acquaintance, and I shall not insult the man by telling him that I do. He has thought it necessary to write to me, and I do not want the archdeacon's advice about the letter. If I did I would ask it.'
'Then, Eleanor, it is my duty to tell you,' and now she spoke with a tremendous gravity, 'that the archdeacon thinks that such a correspondence is disgraceful, and that he cannot allow it to go on in this house.'
Eleanor's eyes flashed fire as she answered her sister, jumping up from her seat as she did so. 'You may tell the archdeacon that wherever I am I shall receive what letters I please and from whom I please. And as for the word disgraceful, if Dr Grantly has used it of me he has been unmanly and inhospitable,' and she walked off to the door. 'When papa comes from the dining-room I will thank you to ask him to step up to my bed-room. I will show him Mr Slope's letter, but I will show it to no one else.' And so saying she retreated to her baby.
She had no conception of the crime with which she was charged. The idea that she could be thought by her friends to regard Mr Slope as a lover, had never flashed upon her. She conceived that they were all prejudiced and illiberal in their persecution of him, and therefore she would not join in the persecution, even though she greatly disliked the man.
Eleanor was very angry as she seated herself in a low chair by her open window at the foot of her child's bed. 'To dare to say that I have disgraced myself,' she repeated to herself more than once. 'How papa can put up with that man's arrogance! I will certainly not sit down to dinner in this house again unless he begs my pardon for that word.' And then a thought struck her that Mr Arabin might perchance hear of her 'disgraceful' correspondence with Mr Slope, and she turned crimson with pure vexation. Oh, if she had known the truth! If she could have conceived that Mr Arabin had been informed as a fact that she was going to marry Mr Slope!
She had not been long in her room before her father joined her. As he left the drawing-room Mrs Grantly took her husband into the recess of the window, and told him how signally she had failed.
'I will speak to her myself before I go to bed,' said the archdeacon.
'Pray do no such thing,' said she; 'you can do no good and will only make an unseemly quarrel in the house. You have no idea how headstrong she can be.'
The archdeacon declared that as to that he was quite indifferent. He knew his duty and he would do it. Mr Harding was weak in the extreme in such matters. He would not have it hereafter on his conscience that he had not done all that in him lay to prevent so disgraceful an alliance. It was in vain that Mrs Grantly assured him that speaking to Eleanor angrily would only hasten such a crisis, and render it certain if at present there were any doubt. He was angry, self-willed, and sore. The fact that a lady in his household had received a letter from Mr Slope had wounded his pride in the sorest place, and nothing could control him.
Mr Harding looked worn and woebegone as he entered his daughter's room. These sorrows worried him sadly. He felt that if they were continued he must go to the wall in a manner so kindly prophesied to him by the chaplain. He knocked gently at his daughter's door, waited till he was distinctly bade to enter, and then appeared as though he and not she was the suspected criminal.
Eleanor's arm was soon within his, and she had soon kissed his forehead and caressed him, not with joyous but with eager love. 'Oh, papa,' she said, 'I do so want to speak to you. They have been talking about me downstairs to-night; don't you know they have, papa?'
Mr Harding confessed with a sort of murmur that the archdeacon had been speaking of her.
'I shall hate Dr Grantly soon--' 'Oh, my dear!'
'Well; I shall. I cannot help it. He is so uncharitable, so unkind, so suspicious of everyone that does not worship himself: and then he is so monstrously arrogant to other people who have a right to their opinions as well as he has to his own.'
'He is an earnest, eager man, my dear: but he never means to be unkind.'
'He is unkind, papa, most unkind. There, I got that letter from Mr Slope before dinner. It was you yourself who gave it to me. There; pray read it. It is all for you. It should have been addressed to you. You know how they have been talking about it downstairs. You know how they behaved to me at dinner. And since dinner Susan has been preaching to me, till I could not remain in the room with her. Read it, papa; and then say whether that is a letter that need make Dr Grantly so outrageous.'
Mr Harding took his arm from his daughter's waist, and slowly read the letter. She expected to see his countenance lit up with joy as he learnt that his path back to the hospital was made so smooth; but she was doomed to disappointment, as had once been the case before on a somewhat similar occasion. His first feeling was one of unmitigated disgust that Mr Slope should have chosen to interfere in his behalf. He had been anxious to get back to the hospital, but he would have infinitely sooner resigned all pretensions to the place, than have owned in any manner to Mr Slope's influence in his favour. Then he thoroughly disliked the tone of Mr Slope's letter; it was unctuous, false, and unwholesome, like the man. He saw, which Eleanor had failed to see, that much more had been intended than was expressed. The appeal to Eleanor's pious labours as separate from his own grated sadly against his feelings as a father. And then, when he came to the 'darling boy,' and the 'silken tresses,' he slowly closed and folded the letter in despair. It was impossible that Mr Slope should so write unless he had been encouraged. It was impossible that Eleanor should have received such a letter, and received it without annoyance, unless she were willing to encourage him. So at least, Mr Harding argued to himself.
How hard it is to judge accurately of the feelings of others. Mr Harding, as he came to close the letter, in his heart condemned his daughter for indelicacy, and it made him miserable to do so. She was not responsible for what Mr Slope might write. True. But then she expressed no disgust at it. She had rather expressed approval of the letter as a whole. She had given it to him to read, as a vindication for herself and also for him. The father's spirits sank within him as he felt that he could not acquit her.
And yet it was the true feminine delicacy of Eleanor's mind which brought her on this condemnation. Listen to me, ladies, and I beseech you to acquit her. She thought of this man, this lover of whom she was so unconscious, exactly as her father did, exactly as the Grantlys did. At least she esteemed him personally as they did. But she believed him to be in the main an honest man, and one truly inclined to assist her father. She felt herself bound, after what had passed, to show the letter to Mr Harding. She thought it necessary that he should know what Mr Slope had to say. But she did not think it necessary to apologise for, or condemn, or even allude to the vulgarity of the man's tone, which arose, as does all vulgarity, from ignorance. It was nauseous to her to have such a man like Mr Slope commenting on her personal attractions; and she did not think it necessary to dilate with her father upon what was nauseous. She never supposed they could disagree on such a subject. It would have been painful for to point it out, painful to her to speak strongly against a man of whom, on the whole she was anxious to think and speak well. In encountering such a man she had encountered what was disagreeable, as she might do in walking the streets. But in such encounters she never thought it necessary to dwell on what disgusted her.
Mr Harding slowly folded the letter, handed it back to her, kissed her forehead and bade God bless her. He then crept slowly away to his own room.
As soon as he had left the passage another knock was given at Eleanor's door, and Mrs Grantly's very demure own maid, entering on tiptoe, wanted to know would Mrs Bold be so kind as to speak to the archdeacon for two minutes in the archdeacon's study, if not disagreeable. The archdeacon's compliments, and he wouldn't detain her two minutes.
Eleanor thought it was very disagreeable; she was tired and fagged and sick at heart; her present feelings towards Dr Grantly were anything but those of affection. She was, however, no coward, and therefore promised to be in the study in five minutes. So she arranged her hair, tied on her cap, and went down with a palpitating heart.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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29
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A SERIOUS INTERVIEW
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There are people who delight in serious interviews, especially when to them appertain the part of offering advice or administering rebuke, and perhaps the archdeacon was one of these. Yet on this occasion he did not prepare himself for the coming conversation with much anticipation of pleasure. Whatever might be his faults he was not an inhospitable man, and he almost felt that he was sinning against hospitality in upbraiding Eleanor in his own house. Then, also he was not quite sure that he would get the best of it. His wife had told him that he decidedly would not, and he usually gave credit to what his wife said. He was, however, so convinced of what he considered to be the impropriety of Eleanor's conduct, and so assured also of his own duty in trying to check it, that his conscience would not allow him to take his wife's advice and go to bed quietly.
Eleanor's face as she entered the room was not much as to reassure him. As a rule she was always mild in manner and gentle in conduct; but there was that in her eye which made it not an easy task to scold her. In truth she had been little used to scolding. No one since her childhood had tried it but the archdeacon, and he had generally failed when he did try it. He had never done so since her marriage; and now, when he saw her quiet easy step, as she entered the room, he almost wished he had taken his wife's advice.
He began by apologising for the trouble he was giving her. She begged him not to mention it, assured him that walking down the stairs was no trouble to her at all, and then took a seat and waited patiently for him to begin his attack.
'My dear Eleanor,' he said, 'I hope you believe me when I assure you that you have no sincerer friend than I am.' To this Eleanor answered nothing, and therefore he proceeded. 'If you had a brother of your own I should not probably trouble you with what I am going to say. But as it is I cannot but think that it must be a comfort to you to know that you have near you one who is as anxious for your welfare as any brother of your own could be.'
'I never had a brother,' said she.
'I know you never had, and it is therefore that I speak to you.'
'I never had a brother,' she repeated; 'but I have hardly felt the want. Papa has been to me both father and brother.'
'Your father is the fondest and most affectionate of men. But--' 'He is--the fondest and most affectionate of men, and the best of counsellors. While he lives I can never want advice.'
This rather put the archdeacon out. He could not exactly contradict what his sister-in-law said about her father; and yet he did not at all agree with her. He wanted her to understand that he tendered his assistance because her father was a soft good-natured gentleman, not sufficiently knowing in the ways of the world; but he could not say this to her. So he had to rush into the subject-matter of his proffered counsel without any acknowledgement on her part that she could need it, or would be grateful for it.
'Susan tells me that you received a letter this evening from Mr Slope.'
'Yes; papa brought it in the brougham. Did he not tell you?'
'And Susan says that you objected to let her know what it was about.'
'I don't think she asked me. But had she done so I should not have told her. I don't think it nice to be asked about one's letters. If one wishes to show them one does so without being asked.'
'True. Quite so. What you say is quite true. But is not the fact of your receiving letters from Mr Slope, which you do not wish to show to your friends, a circumstance which must excite some--some surprise--some suspicion--' 'Suspicion!' said she, not speaking above her usual voice, speaking still in a soft womanly tone, but yet with indignation; 'suspicion! and who suspects me, and of what?'
And then there was a pause, for the archdeacon was not quite ready to explain the ground of his suspicion. 'No, Dr Grantly, I did not choose to show Mr Slope's letter to Susan. I could not show it to any one till papa had seen it. If you have any wish to read it now, you can do so,' and she handed the letter to him over the table.
This was an amount of compliance which he had not at all expected, and which rather upset him in his tactics. However, he took the letter, perused it carefully, and then refolding it, kept it on the table under his hand. To him it appeared to be in almost every respect the letter of a declared lover; it seemed to corroborate his worst suspicions; and the fact of Eleanor's showing it to him was all but tantamount to a declaration on her part, that it was her pleasure to receive love-letters from Mr Slope. He almost entirely overlooked the real subject-matter of the epistle; so intent was he on the forthcoming courtship and marriage.
'I'll thank you to give it back, please, Dr Grantly.'
He took his hand and held it up, but made no immediate overture to return it. 'And Mr Harding has seen this?' said he.
'Of course he has,' said she; 'it was written that he might see it. It refers solely to his business--of course I showed it to him.'
'And Eleanor, do you think that that is a proper letter for you--for a person in your condition--to receive from Mr Slope?'
'Quite a proper letter,' said she, speaking, perhaps, a little out of obstinacy; probably forgetting at the moment the objectionable mention of her silken curls.
'Then, Eleanor, it is my duty to tell you that I wholly differ from you.'
'So I suppose,' said she, instigated now by sheer opposition and determination not to succumb. 'You think Mr Slope is a messenger direct from Satan. I think he is an industrious, well-meaning clergyman. It's a pity that we differ as we do. But, as we do differ, we had probably better not talk about it.'
Here undoubtedly Eleanor put herself in the wrong. She might probably have refused to talk to Dr Grantly on the matter in dispute without any impropriety; but having consented to listen to him, she had no business to tell him that regarded Mr Slope as an emissary from the evil one; nor was she justified in praising Mr Slope, seeing that in her heart of hearts she did not think well of him. She was, however, wounded in spirit, and very angry and bitter. She had been subjected to contumely and cross-questioning and ill-usage through the whole evening. No one, not even Mr Arabin, not even her father, had been kind to her. All this she attributed to the prejudice and conceit of the archdeacon, and therefore she resolved to set no bounds to her antagonism to him. She would neither give nor take quarter. He had greatly presumed in daring to question her about her correspondence, and she was determined to show that she thought so.
'Eleanor, you are forgetting yourself,' said he, looking very sternly at her. 'Otherwise you would never tell me that I conceive any man to be a messenger from Satan.'
'But you do,' said she. 'Nothing is too bad for him. Give me that letter, if you please;' and she stretched out her hand and took it from him. 'He has been doing his best to serve papa, doing more than any of papa's friends could do; and yet, because he is the chaplain of a bishop whom you don't like, you speak of him as though he had no right to the usage of a gentleman.'
'He has done nothing for your father.'
'I believe that he has done a great deal; and, as far as I am concerned, I am grateful to him. I judge people by their acts, and his, as far as I can see them, are good.' She then paused for a moment. 'If you have nothing further to say, I shall be obliged by being permitted to say good night--I am very tired.'
Dr Grantly had, as he thought, done his best to be gracious to his sister-in-law. He had endeavoured not to be harsh with her, and had striven to pluck the sting from his rebuke. But he did not intend that she should leave him without hearing him.
'I have something to say, Eleanor; and I fear I must trouble you to hear it. You profess that it is quite proper that you should receive from Mr Slope such letters as that you have in your hand. Susan and I think very differently. You are, of course, your own mistress, and much as we both must grieve should anything separate you from us, we have no power to prevent you from taking steps which may lead to such a separation. If you are so wilful as to reject the counsel of your friends, you must be allowed to cater for yourself. Is it worth you while to break away from all those you have loved--from all who love you--for the sake of Mr Slope?'
'I don't know what you mean, Dr Grantly; I don't know what you are talking about. I don't want to break away from anybody.'
'But you will do so if you connect yourself with Mr Slope. Eleanor, I must speak out to you. You must choose between your sister and myself and our friends, and Mr Slope and his friends. I say nothing of your father, as you may probably understand his feelings better than I do.'
'What do you mean, Dr Grantly? What am I to understand? I never heard such wicked prejudice in my life.'
'It is no prejudice, Eleanor. I have known the world longer than you have done. Mr Slope is altogether beneath you. You ought to know and feel that he is so. Pray--pray think of this before it is too late.'
'Too late!'
'Or if you will not believe me, ask Susan; you cannot think she is prejudiced against you. Or even consult your father, he is not prejudiced against you. Ask Mr Arabin--' 'You haven't spoken to Mr Arabin about this!' said she, jumping up and standing before him.
'Eleanor, all the world in and about Barchester will be speaking of it soon.'
'But you have spoken to Mr Arabin about me and Mr Slope?'
'Certainly I have, and he quite agrees with me.'
'Agree with what?' said she. 'I think you are trying to drive me mad.'
'He agrees with me and Susan that it is quite impossible you should be received at Plumstead as Mrs Slope.'
Not being favourites with the tragic muse we do not dare to attempt any description of Eleanor's face when she first heard the name of Mrs Slope pronounced as that which would or should or might at some time appertain to herself. The look, such as it was, Dr Grantly did not soon forget. For a moment or two she could find no words to express her deep anger and deep disgust; and, indeed, at this conjuncture, words did not come to her very freely.
'How dare you be so impertinent?' at last she said; and then hurried out of the room, without giving the archdeacon the opportunity of uttering another word. It was with difficulty that she contained herself till she reached her own room; and then, locking the door, she threw herself on her bed and sobbed as though her heart would break.
But even yet she had no conception of the truth. She had no idea that her father and sister had for days past conceived in sober earnest the idea that she was going to marry the man. She did not even then believe that the archdeacon thought that she would do so. By some manoeuvre of her brain, she attributed the origin of the accusation to Mr Arabin, and as she did so her anger against him was excessive, and the vexation of her spirit almost unendurable. She could not bring herself to think the charge was made seriously. It appeared to her most probable that the archdeacon and Mr Arabin had talked over her objectionable acquaintance with Mr Slope; that Mr Arabin, in his jeering sarcastic way, had suggested the odious match as being the severest way of treating with contumely her acquaintance with his enemy; and that the archdeacon, taking the idea from him, thought proper to punish her by the allusion. The whole night she lay awake thinking of what had been said, and this appeared to be the most probable solution.
But the reflection that Mr Arabin should have in any way mentioned her name in connection with that of Mr Slope was overpowering; and the spiteful ill-nature of the archdeacon, in repeating the charge to her, made her wish to leave his house almost before the day had broken. One thing was certain: nothing should make her stay there beyond the following morning, and nothing should make her sit down in company with Dr Grantly. When she thought of the man whose name had been linked with her own, she cried from sheer disgust. It was only because she would be thus disgusted, thus pained, and shocked and cut to the quick, that the archdeacon had spoken the horrid word. He wanted her to make her quarrel with Mr Slope, and therefore he had outraged her by his abominable vulgarity. She determined that at any rate he should know that she appreciated it.
Nor was the archdeacon a bit better satisfied with the result of his serious interview than was Eleanor. He gathered from it, as indeed he could hardly fail to do, that she was very angry with him; but he thought that she was thus angry, not because she was suspected of an intention to marry Mr Slope, but because such an intention was imputed to her as a crime. Dr Grantly regarded this supposed union with disgust; but it never occurred to him that Eleanor was outraged, because she looked at it exactly in the same light.
He returned to his wife vexed and somewhat disconsolate, but, nevertheless, confirmed in his wrath against his sister-in-law. 'Her whole behaviour,' said he, 'has been most objectionable. She handed me his love letter to read as though she were proud of it. And she is proud of it. She is proud of having this slavering, greedy man at her feet. She will throw herself and John Bold's money into his lap; she will ruin her boy, disgrace her father and you, and be a wretched miserable woman.'
His spouse who was sitting at her toilet table, continued her avocations, making no answer to all this. She had known that the archdeacon would gain nothing be interfering; but she was too charitable to provoke him by saying so while he was in such deep sorrow.
'This comes of a man making a will as that of Bold's' he continued. 'Eleanor is no more fitted to be trusted with such an amount of money in her own hands than is a charity-school girl.' Still Mrs Grantly made no reply. 'But I have done my duty; I can do nothing further. I have told her plainly that she cannot be allowed to form a link of connection between me and that man. From henceforward it will not be in my power to make her welcome at Plumstead. I cannot have Mr Slope's love letters coming here. I think you have better let her understand that as her mind on this subject seems to be irrevocably fixed, it will be better for all parties that she should return to Barchester.
Now Mrs Grantly was angry with Eleanor, nearly as angry as her husband; but she had no idea of turning her sister out of the house. She, therefore, at length spoke out, and explained to the archdeacon in her own mild seducing way, that he was fuming and fussing and fretting himself very unnecessarily. She declared that things, if left alone, would arrange themselves much better than he could arrange them; and at last succeeded in inducing him to go to bed in a somewhat less inhospitable state of mind.
On the following morning Eleanor's maid was commissioned to send word into the dining-room that her mistress was not well enough to attend prayers, and that she would breakfast in her own room. Here she was visited by her father and declared to him her intention of returning immediately to Barchester. He was hardly surprised by the announcement. All the household seemed to be aware that something had gone wrong. Every one walked about with subdued feet, and people's shoes seemed to creak more than usual. There was a look of conscious intelligence on the faces of the women; and the men attempted, but in vain, to converse as though nothing were the matter. All this had weighed heavily on the heart of Mr Harding; and when Eleanor told him that her immediate return to Barchester was a necessity, he merely sighed piteously, and said that he would be ready to accompany her.
But here she objected strenuously. She had a great wish, she said, to go alone; a great desire that it might be seen that her father was not implicated in her quarrel with Dr Grantly. To this at last he gave way; but not a word passed between them about Mr Slope--not a word was said, not a question asked as to the serious interview on the preceding evening. There was, indeed, very little confidence between them, though neither of them knew why it should be so. Eleanor once asked him whether he would not call upon the bishop; but he answered rather tartly that he did not know--he did not think he should, but he could not say just at present. And so they parted. Each was miserably anxious for some show of affection, for some return of confidence, for some sign of the feeling that usually bound them together. But none was given. The father could not bring himself to question his daughter about her supposed lover; and the daughter would not sully her mouth by repeating the odious word with which Dr Grantly had aroused her wrath. And so they parted.
There was some trouble in arranging the method of Eleanor's return. She begged her father to send for a postchaise; but when Mrs Grantly heard of this, she objected strongly. If Eleanor would go away in dudgeon with the archdeacon, why should she let all the servants and all the neighbourhood know that she had done so? So at last Eleanor consented to make use of the Plumstead carriage; and as the archdeacon had gone out immediately after breakfast and was not to return till dinner-time, she also consented to postpone her journey till after lunch, and to join the family at that time. As to the subject of the quarrel not a word was said by any one. The affair of the carriage was arranged by Mr Harding, who acted as Mercury between the two ladies; they, when they met, kissed each other very lovingly, and then sat down each to her crochet work as though nothing was amiss in all the world.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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30
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ANOTHER LOVE SCENE
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But there was another visitor at the rectory whose feelings in this unfortunate matter must be somewhat strictly analysed. Mr Arabin had heard from his friend of the probability of Eleanor's marriage with Mr Slope with amazement, but not with incredulity. It has been said that he was not in love with Eleanor, and up to this period this certainly had been true. But as soon as he heard that she loved some one else, he began to be very fond of her himself. He did not make up his mind that he wished to have her for his wife; he had never thought of her, and did not know how to think of her, in connection with himself; but he experienced an inward indefinable feeling of deep regret, a gnawing sorrow, and unconquerable depression of spirits, and also a species of self-abasement that he--he Mr Arabin--had not done something to prevent that other he, that vile he, whom he so thoroughly despised, from carrying off his sweet prize.
Whatever man may have reached the age of forty unmarried without knowing something of such feelings must have been very successful or else very cold hearted.
Mr Arabin had never thought of trimming the sails of his bark so that he might sail as convoy to this rich argosy. He had seen that Mrs Bold was beautiful, but he had not dreamt of making her beauty his own. He knew that Mrs Bold was rich, but he had no more idea of appropriating her wealth than that of Dr Grantly. He had discovered that Mrs Bold was intelligent, warm-hearted, agreeable, sensible, all, in fact, that a man could wish his wife to be; but the higher were her attractions, the greater her claims to consideration, the less had he imagined that he might possible become the possessor of them. Such had been his instinct rather than his thoughts, so humble and so diffident. Now his diffidence was to be rewarded by his seeing this woman, whose beauty was to his eyes perfect, whose wealth was such as to have deterred him from thinking of her, whose widowhood would have silenced him had he not been so deterred, by his seeing her become the prey of--Obadiah Slope!
On the morning of Mrs Bold's departure he got on his horse to ride over to St Ewold's. As he rode he kept muttering to himself a line from Van Artevelde:- How little flattering is woman's love.
And then he strove to recall his mind and to think of other affairs, his parish, his college, his creed--but his thoughts would revert to Mrs Bold and the Flemish chieftain: When we think upon it How little flattering is woman's love, Given commonly to whosoe'er is nearest And propped with most advantage.
It was not that Mrs Bold should marry any one but him; he had not put himself forward as a suitor; but that she should marry Mr Slope--and so he repeated over and over again: Outward grace Nor inward light is needful--day by day Men wanting both are mated with the best And loftiest of God's feminine creation, Whose love takes no distinction but of gender And ridicules the very name of choice.
And so he went on troubled much in his mind.
He had but an uneasy ride of it that morning, and little good did he do at St Ewold's.
The necessary alterations in his house were being fast completed, and he walked through the rooms, and went up and down the stairs and rambled through the garden; but he could not wake himself to much interest about them. He stood still at every window to look out and think upon Mr Slope. At almost every window he had before stood and chatted with Eleanor. She and Mrs Grantly had been there continually, and while Mrs Grantly had been giving orders, and seeing that orders had been complied with, he and Eleanor had conversed on all things appertaining to a clergyman's profession. He thought how often he had laid down the law to her, and how sweetly she had borne with somewhat dictatorial decrees. He remembered her listening intelligence, her gentle but quick replies, her interest in all that concerned the church, in all that concerned him; and then he struck his riding whip against the window sill, and declared to himself that it was impossible that Eleanor Bold should marry Mr Slope.
And yet he did not really believe, as he should have done, that it was impossible. He should have known her well enough to feel that it was truly impossible. He should have been aware that Eleanor had that within her which would surely protect her from such degradation. But he, like so many others, was deficient in confidence in woman. He said to himself over and over again that it was impossible that Eleanor Bold should become Mrs Slope, and yet he believed that she would do so. And so he rambled about, and could do and think of nothing. He was thoroughly uncomfortable, thoroughly ill at ease, cross with himself and every body else, and feeding in his heart on animosity towards Mr Slope. This was not as it should be, as he knew and felt; but he could not help himself. In truth Mr Arabin was now in love with Mrs Bold, though ignorant of the fact himself. He was in love, and, though forty years old, was in love without being aware of it. He fumed and fretted, and did not know what was the matter, as a youth might do at one-and-twenty. And so having done no good at St Ewold's, he rode back much earlier than was usual with him, instigated, by some inward unacknowledged hope that he might see Mrs Bold before she left.
Eleanor had not passed a pleasant morning. She was irritated with every one, and not least with herself. She felt that she had been hardly used, but she felt also that she had not played her own cards well. She should have held herself so far above suspicion as to have received her sister's innuendoes and the archdeacon's lecture with indifference. She had not done this, but had shown herself angry and sore, and was now ashamed of her own petulance, and yet unable to discontinue it.
The greater part of the morning she had spent alone; but after a while her father joined her. He had fully made up his mind that, come what might, nothing should separate him from his youngest daughter. It was a hard task for him to reconcile himself to the idea of seeing her at the head of Mr Slope's table; but he got through it. Mr Slope, as he argued to himself, was a respectable man and a clergyman; and he, as Eleanor's father, had no right even to endeavour to prevent her from marrying such a one. He longed to tell her how he had determined to prefer her to all the world, how he was prepared to admit that she was not wrong, how thoroughly he differed from Dr Grantly; but he could not bring himself to mention Mr Slope's name. There was yet a chance that they were all wrong in their surmise; and, being thus in doubt, he could not bring himself to speak openly to her on the subject.
He was sitting with her in the drawing-room, with his arm round her waist, saying now and then some little soft words of affection, and working hard with his imaginary little fiddle-bow, when Mr Arabin entered the room. He immediately got up, and the two made some trifle remarks to each other, neither thinking of what he was saying, and Eleanor kept her seat on the sofa mute and moody. Mr Arabin was included in the list of those against whom her anger was excited. He, too, had dared to talk about her acquaintance with Mr Slope; he, too, had dared to blame her for not making an enemy of his enemy. She had not intended to see him before her departure, and was now but little inclined to be gracious.
There was a feeling through the whole house that something was wrong. Mr Arabin, when he saw Eleanor, could not succeed in looking or in speaking as though he knew nothing of all this. He could not be cheerful and positive and contradictory with her, as was his wont. He had not been two minutes in the room before he felt that he had done wrong in return; and the moment he heard her voice, he thoroughly wished himself back at St Ewold's. Why, indeed, should he have wished to have aught further to say to the future wife of Mr Slope?
'I am sorry to hear that you are too leave so soon,' said he, striving in vain to use his ordinary voice. In answer to this she muttered something about the necessity of her being in Barchester, and betook herself industriously to her crochet work.
Then there was a little more trite conversation between Mr Arabin and Mr Harding; trite, and hard, and vapid, and senseless. Neither of them had anything to say to the other, and yet neither at such a moment liked to remain silent. At last Mr Harding, taking advantage of a pause, escaped from the room, and Eleanor and Mr Arabin were left together.
'Your going will be a great break-up to our party,' said he.
She again muttered something which was all but inaudible; but kept her eyes fixed upon her work.
'We have had a very pleasant month her,' said he; 'at least I have; and I am sorry it should be so soon over.'
'I have already been from home longer than I intended,' she said; 'and it is time that I should return.'
'Well, pleasant hours and pleasant days must come to an end. It is a pity that so few of them are pleasant; or perhaps rather--' 'It is a pity, certainly, that men and women do so much to destroy the pleasantness of their days,' said she, interrupting him. 'It is a pity that there should be so little charity abroad.'
'Charity should begin at home,' said he; and he was proceeding to explain that he as a clergyman could not be what she would call charitable at the expense of those principles which he considered it his duty to teach, when he remembered that it would be worse than vain to argue on such a matter with the future wife of Mr Slope. 'But you are just leaving us,' he continued, 'and I will not weary your last hour with another lecture. As it is, I fear I have given you too many.'
'You should practise as well as preach, Mr Arabin?'
'Undoubtedly I should. So should we all. All of us who presume to teach are bound to do our utmost towards fulfilling our own lessons. I thoroughly allow my deficiency in doing so; but I do not quite know now to what you allude. Have you any special reason for telling me now that I should practise as well as preach?'
Eleanor made no answer. She longed to let him know the cause of her anger, to upbraid him for speaking of her disrespectfully, and then at last forgive him, and so part friends. She felt that she would be unhappy to leave him in her present frame of mind; but yet she could hardly bring herself to speak to him of Mr Slope. And how could she allude to the innuendo thrown out by the archdeacon, and thrown out, as she believed, at the instigation of Mr Arabin? She wanted to make him know that he was wrong, to make him aware that he had ill-treated her, in order that the sweetness of her forgiveness might be enhanced. She felt that she liked him too well to be contented to part with him in displeasure; and yet she could not get over her deep displeasure without some explanation, some acknowledgement, on his part, some assurance that he would never again so sin against her.
'Why do you tell me that I should practise what I preach?' continued he.
'All men should do so.'
'Certainly. That is as it were understood and acknowledged. But you do not say so to all men, or to all clergymen. The advice, good as it is, is not given except in allusion to some special deficiency. If you will tell me my special deficiency, I will endeavour to profit by the advice.'
She paused for a while, and then looking full in his face, she said, 'You are not bold enough, Mr Arabin, to speak out to me openly and plainly, and yet you expect me, a woman, to speak openly to you. Why did you speak calumny of me to Dr Grantly behind my back?'
'Calumny!' said he, and his whole face became suffused with blood; 'what calumny? If I have spoken calumny of you, I will beg your pardon, and his to whom I spoke it, and God's pardon also. But what calumny have I spoken of you to Dr Grantly?'
She also blushed deeply. She could not bring herself to ask him whether he had not spoken of her as another man's wife. 'You know that best yourself,' said she; 'but I ask you as a man of honour, if you have not spoken of me as you would not have spoken of your own sister; or rather I will not ask you,' she continued, finding that he did not immediately answer her. 'I will not put you to the necessity of answering such a question. Dr Grantly has told me what you said.'
'Dr Grantly certainly asked me for my advice, and I gave it. He asked me--' 'I know he did, Mr Arabin. He asked you whether he would be doing right to receive me at Plumstead, if I continued my acquaintance with a gentleman who happens to be personally disagreeable to yourself and to him?'
'You are mistaken, Mrs Bold. I have no personal knowledge of Mr Slope; I have never met him in my life.'
'You are not the less individually hostile to him. It is not for me to question the propriety of your enmity; but I had a right to expect that my name should not have been mixed up in your hostilities. This has been done, and been done by you in a manner the most injurious and the most distressing to a woman. I must confess, Mr Arabin, that from you I expected a different sort of usage.'
As she spoke she with difficulty restrained her tears; but she did restrain them. Had she given way and sobbed about, as in such cases a woman should do, he would have melted at once, implored her pardon, perhaps knelt at her feet and declared his love. Everything would have been explained, and Eleanor would have gone back to Barchester with a contented mind. How easily would she have forgiven and forgotten the archdeacon's suspicions had she but heard the whole truth of it from Mr Arabin. But then where would have been my novel? She did not cry, and Mr Arabin did not melt.
'You do me an injustice,' said he. 'My advice was asked by Dr Grantly, and I was obliged to give it.'
'Dr Grantly has been most officious, most impertinent. I have as complete a right to form my acquaintance as he has to form his. What would you have said, had I consulted you as to the propriety of banishing Dr Grantly from my house because he knows Lord Tattenham Corner? I am sure Lord Tattenham is quite as objectionable an acquaintance for a clergyman as Mr Slope is for a clergyman's daughter.'
'I do not know Lord Tattenham Corner.'
'No; but Dr Grantly does. It is nothing to me if he knows all the young lords on every racecourse in England. I shall not interfere with him; nor shall he with me.'
'I am sorry to differ with you, Mrs Bold; but as you have spoken to me on this matter, and especially as you blame me for what little I said on the subject, I must tell you that I do differ from you. Dr Grantly's position as a man in the world gives him a right to choose his own acquaintances, subject to certain influences. If he chooses them badly, those influences will be used. If he consorts with persons unsuitable to him, his bishop will interfere. What the bishop is to Dr Grantly, Dr Grantly is to you.'
'I deny it. I utterly deny it,' said Eleanor, jumping from her seat, and literally flashing before Mr Arabin, as she stood on the drawing-room floor. He had never seen her so excited, he had never seen her look so beautiful.
'I utterly deny it,' said she. 'Dr Grantly has no sort of jurisdiction over me whatsoever. Do you and he forget that I am not altogether alone in this world? Do you forget that I have a father? Dr Grantly, I believe, always has forgotten it.'
'From you, Mr Arabin,' she continued, 'I would have listened to advice because I should have expected it to have been given as one friend may advise another; not as a schoolmaster gives an order to a pupil. I might have differed from you; on this matter I should have done so; but had you spoken to me in your usual manner and with your usual freedom I should not have been angry. But now--was it manly of you, Mr Arabin, to speak of me in this way--, so disrespectful--so--? I cannot bring myself to repeat what you said. You must understand what I feel. Was it just of you to speak of me in such a way, and to advise my sister's husband to turn me out of my sister's house because I chose to know a man of whose doctrine you disapprove?'
'I have no alternative left to me, Mrs Bold,' said he, standing with his back to the fire-place, looking down intently at the carpet pattern and speaking with a slow measured voice, 'but to tell you plainly what did take place between me and Dr Grantly.'
'Well,' said she, finding that he paused for a moment.
'I am afraid that what I may say may pain you.'
'It cannot well do so more than what you have already done,' said she.
'Dr Grantly asked me whether I thought it would be prudent for him to receive you in his house as the wife of Mr Slope, and I told him that I thought it would be imprudent. Believing it to be utterly impossible that Mr Slope and--' 'Thank you, Mr Arabin, that is sufficient. I do not want to know your reasons,' said she, speaking with a terribly calm voice. 'I have shown to this gentleman the common-place civility of a neighbour; and because I have done so, because I have not indulged against him in all the rancour and hatred which you and Dr Grantly consider due to all clergymen who do not agree with yourselves, you conclude that I am to marry him;--or rather you do not conclude so--no rational man could really come to such an outrageous conclusion without better ground;--you have not thought so--but, as I am in a position in which such an accusation must be peculiarly painful, it is made in order that I may be terrified into hostility against this enemy of yours.'
As she finished speaking, she walked to the drawing-room window, and stepped out into the garden. Mr Arabin was left in the room, still occupied in counting the pattern on the carpet. He had, however, distinctly heard and accurately marked every word that she had spoken. Was it not clear from what she had said, that the archdeacon had been wrong in imputing to her any attachment to Mr Slope? Was it not clear that Eleanor was still free to make another choice? It may seem strange that he should for a moment have had a doubt; and yet he did doubt. She had not absolutely denied the charge; she had not expressly said that it was untrue. Mr Arabin understood little of the nature of a woman's feelings, or he would have known how improbable it was that she should make any clearer declarations than she had done. Few men do understand the nature of a woman's heart, till years have robbed such understanding of its value. And it is well that it should be so, or men would triumph too easily.
Mr Arabin stood counting the carpet, unhappy, wretchedly unhappy, at the hard words that had been spoken to him; and yet happy, exquisitely happy, as he thought that after all the woman whom he so regarded was not to become the wife of the man whom he so much disliked. As he stood there he began to be aware that he was himself in love. Forty years had passed over his head, and as yet woman's beauty had never given him an uneasy hour. His present hour was very uneasy.
Not that he remained there for half or a quarter of that time. In spite of what Eleanor had said, Mr Arabin was, in truth, a manly man. Having ascertained that he loved this woman, and having now reason to believe that she was free to receive his love, at least if she pleased to do so, he followed her into the garden to make such wooing as he could.
He was not long in finding her. She was walking to and fro beneath the avenue of elms that stood in the archdeacon's grounds, skirting the churchyard. What had passed between her and Mr Arabin, had not, alas, tended to lessen the acerbity of her spirit. She was very angry; more angry with him than with any one. How could he have so misunderstood her? She had been so intimate with him, had allowed him such latitude in what he had chosen to say to her, had complied with his ideas, cherished his views, fostered his precepts, cared for his comforts, made much of him in every way in which a pretty woman can make much of an unmarried man without committing herself or her feelings! She had been doing this, and while she had been doing it he had regarded her as the affianced wife of another man.
As she passed along the avenue, every now and then an unbidden tear would force itself on her cheek, and as she raised her hand to brush it away, she stamped with her little foot upon the sward with very spite to think that she had been so treated.
Mr Arabin was very near to her when she first saw him, that she turned short round and retraced her steps down the avenue, trying to rid her cheeks of all trace of the tell-tale tears. It was a needless endeavour, for Mr Arabin was in a state of mind that hardly allowed him to observe such trifles. He followed her down the walk, and overtook her just as she reached the end of it.
He had not considered how he would address her; he had not thought what he would say. He had only felt that it was wretchedness to him to quarrel with her, and that it would be happiness to be allowed to love her. And that he could not lower himself by asking for her pardon. He had done no wrong. He had not calumniated her, not injured her, as she had accused him of doing. He could not confess sins of which had not been guilty. He could only let the past be past, and ask her as to her and his hopes for the future.
'I hope we are not to part as enemies?' said he.
'There shall be no enmity on my part,' said Eleanor; 'I endeavour to avoid all enmities. It would be a hollow pretence were I to say that there can be a true friendship between us after what has just past. People cannot make their friends of those whom they despise.'
'And am I despised?'
'I must have been so before you could have spoken of me as you did. And I was deceived, cruelly deceived. I believed that you thought well of me; I believed that you esteemed me.'
'Thought of you well and esteemed you!' said he. 'In justifying myself before you, I must use stronger words than those.' He paused for a moment, and Eleanor's heart beat with painful violence within her bosom as she waited for him to go on. 'I have esteemed, do esteem you, as I never esteemed any woman. Think well of you! I never thought to think so well, so much of any human creature. Speak calumny of you! Insult you! Wilfully injure you! I wish it were my privilege to shield you from calumny, insult, and injury. Calumny! Ah, me. 'Twere almost better that it were so. Better than to worship with a sinful worship; sinful and vain also.' And then he walked along beside her, with his hands clasped behind his back, looking down on the grass beneath his feet, and utterly at a loss to express his meaning. And Eleanor walked beside him determined at least to give him no assistance.
'Ah, me!' he uttered at last, speaking rather to himself than to her. 'Ah, me! These Plumstead walks were pleasant enough, if one could have but heart's ease; but without that, the dull dead stones of Oxford were far preferable; and St Ewold's too; Mrs Bold, I am beginning to think that I mistook myself when I came hither. A Romish priest now would have escaped all this. Of, Father of heaven! How good for us would it be, if thou couldest vouchsafe to us a certain rule.'
'And have we not got a certain rule, Mr Arabin?'
'Yes--yes, surely; "Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil." But what is temptation? what is evil? Is this evil--is this temptation?'
Poor Mr Arabin! It would not come out of him, that deep true love of his. He could not bring himself to utter it in plain language that would require and demand an answer. He knew not how to say to the woman at his side, 'Since the fact is that you do not love that other man, that you are not to be his wife, can you love me, will you be my wife?' These were the words which were in his heart, but with all his sighs he could not draw them to his lips. He would have given anything, everything for power to ask this simple question; but glib as was his tongue in pulpits and on platforms, now he could not find a word wherewith to express the plain wish of his heart.
And yet Eleanor understood him as thoroughly as though he had declared his passion with all the elegant fluency of a practised Lothario. With a woman's instinct she followed every bend of his mind, as he spoke of the pleasantness of Plumstead and the stones of Oxford, as he alluded to the safety of the Romish priest and the hidden perils of temptation. She knew that it all meant love. She knew that this man at her side, this accomplished scholar, this practised orator, this great polemical combatant, was striving and striving in vain to tell her that his heart was no longer his own.
