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Scenes of Clerical Life
GEORGE ELIOT
INTRODUCTION BY GRACE RHYS
DENT London
EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY
All rights reserved
Printed in Great Britain
This edition was first published in Everyman's Library in 1910
INTRODUCTION
George Eliot, or Mary Ann Evans, was born at Arbury Farm, in the parish
of Chilvers Coton, Warwickshire, on the 22nd of November, 1819. She was
the fifth and last child of her father by his second wife--of that father
whose sound sense and integrity she so keenly appreciated, and who was to
a certain extent the original of her famous characters of Adam Bede and
Caleb Garth.
Both during and after her schooldays George Eliot's history was that of a
mind continually out-growing its conditions. She became an excellent
housewife and a devoted daughter, but her nature was too large for so
cramped a life. 'You may try,' she writes in Daniel Deronda, 'but you can
never imagine what it is to have a man's force of genius in you, and to
suffer the slavery of being a girl.'
While her powers were growing she necessarily passed through many phases.
She became deeply religious, and wrote poetry, pious and sweet, fair of
its kind. Music was a passion with her; in a characteristic letter
written at the age of twenty to a friend she tries but fails to describe
her experience on hearing the 'Messiah' of Birmingham: 'With a stupid,
drowsy sensation, produced by standing sentinel over damson cheese and a
warm stove, I cannot do better than ask you to read, if accessible,
Wordsworth's short poem on the "Power of Sound."' There you have a
concise history of George Eliot's life at this period, divided as it was
between music, literature, and damson cheese.
Sixteen years of mental work and effort then lay between her and her
first achievement; years during which she read industriously and thought
more than she read. The classics, French, German, and Italian literature,
she laid them all under contribution. She had besides the art of
fortunate friendship: her mind naturally chose out the greater
intelligences among those she encountered; it was through a warm and
enduring friendship with Herbert Spencer that she met at last with George
Henry Lewes whose wife she became.
In this way she served no trifling apprenticeship. Natural genius,
experience of life, culture, and great companionship had joined to make
her what she was, a philosopher both natural and developed; and, what is
more rare, a philosopher with a sense of humour and a perception of the
dramatic. Thus when her chance came she was fully equipped to meet it.
It came when, at the age of thirty-six she began to write 'Amos Barton,'
her first attempt at fiction, and one that fixed her career. The story
appeared in 'Blackwood's Magazine,' and was followed by 'Mr. Gilfil's
Love Story' and 'Janet's Repentance.' Of the three, 'Mr. Gilfil's Love
Story' is perhaps the most finished and artistic; while 'Amos Barton' has
qualities of humour and tenderness that have not often been equalled.
'Janet's Repentance,' strong though it is, and containing the remarkable
sketch of Mr. Tryan, is perhaps less surely attractive.
The stories, all three of them, have a particular value as records of an
English country life that is rapidly passing away. Moreover, it is
country life seen through the medium of a powerful and right-judging
personality. It is her intimate and thorough knowledge of big things and
small, of literature and damson cheese, enabling her and us to see all
round her characters, that provides these characters with their ample
background of light and shade.
It is well to realise that since George Eliot's day the fashion of
writing, the temper of the modern mind, are quite changed; it is a
curious fact that the more sophisticated we become the simpler grows our
speech. Nowadays we talk as nearly as we may in words of one syllable.
Our style is stripped more and more of its Latinity. Our writers are more
and more in love with French methods--with the delicate clearness of
short phrases in which every word tells; with the rejection of all
intellectual ambulations round about a subject. To the fanatics of this
modern method the style of George Eliot appears strange, impossible. It
does not occur to them that her method has virtues which lack to theirs.
They may give us a little laboured masterpiece of art in which the vital
principle is wanting. George Eliot was great because she gave us passages
from life as it was lived in her day which will be vital so long as they
are sympathetically read.
George Eliot can be simple enough when she goes straight forward with her
narrative, as, for instance, in the scene of Milly Barton's death; then
her English is clear and sweet for she writes from the heart. But take
the opening chapter of the same story, and then you find her
philosophical Latinity in full swing: the curious and interesting thing
being that this otherwise ponderous work, which is quite of a sort to
alarm a Frenchman, is entirely suffused by humour, and enshrines moreover
the most charming character studies.