She knew this, and felt the joy of knowing it; and yet she would not come to his aid. He had offended her deeply, had treated her unworthily, the more unworthily seeing that he had learnt to love her, and Eleanor could not bring herself to abandon her revenge. She did not ask herself whether or no she would ultimately accept his love. She did not even acknowledge to herself that she now perceived it with pleasure. At the present moment it did not touch her heart; it merely appeased her pride and flattered her vanity. Mr Arabin had dared to associate her name with that of Mr Slope, and now her spirit was soothed by finding that he would fain associate it with his own. And so she walked on beside him inhaling incense, but giving out no sweetness in return.
'Answer me this,' said Mr Arabin, stopping suddenly in his walk, and stepping forward so that he faced his companion. 'Answer me this question. You do not love Mr Slope? You do not intend to be his wife?'
Mr Arabin certainly did not go the right way to win such a woman as Eleanor Bold. Just as her wrath was evaporating, as it was disappearing before the true warmth of his untold love, he re-kindled it by a most useless repetition of his original sin. Had he known what he was about he should never have mentioned Mr Slope's name before Eleanor Bold, till he had made her all his own. Then, and not till then, he might have talked of Mr Slope with as much triumph as he chose.
'I shall answer no such question,' said she; 'and what is more, I must tell you that nothing can justify your asking it. Good morning!'
And so saying she stepped proudly across the lawn, and passing through the drawing-room window joined her father and sister at lunch in the dining-room. Half an hour afterwards she was in the carriage, and so she left Plumstead without again seeing Mr Arabin.
His walk was long and sad among the sombre trees that overshadowed the churchyard. He left the archdeacon's grounds that he might escape attention, and sauntered among the green hillocks under which lay at rest so many of the once loving swains and forgotten beauties of Plumstead. To his ears Eleanor's last words sounded like a knell never to be reversed. He could not comprehend that she might be angry with him, indignant with him, remorseless with him, and yet love him. He could not make up his mind whether or no Mr Slope was in truth a favoured rival. If not, why should she not have answered his question?
Poor Mr Arabin--untaught, illiterate, boorish, ignorant man! That at forty years of age you should know so little of the workings of a woman's heart!
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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31
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THE BISHOP'S LIBRARY
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And thus the pleasant party of Plumstead was broken up. It had been a very pleasant party as long as they had all remained in good humour with one another. Mrs Grantly had felt her house to be gayer and brighter than it had been for many a long day, and the archdeacon had been aware that the month had passed pleasantly without attributing the pleasure to any other special merits than those of his own hospitality. Within three or four days of Eleanor's departure, Mr Harding had also returned, and Mr Arabin had gone to Oxford to spend one week there previous to his settling at the vicarage of St Ewold's. He had gone laden with many messages to Dr Gwynne touching the iniquity of the doings in Barchester palace, and the peril in which it was believed the hospital still stood in spite of the assurances contained in Mr Slope's inauspicious letter.
During Eleanor's drive into Barchester she had not much opportunity of reflecting on Mr Arabin. She had been constrained to divert her mind both from his sins and his love by the necessity of conversing with her sister, and maintaining the appearance of parting with her on good terms.
When the carriage reached her own door, and while she was in the act of giving her last kiss to her sister and nieces, Mary Bold ran out and exclaimed: 'Oh! Eleanor,--have you heard? --oh! Mrs Grantly, have you heard what has happened? The poor dean!'
'Good heavens,' said Mrs Grantly; 'what--what has happened?'
'This morning at nine he had a fit of apoplexy, and he has not spoken since. I very much fear that by this time he is no more.'
Mrs Grantly had been very intimate with the dean, and was therefore much shocked. Eleanor had not known him so well; nevertheless she was sufficiently acquainted with his person and manners to feel startled and grieved also at the tidings she now received. 'I will go at once to the deanery,' said Mrs Grantly, 'the archdeacon, I am sure, will be there. If there is any news to send you I will let Thomas call before he leaves town.' And so the carriage drove off, leaving Eleanor and her baby with Mary Bold.
Mrs Grantly had been quite right. The archdeacon was at the deanery. He had come into Barchester that morning by himself, not caring to intrude himself upon Eleanor, and he also immediately on his arrival had heard of the dean's fit. There was, as we have before said, a library or reading room connecting the cathedral with the dean's home. This was generally called the bishop's library, because a certain bishop of Barchester was supposed to have added it to the cathedral. It was built immediately over a portion of the cloisters, and a flight of stairs descended from it into the room in which the cathedral clergymen put their surplices on and off. As it also opened directly into the dean's house, it was the passage through which that dignitary usually went to his public devotions. Who had or had not the right of entry into it, might be difficult to say; but the people of Barchester believed that it belonged to the dean, and the clergymen of Barchester believed that it belonged to the chapter.
On the morning in question most of the resident clergymen who constituted the chapter, and some few others, were here assembled, and among them as usual the archdeacon towered with high authority. He had heard of the dean's fit before he was over the bridge which led into the town, and had at once come to the well known clerical trysting place. He had been there by eleven o'clock, and had remained ever since. From time to time the medical men who had been called in came through from the deanery into the library, uttered little bulletins, and then returned. There was it appears very little hope of the old man's rallying, indeed no hope of any thing like a final recovery. The only question was whether he must die at once speechless, unconscious, stricken to death by his first heavy fit; or whether by due aid of medical skill he might not be so far brought back to this world as to become conscious of his state, and enabled to address one prayer to his Maker before he was called to meet Him face to face at the judgement seat.
Sir Omicron Pie had been sent for from London. That great man had shown himself a wonderful adept at keeping life still moving within an old man's heart in the case of good old Bishop Grantly, and it might be reasonably expected that he would be equally successful with a dean. In the mean time, Dr Fillgrave and Mr Rerechild were doing their best; and poor Miss Trefoil sat at the head of her father's bed, longing, as in such cases daughters do long, to be allowed to do something to show her love; if it were only to chafe his feet with her hands, or wait in menial offices on those autocratic doctors; anything so that now in the time of need she might be of use.
The archdeacon alone of the attendant clergy had been admitted for a moment into the sick man's chamber. He had crept in with creaking shoes, had said with smothered voice a word of consolation to the sorrowing daughter, had looked on the distorted face of his old friend with solemn but yet eager scrutinising eye, as though he said in his heart, 'and so some day it will probably be with me;' and then, having whispered an unmeaning word or two to the doctors, had creaked his way back again into the library.
'He'll never speak again, I fear,' said the archdeacon as he noiselessly closed the door, as though the unconscious dying man, from whom all sense had fled, would have heard in his distant chamber the spring of the lock which was now so carefully handled.
'Indeed! Indeed! Is he so bad?' said the meagre little prebendary, turning over in his own mind all the probable candidates for the deanery, and wondering whether the archdeacon would think it worth his while to accept it. 'The fit must have been very violent.'
'When a man over seventy has a stroke of apoplexy, it seldom comes very lightly,' said the burly chancellor.
'He was an excellent, sweet-tempered man,' said one of the vicars choral. 'Heaven knows how we shall repair his loss.'
'He was indeed,' said a minor canon; 'and a great blessing to all those privileged to take a share of the services of our cathedral. I suppose the government will appoint, Mr Archdeacon. I trust that we may have no stranger.'
'We will not talk about his successor,' said the archdeacon, 'while there is yet hope.'
'Oh no, of course not,' said the minor canon. 'It would be extraordinarily indecorous; but--' 'I know of no man,' said the meagre little prebendary, 'who has better interest with the present government than Mr Slope.'
'Mr Slope!' said two or three at once almost sotto voce. 'Mr Slope dean of Barchester!'
'Pooh!' exclaimed the burly chancellor.
'The bishop would do anything for him,' said the little prebendary.
'And so would Mrs Proudie,' said the vicar choral.
'Pooh!' said the chancellor.
The archdeacon had almost turned pale at the idea. What if Mr Slope should become dean of Barchester? To be sure there was no adequate ground, indeed no ground at all, for presuming that such a desecration could even be contemplated. But nevertheless it was on the cards. Dr Proudie had interest with the government, and the man carried as it were Dr Proudie in his pocket. How should they all conduct themselves if Mr Slope were to become dean of Barchester? The bare idea for a moment struck even Dr Grantly dumb.
'It would certainly not be very pleasant for us to have Mr Slope in the deanery,' said the little prebendary, chuckling inwardly at the evident consternation which his surmise had created.
'About as pleasant and as probably as having you in the palace,' said the chancellor.
'I should think such an appointment highly improbable,' said the minor canon, 'and, moreover, extremely injudicious. Should not you, Mr Archdeacon?'
'I should presume such a thing to be quite out of the question,' said the archdeacon; 'but at the present moment I am thinking rather of our poor friend who is lying so near us than of Mr Slope.'
'Of course, of course,' said the vicar choral with a very solemn air; 'of course you are. So are we all. Poor Dr Trefoil; the best of men but--' 'It's the most comfortable dean's residence in England,' said a second prebendary. 'Fifteen acres in the grounds. 'It is better than many of the bishops' palaces.'
'And full two thousand a year,' said the meagre doctor.
'It is cut down to L 1200,' said the chancellor.
'No,' said the second prebendary. 'It is to be fifteen. A special case was made.'
'No such thing,' said the chancellor.
'You'll find I'm right,' said the prebendary.
'I'm sure I read it in the report,' said the minor canon.
'Nonsense,' said the chancellor. 'They couldn't do it. There were to be no exceptions but London and Durham.'
'And Canterbury and York,' said the vicar choral, modestly.
'What say you, Grantly?' said the meagre little doctor.
'Say about what?' said the archdeacon, who had been looking as though he were thinking about his friend the dean, but who had in reality been thinking about Mr Slope.
'What is the next dean to have, twelve or fifteen?'
'Twelve,' said the archdeacon authoritatively, thereby putting an end at once to all doubt and dispute among the subordinates as far as that subject was concerned.
'Well I certainly thought it was fifteen,' said the minor canon.
'Pooh!' said the burly chancellor. At this moment the door opened, and in came Dr Fillgrave.
'How is he?' 'Is he conscious?' 'Can he speak?' 'I hope, I trust, something better, doctor?' said half a dozen voices all at once, each in a tone of extremest anxiety. It was pleasant to see how popular the good old dean was among his clergy.
'No change, gentlemen; not the slightest change--but a telegraphic message has arrived,--Sir Omicron Pie will be here by the 9.15pm train. If any man can do anything Sir Omicron will do it. But all that skill can do has been done.'
'We are sure of that, Dr Fillgrave,' said the archdeacon; 'we are quite sure of that. But yet you know--' 'Oh, quite right,' said the doctor, 'quite right--I should have done just the same--I advised it at once. I said to Rerechild at once that with such a life and such a man, Sir Omicron should be summoned--of course I knew that the expense was nothing--so distinguished, you know, and so popular. Nevertheless, all that human skill can do has been done.'
Just at this period Mrs Grantly's carriage drove into the close, and the archdeacon went down to confirm the news which she had heard before.
By the 9.15pm train Sir Omicron Pie did arrive. And in the course of the night a sort of consciousness returned to the poor old dean. Whether this was due to Sir Omicron Pie is a question on which it may be well not to offer an opinion. Dr Fillgrave was very clear in his own mind, but Sir Omicron himself is thought to have differed from that learned doctor.
At any rate, Sir Omicron expressed an opinion that the dean had yet some days to live.
For the eight or ten next days, accordingly, the poor dean remained in the same state, half conscious and half comatose, and the attendant clergy began to think that no new appointment would be necessary for some few months to come.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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32
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A NEW CANDIDATE FOR ECCLESIASTICAL HONOURS
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The dean's illness occasioned much mental turmoil in other places besides the deanery and adjoining library, and the idea which occurred to the meagre little prebendary about Mr Slope did not occur to him alone.
The bishop was sitting listlessly in his study when the news reached him of the dean's illness. It was brought to him by Mr Slope, who of course was not the last person in Barchester to hear it. It was also not slow in finding its way to Mrs Proudie's ears. It may be presumed that there was not just much friendly intercourse between these two rival claimants for his lordship's obedience. Indeed, though living in the same house, they had not met since the stormy interview between them in the bishop's study on the preceding day.
On that occasion, Mrs Proudie had been defeated. That from her standards was a subject of great sorrow to that militant lady; but though defeated, she was not overcome. She felt that she might yet recover her lost ground, that she might yet hurl Mr Slope down to the dust from which she had picked him, and force her sinning lord to sue for pardon in sackcloth and ashes.
On that memorable day, memorable for his mutiny and rebellion against her high behests, he had carried his way with a high hand, and had really begun to think it possible that the days of his slavery were counted. He had begun to hope that he was now about to enter into a free land, a land delicious with milk which he himself might quaff, and honey which would not tantalise him by being only honey to the eye. When Mrs Proudie banged the door, as she left his room, he felt himself every inch a bishop. To be sure his spirit had been a little cowed by his chaplain's subsequent lecture; but on the whole he was highly pleased with himself, and flattered himself that the worst was over. 'Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute', he reflected; and now that his first step had been so magnanimously taken, all the rest would follow easily.
He met his wife as a matter of course at dinner, where little or nothing was said that could ruffle the bishop's happiness. His daughters and the servants were present and protected him.
He made one or two trifling remarks on the subject of his projected visit to the archbishop, in order to show to all concerned that he intended to have his own way; and the very servants perceiving the change transferred a little of their reverence from their mistress to their master. All which the master perceived; and so also did the mistress. But Mrs Proudie bided her time.
After dinner he returned to his study where Mr Slope soon found him, and there they had tea together and planned many things. For some few minutes the bishop was really happy; but as the clock on the chimney piece warned him that the stilly hours of night were drawing on, as he looked at his chamber candlestick and knew that he must use it, his heart sank within him again. He was as a ghost, all whose power of wandering free through these upper regions ceases at cock-crow; or rather he was the opposite of the ghost, for till cock-crow he must again be a serf. And would that be all? Could he trust himself to come down to breakfast a free man in the morning?
He was nearly an hour later than usual, when he betook himself to his rest. Rest! What rest? However, he took a couple of glasses of sherry, and mounted the stairs. Far be it from us to follow him thither. There are some things which no novelist, no historian, should attempt; some few scenes in life's drama which even no poet should dare to paint. Let that which passed between Dr Proudie and his wife on this night be understood to be among them.
He came down the following morning a sad and thoughtful man. He was attenuated in appearance; one might almost say emaciated. I doubt whether his now grizzled looks had not palpably become more grey than on the preceding evening. At any rate he had aged materially. Years do not make a man old gradually and at an even pace. Look through the world and see if this is not so always, except in those rare cases in which the human being lives and dies without joys and without sorrows, like a vegetable. A man shall be possessed of florid youthful blooming health till it matters not what age. Thirty--forty--fifty, then comes some nipping frost, some period of agony, that robs the fibres of the body of their succulence, and the hale and hearty man is counted among the old.
He came down and breakfasted alone; Mrs Proudie being indisposed took her coffee in her bed-room, and her daughters waited upon her there. He ate his breakfast alone, and then, hardly knowing what he did, he betook himself to his usual seat in his study. He tried to solace himself with his coming visit to the archbishop. That effort of his own free will at any rate remained to him as an enduring triumph. But somehow, now that he had achieved it, he did not seem to care so much about it. It was his ambition that had prompted him to take his place at the arch-episcopal table, and his ambition was now quite dead within him.
He was thus seated when Mr Slope made his appearance with breathless impatience.
'My lord, the dean is dead.'
'Good heavens,' exclaimed the bishop, startled out of his apathy by an announcement so sad and so sudden.
'He is either dead or now dying. He has had an apoplectic fit, and I am told that there is not the slightest hope; indeed, I do not doubt that by this time he is no more.'
Bells were rung, and servants were immediately sent to inquire. In the course of the morning, the bishop, leaning on his chaplain's arm, himself called at the deanery door. Mrs Proudie sent to Miss Trefoil all manner of offers of assistance. The Miss Proudies sent also, and there was immense sympathy between the palace and the deanery. The answer to all inquiries was unvaried. The dean was just the same; and Sir Omicron Pie was expected there by the 9.15pm train.
And then Mr Slope began to meditate, as others also had done, as to who might possibly be the new dean; and it occurred to him, as it had also occurred to others, that it might be possible that he should be the new dean himself. And then the question as to the twelve hundred, or fifteen hundred, or two thousand, ran in his mind, as it had run through those of the other clergymen in the cathedral library.
Whether it might be two thousand, of fifteen, or twelve hundred, it would in any case undoubtedly be a great thing for him, if he could get it. The gratification to his ambition would be greater even than that of his covetousness.
How glorious to out-top the archdeacon in his own cathedral city; to sit above prebendaries and canons, and have the cathedral pulpit and all the cathedral services altogether at his own disposal!
But it might be easier to wish for this than to obtain it. Mr Slope, however, was not without some means of forwarding his views, and he at any rate did not let the grass grow under his feet. In the first place he thought--and not vainly--that he could count upon what assistance the bishop could give him. He immediately changed his views with regard to his patron; he made up his mind that if he became dean, he would hand his lordship back to his wife's vassalage; and he thought it possible that his lordship might not be sorry to rid himself of one of his mentors. Mr Slope had also taken some steps towards making his name known to other men in power. There was a certain chief-commissioner of national schools who at the present moment was presumed to stand especially high in the good graces of the government big wigs, and with him Mr Slope had contrived to establish a sort of epistolary intimacy. He thought that he might safely apply to Sir Nicholas Fitzhiggin; and he felt sure that if Sir Nicholas chose to exert himself, the promise of such a piece of preferment would be had for the asking for.
Then he also had the press at his bidding, or flattered himself that he had so. The daily Jupiter had taken his part in a very thorough manner in those polemical contests of his with Mr Arabin; he had on more than one occasion absolutely had an interview with a gentleman on the staff of the paper, who, if not the editor, was as good as the editor; and had long been in the habit of writing telling letters with his initials, and sent to his editorial friend with private notes signed in his own name. Indeed, he and Mr Towers--such was the name of the powerful gentleman of the press with whom he was connected--were generally very amiable with each other. Mr Slope's little productions were always printed and occasionally commented upon; and thus, in a small sort of way, he had become a literary celebrity. This public life had great charms for him, though it certainly also had its drawbacks. On one occasion, when speaking in the presence of reporters, he had failed to uphold and praise and swear by that special line of conduct which had been upheld and praised and sworn by in the Jupiter, and then he had been much surprised and at the moment not a little irritated to find himself lacerated most unmercifully by his old ally. He was quizzed and bespattered and made a fool of, just as though, or rather than if, he had been a constant enemy instead of a constant friend. He had hitherto not learnt that a man who aspires to be on the staff of the Jupiter must surrender all individuality. But ultimately this little castigation had broken no bones between him and his friend Mr Towers. Mr Slope was one of those who understood the world too well to show himself angry with such a potentate as the Jupiter. He had kissed the rod that scourged him, and now thought that he might fairly look for his reward. He determined that he would at once let Mr Towers know that he was a candidate for the place which was about to be become vacant. More than one place of preferment had lately been given away much in accordance with advice tendered to the government in the columns of the Jupiter.
But it was in incumbent on Mr Slope first to secure the bishop. He specially felt that it behoved him to do this before the visit to the archbishop was made. It was really quite providential that the dean should have fallen ill just at the very nick of time. If Dr Proudie could be instigated to take the matter up warmly, he might manage a good deal while staying at the archbishop's palace. Feeling this very strongly Mr Slope determined to sound the bishop out that very afternoon. He was to start on the following morning to London, and therefore not a moment could be lost with safety.
He went into the bishop's study about five o'clock, and found him still sitting alone. It might have been supposed that he had hardly moved since the little excitement occasioned by the walk to the dean's door. He still wore on his face that dull dead look of half unconscious suffering. He was doing nothing, reading nothing, thinking of nothing, but simply gazing on vacancy when Mr Slope for the second time that day entered his room.
'Well, Slope,' said he, somewhat impatiently; for, to tell the truth, he was not anxious just at present to have much conversation with Mr Slope.
'Your lordship will be sorry to hear that as yet the poor dean has shown no signs of amendment.'
'Oh--ah--hasn't he? Poor man! I'm sure I'm very sorry. I suppose Sir Omicron has not arrived yet?'
'No; not till the 9.15pm train.'
'I wonder they didn't have a special. They say Dr Trefoil is very rich.'
'Very rich, I believe,' said Mr Slope. 'But the truth is, all the doctors in London can do no good; no other good than to show that every possible care has been taken. Poor Dr Trefoil is not long for this world, my lord.'
'I suppose not--I suppose not.'
'Oh no; indeed, his best friends could not wish that he should outlive such a shock, for his intellect cannot possibly survive it.'
'Poor man, poor man!' said the bishop.
'It will naturally be a matter of much moment to your lordship who is to succeed him,' said Mr Slope. 'It would be a great thing if you could secure the appointment for some person of your own way of thinking on important points. The party hostile to us are very strong here in Barchester--much too strong.'
'Yes, yes. If poor Dr Trefoil is to go, it will be a great thing to get a good man in his place.'
'It will be everything to your lordship to get a man on whose co-operation you can reckon. Only think what trouble we might have if Dr Grantly, or Dr Hyandry, or any of that way of thinking, were to get it.'
'It is not very probable that Lord--will give it to any of that school; why should he?'
'No. Not probable; certainly not; but it's possible. Great interest will probably be made. If I might venture to advise your lordship, I would suggest that you should discuss the matter with his grace next week. I have no doubt that your wishes, if made known and backed by his grace, would be paramount with Lord--' 'Well, I don't know that; Lord - has always been very kind to me, very kind. But I am unwilling to interfere in such matters unless asked. And indeed, if asked, I don't know whom, at this moment, I should recommend.'
Mr Slope, even Mr Slope, felt at present rather abashed. He hardly knew how to frame his little request in language sufficiently modest. He had recognised and acknowledged, to himself the necessity of shocking the bishop in the first instance by the temerity of his application, and his difficulty was how best to remedy that by his adroitness and eloquence. 'I doubted myself,' said he, 'whether your lordship would have any one immediately in your eye, and it is on this account that I venture to submit to you an idea that I have been turning over in my own mind. If poor Dr Trefoil must go, I really do not see why, with your lordship's assistance, I should not hold the preferment myself.'
'You!' exclaimed the bishop, in a manner that Mr Slope could hardly have considered complimentary.
The ice was now broken, and Mr Slope became fluent enough. 'I have been thinking of looking for it. If your lordship will press the matter on the archbishop, I do not doubt but that I shall succeed. You see I shall count upon assistance from the public press; my name is known, I may say, somewhat favourably known to that portion of the press which is now most influential with the government, and I have friends also in the government. But, it is from your hands that I would most willingly receive the benefit. And, which should ever be the chief consideration in such matters, you must know better than any other person whatsoever what qualifications I possess.'
The bishop sat for a while dumfounded. Mr Slope dean of Barchester! The idea of such a transformation of character would never have occurred to his own unaided intellect. At first he went on thinking why, for what reasons, on what account, Mr Slope should be dean of Barchester. But by degrees the direction of his thoughts changed, and he began to think why, for what reasons, on what account, Mr Slope should not be dean of Barchester. As far as he himself, the bishop, was concerned, he could well spare the services of his chaplain. The little idea of using Mr Slope as a counterpoise to his wife had well nigh evaporated. He had all but acknowledged the futility of the scheme. If indeed he could have slept in his chaplain's bed-room instead of his wife's there might have been something in it. But---. And thus as Mr Slope as speaking, the bishop began to recognise the idea that that gentleman might become dean of Barchester without impropriety; not moved, indeed, by Mr Slope's eloquence, for he did not follow the tenor of his speech; but led thereto by his own cogitation.
'I need not say,' continued Mr Slope, 'that it would be my chief desire to act in all matters connected with cathedral as far as possible in accordance with your views. I know your lordship so well (and I hope you know me well enough to have the same feelings), that I am satisfied that my being in that position would add materially to your own comfort, and enable you to extend the sphere of your useful influence. As I said before, it is not desirable that there should be but one opinion among the dignitaries in the same diocese. I doubt much whether I would accept such an appointment in any diocese in which I should be constrained to differ much from the bishop. In this case there would be a delightful uniformity of opinion.'
Mr Slope perfectly well perceived that the bishop did not follow a word that he said, but nevertheless he went on talking. He knew it was necessary that Dr Proudie should recover from his surprise, and he knew also that he must give him the opportunity of appearing to have been persuaded by argument. So he went on, and produced a multitude of fitting reasons all tending to show that no one on earth could make so good a dean of Barchester as himself, that the government and the public would assuredly coincide in desiring that he, Mr Slope, should be dean of Barchester; but that for high considerations of ecclesiastical polity, it would be especially desirable that this piece of preferment should be so bestowed through the instrumentality of the bishop of the diocese.
'But I really don't know what I could do in the matter,' said the bishop.
'If you would mention it to the archbishop; if you would tell his grace that you consider such an appointment very desirable, that you have it much at heart with a view of putting an end to the schism in the diocese; if you did this with your usual energy, you would probably find no difficulty in inducing his grace to promise that he would mention it to Lord -. Of course you would let the archbishop know that I am not looking for the preferment solely through his intervention; that you do not exactly require him to ask it as a favour; that you expect I shall get it through other sources, as is indeed the case; but that you are very anxious that his grace should express his approval of such an arrangement to Lord--' It ended by the bishop promising to do as he was told. Not that he so promised without a stipulation. 'About that hospital,' he said, in the middle of the conference. 'I was never so troubled in my life;' which was about the truth. 'You haven't spoken to Mr Harding since I saw you?'
Mr Slope assured his patron that he had not.
'Ah well then--I think upon the whole it will be better to let Mr Quiverful have it. It has been half promised to him, and he has a large family and is very poor. I think on the whole it will be better to make out the nomination for Mr Quiverful.'
'But, my lord,' said Mr Slope, still thinking that was bound to make a fight for his own view on this matter, and remembering that it still behoved him to maintain his lately acquired supremacy over Mrs Proudie, lest he should fail in his views regarding the deanery, 'but, my lord, I am really much afraid--' 'Remember, Mr Slope, 'I can hold out not sort of hope to you in this matter of succeeding poor Dr Trefoil. I will certainly speak to the archbishop, as you wish it, but I cannot think--' 'Well, my lord,' said Mr Slope, fully understanding the bishop, and in his turn interrupting him, 'perhaps your lordship is right about Mr Quiverful. I have no doubt I can easily arrange matters with Mr Harding, and I will make out the nomination for your signature as you direct.'
'Yes, Slope, I think that will be best; and you may be sure that any little that I can do to forward your views shall be done.'
And so they parted.
Mr Slope had now much business to handle. He had to make his daily visit to the signora. This common prudence should have now induced him to omit, but he was infatuated; and could not bring himself to be commonly prudent. He determined therefore that he would drink tea at the Stanhope's; and he determined also, or thought that he determined, that having done so he would go thither no more. He had also to arrange his matters with Mrs Bold. He was of the opinion that Eleanor would grace the deanery as perfectly as she would the chaplain's cottage; and he thought, moreover, that Eleanor's fortune would excellently repair and dilapidations and curtailments in the dean's stipend which might have been made by that ruthless ecclesiastical commission.
Touching Mrs Bold his hopes now soared high. Mr Slope was one of the numerous multitude of swains who think that all is fair in love, and he had accordingly not refrained from using the services of Mrs Bold's own maid. From her he had learnt much of what had taken place at Plumstead; not exactly with truth, for the 'own maid' had not been able to divine the exact truth, but with some sort of similitude to it. He had been told that the archdeacon and Mrs Grantly and Mr Harding and Mr Arabin had all quarrelled with 'missus' for having received a letter from Mr Slope; that 'missus' had positively refused to give the letter up; that she had received from the archdeacon the option of giving up either Mr Slope and his letter, or the society of Plumstead rectory; and that 'missus' had declared with much indignation, that 'she didn't care a straw for the society of Plumstead rectory,' and that she wouldn't give up Mr Slope for any of them.
Considering the source from whence this came, it was not quite so untrue as might have been expected. It showed pretty plainly what had been the nature of the conversation in the servants' hall; and coupled as it was with the certainty of Eleanor's sudden return, it appeared to Mr Slope to be so far worthy of credit as to justify him in thinking that the fair widow would in all human probability accept his offer.
All this work had therefore to be done. It was desirable he thought that he should make his offer before it was known that Mr Quiverful was finally appointed to the hospital. In his letter to Eleanor he had plainly declared that Mr Harding was to have the appointment. It would be very difficult to explain this away; and were he to write another letter to Eleanor, telling the truth and throwing the blame on the bishop, it would naturally injure him in her estimation. He determined therefore to let that matter disclose itself as it would, and to lose no time in throwing himself at her feet.
Then he had to solicit the assistance of Sir Nicholas Fitzwhiggin and Mr Towers, and he went directly from the bishop's presence to compose his letters to those gentlemen. As Mr Slope was esteemed as an adept at letter writing, they shall be given in full.
'Palace, Barchester, Sept 185-, '(Private) 'My dear Sir Nicholas,--I hope that the intercourse which has been between us will preclude you from regarding my present application as an intrusion. You cannot I imagine have yet heard that poor dear old Dr Trefoil has been seized with apoplexy. It is a subject of profound grief to every one in Barchester, for he has always been an excellent man--excellent as man and as a clergyman. He is, however, full of years, and his life could not under any circumstances have been much longer spared. You may probably have known him.
'There is, it appears, no probable chance of his recovery. Sir Omicron Pie is, I believe, at present with him. At any rate the medical men here have declared that one or two days more must limit the tether of his mortal coil. I sincerely trust that his soul may wing its flight to that haven where it may for ever be at rest and for ever be happy.
'The bishop has been speaking to me about the preferment, and he is anxious that it should be conferred on me. I confess that I can hardly venture, at my age, to look for such advancement; but I am so far encouraged by his lordship, that I believe I shall be induced to do so. His lordship goes to London tomorrow, and is intent on mentioning the subject to the archbishop.
'I know well how deservedly great is your weight with the present government. In any matter touching church preferment you would of course be listened to. Now that the matter has been put into my head, I am of course anxious to be successful. If you can assist me by your good word, you will confer on me one additional favour.
'I had better add, that Lord - cannot as yet know of this piece of preferment having fallen in, or rather of the certainty of falling (for poor dear Dr Trefoil is past hope). Should Lord - first hear it from you, that might probably bee thought to give you a fair claim to express your opinion.
'Of course our grand object is, that we should all be of one opinion in church matters. This is most desirable at Barchester; it is this that makes our good bishop so anxious about it. You may probably think it expedient to point this out to Lord - if it shall be in your power to oblige me by mentioning the subject to his lordship.
'Believe me, my dear Sir Nicholas, 'Your most faithful servant, OBADIAH SLOPE.'
His letter to Mr Towers was written in quite a different strain. Mr Slope conceived that he completely understood the difference in character and position of the two men whom he addressed. He knew that for such a man as Sir Nicholas Fitzwhiggin a little flummery was necessary, and that it might be of the easy everyday description. Accordingly, his letter to Sir Nicholas was written currente calamo, with very little trouble. But to such a man as Mr Towers it was not so easy to write a letter that should be effective and yet not offensive, that should carry its point without undue interference. It was not difficult to flatter Dr Proudie, or Sir Nicholas Fitzwhiggin, but very difficult to flatter Mr Towers without letting the flattery declare itself. This, however, had to be done. Moreover, this letter must in appearance at least, be written without effort, and be fluent, unconstrained, and demonstrative of no doubt or fear on the part of the writer. Therefor the epistle to Mr Towers was studied, and recopied, and elaborated at the cost of so many minutes, that Mr Slope had hardly time to dress himself and reach Dr Stanhope's that evening.
When dispatched it ran as follows:- 'Barchester, Sept 185- (He purposely omitted any allusion to the 'palace', thinking that Mr Towers might not like it. A great man, he remembered, had been once much condemned for dating a letter from Windsor Castle.) ' (Private) 'My dear Sir,--We were all a good deal shocked here this morning by hearing that poor old Dean Trefoil had been stricken with apoplexy. The fit took him about 9am. I am writing now to save the post, and he is still alive, but past all hope, or possibility, I believe, of living. Sir Omicron Pie is here, or will be very shortly; but all that even Sir Omicron can do, is to ratify the sentence of his less distinguished brethren that nothing can be done. Poor Dr Trefoil's race on this side of the grave is run. I do not know whether you knew him. He was a good, quiet, charitable man, of the old school of course, as any clergyman over seventy years of age must necessarily be.
'But I do not write merely with the object of sending you such news as this: doubtless some one of your Mercuries will have seen and heard and reported so much; I write, as you usually do yourself, rather with a view to the future than to the past.
'Rumour is already rife her as to Dr Trefoil's successor, and among those named as possible future deans your humble servant is, I believe, not the least frequently spoken of; in short, I am looking for the preferment. You may probably know that since Bishop Proudie came to this diocese, I have exerted myself a good deal; and I may certainly say not without some success. He and I are nearly always of the same opinion on points of doctrine as well as church discipline, and therefore I have had, as his confidential chaplain, very much in my own hands; but I confess to you that I have a higher ambition than to remain the chaplain of any bishop.
'There are no positions in which more energy is now needed than in those of our deans. The whole of our enormous cathedral establishments have been allowed to go to sleep,--nay, they are all but dead and ready for the sepulchre! And yet of what prodigious moment they might be made, if, as we intend, they were so managed as to lead the way and show an example for all our parochial clergy!
'The bishop here is most anxious for my success; indeed, he goes to-morrow to press the matter on the archbishop. I believe also I may count on the support of at least one of the most effective member of the government. But I confess the support of the Jupiter, if I be thought worthy of it, would be more gratifying to me than any other; more gratifying if by it I should be successful; and more gratifying also, if, although, so supported, I should be unsuccessful.
'The time has, in fact, come in which no government can venture to fill up the high places of the Church in defiance of the public press. The age of honourable bishops and noble deans has gone by; and any clergyman however humbly born can now hope for success, if his industry, talent, and character, be sufficient to call forth the manifest opinion of the public in his favour.
'At the present moment we all feel that any counsel given in such matters by the Jupiter has the greatest weight,--is, indeed, generally followed; and we feel also--I am speaking of clergymen of my own age and standing--that it should be so. There can be no patron less interested than the Jupiter, and none that more thoroughly understands the wants of the people.
'I am sure you will not suspect me of asking from you any support which the paper with which you are connected cannot conscientiously give me. My object in writing is to let you know that I am a candidate for the appointment. It is for you to judge whether or no you can assist my views. I should not, of course, have written to you on such a matter had I not believed (and I have had good reason so to believe) that the Jupiter approves of my views on ecclesiastical polity.
'The bishop expresses a fear that I may be considered too young for such a station, my age being thirty-six. I cannot think that at the present day any hesitation need be felt on such a point. The public has lost its love for antiquated servants. If a man will ever be fit to do good work he will be fit at thirty-six years of age.
'Believe me very faithfully yours, OBADIAH SLOPE 'T. TOWERS, Esq., 'Middle Temple.'
Having thus exerted himself, Mr Slope posted his letters, and passed the remainder of the evening at the feet of his mistress.
Mr Slope will be accused of deceit in his mode of canvassing. It will be said that he lied in the application he made to each of his three patrons. I believe it must be owned that he did so. He could not hesitate on account of his youth, and yet, be quite assured that he was not too young. He could not count chiefly on the bishop's support, and chiefly also on that of the newspaper. He did not think that the bishop was going to press the matter on the archbishop. It must be owned that in his canvassing Mr Slope was as false as he well could be.
Let it, however, be asked of those who are conversant with such matters, whether he was more false than men usually are on such occasions. We English gentlemen hate the name of a lie; but how often do we find public men who believe each other's words?
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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33
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MRS PROUDIE VICTRIX
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The next week passed over at Barchester with much apparent tranquillity. The hearts, however, of some of the inhabitants were not so tranquil as the streets of the city. The poor old dean still continued to live, just as Sir Omicron had prophesied that he would do, much to amazement, and some thought, disgust, of Dr Fillgrave. The bishop still remained away. He had stayed a day or two in town, and had also remained longer at the archbishop's than he had intended. Mr Slope had as yet received no line in answer to either of his letters; but he had learnt the cause of this. Sir Nicholas was stalking a deer, or attending the Queen, in the Highlands; and even the indefatigable Mr Towers had stolen an autumn holiday, and had made one of the yearly tribe who now ascend Mont Blanc. Mr Slope learnt that he was not expected back till the last day of September.
Mrs Bold was thrown much with the Stanhopes, of whom she became fonder and fonder. If asked, she would have said that Charlotte Stanhope was her special friend, and so she would have thought. But, to tell the truth, she liked Bertie nearly as well; she had no more idea of regarding him as a lover than she would have had of looking at a big tame dog in such a light. Bertie had become very intimate with her, and made little speeches to her, and said little things of sort very different from the speeches and sayings of other men. But then this was almost always done before his sisters; and he, with his long silken beard, his light blue eyes and strange dress, was so unlike other men. She admitted him to a kind of familiarity which she had never known with any one else, and of which she by no means understood the danger. She blushed once at finding that she had called him Bertie, and on the same day only barely remembered her position in time to check herself from playing upon him some personal practical joke to which she was instigated by Charlotte.
In all this Eleanor was perfectly innocent, and Bertie Stanhope could hardly be called guilty. But every familiarity into which Eleanor was entrapped was deliberately planned by his sister. She knew well how to play her game, and played it without mercy; she knew, none so well, what was her brother's character, and she would have handed over to him the young widow, and the young widow's money, and the money of the widow's child, without remorse. With her pretended friendship and warm cordiality, she strove to connect Eleanor so closely with her brother as to make it impossible that she should go back even if she wished it. But Charlotte Stanhope knew really nothing of Eleanor's character; did not even understand that there were such characters. She did not comprehend that a young and pretty woman could be playful and familiar with a man such as Bertie Stanhope, and yet have no idea in her head, no feeling in her heart that she would have been ashamed to own to all the world. Charlotte Stanhope did not in the least conceive that her new friend was a woman whom nothing could entrap into an inconsiderate marriage, whose mind would have revolted from the slightest impropriety had she been aware that any impropriety existed.
Miss Stanhope, however, had tact enough to make herself and her father's house very agreeable to Mrs Bold. There was with them all an absence of stiffness and formality which was peculiarly agreeable to Eleanor after the great dose of clerical arrogance which she had lately been constrained to take. She played chess with them, walked with them, and drank tea with them; studied or pretended to study astronomy; assisted them in writing stories in rhyme, in turning prose tragedy into comic verse, or comic stories into would-be tragic poetry. She had no idea before that she had any such talents. She had not conceived the possibility of her doing such things as she now did. She found with the Stanshopes new amusements and employments, new pursuits, which in themselves could not be wrong, and which were exceedingly alluring.
Is it not a pity that people who are bright and clever should so often be exceedingly improper? And that those who are never improper should so often be dull and heavy? Now Charlotte Stanhope was always bright, and never heavy: but her propriety was doubtful.
But during all this time Eleanor by no means forgot Mr Arabin, nor did she forget Mr Slope. She had parted from Mr Arabin in her anger. She was still angry at what she regarded as his impertinent interference; but nevertheless she looked forward to meeting him again; and also looked forward to forgiving him. The words that Mr Arabin had uttered still sounded in her ears. She knew that if not intended for a declaration of love, they did signify that he loved her; and she felt also that if he ever did make such a declaration, it might be that she should not receive it unkindly. She was still angry with him, very angry with him; so angry that she would bit her lip and stamp her foot as she thought of what he had said and done. But nevertheless she yearned to let him know that he was forgiven; all that she required was that he should own that he had sinned.
She was to meet him at Ullathorne on the last day of the present month. Miss Thorne had invited all the country round to a breakfast on the lawn. There were to be tents and archery, and dancing for the ladies on the lawn, and for the swains and girls in the paddock. There were to be fiddlers and fifers, races for the boys, poles to be climbed, ditches full of water to be jumped over, horse-collars to be grinned through (this latter amusement was an addition of the stewards, and not arranged by Miss Thorne in the original programme), and every game to be played which, in a long course of reading, Miss Thorne could ascertain to have been played in the good days of Queen Elizabeth. Everything of more modern growth was to be tabooed, if possible. On one subject Miss Thorne was very unhappy. She had been turning in her mind the matter of the bull-ring, but could not succeed in making anything of it. She would not for the world have done, or allowed to be done, anything that was cruel; as to the promoting the torture of a bull for the amusement of her young neighbours, it need hardly be said that Miss Thorne would be the last to think of it. And yet, there was something so charming in the name. A bull-ring, however, without a bull would only be a memento of the decadence of the times, and she felt herself constrained to abandon the idea. Quintains, however, she was determined to have, and had poles and swivels and bags of flour prepared accordingly. She would no doubt have been anxious for something small in the way of a tournament; but, as she said to her brother, that had been tried, and the age had proved itself too decidedly inferior to its fore-runners to admit of such a pastime. Mr Thorne did not seem to participate in her regret, feeling perhaps that a full suit of chain-armour would have added but little to his own personal comfort.
This party at Ullathorne had been planned in the first place as a sort of welcoming to Mr Arabin on his entrance into St Ewold's parsonage; an intended harvest-home gala for the labourers and their wives and children had subsequently been amalgamated with it, and thus it had grown into its present dimensions. All the Plumstead party had of course been asked, at the time of the invitation Eleanor had intended to have gone with her sister. Now her plans were altered, and she was going with the Stanhopes. The Proudies were also to be there; and as Mr Slope had not been included in the invitation to the palace, the signora, whose impudence never deserted her, asked permission of Miss Thorne to bring him.
This permission Miss Thorne gave, having no other alternative; but she did so with a trembling heart, fearing Mr Arabin would be offended. Immediately on his return she apologised, almost with tears, so dire an enmity was presumed to rage between the two gentlemen. But Mr Arabin comforted by an assurance that he should meet Mr Slope with the greatest pleasure imaginable, and made her promise that she would introduce them to each other.
But this triumph of Mr Slope's was not so agreeable to Eleanor, who since her return to Barchester had done her best to avoid him. She would not give way to the Plumstead folk when they so ungenerously accused her of being in love with this odious man; but, nevertheless, knowing that she was so accused, she was fully alive to the expediency of keeping out of his way and dropping him by degrees. She had seen very little of him since her return. Her servants had been instructed to say to all visitors that she was out. She could not bring herself to specify Mr Slope particularly, and in order to order to avoid him she had thus debarred herself from all her friends. She had excepted Charlotte Stanhope, and, by degrees, a few others also. Once she had met him at the Stanhope's; but, as a rule, Mr Slope's visits there had been made in the morning, and hers in the evening. On that one occasion Charlotte had managed to preserve her from any annoyance. This was very good-natured on the part of Charlotte, as Eleanor thought, and also very sharp-witted, as Eleanor had told her friend nothing of her reasons for wishing to avoid that gentleman. The fact, however, was, that Charlotte had learnt from her sister that Mr Slope would probably put himself forward as a suitor for the widow's hand, and she was consequently sufficiently alive to the expediency of guarding Bertie's future wife from any danger in that quarter.
Nevertheless the Stanhopes were pledged to take Mr Slope with them to Ullathorne. An arrangement was therefore necessarily made, which was very disagreeable to Eleanor. Dr Stanhope, with herself, Charlotte, and Mr Slope, were to go together, and Bertie was to follow with his sister Madeline. It was clearly visible to Eleanor's face that this assortment was very disagreeable to her; and Charlotte, who was much encouraged thereby in her own little plan, made a thousand apologies.
'I see you don't like it, dear,' said she, 'but we could not manage it otherwise. Bertie would give his eyes to go with you, but Madeline cannot possibly go without him. Nor could we possibly put Mr Slope and Madeline in the same carriage without anyone else. They'd both be ruined for ever, you know, and not admitted inside Ullathorne gates, I should imagine, after such an impropriety.'
'Of course that wouldn't do,' said Eleanor; 'but couldn't I go in the carriage with the signora and your brother?'
'Impossible!' said Charlotte. 'When she is there, there is only room for two.' The signora, in truth, did not care to do her travelling in the presence of strangers.
'Well, then,' said Eleanor, 'you are all so kind, Charlotte, and so good to me, that I am sure you won't be offended; but I think I shall not go at all.'
'Not go at all! --what nonsense! --indeed you shall.' it had been absolutely determined in family council that Bertie should propose on that very occasion.
'Or I can take a fly,' said Eleanor. 'You know that I am not embarrassed by so many difficulties as you young ladies. I can go alone.'
'Nonsense, my dear. Don't think of such a thing; after all it is only for an hour or so, and to tell the truth, I don't know what it is you dislike so. I thought you and Mr Slope were great friends. What is it you dislike?'
'Oh; nothing particular,' said Eleanor; 'only I thought it would be a family party.'
'Of course it would be much nicer, much more snug, if Bertie would go with us. It is he that is badly treated. I can assure you he is much more afraid of Mr Slope than you are. But you see Madeline cannot go without him,--and she, poor creature, goes out so seldom! I am sure you don't begrudge her this, though her vagary does knock about our own party a little.'
Of course Eleanor made a thousand protestations, a uttered a thousand hopes that Madeline would enjoy herself. And of course she had to give way, and undertake to go in the carriage with Mr Slope. In fact, she was driven either to so this, or to explain why she would not do so. Now she could not bring herself to explain to Charlotte Stanhope all that had passed at Plumstead.
But it was to her a sore necessity. She thought of a thousand little schemes for avoiding it; she would plead illness, and not go at all; she would persuade Mary Bold to go although not asked, and then make a necessity of having a carriage of her own to take her sister-in-law; anything, in fact, she could do rather than be seen in the same carriage with Mr Slope. However, when the momentous morning came she had no scheme matured, and then Mr Slope handed her into Dr Stanhope's carriage, and following her steps, sat opposite to her.
The bishop returned on the eve of the Ullathorne party, and was received at home with radiant smiles by the partner of all his cares. On his arrival he crept up to his dressing-room with somewhat of a palpitating heart; he had overstayed his allotted time by three days, and was not without fear of penalties. Nothing, however, could be more affectionately cordial than the greeting he received; the girls came out and kissed him in a manner that was quite soothing to his spirit; and Mrs Proudie, arms, and almost in words called him her dear, darling, good, pet, little bishop. All this was a very pleasant surprise.
Mrs Proudie had somewhat changed her tactics; not that she had seen any cause to disapprove of her former line of conduct, but she had now brought matters to such a point that she calculated that she might safely do so. She had got the better of Mr Slope, and she now thought well to show her husband that when allowed to get the better of everybody, when obeyed by him and permitted to rule over others, she would take care that he should have his reward. Mr Slope had not a chance against her; not only could she stun the poor bishop by her midnight anger, but she could assuage and soothe him, if she so willed by daily indulgences. She could furnish his room for him, turn him out as smart a bishop as any on the bench, give him good dinners, warm fires, and an easy life; all this she would do if he would but be quietly obedient. But if not--! To speak sooth, however, his sufferings on that dreadful night had been as poignant, as to leave him little spirit for further rebellion.
As soon as he had dressed himself she returned to his room. 'I hope you enjoyed yourself at--' said she, seating herself on one side of the fire while he remained in his arm-chair on the other, stroking the calves of his legs. It was the first time he had had a fire in his room since the summer, and it pleased him; for the good bishop loved to be warm and cosy. Nothing could be more polite than the archbishop; and Mrs Archbishop had been equally charming.
Mrs Proudie was delighted to hear it; nothing, she declared, pleased her so much as to think Her bairn respectit like the lave.
She did not put it precisely in these words, but what she said came to the same thing; and then, having petted and fondled her little man sufficiently, she proceeded to business.
'The poor dean is still alive,' said she.
'So I hear, so I hear,' said the bishop. 'I'll go to the deanery directly after breakfast to-morrow.'
'We are going to this party at Ullathorne to-morrow morning, my dear; we must be there early, you know,--by twelve o'clock I suppose.'
'Oh,--ah!' said the bishop; 'then I'll certainly call the next day.
'Was much said about it at--?' asked Mrs Proudie.
'About what?' said the bishop.
'Filling up the dean's place,' said Mrs Proudie. As she spoke a spark of the wonted fire returned to her eye, and the bishop felt himself to be a little less comfortable than before.
'Filling up the dean's place; that is, if the dean dies? --very little, my dear. It was mentioned, just mentioned.'
'And what did you say about it, bishop?'
'Why I said that I thought that if, that is, should--should the dean die, that is, I said I thought--' As he went on stammering and floundering, he saw that his wife's eye was fixed sternly on him. Why should he encounter such evil for a man whom he loved so slightly as Mr Slope? Why should he give up his enjoyments and his ease, and such dignity as might be allowed to him, to fight a losing battle for a chaplain? The chaplain after all, if successful, would be as great a tyrant as his wife. Why fight at all? Why contend? Why be uneasy? From that moment he determined to fling Mr Slope to the winds, and take the goods the gods provided.
'I am told,' said Mrs Proudie, speaking very slowly, 'that Mr Slope is looking to be the new dean.'
'Yes,--certainly, I believe he is,' said the bishop.
'And what does the archbishop say about that?' asked Mrs Proudie.
'Well, my dear, to tell the truth, I promised Mr Slope to speak to the archbishop. Mr Slope spoke to me about it. It was very arrogant of him, I must say,--but that is nothing to me.'
'Arrogant!' said Mrs Proudie; 'it is the most impudent piece of pretension I ever heard in my life. Mr Slope dean of Barchester, indeed! And what did you do in the matter, bishop?'
'Why, my dear, I did speak to the archbishop.'
'You don't mean to tell me,' said Mrs Proudie, 'that you are going to make yourself ridiculous by lending your name to such preposterous attempts as this? Mr Slope dean of Barchester indeed!' And she tossed her head, and put her arms a-kimbo, with an air of confident defiance that made her husband quite sure that Mr Slope never would be Dean of Barchester. In truth, Mrs Proudie was all but invincible; had she married Petruchio, it may be doubted whether that arch wife-tamer would have been able to keep her legs out of those garments which are presumed by men to be peculiarly unfitted for feminine use.
'It is preposterous, my dear.'
'Then why have you endeavoured to assist him?'
'Why,--my dear, I haven't assisted him--much.'
'But why have you done it at all? Why have you mixed your name up in any thing so ridiculous? What was it you did say to the archbishop?'
'Why, I did just mention it; I just did say that--that in the event of the poor dean's death, Mr Slope would--would--' 'Would what?'
'I forget how I put it,--would take it if he could get it; something of that sort. I didn't say much more than that.'
'You shouldn't have said anything at all. And what did the archbishop say?'
'He didn't say anything; he just bowed and rubbed his hands. Somebody else came up at the moment, and as we were discussing the new parochial universal school committee, the matter of the new dean dropped; after that I didn't think it was wise to renew it.'
'Renew it! I am very sorry you ever mentioned it. What will the archbishop think of that?'
'You may be sure, my dear, that the archbishop thought very little about it.'
'But why did you think about it, bishop? How could you think of making such a creature as that Dean of Barchester? --Dean of Barchester! I suppose he'll be looking for bishoprics some of these days--a man that hardly knows who his father was; a man that I found without bread to his mouth, or a coat to his back. Dean of Barchester indeed! I'll dean him.'
Mrs Proudie considered herself to be in politics a pure Whig; all her family belonged to the Whig party. Now among all ranks of Englishmen and Englishwomen (Mrs Proudie should, I think, be ranked among the former, on the score of her great strength of mind), no one is so hostile to lowly born pretenders to high station as the pure Whig.
The bishop thought it necessary to exculpate himself. 'Why, my dear,' said he, 'it appeared to me that you and Mr Slope did not get on quite as well as you used to do.'
'Get on!' said Mrs Proudie, moving her foot uneasily on the hearth-rug, and compressing her lips in a manner that betokened such danger to the subject of their discourse.
'I began to find that he was objectionable to you,'--Mrs Proudie's foot worked on the hearth-rug with great rapidity,--'and that you would be more comfortable if he was out of the palace,' Mrs Proudie smiled, as a hyena may probably smile before he begins his laugh,--'and therefore I thought that if he got this place, and so ceased to be my chaplain, you might be pleased at such an arrangement.'
And then the hyena laughed loud. Pleased at such an arrangement! pleased at having her enemy converted into a dean with twelve hundred a year! Medea, when she describes the customs of her native country (I am quoting from Robson's edition), assures her astonished auditor that in her land captives, when taken, are eaten. 'You pardon them!' says Medea. 'We do indeed,' says the mild Grecian. 'We eat them!' says she of Colchis, with terrible energy. Mrs Proudie was the Medea of Barchester; she had no idea of not eating Mr Slope. Pardon him! merely get rid of him! make a dean of him! It was not so they did with their captives in her country, among people of her sort! Mr Slope had no such mercy to expect; she would pick him to the very last bone.
'Oh, yes, my dear, of course he'll cease to be your chaplain,' said she. 'After what has passed, that must be a matter of course. I couldn't for a moment think of living in the same house with such a man. Besides, he has shown himself quite unfit for such a situation; making broils and quarrels among the clergy, getting you, my dear, into scrapes, and taking upon himself as though he was as good as bishop himself. Of course he'll go. But because he leaves the palace, that is no reason why he should get into the deanery.'
'Oh, of course not!' said the bishop; 'but to save appearances you know, my dear--' 'I don't want to save appearances; I want Mr Slope to appear just what he is--a false, designing, mean, intriguing man. I have my eye on him; he little knows what I see. He is misconducting himself in the most disgraceful way with that lame Italian woman. That family is a disgrace to Barchester, and Mr Slope is a disgrace to Barchester! If he doesn't look well to it, he'll have his gown stripped off his back instead of having a dean's hat on his head. Dean, indeed! The man has gone mad with arrogance.
The bishop said nothing further to excuse either himself or his chaplain, and having shown himself passive and docile was again taken into favour. They soon went to dinner, and he spent the pleasantest evening he had had in his own house for a long time. His daughter played and sang to him as he sipped his coffee and read his newspaper, and Mrs Proudie asked good-natured little questions about the archbishop; and then he went happily to bed, and slept as quietly as though Mrs Proudie had been Griselda herself. While shaving himself in the morning and preparing for the festivities of Ullathorne, he fully resolved to run no more tilts against a warrior so fully armed at all points as was Mrs Proudie.
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{
"id": "2432"
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34
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OXFORD--THE MASTER AND TUTOR OF LAZARUS
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Mr Arabin, as we have said, had but a sad walk of it under the trees of Plumstead churchyard. He did not appear to any of the family till dinner time, and then he assumed, as far as their judgment went, to be quite himself. He had, as was his wont, asked himself a great many questions, and given himself a great many answers; and the upshot of this was that he had set himself down for an ass. He had determined that he was much too old and much to rusty to commence the manouvres of lovemaking; that he had let the time slip through his hands which should have been used for such purposes; and that now he must lie on his bed as he had made it. Then he asked himself whether in truth he did love this woman; and he answered himself, not without a long struggle, but at last honestly, that he certainly did love her. He then asked himself whether he did not also love her money; and he again answered himself that he did so. But here he did not answer honestly. It was and ever had been his weakness to look for impure motives for his own conduct. No doubt, circumstanced as he was, with a small living and a fellowship, accustomed as he had been to collegiate luxuries and expensive comforts, he might have hesitated to marry a penniless woman had he felt ever so strong a predilection for the woman herself; no doubt Eleanor's fortune put all such difficulties out of the question; but it was equally without doubt that his love for her had crept upon him without the slightest idea on his part that he could ever benefit his own condition by sharing her wealth.
When he had stood on the hearth-rug, counting the pattern, and counting also the future chances of his own life, the remembrances of Mrs Bold's comfortable income had not certainly damped his first assured feeling of love for her. And why should it have done so? Need it have done so with the purest of men? Be that as it may, Mr Arabin decided against himself; he decided that it had done so in his case, and that he was not the purest of men.
He also decided, which was more to his purpose, that Eleanor did not care a straw for him, and that very probably did not care a straw for his rival. Then he made up his mind not to think of her any more, and went on thinking of her till he was almost in a state to drown himself in the little brook which was at the bottom of the archdeacon's grounds.
And ever and again his mind would revert to the Signora Neroni, and he would make comparisons between her and Eleanor Bold, not always in favour of the latter. The signora had listened to him, and flattered him, and believed in him; at least she had told him so. Mrs Bold had also listened to him, but had never flattered him; had not always believed in him: and now had broken from him in violent rage. The signora, too, was the more lovely woman of the two, and had also the additional attraction of her affliction; for to him it was an attraction.
But he never could have loved the Signora Neroni as he felt that he now loved Eleanor! and so he flung stones into the brook, instead of flinging in himself, and sat down on its margin as sad a gentleman as you shall meet in a summer's day.
He heard the dinner-bell ring from the churchyard, and he knew that it was time to recover his self possession. He felt that he was disgracing himself in his own eyes, that he had been idling his time and neglecting the high duties which he had taken upon himself to perform. He should have spent the afternoon among the poor at St Ewold's, instead of wandering about Plumstead, an ancient love-lorn swain, dejected and sighing, full of imaginary sorrows and Wertherian grief. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself, and determined to lose no time in retrieving his character, so damaged in his own eyes. Thus when he appeared at dinner he was as animated as ever, and was the author of most of the conversation which graced the archdeacon's board on that evening. Mr Harding was ill at ease and sick at heart, and did not care to appear more comfortable than he really was; what little he did say was said to his daughter. He thought the archdeacon and Mr Arabin had leagued together against Eleanor's comfort; and his wish now was to break away from the pair, and undergo in his Barchester lodgings whatever Fate had in store for him. He hated the name of the hospital; his attempt to regain his lost inheritance there had brought upon him so much suffering. As far as he was concerned, Mr Quiverful was now welcome to the place.
And the archdeacon was not very lively. The poor dean's illness was of course discussed in the first place. Dr Grantly did not mention Mr Slope's name in connexion with the expected event of Dr Trefoil's death; he did not wish to say anything about Mr Slope just at present, nor did he wish to make known his own sad surmises; but the idea that his enemy might possibly become Dean of Barchester made him very gloomy. Should such an even take place, such a dire catastrophe come about, there would be an end to his life as far as his life was connected with the city of Barchester. He must give up all his old haunts, all his old habits, and live quietly as a retired rector at Plumstead. It had been a severe trial for him to have Dr Proudie in the palace; but with Mr Slope also in the deanery, he felt that he should be unable to draw his breath in Barchester close.
Thus it came to pass that in spite of the sorrow at his heart, Mr Arabin was apparently the gayest of the party. Both Mr Harding and Mrs Grantly were in a slight degree angry with him on account of his want of gloom. To the one it appeared as though he were triumphing at Eleanor's banishment, and to the other that he was not affected as he should have been by all the sad circumstances of the day, Eleanor's obstinacy, Mr Slope's success, and the poor dean's apoplexy. And so they were all at cross purposes.
Mr Harding left the room almost together with the ladies, and the archdeacon opened his heart to Mr Arabin. He still harped upon the hospital. 'What did that fellow mean,' said he, 'by saying in his letter to Mrs Bold, that if Mr Harding would call on the bishop it would be all right? Of course I would not be guided by anything he might say; but still it may be well that Mr Harding should see the bishop. It would be foolish to let the thing slip through our fingers because Mrs Bold is determined to make a fool of herself.'
Mr Arabin hinted that he was not quite so sure that Mrs Bold would make a fool of herself. He said that he was not convinced that she did regard Mr Slope so warmly as she was supposed to do. The archdeacon questioned and cross-questioned him about this, but elicited nothing; and at least remained firm in his own conviction that he was destined, malgre lui, to be the brother-in-law of Mr Slope. Mr Arabin strongly advised that Mr Harding should take no step regarding the hospital in connexion with, or in consequence of, Mr Slope's letter. 'If the bishop really means to confer the appointment on Mr Harding,' argued Mr Arabin, 'he will take care to let him have some other intimation than a message conveyed through a letter to a lady. Were Mr Harding to present himself at the palace he might merely be playing Mr Slope's game;' and thus it was settled that nothing should be done till the great Dr Gwynne's arrival, or at any rate without that potentate's sanction.
It was droll how these men talked of Mr Harding as though he were a puppet, and planned their intrigues and small ecclesiastical manouvres without dreaming of taking him into their confidence. There was a comfortable house and income in question, and it was very desirable, and certainly very just, that Mr Harding should have them; but that, at present, was not the main point; it was expedient to beat the bishop, and if possible to smash Mr Slope. Mr Slope had set up, or was supposed to have set up, a rival candidate. Of all things the most desirable would have been to have had Mr Quiverful's appointment published to the public, and then annulled by the clamour of an indignant world, loud in the defence of Mr Harding's rights. But of such an event the chance was small; a slight fraction only of the world would be indignant, and that fraction would be one not accustomed to loud speaking. And then the preferment had in a sort of way been offered to Mr Harding, and had in a sort of way been refused by him.
Mr Slope's wicked, cunning hand had been peculiarly conspicuous in the way in which this had been brought to pass, and it was the success of Mr Slope's cunning which was so painfully grating the feelings of the archdeacon. That which of all things he most dreaded was that he should be out-generalled by Mr Slope: and just at present it appeared probable that Mr Slope would turn his flank, steal a march on him, cut off his provisions, carry his strong town by a coup de main, and at last beat him thoroughly in a regular pitched battle. The archdeacon felt that his flank had been turned when desired to wait on Mr Slope instead of the bishop, that a march had been stolen when Mr Harding was induced to refuse the bishop's offer, that his provisions would be cut off when Mr Quiverful got the hospital, that Eleanor was the strong town doomed to be taken, and that Mr Slope, as Dean of Barchester, would be regarded by all the world as the conqueror in that final conflict.
Dr Gwyinne was the Deus ex machina who was to come down upon the Barchester stage, and bring about deliverance from these terrible evils. But how can melodramatic denouments be properly brought about, how can vice and Mr Slope be punished, and virtue and the archdeacon be rewarded, while the avenging god is laid up with the gout? In the mean time evil may be triumphant, and poor innocence, transfixed to the earth by an arrow from Dr Proudie's quiver, may be dead upon the ground, not to be resuscitated even by Dr Gwynne.
Two or three days after Eleanor's departure, Mr Arabin went to Oxford, and soon found himself closeted with the august head of his college. It was quite clear that Dr Gwynne was not very sanguine as to the effects of his journey to Barchester, and not over anxious to interfere with the bishop. He had had the gout but was very nearly convalescent, and Mr Arabin at once saw that had the mission been one of which the master thoroughly approved, he would before this have been at Plumstead.
As it was, Dr Gwynne was resolved to visiting his friend, and willingly promised to return to Barchester with Mr Arabin. He could not bring himself to believe that there was any probability that Mr Slope would be made Dean of Barchester. Rumour, he said, had reached even his ears not at all favourable to that gentleman's character, and he expressed himself strongly of the opinion that any such appointment was quite out of the question. At this stage of the proceedings, the master's right-hand man, Tom Staple, was called in to assist at the conference. Tom Staple was the Tutor of Lazarus, and moreover a great man at Oxford. Though universally known by a species of nomenclature as very undignified. Tom Staple was one who maintained a high dignity in the University. He was, as it were, the leader of the Oxford tutors, a body of men who consider themselves collectively as being by very little, if at all, second in importance to the heads themselves. It is not always the case that the master, or warden, or provost, or principal can hit it off exactly with his tutor. A tutor is by no means indisposed to have a will of his own. But at Lazarus they were great friends and firm allies at the time of which we are writing.
Tom Staple was a hale strong man of about forty-five; short in stature, swarthy in face, with strong sturdy black hair, and crisp black beard, of which very little was allowed to show itself in the shape of whiskers. He always wore a white neckcloth, clean indeed, but not tied with that scrupulous care which now distinguishes some of our younger clergy. He was, of course, always clothed in a seemly suit of solemn black. Mr Staple was a decent cleanly liver, not over addicted to any sensuality; but nevertheless a somewhat warmish hue was beginning to adorn his nose, the peculiar effect, as his friends averred, of a certain pipe of port introduced into the cellars of Lazarus the very same year in which the tutor entered in as a freshman. There was also, perhaps with a little redolence of port wine, as it were the slightest possible twang, in Mr Staple's voice.
In these days Tom Staple was not a very happy man; University reform had long been his bugbear, and now was his bane. It was not with him as with most others, an affair of politics, respecting which, when the need existed, he could, for parties' sake or on behalf of principle, maintain a certain amount of necessary zeal; it was not with him a subject for dilettante warfare, and courteous common-place opposition. To him it was life and death. He would willingly have been a martyr in the cause, had the cause admitted of martyrdom.
At the present day, unfortunately, public affairs will allow of no martyrs, and therefore it is that there is such a deficiency of zeal. Could gentlemen of L 10,000 a year have died on their own door-steps in defence of protection, no doubt some half-dozen glorious old baronets would have so fallen, and the school of protection would at this day have been crowded with scholars. Who can fight strenuously in any combat in which there is no danger? Tom Staple would have willingly been impaled before a Committee of the House, could he by such self-sacrifice have infused his own spirit into the component members of the hebdomadal board.
Tom Staple was one of those who in his heart approved of the credit system which had of old been in vogue between the students and tradesmen of the University. He knew and acknowledged to himself that it was useless in these degenerate days publicly to contend with the Jupiter on such a subject. The Jupiter had undertaken to rule the University, and Tom Staple was well aware that the Jupiter was too powerful for him. But in secret, and among his safe companions, he would argue that the system of credit was an ordeal good for young men to undergo.
The bad men, said he, and the weak and worthless, blunder into danger and burn their feet; but the good men, they who have any character, they who have that within them which can reflect credit in their Alma Mater, they come through scatheless. What merit will there be to a young man to get through safely, if he guarded and protected and restrained like a school-boy? By so doing, the period of the ordeal is only postponed, and the manhood of the man will be deferred from the age of twenty to that of twenty-four. If you bind him with leading-strings at college, he will break loose while eating for the bar in London; bind him there, and he will break loose afterwards, when he is a married man. The wild oats must be sown somewhere. 'Twas thus that Tom Staple would argue of young men; not, indeed, with much consistency, but still with some practical knowledge of the subject gathered from long experience.
And now Tom Staple proffered such wisdom as he had for the assistance of Dr Gwynne and Mr Arabin.
'Quite out of the question,' said he, arguing that Mr Slope could not possibly be made the new Dean of Barchester.
'So I think,' said the master. 'He has no standing, and, if all I hear be true, very little character.'
'As to character,' said Tom Staple, 'I don't think much of that. They rather like loose parsons for deans; a little fast living, or a dash of infidelity, is no bad recommendation to a cathedral close. But they couldn't make Mr Slope; the last two deans have been Cambridge men; you'll not show me an instance of their making three men running from the same University. We don't get out share, and never shall, I suppose; but we must at least have one out of the three.'
'These sort of rules are all gone out by now,' said Mr Arabin.
'Everything has gone by, I believe,' said Tom Staple. 'The cigar has been smoked out, and we are the ashes.'
'Speak for yourself, Staple,' said the master.
'I speak for all,' said the tutor stoutly. 'It is coming to that, that there will be no life left anywhere in the country. No one is any longer fit to rule himself, or those belonging to him. The Government is to find us all in everything, and the press is to find the Government. Nevertheless, Mr Slope won't be Dean of Barchester.'
'And who will be the warden of the hospital?' said Mr Arabin.
'I hear that Mr Quiverful is already appointed,' said Tom Staple.
'I think not,' said the master. 'And I think, moreover, that Dr Proudie will not be so short-sighted as to run against such a rock; Mr Slope should himself have sense enough to prevent it.'
'But perhaps Mr Slope may have no objection to see his patron on a rock,' said the suspicious tutor.
'What could he get by that?' asked Mr Arabin.
'It is impossible to see the doubles of such a man,' said Mr Staple. 'It seems quite clear that Bishop Proudie is altogether in his hands, and it is equally clear that he has been moving heaven and earth to get this Mr Quiverful into the hospital, although he must know that such an appointment would be most damaging to the bishop. It is impossible to understand such a man, and dreadful to think,' added Mr Staple, sighing deeply, 'that the welfare and fortunes of good men may depend on his intrigues.'
Dr Gwynne or Mr Staple were not in the least aware, nor even was Mr Arabin that this Mr Slope, of whom they were talking, had been using his utmost efforts to put their own candidate into the hospital; and that in lieu of being a permanent in the palace, his own expulsion therefrom had been already decided on by the high powers of the diocese.
'I'll tell you what,' said the tutor, 'if this Quiverful is thrust into the hospital and Dr Trefoil must die, I should not wonder if the Government were to make Mr Harding Dean of Barchester. They would feel bound to do something for him after all that was said when he resigned.'
Dr Gwynne at the moment made no reply to this suggestion; but it did not the less impress itself on his mind. If Mr Harding could not be warden of the hospital, why should he not be Dean of Barchester?
And so the conference ended without any very fixed resolution, and Dr Gwynne and Mr Arabin prepared for their journey to Plumstead on the morrow.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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35
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MISS THORNE'S FETE CHAMPETRE
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The day of the Ullathorne party arrived, and all the world was there; or at least so much of the world as had been included in Miss Thorne's invitation. As we have said, the bishop returned home on the previous evening, and on the same evening, and by the same train, came Dr Gwynne and Mr Arabin from Oxford. The archdeacon with his brougham was in waiting for the Master of Lazarus, so that there was a goodly show of church dignitaries on the platform of the railway.
The Stanhope party was finally arranged in the odious manner already described, and Eleanor got into the doctor's waiting carriage full of apprehension and presentiment of further misfortunes, whereas Mr Slope entered the vehicle elate with triumph.
He had received that morning a civil note from Sir Nicholas Fitzwiggin; not promising much indeed; but then Mr Slope knew, or fancied that he knew, that it was not etiquette for government officers to make promises. Though Sir Nicholas promised nothing he implied a good deal; declared his conviction that Mr Slope would make an excellent dean, and wished him every kind of success. To be sure he added that, not being in the cabinet, he was never consulted on such matters, and that even if he spoke on the subject his voice would go for nothing. But all this Mr Slope took for the prudent reserve of official life. To complete his anticipated triumph, another letter was brought to him just as he was about to start to Ullathorne.
Mr Slope also enjoyed the idea of handing Mrs Bold out of Dr Stanhope's carriage before the multitude at Ullathorne gate, as much as Eleanor dreaded the same ceremony. He had fully made up his mind to throw himself and his fortune at the widow's feet, and had almost determined to select the present propitious morning for doing so. The signora had of late been less than civil to him. She had indeed admitted his visits, and listened, at any rate without anger, to his love; but she had tortured him, and reviled him, jeered at him and ridiculed him, while she allowed him to call her the most beautiful of living women, to kiss her hand, and to proclaim himself with reiterated oaths her adorer, her slave, and worshipper.
Miss Thorne was in great perturbation, yet in great glory, on the morning of this day. Mr Thorne also, though the party was none of his giving, had much heavy work on his hands. But perhaps the most overtasked, the most anxious and the most effective of all the Ullathorne household was Mr Plomacy the steward. This last personage had, in the time of Mr Thorne's father, when the Directory held dominion in France, gone over to Paris with letters in his boot heel for some of the royal party; and such had been his good luck that he had returned safe. He had then been very young and was now very old, but the exploit gave him a character for political enterprise and secret discretion which still availed him as thoroughly as it had done in its freshest gloss. Mr Plomacy had been steward of Ullathorne for more than fifty years, and a very easy life he had had of it. Who could require much absolute work from a man who had carried safely at his heel that which if discovered would have cost him his head? Consequently Mr Plomacy had never worked hard, and of latter years had never worked at all. He had a taste for timber, and therefore he marked the trees that were to be cut down; he had a taste for gardening, and would therefore allow no shrub to be planted or bed to be made without his express sanction.
In these matters he was sometimes driven to run counter to his mistress, but he rarely allowed his mistress to carry the point against him.
But on occasions such as the present, Mr Pomney came out strong. He had the honour of the family at heart; he thoroughly appreciated the duties of hospitality; and therefore, when gala doings were going on, always took the management into his own hands and reigned supreme over master and mistress.
To give Mr Pomney his due, old as he was, he thoroughly understood such work as he had in hand, and did it well.
The order of the day was to be as follows. The quality, as the upper classes in rural districts are designated by the lower with so much true discrimination, were to eat a breakfast, and the non-quality were to eat a dinner. Two marquees had been erected for these two banquets, that for the quality on the esoteric or garden side of a certain deep ha-ha; and that for the non-quality on the exoteric or paddock side of the same. Both were of huge dimensions; that on the outer side, one may say, on an egregious scale; but Mr Pomney declared that neither would be sufficient. To remedy this, an auxiliary banquet was prepared in the dining-room, and a subsidiary board was to be spread sub dio for the accommodation of the lower class of yokels on the Ullathorne property.
No one who has not had a hand in the preparation of such an affair can understand the manifold difficulties which Miss Thorne encountered in her project. Had she not been made throughout of the very finest whalebone, rivetted with the best Yorkshire steel, she must have sunk under them. Had not Mr Pomney felt how much was justly expected from a man who at one time carried the destinies of Europe in his boot, he would have given way; and his mistress, so deserted, must have perished among her poles and canvass.
In the first place there was a dreadful line to be drawn. Who was to dispose themselves within the ha-ha, and who without? To this the unthinking will give an off-hand answer, as they will to every ponderous question. Oh, the bishop and such like within the ha-ha; and Farmer Greenacre and such without. True, my unthinking friend; but who shall define these such-likes? It is in such definitions that the whole difficulty of society consists. To seat the bishop on an arm chair on the lawn and place Farmer Greenacre at the end of a long table in the paddock is easy enough; but where will you put Mrs Lookaloft, whose husband, though a tenant on the estate, hunts in a red coat, whose daughters go to a fashionable seminary in Barchester, who calls her farm house Rosebank, and who has a pianoforte in her drawing-room? The Misses Lookaloft, as they call themselves, won't sit contented among the bumpkins. Mrs Lookaloft won't squeeze her fine clothes on a bench and talk familiarly about cream and ducklings to good Mrs Greenacres. And yet Mrs Lookaloft is not fit companion and never has been the associate of the Thornes and the Grantlys. And if Mrs Lookaloft be admitted within the sanctum of fashionable life, if she be allowed with her three daughters to leap the ha-ha, why not the wives and daughters of other families also? Mrs Greenacre is at present well contented with the paddock, but she might cease to be so if she saw Mrs Lookaloft on the lawn. And thus poor Miss Thorne had a hard time of it.
And how was she to divide the guests between the marquee and the parlour? She had a countess coming, and Honourable John and an Honourable George, and a whole bevy of Ladies Amelia, Rosina, Margaretta &c; she had a leash of baronets with their baronesses; and, as we all know, a bishop. If she put them on the lawn, no one would go into the parlour; if she put them into the parlour, no one would go into the tent. She thought of keeping the old people in the house, and leaving the lawn to the lovers. She might as well have seated herself at once in a hornet's nest. Mr Pomney knew better than this. 'Bless your soul, Ma'am,' said he, 'there won't be no old ladies; not one, barring yourself and old Mrs Chantantrum.'
Personally Miss Thorne accepted this distinction in her favour as a compliment to her good sense; but nevertheless she had no desire to be closeted on the coming occasion with Mrs Chantantrum. She gave up all idea of any arbitrary division of her guests, and determined if possible to put the bishop on the lawn and the countess in the house, to sprinkle the baronets, and thus divide the attractions. What to do with the Lookalofts even Mr Plomacy could not decide. They must take their chance. They had been specially told in the invitation that all the tenants had been invited; and they might probably have the good sense to stay away if they objected to mix with the rest of the tenantry.
Then Mr Plomacy declared his apprehension that the Honourable Johns and Honourable Georges would come in a sort of amphibious costume, half morning half evening, satin neckhandkerchiefs, frock coats, primrose gloves, and polished boots; and that being so dressed, they would decline riding at the quintain, or taking part in any of the athletic games which Miss Thorne had prepared with so much care. If the Lord Johns and Lord Georges didn't ride at the quintain, Miss Thorne might be sure that nobody else would.
'But,' said she in dolorous voice, all but overcome by her cares; 'it was specially signified that there were to be sports.'
'And so there will be, of course,' said Mr Pomney. 'They'll all be sporting with the young ladies in the laurel walks. Them's the sports they care most about now-a-days. If you gets the young men at the quintain, you'll have all the young women in the pouts.'
'Can't they look on, as their great grandmothers did before them?' said Miss Thorne.
'It seems to me that the ladies ain't contented with looking now-a-days. Whatever the men do they'll do. If you'll have side saddles on the nags, and let them go at the quintain too, it'll answer capital, no doubt.'
Miss Thorne made no reply. She felt that she had no good ground on which to defend her sex of the present generation, from the sarcasm of Mr Pomney. She had once declared, in one of her warmer moments, 'that now-a-days the gentlemen were all women, and the ladies all men.' She could not alter the debased character of the age. But such being the case, why should she take on herself to cater for the amusement of people of such degraded tastes? This question she asked herself more than once, and she could only answer herself with a sigh. There was her own brother Wilfred, on whose shoulders rested the all the ancient honours of Ullathorne House; it was very doubtful whether even he would consent to 'go at the quintain', as Mr Pomney not injudiciously expressed it.
And now the morning arrived. The Ullathorne household was early on the move. Cooks were cooking in the kitchen long before daylight, and men were dragging out tables and hammering red baize on to benches at the earliest dawn. With what dread eagerness did Miss Thorne look out at the weather as soon as the parting veil of night permitted her to look at all! In this respect at any rate there was nothing to grieve her. The glass had been rising for the last three days, and the morning broke with that dull chill steady grey haze which in autumn generally presages a clear and dry day. By seven she was dressed and down. Miss Thorne knew nothing of the modern luxury of deshabilles. She would as soon have thought of appearing before her brother without her stockings as without her stays; and Miss Thorne's stays were no trifle.
And yet there was nothing for her to do when down. She fidgeted out to the lawn, and then back into the kitchen. She put on her high-heeled clogs, and fidgeted out into the paddock. Then she went into the small home park where the quintain was erected. The pole and cross-bar and the swivel, and the target and the bag of flour were all complete. She got up on a carpenter's bench and touched the target with her hand; it went round with beautiful ease; the swivel had been oiled to perfection. She almost wished to take old Plomacy at his word, to go on a side saddle, and have a tilt at it herself.
What must a young man be, thought she, who could prefer maundering among the trees with a wishy-washy school girl to such fun as this? 'Well,' said she aloud to herself, 'one man can take a horse to water, but a thousand can't make him drink. There it is. If they haven't the spirit to enjoy it, the fault shan't be mine;' and so she returned the house.
At a little after eight her brother came down, and they had a sort of scrap breakfast in his study. The tea was made without the customary urn, and they dispensed with the usual rolls and toast. Eggs were also missing, for every egg in the parish had been whipped into custards, baked into pies, or boiled into lobster salad. The allowances of fresh butter was short, and Mr Thorne was obliged to eat the leg of a fowl without having it devilled in the manner he loved.
'I have been looking at the quintain, Wilfred,' said she, 'and it appears to be quite right.'
'Oh,--ah; yes;' said he. 'It seemed to be so yesterday when I saw it.' Mr Thorne was beginning to be rather bored by his sister's love of sports, and had especially no affection for this quintain post.
'I wish you'd just try it after breakfast,' said she. 'You could have the saddle put on Mark Antony, and the pole is there all handy. You can take the flour bag off, you know, if you think Mark Antony won't be quick enough,' added Miss Thorne, seeing that her brother's countenance was not indicative of complete accordance with her little proposition.
Now Mark Antony was a valuable old hunter, excellently suited to Mr Thorne's usual requirements, steady indeed at his fences, but extremely sure, very good in deep ground, and safe on the roads. But he had never yet been ridden at a quintain, and Mr Thorne was not inclined to put him to the trial, either with or without the bag of flour. He hummed and hawed, and finally declared that he was afraid Mark Antony would shy.
'Then try the cob,' said the indefatigable Miss Thorne.
'He's in physic,' said Wilfred.
'There's the Beelzebub colt,' said his sister; 'I know he's in the stable, because I saw Peter exercising him just now.'
'My dear Monica, he's so wild that it's as much as I can do to manage him at all. He'd destroy himself and me too, if I attempted to ride him at such a rattletrap as that.'