These lively and acute portraits drawn from English country life give its
abiding value to George Eliot's work. Take the character of Mr. Pilgrim
the doctor who 'is never so comfortable as when relaxing his professional
legs in one of those excellent farmhouses where the mice are sleek and
the mistress sickly;' or of Mrs. Hackit, 'a thin woman with a chronic
liver complaint which would have secured her Mr. Pilgrim's entire regard
and unreserved good word, even if he had not been in awe of her tongue.'
Or take Mrs. Patten, 'a pretty little old woman of eighty, with a close
cap and tiny flat white curls round her face,' whose function is
'quiescence in an easy-chair under the sense of compound interest
gradually accumulating,' and who 'does her malevolence gently;' or Mr.
Hackit, a shrewd, substantial man, 'who was fond of soothing the
acerbities of the feminine mind by a jocose compliment.' Where but in
George Eliot would you get a tea-party described with such charming
acceptance of whim?
George Eliot wrote poems at various times which showed she never could
have won fame as a poet; but there are moments of her prose that prove
she shared at times the poet's vision. Such a moment is that when the
half broken-hearted little Catarina looks out on a windy night landscape
lit by moonlight: 'The trees are harassed by that tossing motion when
they would like to be at rest; the shivering grass makes her quake with
sympathetic cold; the willows by the pool, _bent low and white under that
invisible harshness_, seem agitated and helpless like herself.' The
italicised sentence represents the high-water mark of George Eliot's
prose; that passage alone should vindicate her imaginative power.
G. R.
CONTENTS
The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton
Mr. Gilfil's Love Story
Janet's Repentance
SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE
THE SAD FORTUNES OF THE REV. AMOS BARTON
Chapter 1
Shepperton Church was a very different-looking building five-and-twenty
years ago. To be sure, its substantial stone tower looks at you through
its intelligent eye, the clock, with the friendly expression of former
days; but in everything else what changes! Now there is a wide span of
slated roof flanking the old steeple; the windows are tall and
symmetrical; the outer doors are resplendent with oak-graining, the inner
doors reverentially noiseless with a garment of red baize; and the walls,
you are convinced, no lichen will ever again effect a settlement on--they
are smooth and innutrient as the summit of the Rev. Amos Barton's head,
after ten years of baldness and supererogatory soap. Pass through the
baize doors and you will see the nave filled with well-shaped benches,
understood to be free seats; while in certain eligible corners, less
directly under the fire of the clergyman's eye, there are pews reserved
for the Shepperton gentility. Ample galleries are supported on iron
pillars, and in one of them stands the crowning glory, the very clasp or
aigrette of Shepperton church-adornment--namely, an organ, not very much
out of repair, on which a collector of small rents, differentiated by the
force of circumstances into an organist, will accompany the alacrity of
your departure after the blessing, by a sacred minuet or an easy
'Gloria'.
Immense improvement! says the well-regulated mind, which unintermittingly
rejoices in the New Police, the Tithe Commutation Act, the penny-post,
and all guarantees of human advancement, and has no moments when
conservative-reforming intellect takes a nap, while imagination does a
little Toryism by the sly, revelling in regret that dear, old, brown,
crumbling, picturesque inefficiency is everywhere giving place to
spick-and-span new-painted, new-varnished efficiency, which will yield
endless diagrams, plans, elevations, and sections, but alas! no picture.
Mine, I fear, is not a well-regulated mind: it has an occasional
tenderness for old abuses; it lingers with a certain fondness over the
days of nasal clerks and top-booted parsons, and has a sigh for the
departed shades of vulgar errors. So it is not surprising that I recall
with a fond sadness Shepperton Church as it was in the old days, with its
outer coat of rough stucco, its red-tiled roof, its heterogeneous windows
patched with desultory bits of painted glass, and its little flight of
steps with their wooden rail running up the outer wall, and leading to
the school-children's gallery.