A rattletrap! The quintain that she had put up with so much anxious care; the game that she had prepared for the amusement of the stalwart yeomen of the country; the sport that had been honoured by the affection of so many of their ancestors! It cut her to the heart to hear it so denominated by her own brother. There were but the two of them left together in the world; and it had ever been one of the rules by which Miss Thorne had regulated her conduct through life, to say nothing that could provoke her brother. She had often had to suffer from his indifference to time-honoured British customs; but she had always suffered in silence. It was part of her creed that the head of the family should never be upbraided in his own house; and Miss Thorne had lived up to her creed. Now, however, she was greatly tried. The colour mounted to her ancient cheek, and the fire blazed in her still bright eye; but yet she said nothing. She resolved that at any rate, to him nothing more should be said about the quintain that day.
She sipped her tea in silent sorrow, and thought with painful regret of the glorious days when her great ancestor Ealfried had successfully held Ullathorne against a Norman invader. There was no such spirit now left in her family except that small useless spark which burnt in her own bosom. And she herself, was not she at this moment intent on entertaining a descendant of those very Normand, a vain proud countess with a frenchified name, who would only think that she graced Ullathorne too highly by entering its portals? Was it likely that an honourable John, the son of the Earl de Courcy, should ride at a quintain in company with a Saxon yeoman? And why should she expect her brother to do that which her brother's guests would decline to do?
Some dim faint idea of the impracticability of her own views flitted across her brain. Perhaps it was necessary that races doomed to live on the same soil should give way to each other, and adopt each other's pursuits. Perhaps it was impossible that after more than five centuries of close intercourse, Normans should remain Normans, and Saxons, Saxons. Perhaps after all her neighbours were wiser than herself, such ideas did occasionally present themselves to Miss Thorne's mind, and make her sad enough. But it never occurred to her that her favourite quintain was but a modern copy of a Norman knight's amusement, an adaptation of the noble tourney to the tastes and habits of the Saxon yeomen. Of this she was ignorant, and it would have been cruelty to instruct her.
When Mr Thorne saw the tear in her eye, he repented himself of his contemptuous expression. By him also it was recognised as a binding law that every whim of his sister was to be respected. He was not perhaps so firm in his observances to her, as she was in hers to him. But his intentions were equally good, and whenever he found that he had forgotten them, it was a matter of grief to him.
'My dear Monica,' said he, 'I beg your pardon; I don't in the least mean to speak ill of the game. When I called it a rattletrap, I merely meant that it was so for a man of my age. You know you always forget that I an't a young man.'
'I am quite sure you are not an old man, Wilfred,' said she, accepting the apology in her heart, and smiling at him with the tear still on her cheek.
'If I was five-and-twenty, or thirty,' continued he, 'I should like nothing better than riding at the quintain all day.'
'But you are not too old to hunt or to shoot,' said she. 'If you can jump over a ditch and hedge, I am sure you could turn the quintain round.'
'But when I ride over the hedges, my dear--and it isn't very often I do that--but when I do ride over the hedges there isn't any bag of flour coming after me. Think how I'd look taking the countess out to breakfast with the back of my head all covered with meal.'
Miss Thorne said nothing further. She didn't like the allusion to the countess. She couldn't be satisfied with the reflection that the sports of Ullathorne should be interfered with by the personal attentions necessary for a Lady de Courcy. But she saw that it was useless for her to push the matter further. It was conceded that Mr Thorne was to spared the quintain; and Miss Thorne determined to trust wholly to a youthful knight of hers, an immense favourite, who, as she often declared, was a pattern to the young men of the age, and an excellent example of an English yeoman.
This was Farmer Greenacre's eldest son; who, to tell the truth, had from his earliest years taken the exact measure of Miss Thorne's foot. In his boyhood he had never failed to obtain from her, apples, pocket money, and forgiveness for his numerous trespasses; and now in his early manhood he got privileges and immunities which were equally valuable. He was allowed a day or two's shooting in September; he schooled the squire's horses; got slips of trees out of the orchard, and roots of flowers out of the garden; and had the fishing of the little river altogether in his own hands. He had undertaken to come mounted on a nag of his father's, and show the way at the quintain post. Whatever young Greenacre did the others would do after him. The juvenile Lookalofts might stand sure to venture if Harry Greenacre showed the way. And so Miss Thorne made up her mind to dispense with the noble Johns and Georges, and trust, as her ancestors had done before her, to the thews and sinews of native Ullathorne growth.
At about nine the lower orders began to congregate in the paddock and park, under the surveillance of Mr Plomacy and the head gardener and head groom, who were sworn in as his deputies, and were to assist him in keeping the peace and promoting the sports. Many of the younger inhabitants of the neighbourhood, thinking that they could not have too much of a good thing, had come at a very early hour, and the road between the house and the church had been thronged for some time before the gates were thrown open.
And then another difficulty of huge dimensions arose, a difficulty which Mr Plomacy had indeed foreseen, and for which he was in some sort provided. Some of those who wished to share Miss Thorne's hospitality were not so particular that they should have been as to the preliminary ceremony of an invitation. They doubtless conceived that they had been overlooked by accident; and instead of taking this in dudgeon, as their betters would have done, they good-naturedly put up with the slight, and showed that they did so by presenting themselves at the gate in their Sunday best.
Mr Plomacy, however, well knew who were welcome and who were not. To some, even though uninvited, he allowed ingress. 'Don't be too particular, Plomacy,' his mistress had said; 'especially with the children. If they live anywhere near, let them in.'
Acting on this hint, Mr Plomacy did let in many an eager urchin, and a few tidily dressed girls with their swains, who in no way belonged to the property. But to the denizens of the city he was inexorable. Many a Barchester apprentice made his appearance there that day, and urged with piteous supplication that he had been working all the week in making saddles and boots for the use of Ullathorne, in compounding doses for the horses, or cutting up carcasses for the kitchen. No such claim was allowed. Mr Plomacy knew nothing about the city apprentices; he was to admit the tenants and labourers on the estate; Miss Thorne wasn't going to take in the whole city of Barchester; and so on.
Nevertheless, before the day was half over, all this was found to be useless. Almost anybody who chose to come made his way into the park, and the care of the guardians was transferred to the tables on which the banquet was spread. Even here there was many an unauthorized claimant for a plate, of whom it was impossible to get quit without some commotion than the place and food were worth.
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{
"id": "2432"
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36
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ULLATHORNE SPORTS--ACT I
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The trouble in civilised life of entertaining company, as it is called too generally without much regard to strict veracity, is so great that it cannot but be matter of wonder that people are so fond of attempting it. It is difficult to ascertain what is the quid pro quo. If they who give such laborious parties, and who endure such toil and turmoil in the vain hope of giving them successfully, really enjoyed the parties given by others, the matter would be understood. A sense of justice would induce men and women to undergo, in behalf of others, those miseries which others had undergone on their behalf. But they all profess that going out is as great a bore as receiving; and to look at them when they are out, one cannot but believe them.
Entertain! Who shall have sufficient self-assurance, who shall feel sufficient confidence in his own powers to dare to boast that he can entertain his company? A clown can sometimes do so, and sometimes a dancer in short petticoats and stuffed pink legs; occasionally, perhaps, a singer. But beyond these, success in this art of entertaining is not often achieved. Young men and girls linking themselves kind with kind, pairing like birds in spring, because nature wills it, they, after a simple fashion, do entertain each other. Few others even try.
Ladies, when they open their houses, modestly confessing, it may be presumed, their own incapacity, mainly trust to wax candles and upholstery. Gentlemen seem to rely on their white waistcoats. To these are added, for the delight of the more sensual, champagne and such good things of the table as fashion allows to be still considered as comestible. Even in this respect the world is deteriorating. All the good soups are now tabooed; and at the houses of one's accustomed friends, small barristers, doctors, government clerks, and such like, (for we cannot all of us always live as grandees, surrounded by an Elysium of livery servants), one gets a cold potato handed to one as a sort of finale to one's slice of mutton. Alas! for those happy days when one could say to one's neighbourhood, 'Jones, shall I give you some mashed turnip--may I trouble you for a little cabbage?' And then the pleasure of drinking wine with Mrs Jones and Miss Smith; with all the Joneses and all the Smiths! These latter-day habits are certainly more economical.
Miss Thorne, however, boldly attempted to leave the modern beaten track, and made a positive effort to entertain her guests. Alas! she did so with but moderate success. They had all their own way of going, and would not go her way. She piped to them, but they would not dance. She offered to them good honest household cake, made of currants and flour and eggs and sweetmeat; but they would feed themselves on trashy wafers from the shop of the Barchester pastry-cook, on chalk and gum and adulterated sugar. Poor Miss Thorne! yours is not the first honest soul that has vainly striven to recall the glories of happy days gone by! If fashion suggests to a Lady De Courcy that when invited to a dejeuner at twelve o'clock she ought to come at three, no eloquence of thine will teach her the advantage of a nearer approach to punctuality.
She had fondly thought that when she called on her friends to come at twelve, and especially begged them to believe that she meant it, she would be able to see them comfortably seated in their tents at two. Vain woman--or rather ignorant woman--ignorant of the advances of that civilization which the world had witnessed while she was growing old. At twelve she found herself alone, dressed in all the glory of the newest of her many suits of raiment; with strong shoes however, and a serviceable bonnet on her head, and a warm rich shawl on her shoulders. Thus clad she peered out into the tent, went to the ha-ha, and satisfied herself that at any rate the youngsters were amusing themselves, spoke a word to Mrs Greenacre over the ditch, and took one look at the quintain. Three or four young farmers were turning the machine round and round, and poking at the bag of flour in a manner not at all intended by the inventor of the game; but no mounted sportsmen were there. Miss Thorne looked at her watch. It was only fifteen minutes past twelve, and it was understood that Harry Greenacre was not to begin till the half hour.
Miss Thorne returned to her drawing-room rather quicker than her wont, fearing that the countess might come and find none to welcome her. She need not have hurried, for no one was there. At half-past twelve she peeped into the kitchen; at a quarter to one she was joined by her brother; and just then the first fashionable arrival took place. Mrs Clantantram was announced.
No announcement was necessary, indeed; for the good lady's voice was heard as she walked across the court-yard to the house scolding the unfortunate postilion who had driven her from Barchester. At the moment Miss Thorne could not but be thankful that the other guests were more fashionable, and were thus spared the fury of Mrs Clantantram's indignation.
'Oh, Miss Thorne, look here!' said she, as soon as she found herself in the drawing-room; 'do look at my roquelaure! It's clean spoilt, and for ever. I wouldn't but wear it because I know you wished us all to be grand to-day; and yet I had my misgivings. Oh dear, oh dear! It was five-and-twenty shillings a yard.'
The Barchester post horses had misbehaved in some unfortunate manner just as Mrs Clantantram was getting out of the chaise and had nearly thrown her under the wheel.
Mrs Clantantram belonged to other days, and therefore, though she had but little else to recommend her, Miss Thorne was to a certain extent fond of her. She sent the roquelaure away to be cleaned, and lent her one of her best shawls out of her own wardrobe.
The next comer was Mr Arabin, who was immediately informed of Mrs Clantantram's misfortune, and of her determination to pay neither master nor post-boy; although, as she remarked, she intended to get her lift home before she made known her mind upon that matter. Then a good deal of rustling was heard in the sort of lobby that was used for the ladies' outside cloaks; and the door having been thrown wide open, the servant announced, not in the most confident of voices, Mrs Lookaloft, and the Miss Lookalofts, and Mr Augustus Lookaloft.
Poor man! --we mean the footman. He knew, none better, that Mrs Lookaloft had no business there, that she was not wanted there, and would not be welcome. But he had not the courage to tell a stout lady with a low dress, short sleeves, and satin at eight shillings a yard, that she had come to the wrong tent; he had not dared to hint to young ladies with white dancing shoes and long gloves, that there was a place ready for them in the paddock. And thus Mrs Lookaloft carried her point, broke through the guards, and made her way into the citadel. That she would have to pass an uncomfortable time there, she had surmised before. But nothing now could rob her of the power of boasting that she had consorted on the lawn with the squire and Miss Thorne, with a countess, a bishop, and the country grandees, while Mrs Greenacres and such like were walking about with the ploughboys in the park. It was a great point gained by Mrs Lookaloft, and it might be fairly expected that from this time forward the tradesmen of Barchester would, with undoubting pens, address her husband and T. Lookaloft, Esquire.
Mrs Lookaloft's pluck carried her through everything, and she walked triumphant into the Ullathorne drawing-room; but her children did feel a little abashed at the sort of reception they met with. It was not in Miss Thorne's heart to insult her own guests; but neither was it in her disposition to overlook such effrontery.
'Oh, Mrs Lookaloft, is this you,' said she; 'and your daughters and son? Well, we're very glad to see you; but I'm sorry you've come in such low dresses, as we are all going out of doors. Could we lend you anything?'
'Oh dear no! thank ye, Miss Thorne,' said the mother; 'the girls and myself are quite used to low dresses, when we're out.'
'Are you, indeed?' said Miss Thorne shuddering; but the shudder was not lost on Mrs Lookaloft.
'And where's Lookaloft,' said the master of the house, coming up to welcome his tenant's wife. Let the faults of the family be what they would, he could not but remember that their rent was well paid; he was therefore not willing to give them a cold shoulder.
'Such a headache, Mr Thorne!' said Mrs Lookaloft. 'In fact he couldn't stir, or you may be certain on such a day he would not have absented himself.'
'Dear me,' said Miss Thorne. 'If he is so ill, I sure you'd wish to be with him.'
'Not at all!' said Mrs Lookaloft. 'Not at all, Miss Thorne. It is only bilious you know, and when he's that way he can bear nobody nigh him.'
The fact however was that Mr Lookaloft, having either more sense or less courage than his wife, had not chosen to intrude on Miss Thorne's drawing-room; and as he could not very well have gone among the plebeians while his wife was with the patricians, he thought it most expedient to remain at Rosebank.
Mrs Lookaloft soon found herself on a sofa, and the Miss Lookalofts on two chairs, while Mr Augustus stood near the door; and here they remained till in due time they were seated all four together at the bottom of the dining-room table.
Then the Grantlys came; the archdeacon and Mrs Grantly and the two girls, and Dr Gwynne and Mr Harding; and as ill luck would have it, they were closely followed by Dr Stanhope's carriage. As Eleanor looked out of the carriage window, she saw her brother-in-law helping the ladies out, and threw herself back into her seat, dreading to be discovered. She had had an odious journey. Mr Slope's civility had been more than ordinarily greasy; and now, though he had not in fact said anything which she could notice, she had for the first time entertained a suspicion that he was intending to make love to her. Was it after all true that she had been conducting herself in a way that justified the world in thinking that she liked the man? After all, could it be possible that the archdeacon and Mr Arabin were right, and that she was wrong? Charlotte Stanhope had also been watching Mr Slope, and had come to the conclusion that it behoved her brother to lose no further time, if he meant to gain the widow. She almost regretted that it had not been contrived that Bertie should be at Ullathorne before them.
Dr Grantly did not see his sister-in-law in company with Mr Slope, but Mr Arabin did. Mr Arabin came out with Mr Thorne to the front door to welcome Mrs Grantly, and he remained in the courtyard till all their party had passed on. Eleanor hung back in the carriage as long as she well could, but she was nearest to the door, and when Mr Slope, having alighted, offered her his hand, she had no alternative but to take it.
Mr Arabin standing at the open door, while Mrs Grantly was shaking hands with someone within, saw a clergyman alight from the carriage whom he at once knew to be Mr Slope, and then she saw this clergyman hand out Mrs Bold. Having seen so much, Mr Arabin, rather sick at heart, followed Mrs Grantly into the house.
Eleanor was, however, spared any further immediate degradation, for Dr Stanhope gave her his arm across the courtyard, and Mr Slope was fain to throw away his attention upon Charlotte.
They had hardly passed into the house, and from the house to the lawn, when, with a loud rattle and such noise as great men and great woman are entitled to make in their passage through the world, the Proudies drove up. It was soon apparent that no every day comer was at the door. One servant whispered to another that it was the bishop, and the word soon ran through all the hangers-on and strange grooms and coachmen about the place. There was quite a little cortege to see the bishop and his 'lady' walk across the courtyard, and the good man was pleased to see that the church was held in such respect in the parish of St Ewold's.
And now the guests came fast and thick, and the lawn began to be crowded, and the room to be full. Voices buzzed, silk rustled against silk, and muslin crumpled against muslin. Miss Thorne became more happy than she had been, and again bethought her of her sports. There were targets and bows and arrows prepared at the further end of the lawn. Here the gardens of the place encroached with a somewhat wide sweep upon the paddock, and gave ample room for the doings of the toxophilites. Miss Thorne got together such daughters of Diana as could bend a bow, and marshalled them to the targets. There were the Grantly girls and the Proudie girls and the Chadwick girls, and the two daughters of the burly chancellor, and Miss Knowle; and with them went Frederick and Augustus Chadwick, and young Knowle of Knowle park, and Frank Foster of the Elms, and Mr Vellem Deeds the dashing attorney of the High Street, and the Rev Mr Green, and the Rev Mr Browne, and the Rev Mr White, all of whom as in duty bound, attended the steps of the three Miss Proudies.
'Did you ever ride at the quintain, Mr Foster?' said Miss Thorne, as she walked with her party, across the lawn.
'The quintain?' said young Foster, who considered himself a dab at horsemanship. 'Is it a sort of gate, Miss Thorne?'
Miss Thorne had to explain the noble game she spoke of, and Frank Foster had to own that he never had ridden at the quintain.
'Would you like to come and see?' said Miss Thorne. 'There'll be plenty here without you, if you like it.'
'Well, I don't mind,' said Frank; 'I suppose the ladies can come too.'
'Oh, yes,' said Miss Thorne; 'those who like it; I have no doubt they'll go to see your prowess, if you'll ride, Mr Foster.'
Mr Foster looked down at a most unexceptionable pair of pantaloons, which had arrived from London only the day before. They were the very things, at least he thought so, for a picnic of fete champetre; but he was not prepared to ride in them. Nor was he more encouraged than had been Mr Thorne, by the idea of being attacked from behind by the bag of flour which Miss Thorne had graphically described to him.
'Well, I don't know about riding, Miss Thorne,' said he; 'I fear I'm not quite prepared.'
Miss Thorne sighed, but said nothing further. She left the toxophilites to their bows and arrows, and returned towards the house. But as she passed by the entrance to the small park, she thought that she might at any rate encourage the yeomen by her presence, as she could not induced her more fashionable guests to mix with them in their many amusements.
Accordingly she once more betook herself to the quintain post. Here to her great delight she found Harry Greenacre ready mounted, with his pole in his hand, and a lot of comrades standing round him, encouraging him to the assault. She stood at a little distance and nodded to him in token of her good pleasure.
'Shall I begin, ma'am?' said Henry fingering his long staff in a rather awkward way, while his horse moved uneasily beneath him, not accustomed to a rider armed with such a weapon.
'Yes, yes,' said Miss Thorne, standing triumphant as the queen of beauty, on an inverted tub which some chance had brought hither from the farm-yard.
'Here goes then,' said Harry as he wheeled his horse round to get the necessary momentum of a sharp gallop. The quintain post stood right before him, and the square board at which he was to tilt was fairly in the way. If he hit that duly in the middle, and maintained his pace as he did so, it was calculated that he would be carried out of reach of the flour bag, which, suspended at the other end of the cross-bar on the post, would swing round when the board was struck. It was also calculated that if the rider did not maintain his pace, he would get a blow from the flour bag just at the back of his head, and bear about him the signs of his awkwardness to the great amusement of the lookers-on.
Harry Greenacre did not object to being powdered with flour in the service of his mistress, and therefore gallantly touched his steed with his spur, having laid his lance in rest to the best of his ability. But his ability in this respect was not great, and his appurtenances probably not very good; consequently, he struck his horse with his pole unintentionally on the side of the head as he started. The animal swerved and shied, and galloped off wide of the quintain. Harry well accustomed to manage a horse, but not to do so with a twelve-foot rod on his arm, lowered his right hand to the bridle and thus the end of the lance came to the ground, and got between the legs of the steed. Down came the rider and steed and staff. Young Greenacre was thrown some six feet over the horse's head, and poor Miss Thorne almost fell of her tub in a swoon.
'Oh gracious, he's killed,' shrieked a woman, who was near him when he fell.
'The Lord be good to him! his poor mother, his poor mother!' said another.
'Well, drat them dangerous plays all the world over,' said an old crone.
'He has broke his neck sure enough, if ever man did,' said a fourth.
Poor Miss Thorne. She heard all this and yet did not quite swoon. She made her way through the crowd as best she could, sick herself almost to death. Oh, his mother--his poor mother! how could she ever forgive herself. The agony of that moment was terrific. She could hardly get to the place where the poor lad was lying, as three or four men in front were about the horse which had risen with some difficulty; but at last she found herself close to the young farmer.
'Has he marked himself? for heaven's sake tell me that; has he marked his knees?' said Harry, slowly rising and rubbing his left shoulder with his right hand, and thinking only of his horse's legs. Miss Thorne soon found that he had not broken his neck, nor any of his bones, nor been injured in any essential way. But from that time forth she never instigated any one to ride at the quintain.
Eleanor left Dr Stanhope as soon as she could do so civilly, and went in quest of her father whom she found on the lawn in company with Mr Arabin. She was not sorry to find them together. She was anxious to disabuse at any rate her father's mind as to this report which had got abroad respecting her, and would have been well pleased to have been able to do the same with regard to Mr Arabin. She put her own through her father's arm, coming up behind his back, and then tendered her hand also to the vicar of St Ewold's.
'And how did you come?' said Mr Harding, when the first greeting was over.
'The Stanhopes brought me,' said she; 'their carriage was obliged to come twice, and has now gone back for the signora.' As she spoke she caught Mr Arabin's eye, and saw that he was looking pointedly at her with a severe expression. She understood at once the accusation contained in his glance. It said as plainly as an eye could speak, 'Yes, you came with the Stanhopes, but you did so in order that you might be in company with Mr Slope.'
'Our party,' said she, still addressing her father, 'consisted of the Doctor and Charlotte Stanhope, myself, and Mr Slope.' As she mentioned the last name she felt her father's arm quiver slightly beneath her touch. At the same moment Mr Arabin turned away from them, and joining his hands behind his back strolled slowly away by one of the paths.
'Papa,' said she, 'it was impossible to help coming in the same carriage with Mr Slope; it was quite impossible. I had promised to come with them before I dreamt of his coming, and afterwards I could not get out of it without explaining and giving rise to talk. You weren't at home, you know, I couldn't possibly help it.' She said all this so quickly that by the time her apology was spoken she was quite out of breath.
'I don't know why you should have wished to help it, my dear,' said her father.
'Yes, papa, you do; you must know, you do know all the things they said at Plumstead. I am sure you do. You know all the archdeacon said. How unjust he was, and Mr Arabin too. He's a horrid man, a horrid, odious man, but--' 'Who is an odious man, my dear? Mr Arabin?'
'No; but Mr Slope. You know I mean Mr Slope. He's the most odious man I ever met in my life, and it was most unfortunate my having to come here in the same carriage with him. But how could I help it?'
A great weight began to move itself off Mr Harding's mind. So, after all, the archdeacon with all his wisdom, and Mrs Grantly with all her tact, and Mr Arabin with all his talent were in the wrong. His own child, his Eleanor, the daughter of whom he was so proud was not to become the wife of Mr Slope. He had been about to give his sanction to the marriage, so certified had he been of this fact; and now he learnt that this imputed lover of Eleanor's was at any rage as much disliked by her as by any one of the family. Mr Harding, however, was by no means sufficiently a man of the world to conceal the blunder he had made. He could not pretend that he had entertained no suspicion; he could not make believe that he had never joined the archdeacon in his surmises. He was greatly surprised, and gratified beyond measure, and he could not help showing that such was the case.
'My darling girl,' said he, 'I am so delighted, so overjoyed. My own child; you have taken such a weight off my mind.'
'But surely, papa, you didn't think--' 'I didn't know what to think, my dear. The archdeacon told me that -' 'The archdeacon!' said Eleanor, her face lighting up with passion. 'A man like the archdeacon might, one would think, be better employed than in traducing his sister-in-law, and creating bitterness between a father and his daughter.'
'He didn't mean to that, Eleanor.'
'What did he mean then? Why did he interfere with me, and fill your mind with such falsehood?'
'Never mind it now, my child; never mind it now. We shall all know you better now.'
'Oh, papa, that you should have thought it! that you should have suspected me!'
'I don't know what you mean by suspicion, Eleanor. There would be nothing disgraceful, you know; nothing wrong in such a marriage. Nothing that could have justified my interfering as your father.' And Mr Harding would have proceeded in his own defence to make out that Mr Slope after all was a very good sort of man, and a very fitting second husband for a young widow, had he not been interrupted by Eleanor's greater energy.
'It would be disgraceful,' said she; 'it would be wrong; it would be abominable. Could I do such a horrid thing, I should expect no one to speak to me. Ugh--' and she shuddered as she thought of the matrimonial torch which her friends had been so ready to light on her behalf. I don't wonder at Dr Grantly; I don't wonder at Susan; but, oh, papa, I do wonder at you. How could you, how could you believe it?' Poor Eleanor, as she thought of her father's defalcation, could resist her tears no longer, and was forced to cover her face with her handkerchief.
The place was not very opportune for her grief. They were walking through the shrubberies, and there were many people near them. Poor Mr Harding stammered out his excuse as best he could, and Eleanor with an effort controlled her tears, and returned her handkerchief to her pocket. She did not find it difficult to forgive her father, nor could she altogether refuse to join him in the returning gaiety of spirit to which her present avowal gave rise. It was such a load off his heart to think that he should not be called on to welcome Mr Slope as his son-in-law; it was such a relief to him to find that his daughter's feelings and his own were now, as they ever had been, in unison. He had been so unhappy for the last six weeks about this wretched Mr Slope!
He was so indifferent as to the loss of the hospital, so thankful for the recovery of his daughter, that, strong as was the ground for Eleanor's anger, she could not find it in her heart to be long angry with him.
'Dear papa,' she said, hanging closely to his arm, 'never suspect me again: promise me that you never will. Whatever I do, you may be sure I shall tell you first; you may be sure I shall consult you.'
And Mr Harding did promise, and owned his sin, and promised again. And so, while he promised amendment and she uttered forgiveness, they returned together to the drawing-room windows.
And what had Eleanor meant when she declared that whatever she did, she would tell her father first? What was she thinking of doing?
So ended the first act of the melodrama which Eleanor was called on to perform this day at Ullathorne.
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37
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THE SIGNORA NERONI, THE COUNTESS DE COURCY, AND MRS PROUDIE MEET
EACH OTHER AT ULLATHORNE
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And now there were new arrivals. Just as Eleanor reached the drawing-room the signora was being wheeled into it. She had been brought out of the carriage into the dining-room and there placed on a sofa, and was now in the act of entering the other room, by the joint aid of her brother and sister, Mr Arabin, and two servants in livery. She was all in her glory, and looked so pathetically happy, so full of affliction and grace, was so beautiful, so pitiable, and so charming, that it was almost impossible not to be glad she was there.
Miss Thorne was unaffectedly glad to welcome her. In fact, the signora was a sort of lion; and though there was no drop of the Leohunter blood in Miss Thorne's veins, she nevertheless did like to see attractive people at her house.
The signora was attractive, and on her first settlement in the dining-room she had whispered two or three soft feminine words into Miss Thorne's ear, which, at the moment, had quite touched that lady's heart.
'Oh, Miss Thorne; where is Miss Thorne?' she said, as soon as her attendants had placed her in her position just before one of the windows, from whence she could see all that was going on upon the lawn; 'How am I to thank you for permitting a creature like me to be here? But if you knew the pleasure you give me, I am sure you would excuse the trouble I bring with me.' And as she spoke she squeezed the spinster's little hand between her own.
'We are delighted to see you here,' said Miss Thorne; 'you give us no trouble at all, and we think it a great favour conferred by you to come and see us; don't we, Wilfred?'
'A very great favour indeed,' said Mr Thorne, with a gallant bow, but of somewhat less cordial welcome than that conceded by his sister. Mr Thorne had learned perhaps more of the antecedents of his guest than his sister had done, and not as yet undergone the power of the signora's charms.
But while the mother of the last of the Neros was thus in he full splendour, with crowds of people gazing at her and the elite of the company standing round her couch, her glory was paled by the arrival of the Countess De Courcy. Miss Thorne had now been waiting three hours for the countess, and could not therefore but show very evident gratification when the arrival at last took place. She and her brother of course went off to welcome the titled grandee, and with them, alas, went many of the signora's admirers.
'Oh, Mr Thorne,' said the countess, while the act of being disrobed of her fur cloaks, and re-robed in her gauze shawls, 'what dreadful roads you have; perfectly frightful.'
It happened that Mr Thorne was way-warden for the district, and not liking the attack, began to excuse his roads.
'Oh yes, indeed they are,' said the countess, not minding him in the least, 'perfectly dreadful; are they not, Margaretta? Why, dear Miss Thorne, we left Courcy Castle just at eleven; it was only just past eleven, was it not, John? and--' 'Just past one, I think you mean,' said the Honourable John, turning from the group and eyeing the signora through his glass. The signora gave him back his own, as the saying is, and more with it; so that the young nobleman was forced to avert his glance, and drop his glass.
'I say, Thorne,' whispered he, 'who the deuce is that on the sofa?'
'Dr Stanhope's daughter,' whispered back Mr Thorne. 'Signora Neroni she calls herself.'
'Whew-ew-ew!' whistled the Honourable John. 'The devil she is! I have heard no end of stories about that filly. You must positively introduce me, Thorne; you positively must.'
Mr Thorne who was respectability itself, did not quite like having a guest about whom the Honourable John De Courcy had heard no end of stories; but he couldn't help himself. He merely resolved that before he went to bed he would let his sister know somewhat of the history of the lady she was so willing to welcome. The innocence of Miss Thorne, at her time of life, was perfectly charming; but even innocence may be dangerous.
'John may say what he likes,' continued the countess, urging her excuses on Miss Thorne; 'I am sure we were past the castle gate before twelve, weren't we, Margaretta?'
'Upon my word, I don't know,' said the Lady Margaretta, 'for I was half asleep. But I do know that I was called sometime in the middle of the night, and was dressing myself before daylight.'
Wise people, when they are in the wrong, always put themselves right by finding fault with the people against whom they have sinned. Lady De Courcy was a wise woman; and therefore, having treated Miss Thorne very badly by staying away till three o'clock, she assumed the offensive and attacked Mr Thorne's roads. Her daughter, not less wise, attacked Miss Thorne's early hours. The art of doing this is among the most precious of those usually cultivated by persons who know how to live. There is no withstanding it. Who can go systematically to work, and having done battle with the primary accusation and settled that, then bring forward a counter-charge and support that also? Life is not long enough for such labours. A man in the right relies easily on his rectitude, and therefore goes about unarmed. His very strength is his weakness; his very weakness is his strength. The one is never prepared for combat, the other is always ready. Therefore it is that in this world the man that is in the wrong almost invariably conquers the man that is in the right, and invariably despises him.
A man must be an idiot or else an angel, who, after the age of forty shall attempt to be just to his neighbours. Many like the Lady Margaretta have learnt their lesson at a much earlier age. But this of course depends on the school in which they have been taught.
Poor Miss Thorne was altogether overcome. She knew very well that she had been ill-treated, and yet she found herself making apologies to Lady De Courcy. To do her ladyship justice, she received them very graciously, and allowed herself with her train of daughters to be led towards the lawn.
There were two windows in the drawing-room wide open for the countess to pass through; but she saw that there was a woman on the sofa, at the third window, and that that woman had, as it were, a following attached to her. Her ladyship therefore determined to investigate the woman. The De Courcys were hereditarily short sighted, and had been so for thirty centuries at least. So Lady De Courcy, who, when she entered the family had adopted the family habits, did as her son had done before her, and taking her glass to investigate the Signora Neroni, pressed in among the gentlemen who surrounded the couch, and bowed slightly to those whom she chose to honour by her acquaintance.
In order to get to the window she had to pass close to the front of the couch, and as she did so she stared hard at the occupant. The occupant in return stared hard at the countess. The countess who since her countess-ship commenced had been accustomed to see all eyes, not royal, ducal, or marquesal, fall down before her own, paused as she went on, raised her eyebrows, and stared even harder than before. But she had now to do with one who cared little for countesses. It was, one may say, impossible for mortal man or woman to abash Madeline Neroni. She opened her large bright lustrous eyes wider and wider, till she seemed to be all eyes.
She gazed up into the lady's face, not as though she did it with an effort, but as if she delighted in doing it. She used no glass to assist her effrontery, and needed none. The faintest possible smile of derision played round her mouth, and her nostrils were slightly dilated, as if in sure anticipation of her triumph. And it was sure. The Countess De Courcy, in spite of her thirty centuries and De Courcy castle, and the fact that Lord De Courcy was grand master of the ponies to the Prince of Wales, had not a chance with her.
At first the little circlet of gold wavered in the countess's hand, then the hand shook, then the circlet fell, the countess's head tossed itself into the air, and the countess's feet shambled out to the lawn. She did not however go so fast but what she heard the signora's voice, asking-- 'Who on earth is that woman, Mr Slope?'
'That is Lady De Courcy.'
'Oh, ah. I might have supposed so. Ha, ha, ha. Well, that's as good as a play.'
It was as good as a play to any there who had eyes to observe it, and wit to comment on what they observed.
But the Lady De Courcy soon found a congenial spirit on the lawn. There she encountered Mrs Proudie, and as Mrs Proudie was not only the wife of a bishop, but was also the cousin of an earl, Lady De Courcy considered her to be the fittest companion she was likely to meet in that assemblage. They were accordingly delighted to see each other. Mrs Proudie by no means despised a countess, and as this countess lived in the county and within a sort of extensive visiting distance of Barchester, she was glad to have this opportunity of ingratiating herself.
'My dear Lady De Courcy, I am so delighted,' said she, looking as little grim as it was in her nature to do so. 'I hardly expected to see you here. It is such a distance, and then you know, such a crowd.'
'And such roads, Mrs Proudie! I really wonder how the people ever get about. But I don't suppose they ever do.'
'Well, I really don't know; but I suppose not. The Thorne don't, I know,' said Mrs Proudie. 'Very nice person, Miss Thorne, isn't she?'
'Oh, delightful and so queer; I've known her these twenty years. A great pet of mine is dear Miss Thorne. She is so very strange, you know. She always makes me think of the Esquimaux and the Indians. Isn't her dress quite delightful?'
'Delightful,' said Mrs Proudie; 'I wonder now whether she paints. Did you ever see such colour?'
'Oh, of course,' said Lady De Courcy; 'that is, I have no doubt she does. But, Mrs Proudie, who is that woman on the sofa by the window? just step this way and you'll see her, there--' and the countess led her to a spot where she could plainly see the signora's well-remembered face and figure.
She did not however do so without being equally well seen by the signora. 'Look, look,' said that lady to Mr Slope, who was still standing near to her; 'see the high spiritualities and temporalities of the land in league together, and all against poor me. I'll wager my bracelet, Mr Slope against your next sermon, that they've taken up their position there on purpose to pull me to pieces. Well, I can't rush to the combat, but I know how to protect myself if the enemy come near me.'
But the enemy knew better. They could gain nothing be contact with the signora Neroni, and they could abuse her as they pleased at a distance from her on the lawn.
'She's that horrid Italian woman, Lady De Courcy; you must have heard of her.'
'What Italian woman?' said her ladyship, quite alive to the coming story; 'I don't think I've heard of any Italian woman coming into the country. She doesn't look Italian either.'
'Oh, you must have heard of her,' said Mrs Proudie. 'No, she's not absolutely Italian. She is Dr Stanhope's daughter--Dr Stanhope the prebendary; and she calls herself the Signora Neroni.'
'Oh--h--h--h!' exclaimed the countess.
'I was sure you had heard of her,' continued Mrs Proudie. 'I don't know anything about her husband. They do say that some man named Neroni is still alive. I believe she did marry such a man abroad, but I do not at all know who or what he was.'
'Ah--h--h--h!' said the countess, shaking her head with much intelligence, as every additional 'h' fell from her lips. 'I know all about it now. I have heard George mention her. George knows all about her. George heard about her in Rome.'
'She's an abominable woman at any rate,' said Mrs Proudie.
'Insufferable,' said the countess.
'She made her way into the palace once, before I knew anything about her; and I cannot tell you how dreadfully indecent her conduct was.'
'Was it?' said the delighted countess.
'Insufferable,' said the prelatess.
'But why does she lie on a sofa?' asked the Lady De Courcy.
'She has only one leg,' said Mrs Proudie.
'Only one leg!' said the Lady De Courcy, who felt to a certain degree dissatisfied that the signora was thus incapacitated. 'Was she born so?'
'Oh, no,' said Mrs Proudie,--and her ladyship felt somewhat recomforted by the assurance,--'she had two. But that Signor Neroni beat her, I believe, till she was obliged to have one amputated. At any rate she entirely lost the use of it.'
'Unfortunate creature!' said the countess, who herself knew something of matrimonial trials.
'Yes,' said Mrs Proudie; 'one would pity her, in spite of her past bad conduct, if she knew how to behave herself. But she does not. She is the most insolent creature I have ever put my eyes on.'
'Indeed she is,' said Lady De Courcy.
'And her conduct with men is abominable, that she is not fit to be admitted into any lady's drawing-room.'
'Dear me!' said the countess, becoming again excited, happy, and merciless.
'You saw that man standing near her,--the clergyman with the red hair?'
'Yes, yes.'
'She has absolutely ruined that man. The bishop, or I should rather take the blame on myself, for it was I,--I brought him down from London to Barchester. He is a tolerable preacher, an active young man, and I therefore introduced him to the bishop. That woman, Lady De Courcy, has got hold of him, and has so disgraced him, that I am forced to required that he shall leave the palace; and I doubt very much whether he won't lose his gown.'
'Why what an idiot the man must be!' said the countess.
'You don't know the intriguing villainy of that woman,' said Mrs Proudie, remembering her own torn flounces.
'But you say she has only got one leg!'
'She is as full of mischief as tho' she had ten. Look at her eyes, Lady De Courcy. Did you ever see such eyes in a decent woman's head?'
'Indeed I never did, Mrs Proudie.'
'And her effrontery, and her voice; I quite pity her poor father, who is really a good sort of man.'
'Dr Stanhope, isn't he?'
'Yes, Dr Stanhope. He is one of our prebendaries,--a good quiet sort of man himself. But I am surprised that he should let his daughter conduct herself as he does.'
'I suppose he can't help it,' said the countess.
'But a clergyman, you know, Lady De Courcy! He should at any rate prevent her from exhibiting in public, if he cannot induce her to behave at home. But he is to be pitied. I believe he has a desperate life of it with the lot of them. That apish-looking man there, with the long beard and the loose trousers,--he is the woman's brother. He is nearly as bad as she is. They are both of them infidels.'
'Infidels!' said Lady De Courcy, 'and their father a prebendary!'
'Yes, and likely to be the new dean too,' said Mrs Proudie.
'Oh, yes, poor dear Dr Trefoil!' said the countess, who had once in her life spoken to that gentleman; 'I was so distressed to hear it, Mrs Proudie. And so Dr Stanhope is to be the new dean! He comes of an excellent family, and I wish him success in spite of his daughter. Perhaps, Mrs Proudie, when he is dean, they'll be better able to see the error of their ways.'
To this Mrs Proudie said nothing. Her dislike of the Signora Neroni was too deep to admit of her even hoping that that lady should see the error of her ways. Mrs Proudie looked on the signora as one of the lost,--one of those beyond the reach of Christian charity, and was therefore able to enjoy the luxury of hating her, without the drawback of wishing her eventually well out of her sins.
Any further conversation between these congenial souls was prevented by the advent of Mr Thorne, who came to lead the countess to the tent. Indeed, he had been desired to do so some ten minutes since; but he had been delayed in the drawing-room by the signora. She had contrived to detain him, to bet him near to her sofa, and at last to make him seat himself on a chair close to her beautiful arm. The fish took the bait, was hooked, and caught, and landed. Within that ten minutes he had heard the whole of signora's history in such strains as she chose to use in telling it. He learnt from the lady's own lips the whole of that mysterious tale to which the Honourable George had merely alluded. He discovered that the beautiful creature lying before him had been more sinned against than sinning. She had owned to him that she had been weak, confiding and indifferent to the world's opinion, and that she had therefore been ill-used, deceived and evil spoken of. She had spoken to him of her mutilated limb, her youth destroyed in the fullest bloom, her beauty robbed of its every charm, her life blighted, her hopes withered; and as she did so, a tear dropped from her eye to her cheek. She had told him of these things, and asked for his sympathy.
What could a good-natured genial Anglo-Saxon Squire Thorne do but promise to sympathise with her? Mr Thorne did promise to sympathise; promised also to come and see the last of the Neros, to hear more of those fearful Roman days, of those light and innocent but dangerous hours which flitted by so fast on the shores of Como, and to make himself the confidant of the signora's sorrows.
We need hardly say that he dropped all idea of warning his sister against the dangerous lady. He had been mistaken; never so much mistaken in his life. He had always regarded that Honourable George as a coarse brutal-minded young man; now he was more convinced than ever that he was so. It was by such men as the Honourable George that the reputation of such women as Madeline Neroni were imperilled and damaged. He would go and see the lady in her own house; he was fully sure in his own mind of the soundness of his own judgment; if he found her, as he believed he should do, an injured well-disposed, warm-hearted woman, he would get his sister Monica to invite her out to Ullathorne.
'No,' said she, as at her instance he got up to leave her, and declared that he himself would attend upon her wants; 'no, no, my friend; I positively put a veto upon your doing so. What, in your own house, with an assemblage round you such as there is here! Do you wish to make every woman hate me and every man stare at me? I lay a positive order on you not to come near me again to-day. Come and see me at home. It is only at home that I can talk; it is only at home that I really can live and enjoy myself. My days of going out, days such as these, are rare indeed. Come and see me at home, Mr Thorne, and then I will not bid you to leave me.'
It is, we believe, common with young men of five and twenty to look on their seniors--on men of, say, double their own age--as so many stocks and stones--stocks and stones, that is, in regard to feminine beauty. There never was a greater mistake. Women, indeed, generally know better; but on this subject men of one age are thoroughly ignorant of what is the very nature of mankind of other ages. No experience of what goes on in the world, no reading of history, no observation of life, has any effect in teaching the truth. Men of fifty don't dance mazurkas, being generally too fat and wheezy; nor do they sit for the hour together on river banks at their mistresses' feet, being somewhat afraid of rheumatism. But for real true love, love at first sight, love to devotion, love that robs a man of his sleep, love that 'will gaze an eagle blind,' love that 'will hear the lowest sound when the suspicious tread of theft is stopped,' love that is 'like a Hercules still climbing trees in the Hesperides,'--we believe this best age is from forty-five to seventy; up to that, men are generally given to mere flirting.
At the present moment Mr Thorne, aetat. fifty, was over head and ears in love at first sight with the Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni, nata Stanhope.
Nevertheless he was sufficiently master of himself to offer his arm with all propriety to Lady De Courcy, and the countess graciously permitted herself to be led to the tent.
Such had been Miss Thorne's orders, as she had succeeded in inducing the bishop to lead old Lady Knowle to the top of the dining-room. One of the baronets was sent off in quest of Mrs Proudie, and found that lady on the lawn not in the best of humours. Mr Thorne and the countess had left her too abruptly; she had in vain looked about for an attendant chaplain, or even a stray curate; they were all drawing long bows with the young ladies at the bottom of the lawn, or finding places for their graceful co-toxophilites in some snug corner of the tent. In such position Mrs Proudie had been wont in earlier days to fall back upon Mr Slope; but now she could never fall back upon him again. She gave her head one shake as she thought of her lone position, and that shake was as good as a week deducted from Mr Slope's longer sojourn in Barchester. Sir Harkaway Gorse, however, relieved her present misery, though his doing so by no means mitigated the sinning chaplain's doom.
And now the eating and drinking began in earnest. Dr Grantly, to his great horror, found himself leagued to Mrs Clantantram. Mrs Clantantram had a great regard for the archdeacon, which was not cordially returned; and when she, coming up to him, whispered in his ear, 'Come, archdeacon, I'm sure you won't begrudge an old friend the favour of your arm,' and then proceeded to tell him the whole history of her roquelaure, he resolved that he would shake her off before he was fifteen minutes older. But latterly the archdeacon had not been successful in his resolutions; and on the present occasion Mrs Clantantram stuck to him till the banquet was over.
Dr Gwynne got a baronet's wife, and Mrs Grantly fell to the lot of a baronet. Charlotte Stanhope attached herself to Mr Harding in order to make room for Bertie, who succeeded in sitting down in the dining-room next to Mrs Bold. To speak sooth, now that he had love in earnest to make, his heart almost failed him.
Eleanor had been right glad to avail herself of his arm, seeing that Mr Slope was hovering nigh her. In striving to avoid that terrible Charybdis of a Slope she was in great danger of falling into an unseen Scylla on the other hand, that Scylla being Bertie Stanhope. Nothing could be more gracious than she was to Bertie. She almost jumped at his proffered arm. Charlotte perceived this from a distance, and triumphed in her heart; Bertie felt it, and was encouraged; Mr Slope saw it, and glowered with jealousy. Eleanor and Bertie sat down to table in the dining-room; and as she took her seat at his right hand, she found that Mr Slope was already in possession of the chair at her own.
As these things were going on in the dining-room, Mr Arabin was hanging enraptured and alone over the signora's sofa; and Eleanor from her seat could look through the open door and see that he was doing so.
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{
"id": "2432"
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38
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THE BISHOP SITS DOWN TO BREAKFAST, AND THE DEAN DIES
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The bishop of Barchester said grace over the well-spread board in the Ullathorne dining-room; and while he did so the last breath was flying from the dean of Barchester as he lay in his sick-room in the deanery. When the bishop of Barchester raised his first glass of champagne to his lips, the deanship of Barchester was a good thing in the gift of the prime minister. Before the bishop of Barchester had left the table, the minister of the day was made aware of the fact at his country seat in Hampshire, and had already turned over in his mind the names of five very respectable aspirants for the preferment. It is at present only necessary to say that Mr Slope's name was not among the five.
''Twas merry in the hall when the beards wagged all;' and the clerical beards wagged merrily in the hall of Ullathorne that day. It was not till after the last cork had been drawn, the last speech made, the last nut cracked, that tidings reached and were whispered about that the poor dean was no more. It was well for the happiness of the clerical beards that this little delay took place, as otherwise decency would have forbidden them to wag at all.
But there was one sad man among them that day. Mr Arabin's beard did not wag as it should have done. He had come there hoping the best, striving to think the best about Eleanor; turning over in his mind all the words he remembered to have fallen from her about Mr Slope, and trying to gather from them a conviction unfavourable to his rival. He had not exactly resolved to come that day to some decisive proof as to the widow's intention; but he had meant, if possible, to re-cultivate his friendship with Eleanor; and in his present frame of mind any such re-cultivation must have ended in a declaration of love.
He had passed the previous night alone at his new parsonage, and it was the first night that he had so passed. It had been dull and sombre enough. Mrs Grantly had been right in saying that a priestess would be wanting at St Ewold's. He had sat there alone with his glass before him, and then with his teapot, thinking about Eleanor Bold. As is usual in such meditations, he did little but blame her; blame her for liking Mr Slope, and blame her for not liking him; blame her for her cordiality to himself, and blame her for her want of cordiality; blame her for being stubborn, headstrong, and passionate; and yet the more he thought of her the higher she rose in his affection. If only it should turn out, if only it could be made to turn out, that she had defended Mr Slope, not from love, but on principle, all would be right. Such principle in itself would be admirable, loveable, womanly; he felt that he could be pleased to allow Mr Slope just so much favour as that. But if--And then Mr Arabin poked his fire most unnecessarily, spoke crossly to his new parlour-maid who came in for the tea-things, and threw himself back in his chair determined to go to sleep. Why had she been so stiff-necked when asked a plain question? She could not but have known in what light he regarded her. Why had she not answered a plain question, and so put an end to his misery? Then, instead of going to sleep in his arm-chair, Mr Arabin walked about the room as though he had been possessed.
On the following morning, when he attended Miss Thorne's behests, he was still in a somewhat confused state. His first duty had been to converse with Mrs Clantantram, and that lady had found it impossible to elicit the slightest sympathy from him on the subject of hr roquelaure. Miss Thorne had asked him whether Mrs Bold was coming with the Grantlys; and the two names of Bold and Grantly together had nearly made him jump from his seat.
He was in this state of confused uncertainty, hope, and doubt, when he saw Mr Slope, with his most polished smile, handing Eleanor out of her carriage. He thought of nothing more. He never considered whether the carriage belonged to her or to Mr Slope, or to any one else to whom they might both be mutually obliged without any concert between themselves. The sight in his present state of mind was quite enough to upset him and his resolves. It was clear as noonday. Had he seen her handed into a carriage by Mr Slope at a church door with a white veil over her head, the truth could not be more manifest. He went into the house, and, as we have seen, soon found himself walking with Mr Harding. Shortly afterwards Eleanor came up; and then he had to leave his companion, and either go about alone or find another. While in this state he was encountered by the archdeacon.
'I wonder,' said Dr Grantly, 'if it be true that Mr Slope and Mrs Bold come here together. Susan says she is almost sure she saw their faces in the same carriage as she got out of her own.'
Mr Arabin had nothing for it but to bear his testimony to the correctness of Mrs Grantly's eyesight.
'It is perfectly shameful,' said the archdeacon; 'or I should rather say, shameless. She was asked her as my guest; and if she be determined to disgrace herself, she should have feeling enough not to do so before my immediate friends. I wonder how that man got himself invited. I wonder whether she had the face to bring him.'
To this Mr Arabin could answer nothing, nor did he wish to answer anything. Though he abused Eleanor to himself, he did not choose to abuse to any one else, nor was he well pleased to hear any one else speak ill of her. Dr Grantly, however, was very angry, and did not spare his sister-in-law. Mr Arabin therefore left him as soon as he could, and wandered back into the house.
It is impossible to say how the knowledge had been acquired, but the signora had a sort of instinctive knowledge that Mr Arabin was an admirer of Mrs Bold. Men hunt foxes by the aid of dogs, and are aware that they do so by the strong organ of smell with which the dog is endowed. They do not, however, in the least comprehend how such a sense can work with such acuteness. The organ by which woman instinctively, as it were, know and feel how other women are regarded by men, and how also men are regarded by other women, is equally strong, and equally incomprehensible. A glance, a word, a motion, suffices: by some such acute exercise of her feminine senses the signora was aware that Mr Arabin loved Eleanor Bold; and therefore, by a further exercise of her peculiar feminine propensities, it was quite natural for her to entrap Mr Arabin into her net.
The work was half done before she came to Ullathorne, and when could she have a better opportunity of completing it? She had had almost enough of Mr Slope, though she could not quite resist the fun of driving a very sanctimonious clergyman to madness by a desperate and ruinous passion. Mr Thorne had fallen too easily to give much pleasure in the chase. His position as a man of wealth might make his alliance of value, but as a lover he was very second-rate. We may say that she regarded him somewhat as a sportsman does a pheasant. The bird is so easily shot, that he would not be worth the shooting were it not for the very respectable appearance that he makes in a larder. The signora would not waste much time in shooting Mr Thorne, but still he was worth bagging for family uses.
But Mr Arabin was game of another sort. The signora was herself possessed of quite sufficient intelligence to know that Mr Arabin was a man more than usually intellectual. She knew also, that as a clergyman he was of a much higher stamp than Mr Slope, and that as gentleman he was better educated than Mr Thorne. She would never have attempted to drive Mr Arabin into ridiculous misery as she did Mr Slope, nor would she think it possible to dispose of him in ten minutes as she had done with Mr Thorne.
Such were her reflections about Mr Arabin. As to Mr Arabin, it cannot be said that he reflected at all about the signora.
He knew that she was beautiful, and he felt that she was able to charm him. He required charming in his present misery, and therefore he went and stood at the head of her couch. She knew all about it. Such were her peculiar gifts.
It was her nature to see that he required charming, and it was her province to charm him. As the Easter idler swallows his dose of opium, as the London reprobate swallows his dose of gin, so with similar desire and for similar reasons did Mr Arabin prepare to swallow the charms of the Signora Neroni.
'Why aren't you shooting with bows and arrows, Mr Arabin?' said she, when they were nearly alone together in the sitting-room; 'or talking with young ladies in shady bowers, or turning your talents to account in some way? What was a bachelor like you asked here for? Don't you mean to earn your cold chicken and champagne? Were I you, I should be ashamed to be so idle.'
Mr Arabin murmured some sort of answer. Though he wished to be charmed, he as hardly yet in a mood to be playful in return.
'Why, what ails you, Mr Arabin?' said she, 'here you are in your own parish; Miss Thorne tells me that her party is given expressly in your honour; and yet you are the only dull man in it. Your friend Mr Slope was with me a few minutes since, full of life and spirits' why don't you rival him?'
It was not difficult for so acute an observer as Madeline Neroni to see that she had hit the nail on the head and driven the bolt home. Mr Arabin winced visibly before her attack, and she knew at once that he was jealous of Mr Slope.
'But I look on you and Mr Slope as the very antipodes of men,' said she. 'There is nothing in which you are not each the reverse of the other, except in belonging to the same profession; and even in that you are so unlike as perfectly to maintain the rule. He is gregarious, you are given to solitude. He is active, you are passive. He works, you think. He likes women, you despise them. He is fond of position and power, and so are you, but for directly different reasons. He loves to be praised, you very foolishly abhor it. He will gain his rewards, which will be an insipid useful wife, a comfortable income, and a reputation for sanctimony. You will also gain yours.'
'Well, and what will they be?' said Mr Arabin, who knew that he was being flattered, and yet suffered himself to put up with it. 'What will be my rewards?'
'The heart of some woman whom you will be too austere to own that you love, and the respect of some few friends which you will be too proud to own that you value.'
'Rich rewards,' said he; 'but of little worth if they are to be so treated.'
'Oh, you are not to look for such success as awaits Mr Slope. He is born to be a successful man. He suggests to himself an object, and then starts for it with eager intention. Nothing will deter him from his pursuit. He will have no scruples, no fears, no hesitation. His desire is to be a bishop with a rising family, the wife will come first, and in due time the apron. You will see all this, and then--' 'Well, and what then?'
'Then you will begin to wish that you had done the same.'
Mr Arabin look placidly out at the lawn, and resting his shoulder on the head of the sofa, rubbed his chin with his hand. It was a trick he had when he was thinking deeply; and what the signora said made him think. Was it not all true? Would he not hereafter look back, if not at Mr Slope, at some others, people not equally gifted with himself, who had risen in the world while he had lagged behind, and then wish that he had done the same?
'Is not such the doom of all speculative men of talent?' said she. 'Do they not all sit rapt as you now are, cutting imaginary silken cords with their fine edges, while those not so highly tempered sever the every-day Gordian knots of the world's struggle, and win wealth and renown? Steel too highly polished, edges too sharp, do not do for this world's work, Mr Arabin.'
Who was this woman that thus read the secrets of his heart, and re-uttered to him the unwelcome bodings of his own soul? He looked full into her face when she had done speaking, and said, 'Am I one of those foolish blades, too sharp and too fine to do a useful day's work?'
'Why do you let the Slopes of the world out-distance you?' said she. 'It not the blood in your veins as warm as his? does not your pulse beat as fast? Has not God made you a man, and intended you to do a man's work here, ay, and to take a man's wages also?'
Mr Arabin sat ruminating and rubbing his face, and wondering why these things were said to him; but he replied nothing. The signora went on-- 'The greatest mistake any man ever made is to suppose that the good things of the world are not worth the winning. And it is a mistake so opposed to the religion which you preach! Why does God permit his bishops one after the other to have their five thousands and ten thousands a year if such wealth be bad and not worth having? Why are beautiful things given to us, and luxuries and pleasant enjoyments, if they be not intended to be used? They must be meant for some one, and what is good for a layman cannot surely be bad for a clerk. You try to despise these good things, but you only try; you don't succeed.'
'Don't I,' said Mr Arabin, still musing, and not knowing what he said.
'I ask you the question: do you succeed?'
Mr Arabin looked at her piteously. It seemed to him as though he were being interrogated by some inner spirit of his own, to whom he could not refuse an answer, and to whom he did not dare to give a false reply.
'Come, Mr Arabin, confess; do you succeed? Is money so contemptible? Is worldly power so worthless? Is feminine beauty a trifle to be so slightly regarded by a wise man?'
'Feminine beauty!' said he, gazing into her face, as though all the feminine beauty in the world was concentrated there. 'Why do you say I do not regard it?'
'If you look at me like that, Mr Arabin, I shall alter my opinion--or should do so, were I not of course aware that I have no beauty of my own worth regarding.'
The gentleman blushed crimson, but the lady did not blush at all. A slightly increased colour animated her face, just so much so as to give her an air of special interest. She expected a compliment from her admirer, but she was rather grateful than otherwise by finding that he did not pay it to her. Messrs Slope and Thorne, Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson, they all paid her compliments. She was rather in hopes that she would ultimately succeed in inducing Mr Arabin to abuse her.
'But your gaze,' said she, 'is one of wonder, and not of admiration. You wonder at my audacity in asking you such questions about yourself.'
'Well, I do rather,' said he.
'Nevertheless I expect an answer, Mr Arabin. Why were women made beautiful if men are not to regard them?'
'But men do regard them,' he replied.
'And why not you?'
'You are begging the question, Madame Neroni.'
'I am sure that I shall beg nothing, Mr Arabin, which you will not grant, and I do beg for an answer. Do you not as a rule think women below your notice as companions? Let us see. There is the widow Bold looking round at you from her chair this minute. What would you say to her as a companion for life?'
Mr Arabin, rising from his position, leaned over the sofa and looked through the drawing-room door to the place where Eleanor was seated between Bertie Stanhope and Mr Slope. She at once caught his glance, and averted her own. She was not pleasantly placed in her present position. Mr Slope was doing his best to attract her attention; and she was striving to prevent his doing so by talking to Mr Stanhope, while her mind was intently fixed on Mr Arabin and Madame Neroni. Bertie Stanhope endeavoured to take advantage of her favours, but he was thinking more of the manner in which he would by-and-by throw himself at her feet, than of amusing her at the present moment.
'There,' said the signora. 'She was stretching her beautiful neck to look at you, and now you have disturbed her. Well I declare, I believe I am wrong about you; I believe that you do think Mrs Bold a charming woman. Your looks seem to say so; and by her looks I should say that she is jealous of me. Come, Mr Arabin, confide in me, and if it is so, I'll do all in my power to make up the match.'
It is needless to say that the signora was not very sincere in her offer. She was never sincere on such subjects. She never expected others to be so, nor did she expect others to think her so. Such matters were her playthings, her billiard table, her hounds and hunters, her waltzes and polkas, her picnics and summer-day excursions. She had little else to amuse her, and therefore played at love-making in all its forms. She was now playing at it with Mr Arabin, and did not at all expect the earnestness and truth of his answer.
'All in your power would be nothing,' said he; 'for Mrs Bold is, I imagine, already engaged to another.'
'Then you own the impeachment yourself.'
'You cross-question me rather unfairly,' he replied, 'and I do not know why I answer you at all. Mrs Bold is a very beautiful woman, and as intelligent as beautiful. It is impossible to know her without admiring her.'
'So you think the widow a very beautiful woman?'
'Indeed I do.'
'And one that would grace the parsonage at St Ewold's.'
'One that would grace any man's house.'
'And you really have the effrontery to tell me this,' said she; 'to tell me, who, as you very well know, set up to be a beauty myself, and who am at this very moment taking such an interest in your affairs, you really have the effrontery to tell me that Mrs Bold is the most beautiful woman you know.'
'I did not say so,' said Mr Arabin; 'you are more beautiful--' 'Ah, come now, that is something like. I thought you would not be so unfeeling.'
'You are more beautiful, perhaps more clever.'
'Thank you, thank you, Mr Arabin. I knew that you and I should be friends.'
'But--' 'Not a word further. I will not hear a word further. If you talk till midnight, you cannot improve what you have said.'
'But Madame Neroni, Mrs Bold--' 'I will not hear a word about Mrs Bold. Dread thoughts of strychnine did pass across my brain, but she is welcome to the second place.'
'Her place--' 'I won't hear anything about her or her place. I am satisfied and that is enough. But, Mr Arabin, I am dying with hunger; beautiful and clever as I am, you know I cannot go to my food, and yet you do not bring it to me.'
This at any rate was so true as to make it unnecessary that Mr Arabin should not act upon it, and he accordingly went into the dining-room and supplied the signora's wants.
'And yourself,' said she.
'Oh,' said he, 'I am not hungry; I never eat at this hour.'
'Come, come, Mr Arabin, don't let love interfere with your appetite. It never does with mine. Give me half a glass more champagne, and then go to the table. Mrs Bold will do me an injury if you stay talking to me any longer.'
Mr Arabin did as he was bid. He took her plate and glass from her, and going into the dining-room, helped himself to a sandwich from the crowded table and began munching it in a corner.
As he was doing so, Miss Thorne, who had hardly sat down for a moment, came into the room, and seeing him standing, was greatly distressed.
'Oh, my dear Mr Arabin,' said she, 'have you never sat down yet? I am so distressed. You of all men too.'
Mr Arabin assured her that he had only just come into the room.
'That is the very reason why you should lose no more time. Come I'll make room for you. Thank'ee my dear,' she said, seeing that Mrs Bold was making an attempt to move from her chair, 'but I would not for the world see you stir, for all the ladies would think it necessary to follow. But, perhaps, if Mr Stanhope has done--just for a minute, Mr Stanhope--till I can get another chair.'
And so Bertie had to rise to make way for his rival. This he did, as he did everything, with an air of good-humoured pleasantry, which made it impossible for Mr Arabin to refuse the proffered seat.
'His bishopric let another take,' said Bertie; the quotation being certainly not very appropriate, either for the occasion, or the person spoken to. 'I have eaten and am satisfied; Mr Arabin, pray take my chair. I wish for your sake, it really was a bishop's seat.'
Mr Arabin did sit down, and as he did so, Mrs Bold got up as though to follow her neighbour.
'Pray, pray don't move,' said Miss Thorne, almost forcing Eleanor back into her chair. 'Mr Stanhope is not going to leave us. He will stand behind you like a true knight as he is. And now I think of it, Mr Arabin, let me introduce you to Mr Slope. Mr Slope, Mr Arabin.' And the two gentlemen bowed stiffly to each other across the lady they both intended to marry, while the other gentleman who also intended to marry her stood behind, watching them.
The two had never met each other before, and the present was certainly not a good opportunity for much cordial conversation, even if cordial conversation between them had been possible. As it was, the whole four who formed the party seemed as though their tongues were tied. Mr Slope, who was wide awake to what he hoped was his coming opportunity, was not much concerned in the interest of the moment. His wish was to see Eleanor move, that he might pursue her. Bertie was not exactly in the same frame of mind; the evil of the day was near enough; there was no reason why he should precipitate it. He had made up his mind to marry Eleanor Bold if he could, and was resolved to-day to take the first preliminary step towards doing so. But there was time enough before him. He was not going to make an offer of marriage over the table-cloth. Having thus good-naturedly made way for Mr Arabin, he was willing also to let him talk to the future Mrs Stanhope as long as they remained in their present position.
Mr Arabin bowed to Mr Slope, began eating his food, without saying a word further. He was full of thoughts, and though he ate he did so unconsciously.
But poor Eleanor was the most to be pitied. The only friend on whom she thought she could rely, was Bertie Stanhope, and he, it seemed, was determined to desert her. Mr Arabin did not attempt to address her. She said a few words in reply to some remarks from Mr Slope, and then feeling the situation too much for her, started from her chair in spite of Miss Thorne, and hurried from the room. Mr Slope followed her, and young Stanhope lost the occasion.
Madame Neroni, when she was left alone, could not help pondering much on the singular interview she had had with this singular man. Not a word that she had spoken to him had been intended by her to be received as true, and yet he had answered her in the very spirit of truth. He had done so, and she had been aware that he had done so. She had wormed from him his secret; and he, debarred as it would seem from man's usual privilege of lying, had innocently laid bare his whole soul to her. He loved Eleanor Bold, but Eleanor was not in his eyes so beautiful as herself. He would fain have Eleanor for his wife, but yet he had acknowledged that she was the less gifted of the two. The man had literally been unable to falsify his thoughts when questioned, and had been compelled to be true malgre lui, even when truth must have been disagreeable to him.
This teacher of men, this Oxford pundit, this double-distilled quintessence of university perfection, this writer of religious treatises, this speaker of ecclesiastical speeches, had been like a little child in her hands; she had turned him inside out, and read his very heart as she might have done that of a young girl. She could not but despise him for his facile openness, and yet she liked him too. It was a novelty to her, a new trait in a man's character. She felt also that she could never so completely make a fool of him as she did of the Slopes and the Thornes. She felt that she could never induce Mr Arabin to make protestations to her that were not true, or to listen to nonsense that was mere nonsense.
It was quite clear that Mr Arabin was heartily in love with Mrs Bold, and the signora, with very unwonted good nature, began to turn it over in her mind whether she could not do him a good turn. Of course Bertie was to have the first chance. It was an understood family arrangement that her brother was, if possible, to marry the widow Bold. Madeline knew too well the necessities and what was due to her sister to interfere with so excellent a plan, as long as it might be feasible. But she had strong suspicion that it was not feasible. She did not think it likely that Mrs Bold would accept a man in her brother's position, and she had frequently said so to Charlotte. She was inclined to believe that Mr Slope had more chance of success; and with her it would be a labour of love to rob Mr Slope of his wife.
And so the signora resolved, should Bertie fail, to do a good-natured act for once in her life, and give up Mr Arabin to the woman whom he loved.
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{
"id": "2432"
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39
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THE LOOKALOFTS AND THE GREENACRES
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On the whole, Miss Thorne's provision for the amusement and feeding of the outer classes in the exoteric paddock was not unsuccessful.
Two little drawbacks to the general happiness did take place, but they were of a temporary nature, and apparent rather than real. The first was the downfall of young Harry Greenacre, and the other was the uprise of Mrs Lookaloft and her family.
As to the quintain, it became more popular among the boys on foot, than it would ever have been among the men on horseback, even had young Greenacre been more successful. It was twirled round and round till it was nearly twisted out of the ground; and the bag of flour was used with great gusto in powdering the backs and heads of all who could be coaxed within the vicinity.
Of course it was reported all throughout the assemblage that Harry was dead, and there was a pathetic scene between him and his mother when it was found that he had escaped scatheless from the fall. A good deal of beer was drunk on the occasion, and the quintain was 'dratted' and 'bothered', and very generally anathematised by all the mothers who had young sons likely to be placed in similar jeopardy. But the affair of Mrs Lookaloft was of a more serious nature.
'I do tell 'ee plainly,--face to face--she be there in madam's drawing-room; herself and Gussy, and them two walloping gals, dressed up to their very eyeses.' This was said by a very positive, very indignant, and very fat farmer's wife, who was sitting on the end of a bench leaning on the handle of a huge cotton umbrella.
'But you didn't zee her, Dame Guffern?' said Mrs Greenacres, whom this information, joined to the recent peril undergone by her son, almost overpowered. Mr Greenacres held just as much land as Mr Lookaloft, paid his rent quite as punctually, and his opinion in the vestry-room was reckoned to be every whit as good. Mrs Lookaloft's rise in the world had been wormwood to Mrs Greenacre. She had not taste herself for the sort of finery which converted Barleystubb farm into Rosebank, and which had occasionally graced Mr Lookaloft's letters with the dignity of esquirehood. She had no wish to convert her own homeland into Violet Villa, or to see her goodman go about with a new-fangled handle to his name. But it was a mortal injury to her that Mrs Lookaloft should be successful in her hunt after such honours. She had abused and ridiculed Mrs Lookaloft to the extent of her little power. She had pushed against her going out of church, and had excused herself with all the easiness of equality. 'Ah, dame, I axes pardon; but you be grown so mortal stout these time.' She had inquired with apparent cordiality of Mr Lookaloft after 'the woman that owned him,' and had, as she thought, been on the whole able to hold her own pretty well against her aspiring neighbour. Now, however, she found herself distinctly put into a separate and inferior class. Mrs Lookaloft was asked into the Ullathorne drawing-room, merely because she called her house Rosebank, and had talked over her husband into buying pianos and silk dresses instead of putting his money by to stock farms for his sons.
Mrs Greenacre, much as she reverenced Miss Thorne, and highly as she respected her husband's landlord, could not but look on this as an act of injustice done to her and hers. Hitherto the Lookalofts had never been recognised as being of a different class from the Greenacres. Their pretensions were all self-pretensions, their finery was all paid for by themselves and not granted to them by others. The local sovereigns of the vicinity, the district fountains of honour, had hitherto conferred on them the stamp of no rank. Hitherto their crinoline petticoats, late hours, and mincing gait had been a fair subject of Mrs Greenacre's raillery, and this raillery had been a safety valve for her envy. Now, however, and from henceforward, the case would be very different. Now the Lookalofts would boast that their aspirations had been sanctioned by the gentry of the country; now they would declare with some show of truth that their claims to peculiar consideration had been recognised. They had sat as equal guests in the presence of bishops and baronets; they had been curtseyed to by Miss Thorne on her own drawing-room carpet; they were about to sit down to table in company with a live countess! Bab Lookaloft, as she had always been called by the young Greenacres in the days of their juvenile equality, might possibly sit next to the Honourable George, and that wretched Gussy might be permitted to hand a custard to the Lady Margaretta De Courcy.
The fruition of these honours, or such of them as fell to the lot of the envied family, was not such as should have caused much envy. The attention paid to the Lookalofts by the De Courcys was very limited, and the amount of society was hardly in itself a recompense for the dull monotony of their day. But of what they endured Mrs Greenacre took no account; she thought only of what she considered they must enjoy, and of the dreadfully exalted tone of living which would be manifested by the Rosebank family, as the consequence of their present distinction.
'But did 'ee zee 'em there, dame, did 'ee zee 'em then with your own eyes?' asked poor Mrs Greenacre, still hoping that there might be some ground for doubt.
'And how could I do that, unless so be I was there myself?' asked Mrs Guffen. 'I didn't set eyes on none of them this blessed morning, but I zee'd them as did. You know our John; well, he will be for keeping company with Betsey Rusk, madam's own maid, you know. And Betsey isn't one of your common kitchen wenches. So Betsey, she come out to our John, you know, and she's always vastly polite to me, is Betsey Rusk, I must say. So before she took so much as one turn with John, she told me every ha'porth that was going on up in the house.'
'Did she now?' said Mrs Greenacre.
'Indeed she did,' said Mrs Guffern.
'And she told you them people was up there in the drawing-room?'
'She told me she zee'd them come in--that they was dressed finer by half nor any of the family, with all their neckses and buzoms stark naked as a born babby.'
'The minxes!' exclaimed Mrs Greenacre, who felt herself more put about by this than any other mark of aristocratic distinction which her enemies had assumed.
'Yes, indeed,' continued Mrs Guffern, 'as naked as you please, while all the quality was dressed just as you and I be, Mrs Greenacre.'
'Drat their impudence' said Mrs Greenacre, from whose well-covered bosom all milk of human kindness was receding, as far as the family of the Lookalofts were concerned.
'So says I,' said Mrs Guffern; 'and so says my good-man Thomas Guffern, when he hear'd it. "Molly," says he to me, "if ever you takes to going about o' mornings with yourself all naked in them ways, I begs you won't come back no more to the old house." So says I, "Thomas, no more I wull." "But," says he, "drat it, how the deuce does she manage with her rheumatiz, and she not a rag on her:"' said Mrs Giffern, laughed loudly as she though of Mrs Lookalofts's probable sufferings from rheumatic attacks.
'But to liken herself that way to folk that ha' blood in their veins,' said Mrs Greenacre.
'Well, but that warn't all neither that Betsey told. There they all swelled into madam's drawing-room, like so many turkey cocks, as much to say, "and who dare say no to us?" and Gregory was thinking of telling them to come down here, only his heart failed him 'cause of the grand way they was dressed. So in they went; but madam looked at them as glum as death.'
'Well now,' said Mrs Greenacre, greatly relieved, 'so they wasn't axed different from us all then?'
'Betsey says that Gregory says that madam wasn't a bit too well pleased to see them where they was and that, to his believing, they was expected to come here just like the rest of us.'
There was great consolation in this. Not that Mrs Greenacre was altogether satisfied. She felt that justice to herself demanded that Mrs Lookaloft should not only not be encouraged, but that she should also be absolutely punished.
What had been done at that scriptural banquet, of which Mrs Greenacre so often read the account to her family? Why had not Miss Thorne boldly gone to the intruder and said: 'Friend, thou hast come up hither to high places not fitted for thee. Go down lower, and thou wilt find thy mates.' Let the Lookalofts be treated at the present moment with ever so cold a shoulder, they would still be enabled to boast hereafter of their position, their aspirations, and their honour.
'Well, with all her grandeur, I do wonder that she be so mean, continued Mrs Greenacre, unable to dismiss the subject. 'Did you hear, goodman?' she went on, about to repeat the whole story to her husband who then came up. 'There's dame Lookaloft and Bab and Gussy and the lot of 'em all sitting as grand as fivepence in madam's drawing-room, and they not axed no more nor you nor me. Did you ever hear tell the like o' that?'
'Well, and what for shouldn't they?' said Farmer Greenacre.
'Likening theyselves to the quality, as though they was estated folk, or the like o' that!' said Mrs Guffern.
'Well, if they likes it and madam likes it, they's welcome for me,' said the farmer. 'Now I likes the place better, cause I be more at home like, and don't have to pay for them fine clothes for the missus. Every one to his taste, Mrs Guffern, and if neighbour Lookaloft thinks that he has the best of it, he's welcome.'
Mrs Greenacre sat down by her husband's side to begin the heavy work of the banquet, and she did so in some measure of restored tranquillity, but nevertheless she shook her head at her gossip to show that in this instance she did not quite approve of her husband's doctrine.
'And I'll tell 'ee what, dames,' continued he; 'if so be that we cannot enjoy the dinner that madam gives us because Mother Lookaloft is sitting up there on a grand sofa, I think we ought all to go home. If we greet at that, what'll we do when true sorrow comes across us? How would you be now, dame, if the boy there had broke his neck when he got the tumble?'
Mrs Greenacre was humbled, and said nothing further on the matter. But let prudent men, such as Mr Greenacre, preach as they will, the family of the Lookalofts certainly does occasion a good deal of heart-burning in the world at large.
It was pleasant to see Mr Plomacy, as leaning on his stout stick he went about among the rural guests, acting as a sort of head constable as well as master of the revels. 'Now, young 'un, if you can't manage to get along without that screeching, you'd better go to the other side of the twelve-acre field, and take your dinner with you. Come, girls, what do you stand there for, twirling of your thumbs? come out, and let the lads see you; you've no need to be so ashamed of your faces. Hello! there, who are you? how did you make your way in here?'
This last disagreeable question was put to a young man of about twenty-four, who did not, in Mr Plomacy's eye, bear sufficient vestiges of a rural education and residence.
'If you please, your worship, Master Barrell the coachman let me in at the church wicket, 'cause I do be working mostly al'ays for the family.'
'Then Master Barrell the coachman may let you out again,' said Mr Plomacy, not even conciliated by the magisterial dignity which had been conceded to him. 'What's your name? And what trade are you, and who do you work for?'
'I'm Stubbs, your worship, Bob Stubbs; and--and--and--' 'And what's your trade, Stubbs?'
'Plaisterer, please your worship.'
'I'll plaister you and Barrell too; you'll just walk out of this 'ere field as quick as you walked in. We don't want no plaisterers; when we do, we'll send for 'em. Come, my buck, walk.'
Stubbs the plasterer was much downcast at the dreadful edict. He was a sprightly fellow, and had contrived since his egress into the Ullathorne elysium to attract to himself a forest nymph, to whom he was whispering a plasterer's usual soft nothings, when he was encountered by the great Mr Plomacy. It was dreadful to be thus dissevered from the dryad, and sent howling back to a Barchester pandemonium just as the nectar and ambrosia were about to descend on the fields of asphodel. He began to try what prayers would do, but city prayers were vain against the great rural potentate. Not only did Mr Plomacy order his exit, but raising his stick to show the way which led to the gate that had been left in the custody of that false Cerberus Barrell, proceeded himself to see the edict of banishment carried out.
The goddess Mercy, however, the sweetest goddess that ever sat upon a cloud, and the dearest to poor frail erring man appeared on the field in the person of Mr Greenacre. Never was interceding goddess more welcome.
'Come, man,' said Mr Greenacre, 'never stick at trifles such a day as this. I know the lad well. Let him bide at my axing. Madam won't miss what he can eat and drink, I know.'
Now Mr Plomacy and Mr Greenacre were sworn friends. Mr Plomacy had at his own disposal as comfortable a room as there was in Ullathorne House; but he was a bachelor, and alone there; and, moreover, smoking in the house was not allowed even to Mr Plomacy. His moments of truest happiness were spent in a huge arm-chair in the warmest corner of Mrs Greenacre's beautifully clean front kitchen. 'Twas there that the inner man dissolved itself, and poured itself out in streams of pleasant chat; 'twas there, and perhaps there only, that he could unburden himself from the ceremonies of life without offending the dignity of those above him, or incurring the familiarity of those below. 'Twas there that his long pipe was always to be found on the accustomed chimney board, not only permitted but encouraged.
Such being the state of the case, it was not to be supposed that Mr Plomacy could refuse such a favour to Mr Greenacre; but nevertheless he not grant it without some further show of austere authority.
'Eat and drink, Mr Greenacre! No. it's not what he eats and drinks; but the example such a chap shows, coming in where he's not invited--a chap of his age too. He too that never did a day's work about Ullathorne since he was born. Plaisterer! I'll plaister him!'
'He worked long enough for me, then Mr Plomacy. And a good hand he is at setting tiles as any in Barchester,' said the other, not sticking quite to veracity, as indeed mercy never should. 'Come, come, let him alone to-day, and quarrel with him to-morrow. You wouldn't shame him before his lass there?'
'It goes against the grain with me, then,' said Mr Plomacy. 'And take care, you Stubbs, and behave yourself. If I hear a row, I shall know where it comes from. I'm up to you Barchester journeymen; I know what stuff you're made of.'
And so Stubbs went off happy, pulling at the forelock of his shock head of hair in honour of the steward's clemency, and giving another double pull at it in honour of the farmer's kindness. And as he went he swore within his grateful heart, that if ever Farmer Greenacre wanted a day's work done for nothing, he was the lad to do it for him. Which promise it was not probable that he would ever be called upon to perform.
But Mr Plomacy was not quite happy in his mind for he thought of the unjust steward, and began to reflect whether he had not made for himself friends at the mammon of unrighteousness. This, however, did not interfere with the manner in which he performed his duties at the bottom of the long board; nor did Mr Greenacre perform his the worse at the top on account of the good wishes of Stubbs the plasterer. Moreover, the guests did not think it anything amiss when Mr Plomacy, rising to say grace, prayed that God would make them all truly thankful for the good things which Madam Thorne in her great liberality had set out before them!
All this time the quality in the tent on the lawn were getting on swimmingly; that is, champagne without restrictions can enable quality fold to swim. Sir Harkaway Gorse proposed the health of Miss Thorne, and likened her to a blood race-horse, always in condition, and not to be tired down by any amount of work. Mr Thorne returned thanks, saying he hoped his sister would always be found able to run when called upon, and than gave the health and prosperity of the De Courcy family. His sister was very much honoured by seeing so many of them at her poor board. They were all aware that important avocations made the absence of the earl necessary. As his duty to his prince had called him from his family hearth he, Mr Thorne, could not venture to regret that he did not see him at Ullathorne; but nevertheless he would venture to say--And so Mr Thorne became somewhat gravelled as a country gentleman in similar circumstances usually do; but he ultimately sat down, declaring that he had much satisfaction in drinking the noble earl's health, together with that of the countess, and all the family of De Courcy castle.
And then the Honourable George returned thanks. We will not follow him through the different periods of his somewhat irregular eloquence. Those immediately in his neighbourhood found it at first rather difficult to get him to his legs, but much greater difficulty was soon experience in inducing him to resume his seat. One of two arrangements should certainly be made in these days: either let all speech-making on festive occasions be utterly tabooed and made as it were impossible; or else let those who are to exercise the privilege be first subjected to a competing examination before the civil service examining commissioners. As it is now, the Honourable Georges do but little honour to our exertions in favour of British education.
In the dining-room the bishop went through the honours of the day with much more neatness and propriety. He also drank Miss Thorne's health, and did it in a manner becoming the bench which he adorned. The party there, was perhaps a little more dull, a shade less lively than that in the tent.
But what was lost in mirth, was fully made up in decorum.
And so the banquet passed off at the various tables with great eclat and universal delight.
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"id": "2432"
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40
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ULLATHORNE SPORTS--ACT II
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'That which has made them drunk, has made me bold.' 'Twas thus that Mr Slope encouraged himself, as he left the dining-room in pursuit of Eleanor. He had not indeed seen in that room any person really intoxicated; but there had been a good deal of wine drunk, and Mr Slope had not hesitated to take his share, in order to screw himself up to the undertaking which he had in hand. He is not the first man who has thought it expedient to call in the assistance of Bacchus on such an occasion.
Eleanor was out through the window, and on the grass before she perceived that she was followed. Just at that moment the guests were nearly all occupied at the tables. Here and there were to be seen a constant couple or two, who preferred their own sweet discourse to the jingle of glasses, or the charms of rhetoric which fell from the mouths of the Honourable George and the bishop of Barchester; but the grounds were as nearly vacant as Mr Slope could wish them to be.
Eleanor saw that she was pursued, and as a deer, when escape is no longer possible, will turn to bay and attack the hounds, so did she turn upon Mr Slope.
'Pray don't let me take you from the room,' said she, speaking with all the stiffness which she know how to use. 'I have come out to look for a friend. I must beg of you, Mr Slope, to go back.'
But Mr Slope would not be thus entreated. He had observed all day that Mrs Bold was not cordial to him, and this had to a certain extent oppressed him. But he did not deduce from this any assurance that his aspirations were in vain. He saw that she was angry with him. Might she not be so because he had so long tampered with her feelings,--might it not arise from his having, as he knew to be the case, caused her name to be bruited about in conjunction with his own, without having given her the opportunity of confessing to the world that henceforth their names were to be the one and the same?
Poor lady! He had within him a certain Christian conscience-stricken feeling of remorse on this head. It might be that he had wronged her by his tardiness. He had, however, at the present moment imbibed too much of Mr Thorne's champagne to have any inward misgivings. He was right in repeating the boast of Lady Macbeth: he was not drunk; but he was bold enough for anything. It was a pity that in such a state he could not have encountered Mrs Proudie.
'You must permit me to attend you,' said he; 'I could not think of allowing you to go alone.'
'Indeed you must, Mr Slope,' said Eleanor still very stiffly; 'for it is my special wish to be alone.'
The time for letting the great secret escape him had already come. Mr Slope saw that it must be now or never, and he was determined that it should be now. This was not his first attempt at winning a fair lady. He had been on his knees, looked unutterable things with his eyes, and whispered honeyed words before this. Indeed he was somewhat an adept at these things, and had only to adapt to the perhaps different taste of Mrs Bold the well-remembered rhapsodies which had once so much gratified Olivia Proudie.
'Do not ask me to leave you, Mrs Bold,' said he with an impassioned look, impassioned and sanctified as well, with that sort of look which is not uncommon with gentlemen of Mr Slope's school, and which may perhaps be called the tender-pious. 'Do not ask me to leave you, till I have spoken a few words with which my heart is full; which I have come hither purposely to say.'
Eleanor saw how it was now. She knew directly what it was she was about to go through, and very miserable the knowledge made her. Of course she could refuse Mr Slope, and there would be an end of that, one might say. But there was not an end of it as far as Eleanor was concerned. The very fact of Mr Slope's making an offer to her would be a triumph for the archdeacon, and in a great measure a vindication of Mr Arabin's conduct. The widow could not bring herself to endure with patience the idea that she had been in the wrong.
She had defended Mr Slope, she had declared herself quite justified in admitting him among her acquaintance, had ridiculed the idea of his considering himself as more than an acquaintance, and had resented the archdeacon's caution in her behalf: now it was about to be proved to her in a manner sufficiently disagreeable that the archdeacon had been right, and she herself had been entirely wrong.
'I don't know what you can have to say to me, Mr Slope, that you could not have said when we were sitting at table just now;' and she closed her lips, and steadied her eyeballs and looked at him in a manner that ought to have frozen him.
But gentlemen are not easily frozen when they are full of champagne, and it would not at any time have been easy to freeze Mr Slope.
'There are things, Mrs Bold, which a man cannot well say before a crowd; which perhaps he cannot well say at any time; which indeed he may most fervently desire to get spoken, and which he may yet find it almost impossible to utter. It is such things as these, that I now wish to say to you;' and then the tender-pious look was repeated, with a little more emphasis even than before.
Eleanor had not found it practicable to stand stock still before the dining-room window, and there receive his offer in full view of Miss Thorne's guests. She had therefore in self-defence walked on, and Mr Slope had gained his object of walking with her. He now offered her his arm.
'Thank you, Mr Slope, I am much obliged to you; but for the very short time that I shall remain with you I shall prefer walking alone.'
'And must it be so short?' said he; 'must it be--' 'Yes,' said Eleanor, interrupting him; 'as short as possible, if you please, sir.'
'I had hoped, Mrs Bold--I had hoped--' 'Pray hope nothing, Mr Slope, as far as I am concerned; pray do not; I do not know, and need not know what hope you mean. Our acquaintance is very slight, and will probably remain so. Pray, pray, let that be enough; there is at any rage no necessity for us to quarrel.'
Mrs Bold was certainly treating Mr Slope rather cavalierly, and he felt it so. She was rejecting him before he had offered himself, and informed him at the same time that he was taking a great deal too much on himself to be so familiar. She did not even make an attempt >From such a sharp and waspish word as 'no' To pluck the string.
He was still determined to be very tender and very pious, seeing that in spite of all Mrs Bold had said to him, he not yet abandoned hope; but he was inclined to be somewhat angry. The widow was bearing herself, as he thought, with too high a hand, was speaking of herself in much too imperious a tone. She had clearly no idea that an honour was being conferred on her. Mr Slope would be tender as long as he could, but he began to think, if that failed, it would not be amiss if he also mounted himself for a while on his high horse. Mr Slope could undoubtedly be very tender, but he could be very savage also, and he knew his own abilities.
'That is cruel,' said he, 'and unchristian too. The worst of us are all still bidden to hope. What have I done that you should pass on me so severe a sentence?' and then he paused a moment, during which the widow walked steadily on with measured step, saying nothing further.
'Beautiful woman,' at last he burst forth, 'beautiful woman, you cannot pretend to be ignorant that I adore you. Yes, Eleanor, yes, I love you. I love you with the truest affection which man can bear to woman. Next to my hopes of heaven are my hopes of possessing you.' (Mr Slope's memory here played him false, or he would not have omitted the deanery) 'How sweet to walk to heaven with you by my side, with you for my guide, mutual guides. Say, Eleanor, dearest Eleanor, shall we walk that sweet path together?'
Eleanor had no intention of ever walking together with Mr Slope on any other path than the special one of Miss Thorne's which they now occupied; but as she had been unable to prevent the expression of Mr Slope's wishes and aspirations, she resolved to hear him out to the end, before she answered him.
'Ah! Eleanor,' he continued, and it seemed to be his idea, that as he had once found courage to pronounce her Christian name, he could not utter it often enough. 'Ah! Eleanor, will it not be sweet with the Lord's assistance, to travel hand in hand through this mortal valley which his mercies will make pleasant to us, till hereafter we shall dwell together at the foot of his throne?' And then a more tenderly pious glance ever beamed from the lover's eyes. 'Ah! Eleanor--' 'My name, Mr Slope, is Mrs Bold,' said Eleanor, who, though determined to hear out the tale of his love, was too much disgusted by his blasphemy to be able to bear much more of it.
'Sweetest angel, be not so cold,' said he, and as he said it the champagne broke forth, and he contrived to pass his arm around her waist. He did this with considerable cleverness, for up to this point Eleanor had contrived with tolerable success to keep her distance from him. They had got into a walk nearly enveloped by shrubs, and Mr Slope therefore no doubt considered that as they were now alone it was fitting that he should give her some outward demonstration of that affection of which he talked so much. It may perhaps be presumed that the same stamp of measures had been found to succeed with Olivia Proudie. Be this as it may, it was not successful with Eleanor Bold.
She sprang from him as she would have jumped from an adder, but she did not spring far; not, indeed, beyond arm's length; and then, quick as thought, she raised her little hand and dealt him a box on the ear with such right good will, that it sounded among the trees like a miniature thunder-clap.
And now it is to be feared that every well-bred reader of these pages will lay down the book with disgust, feeling that, after all, the heroine is unworthy of sympathy. She is a hoyden, one will say. At any rate she is not a lady, another will exclaim. I have suspected her all through, a third will declare; and she has no idea of the dignity of a matron; or of the peculiar propriety which her position demands. At one moment she is romping with young Stanhope; then she is making eyes at Mr Arabin; anon she comes to fisty-cuffs with a third lover; and all before she is yet a widow of two years' standing.
She cannot altogether be defended; and yet it may be averred that she is not a hoyden, not given to romping, nor prone to boxing. It were to be wished devoutly that she had not struck Mr Slope in the face. In doing so she derogated from her dignity and committed herself. Had she been educated in Belgravia, had she been brought up by any sterner mentor than that fond father, had she lived longer under the rule of a husband, she might, perhaps, have saved herself from this great fault. As it was, the provocation was too much for her, the temptation to instant resentment of the insult too strong. She was too keen in the feeling of independence, a feeling dangerous for a young woman, but one in which her position peculiarly tempted her to indulge. And then Mr Slope's face, tinted with a deeper dye than usual by the wine he had drunk, simpering and puckering itself with pseudo piety and tender grimaces, seemed specially to call for such punishment. She had, too, a true instinct as to the man; he was capable of rebuke in this way and in no other. To him the blow from her little hand was as much an insult as a blow from a man would have been to another. It went directly to his pride. He conceived himself lowered in his dignity, and personally outraged. He could almost have struck at her again in his rage. Even the pain was a great annoyance to him, and the feeling that his clerical character had been wholly disregarded, sorely vexed him.
There are such men; men who can endure no taint on their personal self-respect, even from a woman;--men whose bodies are to themselves such sacred temples, that a joke against them is desecration, and a rough touch downright sacrilege. Mr Slope was such a man; and, therefore, the slap on that face that he got from Eleanor was, as far as he was concerned, the fittest rebuke which could have been administered to him.
But, nevertheless, she should not have raised her hand against the man. Ladies' hands so soft, so sweet, so delicious to the touch, so grateful to the eye, so gracious in their gentle doings, were not made to belabour men's faces. The moment the deed was done, Eleanor felt that she had sinned against all propriety, and would have given little worlds to recall the blow. In her first agony of sorrow she all but begged the man's pardon. Her next impulse, however, and the one which she obeyed, was to run away.
'I never, never, will speak another word to you,' she said, gasping with emotion and the loss of breath, which her exertion and violent feelings occasioned her, and so saying she put foot to the ground and ran quickly back along the path to the house.
But how shall I sing the divine wrath of Mr Slope, or how invoke the tragic muse to describe the rage which swelled the celestial bosom of the bishop's chaplain? Such an undertaking by no means befits the low-heeled buskin of modern fiction. The painter put a veil over Agamemnon's face when called on to depict the father's grief at the early doom of his devoted daughter. The god, when he resolved to punish the rebellions winds, abstained from mouthing empty threats. The god when he resolved to punish the rebellious winds, abstained from mouthing empty threats.
We will not attempt to tell with what mighty surging of the inner heart Mr Slope swore to revenge himself on the woman who had disgraced him, nor will we vainly strive to depict the deep agony of his soul.
There he is, however, alone on the garden walk, and we must contrive to bring him out of it. He was not willing to come forth quite at once. His cheek was stinging with the weight of Eleanor's fingers, and he fancied that every one who looked at him would be able to see on his face the traces of what he had endured. He stood awhile, becoming redder and redder with rage. He stood motionless, undecided, glaring with his eyes, thinking of the pains and penalties of Hades, and meditating how he might best devote his enemy to the infernal gods with all the passion of his accustomed eloquence. He longed in his heart to be preaching at her. 'Twas thus that he was ordinarily avenged of sinning mortal men and women. Could he at once have ascended his Sunday rostrum and fulminated at her such denunciations as his spirit delighted in, his bosom would have been greatly eased.
But how preach to Mr Thorne's laurels, or how preach indeed at all in such a vanity fair as this now going on at Ullathorne? And then he began to feel a righteous disgust at the wickedness of the doings around him. He had been justly chastised for lending, by his presence, a sanction to such worldly lures. The gaiety of society, the mirth of banquets, the laughter of the young, and the eating and drinking of the elders were, for awhile, without excuse in his sight. What had he now brought down upon himself by sojourning thus in the tents of the heathen? He had consorted with idolaters round the altars of Baal; and therefore a sore punishment had come upon him. He then thought of the Signora Neroni, and his soul within him was full of sorrow. He had an inkling--a true inkling--that he was a wicked sinful man; but it led him in no right direction; he could admit no charity in his heart. He felt debasement coming on him, and he longed to take it off, to rise up in his stirrup, to mount to high places and great power, that he might get up into a mighty pulpit and preach to the world a loud sermon against Mrs Bold.
There he stood fixed to the gravel for about ten minutes. Fortune favoured him so far that no prying eyes came to look upon him in his misery. Then a shudder passed over his whole frame; he collected himself, and slowly wound his way round to the lawn, advancing along the path and not returning in the direction which Eleanor had taken. When he reached the tent he found the bishop standing there in conversation with the master of Lazarus. His lordship had come out to air himself afer the exertion of his speech.
'This is very pleasant--very pleasant, my lord, is it not?' said Mr Slope with his most gracious smile, and pointing to the tent; 'very pleasant. It is delightful to see so many persons enjoying themselves so thoroughly.'
Mr Slope thought he might force the bishop to introduce him to Dr Gwynne. A very great example had declared and practised the wisdom of being everything to everybody, and Mr Slope was desirous of following it. His maxim was never to lose a chance. The bishop, however, at the present moment was not very anxious to increase Mr Slope's circle of acquaintance among his clerical brethren. He had his own reasons for dropping any marked allusion to his domestic chaplain, and he therefore made his shoulder rather cold for the occasion.
'Very, very,' said he without turning round, or even deigning to look at Mr Slope. 'And therefore, Dr Gwynne, I really think that you will find that the hebdomadal board will exercise as wide and as general an authority as at the present moment. I, for one, Dr Gwynne--' 'Dr Gwynne,' said Mr Slope, raising his hat, and resolving not to be outwitted by such an insignificant little goose as the bishop of Barchester.
The master of Lazarus also raised his hat and bowed very politely to Mr Slope. There is not a more courteous gentleman in the queen's dominions than the master of Lazarus.
'My lord,' said Mr Slope, 'pray do me the honour of introducing me to Dr Gwynne. The opportunity is too much in my favour to be lost.'
The bishop had no help for it. 'My chaplain, Dr Gwynne,' said he; 'my present chaplain, Mr Slope.' he certainly made the introduction as unsatisfactory to the chaplain as possible, and by the use of the word present, seemed to indicate that Mr Slope might probably not long enjoy the honour which he now held. But Mr Slope cared nothing for this. He understood the innuendo, and disregarded it. It might probably come to pass that he would be in a situation to resign his chaplaincy before the bishop was in a situation to dismiss him from it. What need the future dean of Barchester care for the bishop, or for the bishop's wife? Had not Mr Slope, just as he was entering Dr Stanhope's carriage, received an important note from Tom Towers of the Jupiter? Had he not that note this moment in his pocket?
So disregarding the bishop, he began to open out a conversation with the master of Lazarus.
But suddenly and interruption came, not altogether unwelcome to Mr Slope. One of the bishop's servants came up to his master's shoulder with a long, grave face, and whispered into the bishop's ear.
'What is it, John?' said the bishop.
'The dean, my lord; he is dead.'
Mr Slope had no further desire to converse with the master of Lazarus, and was very soon on his road back to Barchester.
Eleanor, as we have said, having declared her intention of never holding further communication with Mr Slope, ran hurriedly back towards the house. The thought, however, of what she had done grieved her greatly, and she could not abstain from bursting into tears. 'Twas thus she played the second act in that day's melodrama.
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{
"id": "2432"
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41
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MRS BOLD CONFIDES HER SORROW TO HER FRIEND MISS STANHOPE
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When Mrs Bold came to the end of the walk and faced the lawn, she began to bethink herself what she should do. Was she to wait there till Mr Slope caught her, or was she to go in among the crowd with tears in her eyes and passion in her face? She might in truth have stood there long enough without any reasonable fear of further immediate persecution from Mr Slope; but we are all inclined to magnify the bugbears which frighten us. In her present state of dread she did not know of what atrocity he might venture to be guilty. Had any one told her a week ago that he would have put his arm around her waist at the party of Miss Thorne's she would have been utterly incredulous. Had she been informed that he would be seen on the following Sunday walking down the High Street in a scarlet coat and top-boots, she would not have thought such a phenomenon more improbable.
But this improbable iniquity he had committed; and now there was nothing she could not believe of him. In the first place it was quite manifest that he was tipsy; in the next place, it was to be taken as proved that all his religion was sheer hypocrisy; and finally the man was utterly shameless. She therefore stood watching for the sound of his footfall, not without some fear that he might creep out at her suddenly from among the bushes.
As she thus stood, she saw Charlotte Stanhope at a little distance from her walking quickly across the grass. Eleanor's handkerchief was in her hand, and putting it to her face so as to conceal her tears, she ran across the lawn and joined her friend.
'Oh, Charlotte,' she said, almost too much out of breath to speak very plainly; 'I am so glad I have found you.'
'Glad you have found me!' said Charlotte, laughing, 'that's a good joke. Why Bertie and I have been looking for you everywhere. He swears that you have gone off with Mr Slope, and is now on the point of hanging himself.'
'Oh, Charlotte, don't,' said Mrs Bold.
'Why, my child, what on earth is the matter with you!' said Miss Stanhope, perceiving that Eleanor's hand trembled on her own arm, and finding also that her companion was still half choked with tears. 'Goodness heaven! Something has distressed you. What is it? What can I do for you?'
Eleanor answered her only by a sort of spasmodic gurgle in her throat. She was a good deal upset, as people say, and could not at the moment collect herself.
'Come here, this way, Mrs Bold; come this way, and we shall not be seen. What has happened to vex you so? What can I do for you? Can Bertie do anything?'
'On, no, no, no, no,' said Eleanor. 'There is nothing to be done. Only that horrid man--' 'What horrid man?' asked Charlotte.
There are some moments in life in which both men and women feel themselves called on to make a confidence; in which not to do so requires a disagreeable resolution and also a disagreeable suspicion. There are people of both sexes who never make confidences; who are never tempted by momentary circumstances to disclose their secrets. But such are generally dull, close, unimpassioned spirits, 'gloomy gnomes who live in cold dark mines.' There was nothing of the gnome about Eleanor; and she therefore resolved to tell Charlotte Stanhope the whole story about Mr Slope.
'That horrid man; that Mr Slope,' said she, 'did you not see that he followed me out of the dining-room?'
'Of course I did and was sorry enough; but I could not help it. I knew you would be annoyed. But you and Bertie managed it badly between you.'
'It was not his fault nor mine either. You know how I dislike the idea of coming in the carriage with that man.'
'I am sure I am very sorry if that has led to it.'
'I don't know what has led to it,' said Eleanor, almost crying again. 'But it has not been my fault.'
'But what has he done, my dear?'
'He's an abominable, horrid, hypocritical man, and it would serve him right to tell the bishop about it.'
'Believe me, if you want to do him an injury, you had far better tell Mrs Proudie. But what did he do, Mrs Bold?'
'Ugh!' exclaimed Eleanor.
'Well, I must confess he's not very nice,' said Charlotte Stanhope.
'Nice!' said Eleanor. 'He is the most fulsome, fawning, abominable man I ever saw. What business had he to come to me? --I that never gave him the slightest tittle of encouragement--I that always hated him, though I did take his part when others ran him down.'
'That's just where it is, my dear. He has heard that, and therefore fancied that of course you were in love with him.'
This was wormwood to Eleanor. It was in fact the very thing which all her friends had been saying for the last month past; and which experience now proved to be true. Eleanor resolved within herself that she would never again take any man's part. The world with all its villainy, and all its ill-nature, might wag as it like; she would not again attempt to set crooked things straight.
'But what did he do, my dear?' said Charlotte, who was really rather interested in the subject.
'He--he--he--' 'Well--come, it can't have been anything so very horrid, for the man was not tipsy.'
'Oh, I am sure he was,' said Eleanor. 'I am sure he must have been tipsy.'
'Well, I declare I didn't observe it. But what was it, my love?'
'Why, I believe I can hardly tell you. He talked such horrid stuff that you never heard the like; about religion, and heaven, and love--Oh dear,--he is such a nasty man.'
'I can really imagine the sort of stuff he would talk. Well--and then?'
'And then--he took hold of me.'
'Took hold of you?'
'Yes--he somehow got close to me, and took hold of me--' 'By the waist?'
'Yes,' said Eleanor shuddering.
'And then--' 'Then I jumped away from him, and gave him a slap on the face; and ran away along the path, till I saw you.'
'Ha, ha, ha!' Charlotte Stanhope laughed heartily at the finale of the tragedy. It was delightful to her to think that Mr Slope had had his ears boxed. She did not quite appreciate the feeling which made her friend so unhappy at the result of the interview. To her thinking, the matter had ended happily enough as regarded the widow, who indeed was entitled to some sort of triumph among her friends. Whereas Mr Slope would be due all those jibes and jeers which would naturally follow such an affair. His friends would ask him whether his ears tingled whenever he saw a widow; and he would be cautioned that beautiful things were made to be looked at, and not to be touched.
Such were Charlotte Stanhope's views on such matters; but she did not at the present moment clearly explain them to Mrs Bold. Her object was to endear herself to her friend; and therefore, having had her laugh, she was ready enough to offer sympathy. Could Bertie do anything? Should Bertie speak to the man, and warn him that in future he must behave with more decorum? Bertie, indeed, she declared, would be more angry than any one else when he heard to what insult Mrs Bold had been subjected.
'But you won't tell him?' said Mrs Bold with a look of horror.
'Not if you don't like it,' said Charlotte; 'but considering everything, I would strongly advise it. If you had a brother, you know, it would be unnecessary. But it is very right that Mr Slope should know that you have somebody by you that will, and can protect you.'
'But my father is here.'
'Yes, but it is so disagreeable for clergymen to have to quarrel with each other; and circumstanced as your father is just at this moment, it would be very inexpedient that there should be anything unpleasant between him and Mr Slope. Surely you and Bertie are intimate enough for you to permit him to take your part.'
Charlotte Stanhope was very anxious that her brother should at once on that very day settle matters with his future wife.
Things had now come to that point between him and his father, and between him and his creditors, that he must either do so, or leave Barchester; either do that, or go back to his unwashed associates, dirty lodgings, and poor living at Carrara. Unless he could provide himself with an income, he must go to Carrara or to -. His father the prebendary had not said this in so many words, but had he done so, he could not have signified it more plainly.
Such being the state of the case, it was very necessary that no more time should be lost. Charlotte had seen her brother's apathy, when he neglected to follow Mrs Bold out of the room, with anger which she could hardly suppress. It was grievous to think that Mr Slope should have so distanced him.
Charlotte felt that she had played her part with sufficient skill. She had brought them together and induced such a degree of intimacy, that her brother was really relieved from all trouble and labour in the matter. And moreover, it was quite plain that Mrs Bold was very fond of Bertie. And now it was plain enough also that he had nothing to fear from his rival Mr Slope.
There was certainly an awkwardness in subjecting Mrs Bold to a second offer on the same day. It would have been well, perhaps, to have put the matter off for a week, could a week have been spared. But circumstances are frequently too peremptory to be arranged as we would wish to arrange them; and such was the case now. This being so, could not this affair of Mr Slope's be turned to advantage? Could it not be made the excuse for bringing Bertie and Mrs Bold into still closer connection; into such close connection that they could not fail to throw themselves into each other's arms? Such was the game which Miss Stanhope now at a moment's notice resolved to play.
And very well she played it. In the first place, it was arranged that Mr Slope should not return in the Stanhope's carriage to Barchester. It so happened that Mr Slope was already gone, but of that of course they knew nothing. The signora should be induced to go first, with only the servants and her sister, and Bertie should take Mr Slope's place in the second journey. Bertie was to be told in confidence of the whole affair, and when the carriage was gone off with the first load, Eleanor was to be left under Bertie's special protection, so as to insure her from any further aggression from Mr Slope. While the carriage was getting ready, Bertie was to seek out that gentleman and make him understand that he must provide himself with another conveyance back to Barchester. Their immediate object should be to walk about together in search of Bertie. Bertie, in short, was to be the Pegasus on whose wings they were to ride out of their present dilemma.
There was a warmth of friendship and cordial kindness in all this, that was very soothing to the widow; but yet, though she gave way to it, she was hardly reconciled to doing so. It never occurred to her, that now that she had killed one dragon, another was about to spring up in her path; she had no remote idea that she would have to encounter another suitor in her proposed protector, but she hardly liked the idea of putting herself so much into the hands of young Stanhope. She felt that if she wanted protection, she should go to her father. She felt that she should ask him to provide a carriage for her back to Barchester. Mrs Clantantram she knew would give her a seat. She knew that she should not throw herself entirely upon friends whose friendship dated as it were but from yesterday. But yet she could not say, 'no,' to one who was so sisterly in her kindness, so eager in her good nature, so comfortably sympathetic as Charlotte Stanhope.
They first went into the dining-room, looking for their champion, and from thence to the drawing-room. Here they found Mr Arabin, still hanging over the signora's sofa; or, rather, they found him sitting near her head, as a physician might have sat, had the lady been his patient. There was no other person in the room. The guests were some in the tent, some few still in the dining-room, some at the bows and arrows, but most of them walking with Miss Thorne through the park, and looking at the games that were going on.
All that had passed, and was passing between Mr Arabin and the lady, it is unnecessary to give in detail. She was doing with him as she did with all others. It was her mission to make fools of men, and she was pursuing her mission with Mr Arabin. She had almost got him to own his love for Mrs Bold, and had subsequently almost induced him to acknowledge a passion for herself. He, poor man, was hardly aware what he was doing or saying, hardly conscious whether he was in heaven or hell. So little had he known of female attractions of that peculiar class which the signora owned, that he became affected with a temporary delirium, when first subjected to its power. He lost his head rather than his heart, and toppled about mentally, reeling in his ideas as a drunken man does on his legs. She had whispered to him words that really meant nothing, but which coming from such beautiful lips, and accompanied by such lustrous glances, seemed to have a mysterious significance, which he felt though he could not understand.
In being thus be-sirened, Mr Arabin behaved himself very differently from Mr Slope. The signora had said truly, that the two men were the contrasts of each other; that the one was all for action, the other all for thought. Mr Slope, when this lady laid upon his senses the overpowering breath of her charms, immediately attempted to obtain some fruition, to achieve some mighty triumph. He began by catching at her hand, and progressed by kissing it. He made vows of love, and asked for vows in return. He promised everlasting devotion, knelt before her, and swore that had she been on Mount Ida, Juno would have no cause to hate the offspring of Venus. But Mr Arabin uttered no oaths, kept his hand mostly in his trousers pocket, and had no more thought of kissing Madam Neroni than of kissing the Countess De Courcy.
As soon as Mr Arabin saw Mrs Bold enter the room, he blushed and rose from his chair; then he sat down again, and then again got up. The signora saw the blush at once, and smiled at the poor victim, but Eleanor was too much confused to see anything.
'Oh, Madeline,' said Charlotte, 'I want to speak to you particularly; we must arrange about the carriage, you know,' and she stooped down to whisper to her sister. Mr Arabin immediately withdrew to a little distance, and as Charlotte had in fact much to explain before she could make the new arrangement intelligible, he had nothing to do but to talk to Mrs Bold.
'We have had a very pleasant party,' said he, using the tone he would have used had he declared that the sun was shining very brightly, or the rain was falling very fast.
'Very,' said Eleanor, who never in her life had passed a more unpleasant day.
'I hope Mr Harding has enjoyed himself.'
'Oh, yes, very much,' said Eleanor, who had not seen her father since she parted from him soon after her arrival.
'He returns to Barchester to-night, I suppose.'
'Yes, I believe so; that is, I think he is staying at Plumstead.'
'Oh, staying at Plumstead,' said Mr Arabin.
'He came from there this morning. I believe he is going back; he didn't exactly say, however.'
'I hope Mrs Grantly is quite well.'
'She seemed to be quite well. She is here; that is, unless she has gone away.'
'Oh, yes, to be sure. I was talking to her. Looking very well indeed.' Then there was a considerable pause: for Charlotte could not at once make Madeline understand why she was to be sent home in a hurry without her brother.
'Are you returning to Plumstead, Mrs Bold?' Mr Arabin merely asked this by way of making conversation, but he immediately perceived that he was approaching dangerous ground.
'No,' said Mrs Bold, very quietly; 'I am going home to Barchester.'
'Oh, ah, yes. I had forgotten that you had returned.' And then Mr Arabin, finding it impossible to say anything further, stood silent till Charlotte had completed her plans, and Mrs Bold stood equally silent, intently occupied as it appeared in the arrangement of her rings.
And yet these two people were thoroughly in love with each other; and though one was a middle-aged clergyman, and the other a lady at any rate past the wishy-washy bread-and-butter period of life, they were as unable to tell their own minds to each other as any Damon and Phillis, whose united ages would not make up that to which Mr Arabin had already attained.
Madeline Neroni consented to her sister's proposal, and then the two ladies again went off in quest of Bertie Stanhope.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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42
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ULLATHORNE SPORTS--ACT III
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And now Miss Thorne's guests were beginning to take their departure, and the amusement of those who remained was becoming slack. It was getting dark, and ladies in morning costumes were thinking that if they were to appear by candle-light they ought to readjust themselves. Some young gentlemen had been heard to talk so loud that prudent mammas determined to retire judiciously, and the more discreet of the male sex, whose libation had been moderate, felt that there was not much more left for them to do.
Morning parties, as a rule, are failures. People never know how to get away from them gracefully. A picnic on an island or a mountain or in a wood may perhaps be permitted. There is no master of the mountain bound by courtesy to bid you stay while in his heart he is longing for your departure. But in a private home or in private grounds a morning party is a bore. One is called on to eat and drink at unnatural hours. One is obliged to give up the day which is useful, and is then left without resources for the evening which is useless. One gets home fagged and desouvre, and yet at an hour too early for bed. There is not comfortable resource left. Cards in these genteel days are among the things tabooed, and a rubber of whist is impracticable.
All this began now to be felt. Some young people had come with some amount of hope that they might get up a dance in the evening, and were unwilling to leave till all such hope was at an end. Others, fearful of staying longer than was expected, had ordered their carriages early, and were doing their best to go, solicitous for their servants and horses. The countess and her noble brood were among the first to leave, and as regarded the Hon. George, it was certainly time that he did so. Her ladyship was in a great fret and fume. Those horrid roads would, she was sure, be the death of her if unhappily she were caught in them by the dark of night. The lamps she was assured were good, but no lamp could withstand the jolting of the roads of East Barsetshire.
The De Courcy property lay in the western division of the county.
Mrs Proudie could not stay when the countess was gone. So the bishop was searched for by the Revs. Messrs. Grey and Green, and found in one corner of the tent enjoying himself thoroughly in a disquisition on the hebdomadal board. He obeyed, however, the behests of the lady without finishing the sentence in which he was promising to Dr Gwynne that his authority at Oxford should remain unimpaired; and the episcopal horses turned their noses towards the palatial stables. Then the Grantlys went. Before they did so Mr Harding managed to whisper a word into his daughter's ear. Of course, he said, he would undeceive the Grantlys as to that foolish rumour about Mr Slope.
'No, no, no,' said Eleanor; 'pray do not--pray wait till I see you. You will be home in a day or two, and then I will explain to you everything.'
'I shall be home to-morrow,' said he.
'I am so glad,' said Eleanor. 'You will come and dine with me, and then we shall be so comfortable.'
Mr Harding promised. He did not exactly know what there was to be explained, or why Dr Grantly's mind should not be disabused of the mistake into which he had fallen; but nevertheless he promised. He owed some reparation to his daughter, and he thought that he might best make it by obedience.
And thus the people were thinning off by degrees, as Charlotte and Eleanor walked about in quest of Bertie. Their search might have been long, had they not happened to hear his voice. He was comfortably ensconced in the ha-ha, with his back to the sloping side, smoking a cigar, and eagerly engaged in conversation with some youngster from the further side of the county, whom he had never met before, who was also smoking under Bertie's pupilage, and listening with open ears to an account given by his companion of some of the pastimes of the Eastern clime.
'Bertie, I am seeking you everywhere,' said Charlotte. 'Come up here at once.'
Bertie looked up out of the ha-ha, and saw the two ladies before him. As there was nothing for him but to obey, he got up and threw away his cigar. From the first moment of his acquaintance with her he had liked Eleanor Bold. Had he been left to his own devices, had she been penniless, and had it then been quite out of the question that he should marry her, he would most probably have fallen violently in love with her. But now he could not help regarding her somewhat as he did the marble workshops at Carrara, as he had done his easel and palette, as he had done the lawyer's chambers in London; in fact, as he had invariably regarded everything by which it had been proposed to obtain the means of living. Eleanor Bold appeared before him, no longer as a beautiful woman, but as a new profession called matrimony. It was a profession indeed requiring but little labour, and one in which an income was insured to him. But nevertheless he had been as it were goaded on to it; his sister had talked to him of Eleanor, just as she had talked of busts and portraits. Bertie did not dislike money, but he hated the very thought of earning it. He was now called away from his pleasant cigar to earn it, by offering himself as a husband to Mrs Bold. The work indeed was made easy enough; for in lieu of his having to seek the widow, the widow had apparently come to seek him.
He made some sudden absurd excuse to his auditor, and then throwing away his cigar, climbed up the wall of the ha-ha and joined the ladies on the lawn.
'Come and give Mrs Bold your arm,' said Charlotte, 'while I set you on a piece of duty which, as a preux chevalier, you must immediately perform. Your personal danger will, I fear, be insignificant, as your antagonist is a clergyman.'
Bertie immediately gave his arm to Eleanor, walking between her and his sister. He had lived too long abroad to fall into an Englishman's habit of offering each an arm to two ladies at the same time; a habit, by the bye, which foreigners regard as an approach to bigamy, or a sort of incipient Mormonism.
The little history of Mr Slope's misconduct was then told to Bertie by his sister, Eleanor's ears tingling the while. And well they might tingle. If it were necessary to speak of the outrage at all, why should it be spoken of to such a person as Mr Stanhope, and why in her own hearing? She knew she was wrong, and was unhappy and dispirited, and yet she could think of no way to extricate herself, no way to set herself right. Charlotte spared her as much as she possibly could, spoke of the whole thing as though Mr Slope had taken a glass of wine too much, said that of course there would be nothing more about it, but that steps must be taken to exclude Mr Slope from the carriage.
'Mrs Bold need be under no alarm about that,' said Bertie, 'for Mr Slope has gone this hour past. He told me that business made it necessary that he should start at once for Barchester.'
'He is not so tipsy, at any rate, but what he knows his fault,' said Charlotte. 'Well, my dear, that is one difficulty over. Now I'll leave you with your true knight, and get Madeline off as quickly as I can. The carriage is here, I suppose, Bertie?'
'It has been here for the last hour.'
'That's well. Good-bye, my dear. Of course you'll come in to tea. I shall trust you to bring her, Bertie; even by force if necessary.' And so saying, Charlotte was off across the lawn, leaving her brother alone with the widow.
As Miss Stanhope went off, Eleanor bethought herself that, as Mr Slope had taken his departure, there no longer existed any necessity for separating Mr Stanhope from his sister Madeline, who so much needed his aid. It had been arranged that he should remain so as to preoccupy Mr Slope's place in the carriage, and act as a social policeman to effect the exclusion of that disagreeable gentleman. But Mr Slope had effected his own exclusion, and there as no possible reason now why Bertie should not go with his sister. At least Eleanor saw none, and she said so much.
'Oh, let Charlotte have her own way,' said he. 'She has arranged it, and there will be no end of confusion if we make another change. Charlotte always arranges everything in our house; and rules us like a despot.'
'But the signora?' said Eleanor.
'Oh, the signora can do very well without me. Indeed, she will have to do without me,' he added, thinking rather of his studies in Carrara, than of his Barchester hymeneals.
'Why, you are not going to leave us?' asked Eleanor.
It has been said that Bertie Stanhope was a man without principle. He certainly was so. He had no power of using active mental exertion to keep himself from doing evil. Evil had no ugliness in his eyes; virtue no beauty. He was void of any of those feelings which actuate men to do good. But he was perhaps equally void of those which actuate men to do evil. He got into debt with utter recklessness, thinking of nothing as to whether the tradesmen would ever be paid or not. But he did not invent active schemes of deceit for the sake of extracting the goods of others. If a man gave him credit, that was the man's look-out; Bertie Stanhope troubled himself nothing further. In borrowing money he did the same; he gave people references to 'his governor', told them that the 'old chap' had a good income; and agreed to pay sixty per cent for the accommodation. All this he did without a scruple of conscience; but then he never contrived active villainy.
In this affair of his marriage, it had been represented to him as a matter of duty that he ought to put himself in possession of Mrs Bold's hand and fortune; and at first he had so regarded it. About her he had thought but little. It was the customary thing for men situated as he was to marry for money, and there was no reason why he should not do what others around him did. And so he consented. But now he began to see the matter in another light. He was setting himself down to catch a woman, as a cat sits to catch a mouse. He was to catch her, and swallow her up, her and her child, and her houses and land, in order that he might live on her instead of on his father. There was a cold, calculating, cautious cunning about this quite at variance with Bertie's character. The prudence of the measure was quite as antagonistic to his feelings as the iniquity.
And then, should he be successful, what would be the reward? Having satisfied his creditors with half of the widow's fortune, he would be allowed to sit down quietly at Barchester, keeping economical house with the remainder. His duty would be to rock the cradle of the late Mr Bold's child, and his highest excitement a demure party at Plumstead rectory, should it ultimately turn out that the archdeacon be sufficiently reconciled to receive him.
There was little in the programme to allure such a man as Bertie Stanhope. Would not the Carrara workshop, or whatever worldly career fortune might have in store for him, would not almost anything be better than this? The lady herself was undoubtedly all that was desirable; but the most desirable lady becomes nauseous when she has to be taken as a pill. He was pledged to his sister, however, and let him quarrel with whom he would, it behoved him not to quarrel with her. If she were lost to him all would be lost that he could ever hope to derive henceforward from the paternal roof-tree. His mother was apparently indifferent to his weal or woe, to his wants or to his warfare. His father's brow got blacker and blacker from day to day, as the old man looked at his hopeless son. And as for Madeline--poor Madeline, whom of all of them he liked the best,--she had enough to do to shift for herself. No; come what might, he must cling to his sister and obey her behests, let them be ever so stern; or at the very least be seen to obey them. Could not some happy deceit bring him through in this matter, so that he might save appearances with his sister, and yet not betray the widow to her ruin? What if he made a confidence of Eleanor?
'Twas in this spirit that Bertie Stanhope set about his wooing.
'But you are not going to leave Barchester?' asked Eleanor.
'I do not know,' he replied. 'I hardly know yet what I am going to do. But it is at any rate certain that I must do something.'
'You mean about your profession?' said she.
'Yes, about my profession, if you can call it one.'
'And is it not one?' said Eleanor. 'Were I a man, I know none I should prefer to it, except painting. And I believe the one is as much in your power as the other.'
'Yes, just about equally so,' said Bertie with a little touch of inward satire directed at himself. He knew in his heart that he would never make a penny by either.
'I have often wondered, Mr Stanhope, why you do not exert yourself more,' said Eleanor, who felt a friendly fondness for the man with whom she was walking. 'But I know it is very impertinent in me to say so.'
'Impertinent!' said he. 'Not so, but much too kind. It is much too kind in you to take an interest in so idle a scamp.'
'And make busts of the bishop, dean and chapter? Or perhaps, if I achieve great success, obtain a commission to put up an elaborate tombstone over a prebendary's widow, a dead lady with a Grecian nose, a bandeau, and an intricate lace veil; lying of course on a marble sofa, from among the legs of which Death will be creeping out and poking at his victim with a small toasting-fork.'
Eleanor laughed; but yet she thought that if the surviving prebendary paid the bill the object of the artist as a professional man would, in great measure, be obtained.
'I don't know about the dean and chapter and the prebendary's widow,' said Eleanor. 'Of course you must take them as they come. But the fact of your having a great cathedral in which such ornaments are required, could not but be in your favour.'
'No real artist could descend to the ornamentation of a cathedral,' said Bertie, who had his ideas of the high ecstatic ambition of art, as indeed all artists have, who are not in receipt of a good income. 'Building should be fitted to grace the sculpture, not the sculpture to grace the building.'
'Yes, when the work of art is good enough to merit it. Do you, Mr Stanhope, do something sufficiently excellent, and we ladies of Barchester will erect for it a fitting receptacle. Come, what shall the subject be?'
'I'll put you in your pony-chair, Mrs Bold, as Dannecker put Ariadne on her lion. Only you must promise to sit for me.'
'My ponies are too tame, I fear, and my broad-brimmed straw hat will not look so well in marble as the lace veil of the prebendary's wife.'
'If you will not consent to that, Mrs Bold, I will consent to try no other subject in Barchester.'
'You are determined, then, to push your fortune in other lands?'
'I am determined,' said Bertie, slowly and significantly as he tried to bring up his mind to a great resolve; 'I am determined in this matter to be guided wholly by you.'
'Wholly by me!' said Eleanor, astonished at, and not quite liking his altered manner.
'Wholly by you,' said Bertie, dropping his companion's arm, and standing before her on the path. In their walk they had come exactly to the spot where Eleanor had been provoked into slapping Mr Slope's face. Could it be possible that the place was peculiarly unpropitious to her comfort? Could it be possible that she should her have to encounter another amorous swain?
'If you will be guided by me, Mr Stanhope, you will set yourself down to steady and persevering work, and you will be ruled by your father as to the place in which it will be most advisable for you to do so.'
'Nothing could be more prudent, if only it were practicable. But now, if you will let me, I will tell you how it is that I will be guided by you, and why. Will you let me tell you?'
'I really do not know what you can have to tell.'
'No--you cannot know. It is impossible that you should. But we have been very good friends, Mrs Bold, have we not?'
'Yes, I think we have,' said she, observing in his demeanour an earnestness very unusual with him.
'You were kind enough to say just now that you took an interest in me, and I was perhaps vain enough to believe you.'
'There is no vanity in that; I do so as your sister's brother,--and as my own friend also.'
'Well, I don't deserve that you should feel so kindly towards me,' said Bertie; 'but upon my word I am very grateful for it,' and he paused awhile, hardly knowing how to introduce the subject that he had in hand.
And it was no wonder that he found it difficult. He had to make known to his companion the scheme that had been prepared to rob her of her wealth; he had to tell her that he loved her without intending to marry her; and he had also to bespeak from her not only his own pardon, but also that of his sister, and induce Mrs Bold to protest in her future communication with Charlotte that an offer had been duly made to her and duly rejected.
Bertie Stanhope was not prone to be very diffident of his own conversational powers, but it did seem to him that he was about to tax them almost too far. He hardly knew where to begin, and he hardly knew where he should end.
'I wish to be guided by you,' said he; 'and, indeed, in this matter, there is no one else who can set me right.'
'Oh, that must be nonsense,' said she.
'Well, listen to me now, Mrs Bold; and if you can help it, pray don't be angry with me.'
'Angry!' said she.
'Oh, indeed you will have cause to do so. You know how very much attached to you my sister Charlotte is.'
Eleanor acknowledged that she did.
'Indeed she is; I never knew her to love any one so warmly on so short an acquaintance. You know also how well she loves me?'
Eleanor now made no answer, but she felt the blood tingle in her cheek as she gathered from what he said the probable result of this double-barrelled love on the part of Miss Stanhope.
'I am her only brother, Mrs Bold, and it is not to be wondered at that she should love me. But you do not yet know Charlotte--you do not know how entirely the well-being of our family hangs on her. Without her to manage for us, I do not know how we should get on from day to day. You cannot yet have observed all this.'
Eleanor had indeed observed a good deal of this; she did not however now say so, but allowed him to proceed with his story.
'You cannot therefore be surprised that Charlotte should be most anxious to do the best for us all.
Eleanor said that she was not at all surprised.
'And she has had a very difficult game to play, Mrs Bold--a very difficult game. Poor Madeline's unfortunate marriage and terrible accident, my mother's ill-health, my father's absence from England, and last, and worst perhaps my own roving, idle spirit have almost been too much for her. You cannot wonder if among all her cares one of the foremost is to see me settled in the world.'
Eleanor on this occasion expressed no acquiescence. She certainly supposed that a formal offer was to be made, and could not but think that so singular an exordium was never before made by a gentleman in a similar position. Mr Slope had annoyed her by the excess of his ardour. It was quiet clear that no such danger was to be feared from Mr Stanhope. Prudential motives alone actuated him. Not only was he about to make love because his sister told him, but he also took the precaution of explaining all this before he began. 'Twas thus, we may presume, that the matter presented itself to Mrs Bold.
When he had got so far, Bertie began poling in the gravel with a little cane which he carried. He still kept moving on, but very slowly, and his companion moved slowly by his side, not inclined to assist him in the task the performance of which appeared to be difficult to him.
'Knowing how fond she is of yourself, Mrs Bold, cannot you imagine what scheme should have occurred to her?'
'I can imagine no better scheme, Mr Stanhope, than the one I proposed to you just now.'
'No,' said he, somewhat lack-a-daisically; 'I suppose that would be the best; but Charlotte thinks another plan might be joined with it. --She wants me to marry you.'
A thousand remembrances flashed across Eleanor's mind all in a moment--how Charlotte had talked about and praised her brother, how she had continually contrived to throw the two of them together, how she had encouraged all manner of little intimacies, how she had with singular cordiality persisted in treating Eleanor as one of the family. All this had been done to secure her comfortable income for the benefit of one of the family!
Such a feeling as this is very bitter when it first impresses itself on a young mind. To the old such plots and plans, such matured schemes for obtaining the goods of this world without the trouble of earning them, such long-headed attempts to convert 'tuum' into 'meum' are the ways of life to which they are accustomed. 'Tis thus that many live, and it therefore behoves all those who are well to do in the world be on their guard against those who are not. With them it is the success that disgusts, not the attempt. But Eleanor had not yet learnt to look on her money as a source of danger; she had not begun to regard herself as fair game to be hunted down by hungry gentlemen. She had enjoyed the society of the Stanhopes, she had greatly liked the cordiality of Charlotte, and had been happy in her new friends. Now she saw the cause of all that kindness, and her mind was opened to a new phase of human life.
'Miss Stanhope,' said she haughtily, 'has been contriving for me a great deal of honour, but she might have saved herself the trouble. I an not sufficiently ambitious.'
'Pray don't be angry with her, Mrs Bold,' said he, 'or with me either.'
'Certainly not with you, Mr Stanhope,' said she, with considerable sarcasm in her tone. 'Certainly not with you.'
'No,--nor with her,' said he imploringly.
'And why, may I ask you, Mr Stanhope, have you told me this singular story? For I may presume I may judge by your manner of telling it, that--that--that you and your sister are not exactly of one mind on the subject.'
'No, we are not.'
'And if so,' said Mrs Bold, who was now really angry with the unnecessary insult, which she thought had been offered to her, 'and if so, why has it been worth your while to tell me all this?'
'I did once think, Mrs Bold--that you--that you--' The widow now again became entirely impassive, and would not lend the slightest assistance to her companion.
'I did once think that you perhaps might--might have been taught to regard me as more than a friend.'
'Never! ,' said Mrs Bold, 'never. If I have ever allowed myself to do anything to encourage such an idea, I have been very much to blame,--very much to blame, indeed.'
'You never have,' said Bertie, who really had a good-natured anxiety to make what he said as little unpleasant as possible. 'You never have, and I have seen for some time that I had no chance; but my sister's hopes ran higher. I have not mistaken you, Mrs Bold, though perhaps she has.'
'Then why have you said all this to me?'
'Because I must not anger her.'
'And will not this anger her? Upon my word, Mr Stanhope, I do not understand the policy of your family. Oh, how I wish I was at home!' And as she expressed this wish, she could restrain herself no longer, but burst out into a flood of tears.
Poor Bertie was greatly moved. 'You shall have the carriage to yourself going home,' said he, 'at least you and my father. As for me I can walk, or for the matter of that it does not much signify what I do.' He perfectly understood that part of Eleanor's grief arose from the apparent necessity of going back to Barchester in the carriage of her second suitor.
This somewhat mollified her. 'Oh, Mr Stanhope,' said she, 'why should you have made me so miserable? What will have gained by telling me all this?'
He had not even yet explained to her the most difficult part of his proposition; he had not told her that she was to be a party to the little deception which he intended to play off upon his sister. This suggestion had still to be made, and as it was absolutely necessary, he proceeded to make it.
We need not follow him through the whole of his statement. At last, and not without considerable difficulty, he made Eleanor understand why he had let her into his confidence, seeing that he no longer intended her the honour of a formal offer. At last he made her comprehend the part which she was destined to play in this little family comedy.
But when she did understand it, she was only more angry with him than ever: more angry, not only with him, but with Charlotte also. Her fair name was to bandied about between them in different senses, and each sense false. She was to played off by the sister against the father; and then by the brother against the sister. Her dear friend Charlotte, with all her agreeable sympathy and affection, was striving to sacrifice her for the Stanhope family welfare; and Bertie, who, as he now proclaimed himself, was over head and heels in debt, completed the compliment of owning that he did not care to have his debts paid at so great a sacrifice to himself. Then she was asked to conspire together with this unwilling suitor, for the sake of making the family believe that he had in obedience to their commands done his best to throw himself thus away!
She lifted up her face when she had finished, and looking at him with much dignity, even through her tears, she said-- 'I regret to say it, Mr Stanhope; but after what has passed, I believe that all intercourse between your family and myself had better cease.'
'Well, perhaps it had,' said Bertie naively; 'perhaps that will be better, at any rate for a time; and then Charlotte will think you are offended at what I have done.'
'And now I will go back to the house, if you please,' said Eleanor. 'I can find my way by myself, Mr Stanhope: after what has passed,' she added, 'I would rather go alone.'
'But I must find the carriage for you, Mrs Bold, and I must tell my father that you will return with him alone, and I must make some excuse to him for not going with you; and I must bid the servant put you down at your own house, for I suppose you will not now choose to see them again in the close.'
There was a truth about this, and a perspicuity in making arrangements for lessening her immediate embarrassment, which had some effect in softening Eleanor's anger. So she suffered herself to walk by his side over the now deserted lawn, till they came to the drawing-room window. There was something about Bertie Stanhope which gave him in the estimation of every one, a different standing from that which any other man would occupy under similar circumstances. Angry as Eleanor was, and great as was her cause for anger, she was not half as angry with him as she would have been with any one else. He was apparently so simple, so good- natured, so unaffected and easy to talk to, that she had already half-forgiven him before he was at the drawing-room window. When they arrived there, Dr Stanhope was sitting nearly alone with Mr and Miss Thorne; one or two other unfortunates were there, who from one cause or another were still delayed in getting away; but they were every moment getting fewer in number.
As soon as he had handed Eleanor over to his father, Bertie started off to the front gate, in search of the carriage, and there waited leaning patiently against the front wall, and comfortably smoking a cigar, till it came up. When he returned to the room, Dr Stanhope and Eleanor were alone with their hosts.
'At last, Miss Thorne,' said he cheerily, 'I have come to relieve you. Mrs Bold and my father are the last roses in the very delightful summer you have given us, and desirable as Mrs Bold's society always is, now at least you must be glad to see the last flowers plucked from the tree.'
Miss Thorne declared that she was delighted to have Mrs Bold and Dr Stanhope still with her; and Mr Thorne would have said the same, had he not been checked by a yawn, which he could not suppress.
'Father, will you give your arm to Mrs Bold?' said Bertie: and so the last adieux were made, and the prebendary led out Mrs Bold, followed by his son.
'I shall be home soon after you,' said he, as the two got into the carriage.
'Are you not coming in the carriage?' said the father.
'No, no; I have some one to see on the road, and shall walk. John, mind you drive to Mrs Bold's house first.'
Eleanor, looking out of the window, saw him with his hat in his hand, bowing to her with his usual gay smile, as though nothing had happened to mar the tranquillity of the day. It was many a long year before she saw him again. Dr Stanhope hardly spoke to her on her way home: and she was safely deposited by John at her own hall-door, before the carriage drove into the close.
And thus our heroine played the last act of that day's melodrama.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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43
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MR AND MRS QUIVERFUL ARE MADE HAPPY. MR SLOPE ENCOURAGED BY THE
PRESS
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Before she started for Ullathorne, Mrs Proudie, careful soul, caused two letters to be written, one by herself and one by her lord, to the inhabitants of Puddingdale vicarage, which made happy the hearth of those within it.
As soon as the departure of the horses left the bishop's stable-groom free for other services, that humble denizen of the diocese started on the bishop's own pony with the two despatches. We have had so many letters lately that we will spare ourselves these. That from the bishop was simply a request that Mr Quiverful would wait upon his lordship the next morning at 11 A.M.; and that from the lady was as simply a request that Mrs Quiverful would do the same by her, though it was couched in somewhat longer and more grandiloquent phraseology.
It had become a point of conscience with Mrs Proudie to urge the settlement of this great hospital question. She was resolved that Mr Quiverful should have it. She was resolved that there should be no more doubt or delay; no more refusals and resignations, nor more secret negotiations carried on by Mr Slope on his own account in opposition to her behests.
'Bishop,' she said, immediately after breakfast, on the morning of that eventful day, 'have you signed the appointment yet?'
'No, my dear, not yet; it is not exactly signed as yet.'
'Then do it,' said the lady.
The bishop did it; and a very pleasant day indeed he spent at Ullathorne. And when he got home he had a glass of hot negus in his wife's sitting-room, and read the last number of the 'Little Dorrit' of the day with great inward satisfaction. Oh, husbands, oh, my marital friends, what great comfort is there to be derived from a wife well obeyed!
Much perturbation and flutter, high expectation and renewed hopes, were occasioned at Puddingdale, by the receipt of those episcopal dispatches. Mrs Quiverful, whose careful ear caught the sound of the pony's feet as he trotted up to the vicarage kitchen door, brought them in hurriedly to her husband. She was at the moment concocting the Irish stew destined to satisfy the noonday want of fourteen young birds, let alone the parent couple. She had taken the letters from the man's hands between the folds of her capacious apron, so as to save them from the contamination of the stew, and in this guise she brought them to her husband's desk.
They at once divided the spoil, each taking that addressed to the others. 'Quiverful,'said she with impressive voice, 'you are to be at the palace at eleven to-morrow.'
'And so are you, my dear,' said he, almost gasping with the importance of the tidings: and then they exchanged letters.
'She'd never have sent for me again,' said the lady, 'if it wasn't all right.'
'Oh! My dear, don't be too certain,' said the gentleman. 'Only think if it should be wrong.'
'She'd never have sent for me, Q., if it wasn't all right,' again argued the lady. 'She's stiff and hard and proud as pie-crust, but I think she's right at bottom.' Such was Mrs Quiverful's verdict about Mrs Proudie, to which in after times she always adhered. People when they get their income doubled usually think that those through whose instrumentality this little ceremony is performed are right at bottom.
'Oh, Letty!' said Mr Quiverful, rising from his well-worn seat.
'Oh, Q!' said Mrs Quiverful; and then the two, unmindful of the kitchen apron, the greasy fingers, and the adherent Irish stew, threw themselves warmly into each other's arms.
'For heaven's sake, don't let any one cajole you out of it again,' said the wife.
'Let me alone for that,' said the husband, with a look of almost fierce determination, pressing his fist as he spoke rigidly on his desk, as though he had Mr Slope's head below his knuckles, and meant to keep it there.
'I wonder how soon it will be,' said she.
'I wonder whether it will be at all,' said he, still doubtful.
'Well, I won't say too much,' said the lady. 'The cup has slipped twice before, and it may fall altogether this time; but I'll not believe it. He'll give you the appointment to-morrow. You'll find he will.'
'Heaven send he may,' said Mr Quiverful, solemnly. And who that considers the weight of the burden on this man's back, will say that the prayer was an improper one? There were fourteen of them--fourteen of them living--as Mrs Quiverful had so powerfully urged in the presence of the bishop's wife. As long as promotion cometh from any human source, whether north or south, east or west, will not such a claim as this hold good, in spite of all our examination tests, detur digniori's and optimist tendencies? It is fervently to be hoped that it may. Till we can become divine we must be content to be human, lest in our hurry for change we sink to something lower.
And then the pair sitting down lovingly together, talked over all their difficulties, as they so often did, and all their hopes, as they so seldom were able to do.
'You had better call on that man, Q, as you come away from the palace,' said Mrs Quiverful, pointing to an angry call for money from the Barchester draper, which the postman had left at the vicarage that morning. Cormorant that he was, unjust, hungry cormorant! When rumour first got abroad that the Quiverfuls were to go to the hospital this fellow with fawning eagerness had pressed his goods upon the wants of the poor clergyman. He had done so, feeling that he should be paid from the hospital funds, and flattering himself that a man with fourteen children, and money wherewithal to clothe them, could not but be an excellent customer. As soon as the second rumour reached him, he applied for his money angrily.
'And the 'fourteen'--or such of them as were old enough to hope and discuss their hopes, talked over their golden future. The tall-grown girls whispered to each other of possible Barchester parties, of possible allowances for dresses, of a possible piano--the one they had in the vicarage was so weather-beaten with storms of years and children as to be no longer worthy of the name--of the pretty garden, and the pretty house. 'Twas of such things it most behoved them to whisper.
And the younger fry, they did not content themselves with whispers, but shouted to each other of their new playground beneath our dear ex-warden's well-loved elms, of their future own gardens, of marbles to be procured in the wished-for city, and of the rumour which had reached them of a Barchester school.
'Twas in vain that their cautious mother tried to instil into their breasts the very feeling she had striven to banish from that of their father; 'twas in vain that she repeated to the girls that 'there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip'; 'twas in vain she attempted to make the children believe that they were to live at Puddingdale all their lives. Hopes mounted high and would not have themselves quelled. The neighbouring farmers heard this news, and came in to congratulate them. 'Twas Mrs Quiverful herself who had kindled the fire, and in the first outbreak of her renewed expectations she did it so thoroughly, that it was quite past her power to put it out again.
Poor matron! Good honest matron! Doing thy duty in the state to which thou hast been called, heartily if not contentedly; let the fire burn on--on this occasion the flames will not scorch; they shall warm thee and thine. 'Tis ordained that the husband of thine, that Q of thy bosom, shall reign supreme for some years to come over the bedesmen of Hiram's hospital.
And the last in all Barchester to mar their hopes, had he heard and seen all that had passed at Puddingdale that day, would have been Mr Harding. What wants had he to set in opposition to those of such a regiment of young ravens? There are fourteen of them living! With him at any rate, let us say, that the argument would have been sufficient for the appointment of Mr Quiverful.
In the morning, Q and his wife kept their appointments with that punctuality which bespeaks an expectant mind. The friendly farmer's gig was borrowed, and in that they went, discussing many things by the way. They had instructed the household to expect them back by one, and injunctions were given to the eldest pledge to have ready by that accustomed hour the remainder of the huge stew which the provident mother had prepared on the previous day. The hands of the kitchen clock came round to two, three, four, before the farmer's gig-wheels were agin heard at the vicarage gate. With what palpitating hearts were the returning wanderers greeted!
'I suppose, children, 'you all thought we were never coming back any more?' said the mother, as she slowly let down her solid foot till it rested on the step of the gig. 'Well, such a day as we've had!' and then leaning heavily on a big boy's shoulder, she stepped once more on terra firma.
There was no need for more than the tone of her voice to tell them that all was right. The Irish stew might burn itself to cinders now.
Then there was such kissing and hugging, such crying and laughing. Mr Quiverful could not sit still at all, but kept walking from room to room, then out into the garden, then down the avenue into the road, and then back again to his wife. She, however, lost no time so idly.
'We must go to work at once, girls; and that in earnest. Mrs Proudie expects us to be in the hospital house on the 15th of October.'
Had Mrs Proudie expressed a wish that they should all be there on the next morning, the girls would have had nothing to say against it.
'And when will the pay begin?' asked the eldest boy.
'To-day, my dear,' said the gratified mother.
'Oh,--that is jolly,' said the boy.
'Mrs Proudie insisted on our going down to the house,' continued the mother; 'and when there I thought I might save a journey by measuring some of the rooms and windows; so I got a knot of tape from Bobbins. Bobbins is as civil as you please, now.'
'I wouldn't thank him,' said Letty the younger.
'Oh, that's the way of the world, my dear. They all do just the same. You might just as well be angry with the turkey cock for gobbling at you. It's the bird's nature.' And as she enunciated to her bairns the upshot of her practical experience, she pulled from her pocket the portions of tape which showed the length and breadth of the various rooms at the hospital house.
And so we will leave her happy in her toils.
The Quiverfuls had hardly left the palace, and Mrs Proudie was still holding forth on the matter to her husband, when another visitor was announced in, the person of Dr Gwynne. The master of Lazarus had asked for the bishop, and not for Mrs Proudie, and therefore, when he was shown into the study, he was surprised rather than rejoiced to find the lady there.
But we must go back a little, and it shall be but a little, for a difficulty begins to make itself manifest in the necessity of disposing of all our friends in the small remainder of this one volume. Oh, that Mr Longman would allow me a fourth! It should transcend the other three as the seventh heaven transcends all the lower stages of celestial bliss.
Going home in the carriage that evening from Ullathorne, Dr Gwynne had not without difficulty brought round his friend the archdeacon to a line of tactics much less bellicose than that which his own taste would have preferred. 'It will be unseemly in us to show ourselves in a bad humour; and moreover we have no power in this matter, and it will therefore be bad policy to act as though we had.' 'Twas thus the master of Lazarus argued. 'If,' he continued, 'the bishop is determined to appoint another to the hospital, threats will not prevent him, and threats should not be lightly used by an archdeacon to his bishop. If he will place a stranger in the hospital, we can only leave him to the indignation of others. It is probable that such a step may not eventually injure your father-in-law. I will see the bishop, if you will allow me,--alone.' At this the archdeacon winced visibly; 'yes, alone; for so I shall be calmer: and then I shall at any rate learn what he does mean to do in the matter.
The archdeacon puffed and blew, put up the carriage window and then put it down again, argued the matter up to his own gate, and at last gave way. Everybody was against him; his own wife, Mr Harding, and Dr Gwynne.
'Pray keep him out of hot water, Dr Gwynne,' Mrs Grantly had said to her guest. 'My dearest madam, I'll do my best,' the courteous master had replied. 'Twas thus he did it; and earned for himself the gratitude of Mrs Grantly.
And now we may return to the bishop's study.
Dr Gwynne had certainly not foreseen the difficulty which here presented itself. He,--together with all the clerical world of England,--had heard it rumoured about that Mrs Proudie did not confine herself to her wardrobes, still-rooms, and laundries; but yet it had never occurred to him that if he called on a bishop at one o'clock in the day, he could by any possibility find himself closeted with his wife; or that if he did so, the wife would remain longer than necessary to make her curtsey. It appeared, however, as though in the present case Mrs Proudie had no idea of retreating.
The bishop had been very much pleased with Dr Gwynne on the preceding day, and of course thought that Dr Gwynne had been very much pleased with him. He attributed the visit solely to compliment, and thought it was an extremely gracious and proper thing for the master of Lazarus to drive over from Plumstead specially to call at the palace so soon after his arrival in the country. The fact that they were not on the same side either in politics or doctrines made the compliment the greater. The bishop, therefore, was all smiles. And Mrs Proudie, who liked people with good handles to their names, was also very well disposed to welcome the master of Lazarus.
'We had a charming party at Ullathorne, Master, had we not?' said she. 'I hope Mrs Grantly got home without fatigue.'
Dr Gwynne said that they had all been a little tired, but were none the worse this morning.
'An excellent person, Miss Thorne,' suggested the bishop.
'An exemplary Christian, I am told,' said Mrs Proudie.
Dr Gwynne declared that he was very glad to hear it.
'I have not seen her Sabbath-day schools yet,' continued the lady, 'but I shall make a point of doing so before long.'
Dr Gwynne merely bowed at this intimation. He had something of Mrs Proudie and her Sunday schools, both from Dr Grantly and Mr Harding.
'By the bye, Master,' continued the lady, 'I wonder whether Mrs Grantly would like me to drive over and inspect her Sabbath-day school. I hear that it is most excellently kept.'
Dr Gwynne really could not say. He had no doubt Mrs Grantly would be most happy to see Mrs Proudie any day Mrs Proudie would do her the honour of calling: that was, of course, if Mrs Grantly should happen to be at home.
A slight cloud darkened the lady's brow. She saw that her offer was not taken in good part. This generation of unregenerated vipers was still perverse, stiffnecked, and hardened in their antiquity. 'The archdeacon, I know,' said she, 'sets his face against these institutions.'
At this Dr Gwynne laughed slightly. It was but a smile. Had he given his cap for it he could not have helped it.
Mrs Proudie frowned again. ' "Suffer little children, and forbid them not,"' said she. 'Are we not to remember that, Dr Gwynne? "Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones." Are we not to remember that, Dr Gwynne?' And at each of these questions she raised at him a menacing forefinger.
'Certainly, madam, certainly,' said the master, 'and so does the archdeacon, I am sure, on week days as well as on Sundays.'
'On week days you can't take heed not to despise them,' said Mrs Proudie, 'because they are out in the fields. On week days they belong to their parents, but on Sundays they ought to belong to the clergyman.' And the finger was again raised.
The master began to understand and to share the intense disgust which the archdeacon always expressed when Mrs Proudie's name was mentioned. What was he to do with such a woman as this? To take his hat and go would have been his natural resource; but then he did not wish to be foiled in his subject.
'My lord,' said he, 'I wanted to ask you a question on business, if you would spare me one moment's leisure. I know I must apologise for so disturbing you; but in truth, I will not detain you five minutes.'
'Certainly, Master, certainly,' said the bishop; 'my time is quite yours--pray make no apology, pray make no apology.'
'You have a great deal to do just at the present moment, bishop. Do not forget how extremely busy you are at present,' said Mrs Proudie, whose spirit was now up; for she was angry with her visitor.
'I will not delay his lordship much above a minute,' said the master of Lazarus, rising from his chair, and expecting that Mrs Proudie would now go, or else that the bishop would lead the way into another room.
But neither event seemed likely to occur, and Dr Gwynne stood for a moment silent in the middle of the room.
'Perhaps it's about Hiram's Hospital,' suggested Mrs Proudie.
Dr Gwynne, lost in astonishment, and not knowing what else on earth to do, confessed that his business with the bishop was connected with Hiram's Hospital.
'His lordship has finally conferred the appointment on Mr Quiverful this morning,' said the lady.
Dr Gwynne made a simple reference to the bishop, and finding that the lady's statement was formally confirmed, he took his leave. 'That comes of the reform bill,' he said to himself as he walked down the bishop's avenue. 'Well, at any rate the Greek play bishops were not so bad as that.'
It has been said that Mr Slope, as he started for Ullathorne, received a despatch from his friend Mr Towers, which had the effect of putting him in that high good-humour which subsequent events somewhat untowardly damped. It ran as follows. Its shortness will be its sufficient apology: My dear Sir,--I wish you every success. I don't know that I can help you, but if I can I will. 'Yours ever' T.T. '30/9/185-' There was more in this than in all Sir Nicholas Fitzwiggin's flummery; more than in all the bishop's promises, even had they been ever so sincere; more than in any archbishop's good work, even had it been possible to obtain it. Tom Towers would do for him what he could.
Mr Slope had from his youth upwards been a firm believer in the public press. He had dabbled in it himself ever since he had taken his degree, and regarded it as the great arranger and distributor of all future British terrestrial affairs whatever. He had not yet arrived at the age, an age which sooner or later comes to most of us, which dissipates the golden dreams of youth. He delighted in the idea of wresting power from the hands of his country's magnates, and placing it in a custody which was at any rate nearer to his own reach. Sixty thousand broad sheets dispersing themselves daily among his reading fellow-citizens, formed in his eyes a better depot for supremacy than a throne at Windsor, a cabinet in Downing Street, or even an assembly at Westminster. And on this subject we must not quarrel with Mr Slope, for the feeling is too general to be met with disrespect.
Tom Towers was as good, if not better than his promise. On the following morning the Jupiter, spouting forth public opinion with sixty thousand loud clarions, did proclaim to the world that Mr Slope was the fittest man for the vacant post. It was pleasant for Mr Slope to read the following line in the Barchester news-room, which he did within thirty minutes after the morning train from London had reached the city.
"It is just now five years since we called the attention of our readers to the quiet city of Barchester. From that day to this, we have in no way meddled with the affairs of that happy ecclesiastical community. Since then, an old bishop has died there, and a young bishop has been installed; but we believe we did not do more than give some customary record of the interesting event. Nor are we about to meddle very deeply in the affairs of the diocese. If any of the chapter feel a qualm of conscience on reading this, let it be quieted. Above all, let the mind of the new bishop be at rest. We are now not armed for war, but approach the revered towers of the old cathedral with an olive-branch in our hands.
'It will be remembered that at the time alluded to, now five years past, we had occasion to remark on the state of a charity at Barchester called Hiram's Hospital. We thought that it was maladministered, and that the very estimable and reverend gentleman who held the office of warden was somewhat too highly paid for duties which were somewhat too easily performed. This gentleman--and we say it in all sincerity and with no touch of sarcasm--had never looked on the matter in this light before. We do not wish to take praise to ourselves whether praise is due or not. But the consequence of our remark was, that the warden did look into the matter, and finding on doing so that he himself could come to no other opinion than that expressed by us, he very creditably threw up the appointment. The then bishop then as creditably declined to fill the vacancy till the affair was put on a better footing. Parliament then took it up; and we have now the satisfaction of informing our readers that Hiram's Hospital will be immediately re-opened under new auspices. Heretofore, provision was made for the maintenance of twelve old men. This will now be extended to the fair sex, and twelve elderly women if any such can be found in Barchester, will be added to the establishment. There will be a matron; there will, it is hoped, be schools attached for the poorest of the children of the poor, and there will be a steward. The warden, for there will still be a warden, will receive an income more in keeping with the extent of the charity than that heretofore paid. The stipend we believe will be L 450. We may add that the excellent house which the former warden inhabited will still be attached to the situation.
'Barchester hospital cannot perhaps boast a world-wide reputation; but as we advertised to its state of decadence, we think it right also to advert to its renaissance. May it go up and prosper. Whether the salutary reform which has been introduced within its walls has been carried as far as could have been desired, may be doubtful. The important question of the school appears to be somewhat left to the discretion of the new warden. This might have been made the most important part of the establishment, and the new warden, whom we trust we shall not offend by the freedom of our remarks, might have been selected with some view to his fitness as schoolmaster. But we will not now look a gift horse in the mouth. May the hospital go on and prosper! The situation of warden has of course been offered to the gentleman who so honourable vacated it five years since; but we are given to understand that he has declined it. Whether the ladies who have been introduced, be in his estimation too much for his powers of control, whether it be that the diminished income does not offer to him sufficient temptation to resume the old place, or that he has in the meantime assumed other clerical duties, we do not know. We are, however, informed that he has refused the offer, and that the situation has been accepted by Mr Quiverful, the vicar of Puddingdale.
'So much we think is due to Hiram redivivus. But while we are on the subject of Barchester, we will venture with all respectful humility to express our opinion on another matter, connected with the ecclesiastical polity of that ancient city. Dr Trefoil, the dean, died yesterday. A short record of his death, giving his age, and the various pieces of preferment which he has at different times held, will be found in another column in this paper. The only fault we knew in him was his age, and as that is a crime of which we may all hope to be guilty, we will not bear heavily on it. May he rest in peace! But though the great age of an expiring dean cannot be made matter of reproach, we are not inclined to look on such a fault as at all pardonable in a dean just brought to the birth. We do hope the days of sexagenarian appointments are past. If we want deans, we must want them for some purpose. That purpose will necessarily be better fulfilled by a man of forty than by a man of sixty. If we are to pay deans at all, we are to pay them for some sort of work. That work, be it what it may, will be best performed by a workman in the prime of life. Dr Trefoil, we see, was eighty when he died. As we have as yet completed no plan for positioning superannuated clergymen, we do not wish to get rid of any existing deans of that age. But we prefer having as few such as possible. If a man of seventy be now appointed, we beg to point out to Lord--that he will be past all use in a year or two, if indeed he is not so at the present moment. His lordship will allow us to remind him that all men are not evergreens like himself.
'We hear that Mr Slope's name has been mentioned for this preferment. Mr Slope is at present chaplain to the bishop. A better man could hardly be selected. He is a man of talent, young, active, and conversant with the affairs of the cathedral; he is moreover, we conscientiously believe, a truly pious clergyman. We know that his services in the city of Barchester have been highly appreciated. He is an eloquent preacher and a ripe scholar. Such a selection as this would go far to raise the confidence of the public in the present administration of church patronage, and would teach men to believe that from henceforth the establishment of our church will not afford easy couches to worn-out clerical voluptuaries.'
Standing at a reading-desk in the Barchester news-room, Mr Slope digested this article with considerable satisfaction. What was therein said as the hospital was now comparatively matter of indifference to him. He was certainly glad that he had not succeeded in restoring to the place the father of that virago who had so audaciously outraged all decency in his person; and was so far satisfied. But Mrs Proudie's nominee was appointed, and he was so far dissatisfied. His mind, however, was now soaring above Mrs Bold or Mrs Proudie.
He was sufficiently conversant with the tactics of the Jupiter to know that the pith of the article would lie in the last paragraph. The place of honour was given to him, and it was indeed as honourable as even he could have wished. He was very grateful to his friend Mr Towers, and with full heart looked forward to the day when he might entertain him in princely style at his own full-spread board in the deanery dining-room.
It had been well for Mr Slope that Dr Trefoil had died in the autumn. Those caterers for our morning repast, the staff of the Jupiter, had been sorely put to it for the last month to find a sufficiency of proper pabulum. Just then there was no talk of a new American president. No wonderful tragedies had occurred on railway trains in Georgia, or elsewhere. There was a dearth of broken banks, and a dead dean with the necessity for a live one was a godsend. Had Dr Trefoil died in June, Mr Towers would probably not have known so much about the piety of Mr Slope.
And here we will leave Mr Slope for a while in his triumph; explaining, however, that his feelings were not altogether of a triumphant nature. His rejection by the widow, or rather the method of his rejection, galled him terribly. For days to come he positively felt the sting upon his cheek, whenever he thought of what had been done to him. He could not refrain from calling her by harsh names, speaking to himself as he walked through the streets of Barchester. When he said his prayers, he could not bring himself to forgive her. When he strove to do so, his mind recoiled from the attempt, and in lieu of forgiving, ran off in a double spirit of vindictiveness, dwelling on the extent of the injury he had received. And so his prayers dropped senseless from his lips.
And then the signora; what would he not have given to be able to hate her also? As it was, he worshipped the very sofa on which she was ever lying. And thus it was not all rose colour with Mr Slope, although his hopes ran high.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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44
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MRS BOLD AT HOME
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Poor Mrs Bold, when she got home from Ullathorne on the evening of Miss Thorne's party, was very unhappy, and moreover very tired. Nothing fatigues the body so much as weariness of spirit, and Eleanor's spirit was indeed weary.
Dr Stanhope had civilly but not very cordially asked her in to tea, and her manner of refusal convinced the worthy doctor that he need not repeat the invitation. He had not exactly made himself a party to the intrigue which was to convert the late Mr Bold's patrimony into an income for his hopeful son, but he had been well aware what was going on. And he was thus well aware also, when he perceived that Bertie declined accompanying them home in the carriage, that the affair had gone off.
Eleanor was very much afraid that Charlotte would have darted out upon her, as the prebendary got out at his own door, but Bertie thoughtfully saved her from this, by causing the carriage to go round by her house. This also Dr Stanhope understood, and allowed to pass by without remark.
When she got home, she found Mary Bold in the drawing-room with the child in her lap. She rushed forward, and, throwing herself on her knees, kissed the little fellow till she almost frightened him.
'Oh, Mary, I am so glad you did not go. It was an odious party.'
Now the question of Mary's going had been one greatly mooted between them. Mrs Bold, when invited, had been the guest of the Grantlys, and Miss Thorne, who had chiefly known Eleanor at the hospital or at Plumstead rectory, had forgotten all about Mary Bold. Her sister-in-law had implored her to go under her wing, and had offered to write to Miss Thorne, or to call on her. But Miss Bold had declined. In fact, Mr Bold had not been very popular with such people as the Thornes, and his sister would not go among them unless she were specially asked to do so.
'Well then,' said Mary cheerfully, 'I have the less to regret.'
'You have nothing to regret; but oh! Mary, I have--so much--so much;'--and then she began kissing her boy, whom her caresses had aroused from his slumbers. When she raised her head, Mary saw that the tears were running down her cheeks.
'Good heavens, Eleanor, what is the matter? What has happened to you? --Eleanor, dearest Eleanor--what is the matter?' and Mary got up with the boy still in her arms.
'Give him to me--give him to me,' said the young mother. 'Give him to me, Mary,'and she almost tore the child out of her sister's arms. The poor little fellow murmured somewhat at the disturbance, but nevertheless nestled himself close into his mother's bosom.
'Here, Mary, take the cloak from me. My own, own darling, darling, darling jewel. You are not false to me. Everybody else is false; everybody else is cruel. Mamma will care for nobody, nobody, nobody, but her own, own, own, little man;' and she again kissed and pressed the baby, and cried till the tears ran down over the child's face.
'Who has been cruel to you, Eleanor?' said Mary. 'I hope I have not.'
Now, in this matter, Eleanor had great cause for uneasiness.
She could not certainly accuse her loving sister-in-law of cruelty; but she had to do that which was more galling; she had to accuse herself of an imprudence against which her sister-in-law had warned her. Miss Bold had never encouraged Eleanor's acquaintance with Mr Slope, and she had positively discouraged the friendship of the Stanhopes as far as her usual gentle mode of speaking had permitted. Eleanor had only laughed at her, however, when she said that she disapproved of married women who lived apart from their husbands, and suggested that Charlotte Stanhope never went to church. Now, however, Eleanor must either hold her tongue, which was quite impossible, or confess herself to have been utterly wrong, which was nearly equally so. So she staved off the evil day by more tears, and consoled herself by inducing little Johnny to rouse himself sufficiently to return her caresses.
'He is a darling--as true as gold. What would mamma do without him? Mamma would lie down and die if she had not her own Johnny Bold to give her comfort.' This and much more she said of the same kind, and for a time made no other answer to Mary's inquiries.
This kind of consolation from the world's deceit is very common.
Mothers obtain it from their children, and men from their dogs. Some men even do so from their walking-sticks, which is just as rational. How is it that we can take joy to ourselves in that we are not deceived by those who have not attained the art to deceive us? In a true man, if such can be found, or a true woman, much consolation may indeed be taken.
In the caresses of her child, however, Eleanor did receive consolation; and may ill befall the man who would begrudge it to her. The evil day, however, was only postponed. She had to tell her disagreeable tale to Mary, and she had also to tell it to her father. Must it not, indeed, be told to the whole circle of her acquaintance before she could be made to stand all right with them? At the present moment there was no one to whom she could turn for comfort. She hated Mr Slope; that was a matter of course, in that feeling she revelled. She hated and despised the Stanhopes; but that feeling distressed her greatly. She had, as it were, separated herself from her old friends to throw herself into the arms of this family; and then how had they intended to use her? She could hardly reconcile herself to her own father, who had believed ill of her. Mary Bold had turned Mentor. That she could have forgiven had the Mentor turned out to be in the wrong; but Mentors in the right are not to be pardoned. She could not but hate the archdeacon; and now she hated him even worse than ever, for she must in some sort humble herself before him. She hated her sister, for she was part and parcel of the archdeacon. And she would have hated Mr Arabin if she could. He had pretended to regard her, and yet before her face he had hung over that Italian woman as though there had been no beauty in the world but hers--no other woman worth a moment's attention. And Mr Arabin would have to learn all this about Mr Slope! She told herself she hated him, and she knew that she was lying to herself as she did so. She had no consolation but her baby, and of that she made the most. Mary, though she could not surmise what it was that had so violently affected her sister-in-law, saw at once her grief was too great to be kept under control, and waited patiently till the child should be in his cradle.
'You'll have some tea, Eleanor,' she said.
'Oh, I don't care,' said she; though in fact she must have been very hungry, for she had eaten nothing at Ullathorne.
Mary quietly made the tea, and buttered the bread, laid aside the cloak, and made things look comfortable.
'He's fast asleep,' said she, 'you're very tired; let me take him up to bed.'
But Eleanor would not let her sister touch him. She looked wistfully at her baby's eyes, saw that they were lost in the deepest slumber, and then made a sort of couch for him on the sofa. She was determined that nothing should prevail upon her to let him out of her sight that night.
'Come, Nelly,' said Mary, 'don't be cross with me. I at least have done nothing to offend you.'
'I an't cross,' said Eleanor.
'Are you angry then? Surely you can't be angry with me.'
'No, I an't angry; at least not with you.'
'If you are not, drink the tea I have made for you. I am sure you must want it.'
Eleanor did drink it, and allowed herself to be persuaded. She ate and drank, and as the inner woman was recruited she felt a little more charitable towards the world at large. At last she found words to begin her story, and before she went to bed, she had made a clean breast of it and told everything--everything, that is, as to the lovers she had rejected: of Mr Arabin she said not a word.
'I know I was wrong,' said she, speaking of the blow she had given to Mr Slope; 'but I didn't know what he might do, and I had to protect myself.'
'He richly deserved it,' said Mary.
'Deserved it!' said Eleanor, whose mind as regarded Mr Slope was almost bloodthirsty. 'Had I stabbed him with a dagger, he would have deserved it. But what will they say about it at Plumstead?'
'I don't think I should tell them,' said Mary. Eleanor began to think that she would not.
There could have been no kinder comforter than Mary Bold. There was not the slightest dash of triumph about her when she heard of the Stanhope scheme, nor did she allude to her former opinion when Eleanor called her late friend Charlotte a base, designing woman. She re-echoed all the abuse that was heaped on Mr Slope's head, and never hinted that she had said as much before. 'I told you so! I told you so!' is the croak of a true Job's comforter. But Mary, when she found her friend lying in her sorrow and scraping herself with potsherds, forbore to argue and to exult. Eleanor acknowledged the merit of the forbearance, and at length allowed herself to be tranquillised.
On the next day she did not go out of the house. Barchester she thought would be crowded with Stanhopes and Slopes; perhaps also with Arabins and Grantlys. Indeed there was hardly any one among her friends whom she could have met, without some cause of uneasiness.
In the course of the afternoon she heard that the dean was dead; and she also heard that Mr Quiverful had been finally appointed to the hospital.
In the evening her father came to her, and then the story, or as much of it as she could bring herself to tell him, had to be repeated. He was not in truth much surprised at Mr Slope's effrontery; but he was obliged to act as though he had been, to save his daughter's feelings. He was, however, anything but skilful in his deceit, and she saw through it.
'I see,' said she, 'that you think it only the common course of things that Mr Slope should have treated me in this way.'
She had said nothing to him about the embrace, nor yet of the way in which it had been met.
'I do not think it at all strange,' said he, 'that any one should admire my Eleanor.'
'It is strange to me,' said she, 'that any man should have so much audacity, without ever having received the slightest encouragement.'
To this Mr Harding answered nothing. With the archdeacon it would have been the text for a rejoinder, which would not have disgraced Bildad the Shuhite.
'But you'll tell the archdeacon,' asked Mr Harding.
'Tell him what?' said she sharply.
'Or Susan?' continued Mr Harding. 'You'll tell Susan; you'll let them know that they wronged you in supposing that this man's addresses would be agreeable to you.'
'They may find out their own way,' said she; 'I shall not ever willingly mention Mr Slope's name to either of them.'
'But I may.'
'I have no right to hinder you from doing anything that may be necessary to your own comfort, but pray do not do it for my sake. Dr Grantly never thought well of me, and never will. I don't know now that I an even anxious that he should do so.'
And then they went to the affair of the hospital. 'But is it true, papa?'
'What, my dear,' said he. 'About the dean? Yes, I fear quite true. Indeed, I know there is no doubt about it.'
'Poor Miss Trefoil. I am so sorry for her. But I did not mean that,' said Eleanor. 'But about the hospital, papa?
'Yes, my dear. I believe it is true that Mr Quiverful is to have it.'
'Oh, what a shame!'
'No, my dear, not at all, not at all a shame: I am sure I hope it will suit him.'
'But, papa, you know it is a shame. After all your hopes, all your expectations to get back your old house, to see it given away in this way to a perfect stranger!'
'My dear, the bishop had a right to give it to whom he pleased.'
'I deny that, papa. He had no such right. It is not as though you were a candidate for a new piece of preferment. If the bishop has a grain of justice--' 'The bishop offered it to me on his terms, and as I did not like the terms, I refused it. After that, I cannot complain.'
'Terms! He had not right to make terms.'
'I don't know about that; but it seems he had the power. But to tell you the truth, Nelly, I am as well satisfied as it is. When the affair became the subject of angry discussion, I thoroughly wished to be rid of it altogether.'
'But you did want to go back to the old house, papa. You told me so yourself.'
'Yes, my child, I did. For a short time I did wish it. And I was foolish in doing so. I am getting old now; and my chief worldly wish is for peace and rest. Had I gone back to the hospital, I should have had the endless contentions with the bishop, contentions with his chaplain, and contentions with the archdeacon. I am not up to this now, I am not able to meet such troubles; and therefore I am not ill-pleased to find myself left to the little church of St Cuthbert's. I shall never starve,' added he, laughing 'as long as you are here.'
'But if you will come and live with me, papa?' she said earnestly, taking him by both his hands. 'If you will do that, if you will promise that, I will own that you are right.'
'I will dine with you to-day, at any rate.'
'No, but live here altogether. Give up that close, odious little room in High Street.'
'My dear, it's a very nice little room; and you are really quite uncivil.'
'Oh, papa, don't joke. It's not a nice place for you. You say you are growing old, though I am sure you are not.'
'Am I not, my dear?'
'No, papa, not old--not to say old. But you are quite old enough to feel the want of a decent room to sit in. You know how lonely Mary and I are here. You know nobody ever sleeps in the big front bed-room. It is really unkind of you to remain there alone, when you are so much wanted here.'
'Thank you, Nelly--thank you. But, my dear--' 'If you had been living here, papa, with us, as I really think you ought to have done, considering how lonely we are, there would have been none of all this dreadful affair about Mr Slope.'
Mr Harding, however, did not allow himself to be talked over into giving up his own and only little pied a terre in the High Street. He promised to come and dine with his daughter, and stay with her, and visit her, and do everything but absolutely live with her. It did not suit the peculiar feelings of the man to tell his daughter that though she had rejected Mr Slope, and been ready to reject Mr Stanhope, some other more favoured suitor would probably soon appear; and that on the appearance of such a suitor the big front bed-room might perhaps be more frequently in requisition than at present. But doubtless such an idea crossed his mind, and added its weight to the other reasons which made him decide on still keeping the close, odious little room in High Street.
The evening passed over quietly and in comfort. Eleanor was always happier with her father than with any one else. He had not, perhaps, any natural taste for baby-worship, but he was always ready to sacrifice himself, and therefore made an excellent third in a trio with his daughter and Mary Bold in singing the praises of the wonderful child.
They were standing together over their music in the evening, the baby having again been put to bed upon the sofa, when the servant brought in a very small note in a beautiful pink envelope. It quite filled the room with perfume as it lay upon the small salver. Mary Bold and Mrs Bold were both at the piano, and Mr Harding was sitting close to them, with the violoncello between his legs; so that the elegance of the epistle was visible to them all.
'Please, ma'am, Dr Stanhope's coachman says he is to wait for an answer,' said the servant.
Eleanor got very red in the face as she took the note in her hand. She had never seen the writing before. Charlotte's epistles, to which she was well accustomed, were of a very different style and kind. She generally wrote on large note-paper; she twisted up her letter into the shape and sometimes into the size of cocked hats; she addressed them in a sprawling manly hand, and not unusually added a blot or a smudge, as though such were her own peculiar sign-manual. The address of this note was written in a beautiful female hand, and the gummed wafer bore on it an impress of a gilt coronet. Though Eleanor had never seen such a one before, she guessed that it came from the signora. Such epistles were very numerously sent out from any house in which the signora might happen to be dwelling, but they were rarely addressed to ladies. When the coachman was told by the lady's maid to take the letter to Mrs Bold, he openly expressed his opinion that there was some mistake about it. Whereupon the lady's maid boxed the coachman's ears. Had Mr Slope seen in how meek a spirit the coachman took the rebuke, he might have learnt a useful lesson, both in philosophy and religion.
The note was as follows. It may be taken as a faithful promise that no further letter whatever shall be transcribed at length in these pages.
'My dear Mrs Bold--May I ask you, as a great favour, to call on me to-morrow? You can say what hour will best suit you; but quite early, if you can. I need hardly say that if I could call upon you I should not take this liberty with you.
'I partly know what occurred the other day, and I promise you that you shall meet with no annoyance if you will come to me. My brother leaves us for London to-day; from thence he goes to Italy.
'It will probably occur to you that I should not thus intrude on you, unless I had that to say to you which may be of considerable moment. Pray therefore excuse me, even if you do not grant my request, and believe me, 'Very sincerely yours, M.VESEY NERONI The three of them sat in consultation on this epistle for some ten or fifteen minutes, and then decided that Eleanor should write a line saying that she would see the signora the next morning, at twelve o'clock.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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45
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THE STANHOPES AT HOME
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We must now return to the Stanhopes, and see how they behaved themselves on their return from Ullathorne.
Charlotte, who came back in the first homeward journey with her sister, waited in palpitating expectation till the carriage drove up to the door a second time. She did not run down or stand at the window, or show in any outward manner that she looked for anything wonderful to occur; but, when she heard the carriage-wheels, she stood up with erect ears, listening for Eleanor's footfall on the pavement or the cheery sound of Bertie's voice welcoming her in. Had she heard either, she would have felt that all was right; but neither sound was there for her to hear. She heard only her father's slow step, as he ponderously let himself down from the carriage, and slowly walked along the hall, till he got into his own private room on the ground floor. 'Send Miss Stanhope to me,' he said to the servant.
'There's something wrong now,' said Madeline, who was lying on her sofa in the back drawing-room.
'It's all up with Bertie,' replied Charlotte. 'I know, I know,' she said to the servant, as he brought up the message. 'Tell my father I will be with him immediately.'
'Bertie's wooing gone astray,' said Madeline. 'I knew it would.'
'It has been his own fault then. She was ready enough. I am quite sure,' said Charlotte, with that sort of ill-nature which is not uncommon when one woman speaks of another.
'What will you say to him now?' By 'him' the signora meant their father.
'That will be as I find him. He was ready to pay two hundred pounds for Bertie, to stave off the worst of his creditors, if this marriage had gone on. Bertie must now have the money instead, and go and take his chances.'
'Where is he now?'
'Heaven knows! Smoking at the bottom of Mr Thorne's ha-ha, or philandering with some of those Miss Chadwicks. Nothing will ever make an impression on him. But he'll be furious if I don't go down.'
'No; nothing ever will. But don't be long, Charlotte, for I want my tea.'
And so Charlotte went down to her father. There was a very black cloud on the old man's brow; blacker than his daughter could ever remember to have seen there. He was sitting in his own arm-chair, not comfortably over the fire, but in the middle of the room, waiting till she should come and listen to him.
'What has become of your brother?' he said, as soon as the door was shut.
'I should rather ask you,' said Charlotte. 'I left you both at Ullathorne, when I came away. What have you done with Mrs Bold?'
'Mrs Bold! nonsense. The woman has gone home as she ought to do. And heartily glad I am that she should not be sacrificed to so heartless a reprobate.'
'Oh, papa!'
'A heartless reprobate! Tell me now where he is, and what he is going to do. I have allowed myself to be fooled between you. Marriage indeed! Who on earth that has money, or credit, or respect in the world to lose, would marry him?'
'It is no use your scolding me, papa. I have done the best I could for him and you.'
'And Madeline is nearly as bad,' said the prebendary, who was in truth, very, very angry.
'Oh, I suppose we are all bad,' replied Charlotte.
The old man emitted a huge leonine sigh. If they were all bad, who had made them so? If they were unprincipled, selfish, and disreputable, who was to be blamed for the education which had had so injurious an effect.
'I know you'll ruin me among you,' said he.
'Why, papa, what nonsense that is. You are living within your income this minute, and if there are any new debts, I don't know of them. I am sure there ought to be none, for we are dull enough here.'
'Are those bills of Madeline's paid?'
'No, they are not. Who was to pay them?'
'Her husband may pay them.'
'Her husband! Would you wish me to tell her you say so? Do you wish to turn her out of your home?'
'I wish she would know how to behave herself.'
'Why, what on earth has she done now? Poor Madeline! To-day is only the second time she has gone out since we came to this vile town.'
He then sat silent for a time, thinking in what shape he would declare his resolve. 'Well, papa,' said Charlotte, 'shall I stay here, or may I go up-stairs and give mamma her tea?'
'You are in your brother's confidence. Tell me what he is going to do?'
'Nothing, that I am aware of.'
'Nothing--nothing! Nothing but eat and drink, and spend every shilling of my money he can lay his hands upon. I have made up my mind, Charlotte. He shall eat and drink no more in this house.'
'Very well. Then I suppose he must go back to Italy.'
'He may go where he pleases.'
'That's easily said, papa; but what does it mean? You can't let him live--' 'It means this,' said the doctor, speaking more loudly than was his wont, and with wrath flashing from his eyes; 'that as sure as God rules in heaven, I will not maintain him any longer in idleness.'
'Oh, ruling in heaven!' said Charlotte. 'It is no use talking about that. You must rule him here on earth; and the question is, how you can do it. You can't turn him out of the house penniless, to beg about the street.'
'He may beg where he likes.'
'He must go back to Carrara. That is the cheapest place he can live at, and nobody there will give him credit for above two or three hundred pauls. But you must let him have the means of going.'
'As sure as--' 'Oh papa, don't swear. You know you must do it. You were ready to pay two hundred pounds for him if the marriage came off. Half that will start him to Carrara.'
'What? Give him a hundred pounds!'
'You know we are all in the dark, papa,' said she, thinking it expedient to change the conversation. 'For anything we know, he may be at this moment engaged to Mrs Bold.'
'Fiddlestick,' said the father, who had seen the way in which Mrs Bold had got into the carriage, while his son stood apart without even offering her his hand.
'Well, then, he must go to Carrara.' said Charlotte.
Just at this moment the lock of the front door was heard, and Charlotte's quick care detected her brother's cat-like step in the hall. She said nothing, feeling that for the present Bertie had better keep out of her father's way. But Dr Stanhope also heard the sound of the lock.
'Who's that?' he demanded. Charlotte made no reply, and he asked again. 'Who is that that has just come in? Open the door. Who is it?'
'I suppose it is Bertie.'
'Bid him to come here,' said the father. But Bertie, who was close to the door and heard the call, required no further bidding, but walked in with a perfectly unconcerned and cheerful air. It was this peculiar insouciance which angered Dr Stanhope, even more than his son's extravagance.
'Well, sir,' said the doctor.
'And how did you get home, sir, with your fair companion?' said Bertie. 'I suppose she is not up-stairs, Charlotte?'
'Bertie,' said Charlotte, 'papa is in no humour for joking. He is very angry with you.'
'Angry!' said Bertie, raising his eyebrows, as though he had never yet given his parent cause for a single moment's uneasiness.
'Sit down, if you please, sir,' said Dr Stanhope very sternly, but not now very loudly. 'And I'll trouble you to sit down, too, Charlotte. Your mother can wait for her tea a few minutes.'
Charlotte sat down on the chair nearest the door, in somewhat of a perverse sort of manner; as much as though she would say--Well, here I am; you shan't say I don't do as I am bid; but I'll be whipped if I give way to you. And she was determined not to give way. She too was angry with Bertie; but she was not the less ready on that account to defend him from his father. Bertie also sat down. He drew his chair close to the library table, upon which he put his elbow, and then resting his face comfortably on one hand, he began drawing little pictures on a sheet of paper with the other. Before the scene was over had had completed admirable figures of Miss Thorne, Mrs Proudie, and Lady De Courcy, and began a family piece to comprise the whole set of Lookalofts.
'Would it suit you, sir,' said the father, 'to give me some idea as to what your present intentions are? --what way of living you propose to yourself?'
'I'll do anything you suggest, sir,' said Bertie.
'No, I shall suggest nothing further. My time for suggesting has gone by. I have only one order to give, and that is, that you leave my house.'
'To-night?' said Bertie; and the simple tone of the question left the doctor without any adequately dignified method of reply.
'Papa does not quite mean to-night,' said Charlotte, 'at least I suppose not.'
'To-morrow perhaps,' suggested Bertie.
'Yes sir, to-morrow,' said the doctor. 'You shall leave this to-morrow.'
'Very well, sir. Will the 4.30 P.M. train be soon enough?' said Bertie, as he asked, put the finishing touch to Miss Thorne's high-heeled boots.
'You may go how and when and where you please, so that you leave my house to-morrow. You have disgraced me, sir; you have disgraced yourself, and me, and your sisters.'
'I am glad at least sir, that I have not disgraced my mother,' said Bertie.
Charlotte could hardly keep her countenance; but the doctor's brow grew still blacker than ever. Bertie was executing his chef d'ouvre in the delineation of Mrs Proudie's nose and mouth.
'You are a heartless reprobate, sir; a heartless, thankless, good-for-nothing reprobate. I have done with you. You are my son--that I cannot help; but you shall have no more part or parcel in me as my child, nor I in you as your father.'
'Oh, papa, papa! You must not, shall not say so,' said Charlotte.
'I will say so, and do say so,' said the father, rising from his chair. 'And now leave the room, sir.'
'Stop, stop,' said Charlotte; 'why don't you speak, Bertie? Why don't you look up and speak? It is your manner that makes him so angry.'
'He is perfectly indifferent to all decency, to all propriety,' said the doctor; and then he shouted out, 'Leave the room, sir! Do you hear what I say?'
'Papa, papa, I will not let you part so. I know you will be sorry for it.' And then she added, getting up and whispering into his ear. 'Is he only to blame? Think of that. We have made our own bed, and, such as it is, we must lie on it. It is no use for us to quarrel among ourselves,' and as she finished her whisper, Bertie finished off the countess's bustle, which was so well done that it absolutely seemed to be swaying to and fro on the paper with its usual lateral motion.
'My father is angry at the present time,' said Bertie, looking up for a moment from his sketches, 'because I am not going to marry Mrs Bold. What can I say on the matter? It is true that I am not going to marry her. In the first place--' 'That is not true, sir,' said Dr Stanhope; 'but I will not argue with you.'
'You were angry just this moment because I would not speak,' said Bertie, going on with a young Lookaloft.
'Give over drawing,' said Charlotte, going up to him and taking the paper from under his hand. The caricature, however, she preserved, and showed them afterwards to the friends of the Thornes, the Proudies, and De Courcys. Bertie, deprived of his occupation, threw himself back in his chair and waited further orders.
'I think it will certainly be for the best that Bertie should leave this at once, perhaps to-morrow,' said Charlotte; 'but pray, papa, let us arrange some scheme together.'
'If he will leave to-morrow, I will give him L 10, and he shall be paid L 5 a month by the banker at Carrara as long as he stays permanently in that place.'
'Well, sir! it won't be long,' said Bertie; 'for I shall be starved to death in about three months.'
'He must have marble to work with,' said Charlotte.
'I have plenty there in the studio to last me three months,' said Bertie. 'It will be no use attempting anything large in so limited a time; unless I do my own tombstone.'
Terms, however, were ultimately come to, somewhat more liberal than those proposed, and the doctor was induced to shake hands with his son, and bid him good-night. Dr Stanhope would not go up to tea, but had it brought to him in his study by his daughter.
But Bertie went up-stairs and spent a pleasant evening. He finished the Lookalofts, greatly to the delight of his sisters, though the manner of portraying their decollete dresses was not the most refined. Finding how matters were going, he by degrees allowed it to escape from him that he had not pressed his suit upon the widow in a very urgent way.
'I suppose, in point of fact, you never proposed at all?' said Charlotte.
'Oh, she understood that she might have me if she wished,' said he.
'And she didn't wish,' said the signora.
'You have thrown me over in the most shameful manner,' said Charlotte. 'I suppose you told her all about my little plan?'
'Well, it came out somehow; at least the most of it.'
'There's an end of that alliance,' said Charlotte; 'but it doesn't matter much. I suppose we shall all be back in Como soon.'
'I am sure I hope so,' said the signora; 'I'm sick of the sight of black coats. If that Mr Slope comes here any more, he'll be the death of me.'
'You've been the ruin of him, I think,' said Charlotte.
'And as for a second black-coated lover of mine, I am going to make a present to him of another lady with most singular disinterestedness.'
The next day, true to his promise, Bertie packed up and went of by the 4.30 P.M. train, with L 20 in his pocket, bound for the marble quarries of Carrara. And so he disappears from our scene.
At twelve o'clock on the day following that on which Bertie went, Mrs Bold, true also to her word, knocked at Dr Stanhope's door with a timid hand and palpitating heart. She was at once shown up to the back drawing-room, the folding doors of which were closed, so that in visiting the signora, Eleanor was not necessarily thrown into any communication with those in the front room. As she went up the stairs, she none of the family, and was so far saved much of the annoyance which she had dreaded.
'This is very kind of you, Mrs Bold; very kind, after what has happened,' said the lady on the sofa with her sweetest smile.
'You wrote in such a strain that I could not but come to you.'
'I did, I did; I wanted to force you to see me.'
'Well, signora; I am here.'
'How cold you are to me. But I suppose I must put up with that. I know you think you have reason to be displeased with us all. Poor Bertie! if you knew all, you would not be angry with him.'
'I am not angry with your brother--not in the least. But I hope you did not send for me to talk about him.'
'If you are angry with Charlotte, that is worse; for you have no warmer friend in all Barchester. But I did not send for you to talk about this--pray bring your chair nearer, Mrs Bold, so that I may look at you. It is so unnatural to see you keeping so far off from me.'
Eleanor did as she was bid, and brought her chair closer to the sofa.
'And now, Mrs Bold, I am going to tell you something which you may think indelicate; but yet I know that I am right in doing so.'
Hereupon Mrs Bold said nothing, but felt inclined to shake in her chair. The signora, she knew, was not very particular, and that which to her appeared to be indelicate might to Mrs Bold appear to be extremely indecent.
'I believe you know Mr Arabin?'
Mrs Bold would have given the world not to blush, but her blood was not at her own command. She did blush up to her forehead, and the signora, who had made her sit in a special light in order that she might watch her, saw that she did so.
'Yes--I am acquainted with him. That is, slightly. He is an intimate friend of Dr Grantly, and Dr Grantly is my brother-in-law.'
'Well; if you know Mr Arabin, I am sure you must like him. I know and like him much. Everybody that knows him must like him.'
Mrs Bold felt it quite impossible to say anything in reply to this. Her blood was rushing about her body she knew not how or why. She felt as though she were swinging in her chair; and she knew that she was not only red in the face, but also almost suffocated with heat. However, she sat still and said nothing.
'How stiff you are with me, Mrs Bold,' said the signora; 'and I the while am doing for you all that one woman can do to serve another.'
A kind of thought came over the widow's mind that perhaps the signora's friendship was real; and that at any rate it could not hurt her; and another kind of thought, a glimmering of a thought, came to her also,--that Mr Arabin was to precious to be lost. She despised the signora; but might she not stoop to conquer? It should be but the smallest fraction of a stoop!
'I don't want to be stiff,' she said, 'but your questions are so very singular.'
'Well, then, I will ask you one more singular still,' said Madeline Neroni, raising herself on her elbow and turning her own face full upon her companion's. 'Do you love him, love him with all your heart and soul, with all the love your bosom can feel? For I can tell you that he loves you, worships you, thinks of you and nothing else, is now thinking of you as he attempts to write his sermon for next Sunday's preaching. What would I not give to be loved in such a way by such a man, that is, if I were an object for any man to love!'
Mrs Bold got up from her seat and stood speechless before the woman who was now addressing her in this impassioned way. When the signora thus alluded to herself, the widow's heart was softened, and she put her own hand, as though caressingly, on that of her companion which was resting on the table. The signora grasped it and went on speaking.
'What I tell you is God's own truth; and it is for you to use it as may be best for your own happiness. But you must not betray me. He knows nothing of this. He knows nothing of my knowing his inmost heart. He is simple as a child in these matters. He told me his secret in a thousand ways because he could not dissemble; but he does not dream that has told it. You know it now, and I advise you to use it.'
Eleanor returned the pressure of the other's hand with an infinitesimal soupcon of a squeeze.
'And remember,' said the signora, 'he is not like other men. You must not expect him to come to you with vows and oaths and pretty presents, to kneel at your feet, and kiss your shoe-strings. If you want that, there are plenty to do it; but he won't be one of them.' Eleanor's bosom nearly burst with a sigh; but Madeline, not heeding her, went on. 'With him, yea will stand for yea, and nay for nay. Though his heart should break for it, the woman who shall reject him once, will have rejected him once and for all. Remember that. And now, Mrs Bold, I will not keep you, for you are flattered. I partly guess what use you will make of what I have said to you. If ever you are a happy wife in that man's house, we shall be far away; but I shall expect you to write me one line to say that you have forgiven the sins of the family.'
Eleanor half whispered that she would, and then without uttering another word, crept out of the room, and down the stairs, opened the front door for herself without hearing or seeing any one, and found herself in the close.
It would be difficult to analyse Eleanor's feelings as she walked home. She was nearly stupefied by the things that had been said to her. She felt sore that her heart should have been so searched and riddled by a comparative stranger, by a woman whom she had never liked and never could like. She was mortified that the man whom she owned to herself that she loved should have concealed his love from her and shown it to another. There was much to vex her proud spirit. But there was, nevertheless, an under-stratum of joy in all this which buoyed her up wondrously. She tried if she could disbelieve what Madame Neroni had said to her; but she found that she could not. It was true; it must be true. She could not, would not, did not doubt it.
On one point she fully resolved to follow the advice given her. If it should ever please Mr Arabin to put such a question to her as suggested, her 'yea' should be 'yea'. Would not all her miseries be at an end, if she could talk of them to him openly, with her hand resting on his shoulder?
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{
"id": "2432"
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46
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MR SLOPE'S PARTING INTERVIEW WITH THE SIGNORA
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On the following day the signora was in her pride. She was dressed in her brightest of morning dresses, and had quite a levee round her couch. It was a beautifully bright October afternoon; all the gentlemen of the neighbourhood were in Barchester, and those who had the entry of Dr Stanhope's house were in the signora's back drawing-room. Charlotte and Mrs Stanhope were in the front room, and such of the lady's squires as could not for the moment get near the centre of attraction had to waste their fragrance on the mother and sister.
The first who came and the last to leave was Mr Arabin. This was the second visit he had paid to Madame Neroni since he had met her at Ullathorne. He came he knew not why, to talk about he knew not what. But, in truth, the feelings which now troubled him were new to him, and he could not analyse them. It may seem strange that he should thus come dangling about Madame Neroni because he was in love with Mrs Bold; but it was nevertheless the fact; and though he could not understand why he did so, Madame Neroni understood it well enough.
She had been gentle and kind to him, and had encouraged his staying. Therefore he stayed on. She pressed his hand when he first greeted her; and whispered to him little nothings. And then her eye, brilliant and bright, now mirthful, now melancholy, and invincible in either way! What man with warm feelings, blood unchilled, and a heat not guarded by a triple steel of experience could have withstood those eyes! The lady, it is true, intended to do no mortal injury; she merely chose to inhale a slight breath of incense before she handed the casket over to another. Whether Mrs Bold would willingly have spared even so much is another question.
And then came Mr Slope. All the world now knew that Mr Slope was a candidate for the deanery, and that he was generally considered to be the favourite. Mr Slope, therefore, walked rather largely upon the earth. He gave to himself a portly air, such as might become a dean, spoke but little to other clergymen, and shunned the bishop as much as possible. How the meagre little prebendary, and the burly chancellor, and all the minor canons and vicars choral, ay, and all the choristers too, cowered and shook and walked about with long faces when they read or heard of that article of the Jupiter. Now were coming the days when nothing would avail to keep the impure spirit from the cathedral pulpit. That pulpit would indeed be his own. Precentors, vicars, and choristers might hang up their harps on the willows. Ichabod! Ichabod! The glory of their house was departing from them.
Mr Slope, great as he was with embryo grandeur, still came to see the signora. Indeed, he could not keep himself away. He dreamed of that soft hand which had kissed so often, and of the imperial brow which his lips had once pressed, and he then dreamed also of further favours.
And Mr Thorne was there also. It was the first visit he had ever paid to the signora, and he made it not without due preparation. Mr Thorne was a gentleman usually precise in his dress, and prone to make the most of himself in an unpretending way. The grey hairs in his whiskers were eliminated perhaps once a month; those on his head were softened by a mixture which we will not call a dye; it was only a wash. His tailor lived in St James's Street, and his bootmaker at the corner of that street and Piccadilly. He was particular in the article of gloves, and the getting up of his shirts was a matter not lightly thought of in the Ullathorne laundry. On the occasion of the present visit he had rather overdone his usual efforts, and caused some little uneasiness to his sister, who had not hitherto received very cordially the proposition for a lengthened visit from the signora at Ullathorne.
There were others also there--young men about the city who had not much to do, and who were induced by the lady's charms to neglect that little; but all gave way to Mr Thorne, who was somewhat of a grand signor, as a country gentleman always is in a provincial city.
'Oh, Mr Thorne, this is so kind of you!' said the signora. 'You promised to come; but I really did not expect it. I thought you country gentlemen never kept your pledges.'
'Oh, yea, sometimes,' said Mr Thorne, looking rather sheepish, and making salutations a little too much in the style of the last century.
'You deceive none but your consti-stit-stit; what do you call the people that carry you about in chairs and pelt you with eggs and apples when they make you a member of parliament?'
'One another also, sometimes, signora,' said Mr Slope, with a deanish sort of smirk on his face. 'Country gentlemen do deceive one another sometimes, don't they, Mr Thorne?'
Mr Thorne gave him a look which undressed him completely for the moment; but he soon remembered his high hopes, and recovering himself quickly, sustained his probable coming dignity by a laugh at Mr Thorne's expense.
'I never deceive a lady, at any rate,' said Mr Thorne; 'especially when the gratification of my own wishes is so strong an inducement to keep me true, as it now is.'
Mr Thorne went on thus awhile, with antediluvian grimaces and compliments which he had picked up from Sir Charles Grandison, and the signora at every grimace and at every bow smiled a little smile and bowed a little bow. Mr Thorne, however, was kept standing at the foot of the couch, for the new dean sat in the seat of honour near the table. Mr Arabin the while was standing with his back to the fire, his coat tails under his arms, gazing at her with all his eyes--not quite in vain, for every now and again a glance came up at him, bright as a meteor out of heaven.
'Oh, Mr Thorne, you promised to let me introduce my little girl to you. Can you spare a moment? --will you see her now?'
Mr Thorne assured her that he could, and would see the young lady with the greatest pleasure in life. 'Mr Slope, might I trouble you to ring the bell?' said she; and when Mr Slope got up she looked at Mr Thorne and pointed to the chair. Mr Thorne, however, was much too slow to understand her, and Mr Slope would have recovered his seat had not the signora, who never chose to be unsuccessful, somewhat summarily ordered him out of it.
'Oh, Mr Slope, I must ask you to let Mr Thorne sit here just for a moment or two. I am sure you will pardon me. We can take a liberty with you this week. Next week, you know, when you move into the dean's house, we shall all be afraid of you.'
Mr Slope, with an air of much indifference, rose from his seat, and, walking into the next room, became greatly interested in Mrs Stanhope's worsted work.
And then the child was brought in. She was a little girl, about eight years of age, like her mother, only that her enormous eyes were black, and her hair quite jet. Her complexion too was very dark, and bespoke her foreign blood. She was dressed in the most outlandish and extravagant way in which clothes could be put on a child's back. She had great bracelets on her naked little arms, a crimson fillet braided with gold round her head, and scarlet shoes with high heels. Her dress was all flounces, and stuck out from her as though the object were to make it lie off horizontally from her little hips. It did not nearly cover her knees; but this was atoned for by a loose pair of drawers which seemed made throughout of lace; then she had on pink silk stockings. It was thus that the last of the Neros was habitually dressed at the hour when visitors were wont to call.
'Julia, my love,' said the mother,--Julia was ever a favourite name with the ladies of the family, 'Julia, my love, come here. I was telling you about the beautiful party poor mamma went to. This is Mr Thorne; will you give him a kiss, dearest?'
Julia put up her face to be kissed, as she did to all her mother's visitors; and then Mr Thorne found that he had got her, and, which was much more terrible to him, all her finery, into his arms. The lace and starch crumpled against his waistcoat and trousers, the greasy black curls hung upon his cheek, and one of the bracelet clasps scratched his ear. He did not at all know how to hold her. However, he had on other occasions been compelled to fondle little nieces and nephews, and now set about the task in the mode he always used.
'Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle,' said he, putting the child on one knee, and working away with it as though he were turning a knife-grinder's wheel with his foot.
'Mamma, mamma,' said Julia, crossly. 'I don't want to be diddle diddled. Let me go, you naughty old man, you.'
Poor Mr Thorne put the child down quietly on the ground, and drew back his chair; Mr Slope, who had returned to the pole star that attracted him, laughed aloud; Mr Arabin winced and shut his eyes; and the signora pretended not to hear her daughter.
'Go to Aunt Charlotte, lovey,' said the mamma, 'and ask her it if is not time for you to go out.'
But little Julia, though she had not exactly liked the nature of Mr Thorne's attention, was accustomed to be played with by gentlemen, and did not relish the idea of being sent so soon to her aunt.
'Julia, go when I tell you, my dear.' But Julia still went pouting about the room. 'Charlotte, do come and take her,' said the signora. 'She must go out; and the days get so short now.' And thus ended the much-talked of interview between Mr Thorne and the last of the Neros.
Mr Thorne recovered from the child's crossness sooner than from Mr Slope's laughter. He could put up with being called an old man by an infant, but he did not like to be laughed at by the bishop's chaplain, even though that chaplain was about to become a dean. He said nothing, but he showed plainly enough that he was angry.
The signora was ready enough to avenge him. 'Mr Slope,' said she, 'I hear that you are triumphing on all sides.'
'How so,' said he smiling. He did not dislike being talked to about the deanery, though, of course, he strongly denied the imputation.
'You carry the day both in love and war.' Mr Slope hereupon did not look quite so satisfied as he had done.
'Mr Arabin,' continued the signora, 'don't you think Mr Slope is a very lucky man?'
'Not more than he deserves, I am sure,' said Mr Arabin.
'Only think, Mr Thorne, he is to be our new dean; of course we all know that.'
'Indeed, signora,' said Mr Slope, 'we all know nothing about it. I can assure you I myself--' 'He is to be the new dean--there is no manner of doubt of it, Mr Thorne.'
'Hum,' said Mr Thorne.
'Passing over the heads of old men like my father and Archdeacon Grantly--' 'Oh--oh!' said Mr Slope.
'The archdeacon would not accept it,' said Mr Arabin; whereupon Mr Slope smiled abominably, and said, as plainly as a look could speak, that the grapes were sour.
'Going over all our heads,' continued the signora; 'for, of course, I consider myself one of the chapter.'
'If I am ever dean,' said Mr Slope--'that is, were I ever to become so, I should glory in such a canoness.'
'Oh, Mr Slope, stop; I haven't half done. There is another canoness for you to glory in. Mr Slope is not only to have the deanery, but a wife to put in it.'
Mr Slope again looked disconcerted.
'A wife with a large fortune, too. It never rains but it pours, does it Mr Thorne?'
'No, never,' said Mr Thorne, who did not quite relish talking about Mr Slope and his affairs.
'When will it be, Mr Slope?'
'When will what be?' said he.
'Oh! we know when the affair of the dean will be: a week will settle that. The new hat, I have no doubt, has already been ordered. But when will the marriage come off?'
'Do you mean mine or Mr Arabin's,' said he, striving to be facetious.
'Well, just then I meant yours, though perhaps, after all, Mr Arabin's may be first. But we know nothing of him. He is too close for any of us. Now all is open and above board with you; which, by the bye, Mr Arabin, I beg to tell you I like much the best. He who runs can read that Mr Slope is a favoured lover. Come, Mr Slope, when is the widow to be made Mrs Dean?'
To Mr Arabin this badinage was peculiarly painful; and yet he could not tear himself away and leave it. He believed, still believed with that sort of belief which the fear of a thing engenders, that Mrs Bold would probably become the wife of Mr Slope. Of Mr Slope's little adventure in the garden he knew nothing. For aught he knew, Mr Slope might have had an adventure of quite a different character. He might have thrown himself at the widow's feet, been accepted, and then returned to town a jolly, thriving wooer. The signora's jokes were bitter enough to Mr Slope, but they were quite as bitter to Mr Arabin. He still stood leaning against the fire-place, fumbling with his hands in his trouser's pockets.
'Come, come, Mr Slope, don't be so bashful,' continued the signora. 'We all know that you proposed to the lady the other day at Ullathorne. Tell us with what words she accepted you. Was it with a simple "yes", or with two "no, no's", which makes an affirmative? or did silence give consent: or did she speak out with that spirit which so well becomes a widow, and say openly, "By my troth, sir, you shall make me Mrs Slope as soon as it is your pleasure to do so"?'
Mr Slope had seldom in his life felt himself less at his case. There sat Mr Thorne, laughing silently. There stood his old antagonist, Mr Arabin, gazing at him with all his eyes. There round the door between the two rooms were clustered a little group of people, including Miss Stanhope and the Rev. Messrs. Gray and Green, all listening to his discomfiture. He knew that it depended solely on his own wit whether or no he could throw the joke back upon the lady. He knew that it stood him to do so if he possibly could; but he said not a word. ''Tis conscience that makes cowards of us all.' He felt on his cheek the sharp points of Eleanor's fingers, and did not know who might have seen the blow, who might have told the tale to this pestilent woman who took such delight in jeering him. He stood there, therefore, red as a carbuncle and mute as a fish; grinning just sufficiently to show his teeth; an object of pity.
But the signora had no pity; she knew nothing of mercy. Her present object was to put Mr Slope down, and she was determined to do it thoroughly, now that she had him in her power.
'What, Mr Slope, no answer? Why it can't possibly be that this woman has been fool enough to refuse you? She surely can't be looking out after a bishop. But I see how it is, Mr Slope. Widows are proverbially cautious. You should have let her alone till the new hat was on your head; till you could show her the key of the deanery.'
'Signora,' said he at last, trying to speak in a tone of dignified reproach, 'you really permit yourself to talk on such solemn subjects in a very improper way.'
'Solemn subjects--what solemn subjects? Surely a dean's hat is not such a solemn subject.'
'I have no aspirations such as those you impute to me. Perhaps you will drop the subject.'
'Oh, certainly, Mr Slope; but one word first. Go to her again with the prime minister's letter in your pocket. I'll wager my shawl to your shovel she does not refuse you then.'
'I must say, signora, that I think you are speaking of the lady in a very unjustifiable manner.'
'And one other piece of advice, Mr Slope; I'll only offer you one other;' and then she commenced singing-- 'It's gude to be merry and wise, Mr Slope, It's gude to be honest and true; It's gude to be off with the old love, Mr Slope, Before you are on with the new-- 'Ha, ha, ha!'
And the signora, throwing herself back on her sofa, laughed merrily. She little recked how those who heard her would, in their own imagination, fill up the little history of Mr Slope's first love. She little cared that some among them might attribute to her the honour of his earlier admiration. She was tired of Mr Slope and wanted to get rid of him; she had ground for anger with him, and she chose to be revenged.
How Mr Slope got out of that room he never himself knew. He did succeed ultimately, and probably with some assistance, in getting him his had and escaping into the air. At last his love for the signora was cured. Whenever he again thought of her in his dreams, it was not as of an angel with azure wings. He connected her rather with fire and brimstone, and though he could still believe her to be a spirit, he banished her entirely out of heaven, and found a place for her among the infernal gods. When he weighed in the balance, as he not seldom did, the two women to whom he had attached himself in Barchester, the pre-eminent place in his soul's hatred was usually allotted to the signora.
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{
"id": "2432"
}
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