Then inside, what dear old quaintnesses! which I began to look at with
delight, even when I was so crude a members of the congregation, that my
nurse found it necessary to provide for the reinforcement of my
devotional patience by smuggling bread-and-butter into the sacred
edifice. There was the chancel, guarded by two little cherubims looking
uncomfortably squeezed between arch and wall, and adorned with the
escutcheons of the Oldinport family, which showed me inexhaustible
possibilities of meaning in their blood-red hands, their death's-heads
and cross-bones, their leopards' paws, and Maltese crosses. There were
inscriptions on the panels of the singing-gallery, telling of
benefactions to the poor of Shepperton, with an involuted elegance of
capitals and final flourishes, which my alphabetic erudition traced with
ever-new delight. No benches in those days; but huge roomy pews, round
which devout church-goers sat during 'lessons', trying to look anywhere
else than into each other's eyes. No low partitions allowing you, with a
dreary absence of contrast and mystery, to see everything at all moments;
but tall dark panels, under whose shadow I sank with a sense of
retirement through the Litany, only to feel with more intensity my burst
into the conspicuousness of public life when I was made to stand up on
the seat during the psalms or the singing. And the singing was no
mechanical affair of official routine; it had a drama. As the moment of
psalmody approached, by some process to me as mysterious and untraceable
as the opening of the flowers or the breaking-out of the stars, a slate
appeared in front of the gallery, advertising in bold characters the
psalm about to be sung, lest the sonorous announcement of the clerk
should still leave the bucolic mind in doubt on that head. Then followed
the migration of the clerk to the gallery, where, in company with a
bassoon, two key-bugles, a carpenter understood to have an amazing power
of singing 'counter', and two lesser musical stars, he formed the
complement of a choir regarded in Shepperton as one of distinguished
attraction, occasionally known to draw hearers from the next parish. The
innovation of hymn-books was as yet undreamed of; even the New Version
was regarded with a sort of melancholy tolerance, as part of the common
degeneracy in a time when prices had dwindled, and a cotton gown was no
longer stout enough to last a lifetime; for the lyrical taste of the best
heads in Shepperton had been formed on Sternhold and Hopkins. But the
greatest triumphs of the Shepperton choir were reserved for the Sundays
when the slate announced an ANTHEM, with a dignified abstinence from
particularization, both words and music lying far beyond the reach of the
most ambitious amateur in the congregation: an anthem in which the
key-bugles always ran away at a great pace, while the bassoon every now
and then boomed a flying shot after them.
As for the clergyman, Mr. Gilfil, an excellent old gentleman, who smoked
very long pipes and preached very short sermons, I must not speak of him,
or I might be tempted to tell the story of his life, which had its little
romance, as most lives have between the ages of teetotum and tobacco. And
at present I am concerned with quite another sort of clergyman--the Rev.
Amos Barton, who did not come to Shepperton until long after Mr. Gilfil
had departed this life--until after an interval in which Evangelicalism
and the Catholic Question had begun to agitate the rustic mind with
controversial debates. A Popish blacksmith had produced a strong
Protestant reaction by declaring that, as soon as the Emancipation Bill
was passed, he should do a great stroke of business in gridirons; and the
disinclination of the Shepperton parishioners generally to dim the unique
glory of St Lawrence, rendered the Church and Constitution an affair of
their business and bosoms. A zealous Evangelical preacher had made the
old sounding-board vibrate with quite a different sort of elocution from
Mr. Gilfil's; the hymn-book had almost superseded the Old and New
Versions; and the great square pews were crowded with new faces from
distant corners of the parish--perhaps from Dissenting chapels.
You are not imagining, I hope, that Amos Barton was the incumbent of
Shepperton. He was no such thing. Those were days when a man could hold
three small livings, starve a curate a-piece on two of them, and live
badly himself on the third. It was so with the Vicar of Shepperton; a
vicar given to bricks and mortar, and thereby running into debt far away
in a northern county--who executed his vicarial functions towards
Shepperton by pocketing the sum of thirty-five pounds ten per annum, the
net surplus remaining to him from the proceeds of that living, after the
disbursement of eighty pounds as the annual stipend of his curate. And
now, pray, can you solve me the following problem? Given a man with a
wife and six children: let him be obliged always to exhibit himself when
outside his own door in a suit of black broadcloth, such as will not
undermine the foundations of the Establishment by a paltry plebeian
glossiness or an unseemly whiteness at the edges; in a snowy cravat,
which is a serious investment of labour in the hemming, starching, and
ironing departments; and in a hat which shows no symptom of taking to the
hideous doctrine of expediency, and shaping itself according to
circumstances; let him have a parish large enough to create an external
necessity for abundant shoe-leather, and an internal necessity for
abundant beef and mutton, as well as poor enough to require frequent
priestly consolation in the shape of shillings and sixpences; and,
lastly, let him be compelled, by his own pride and other people's, to
dress his wife and children with gentility from bonnet-strings to
shoe-strings. By what process of division can the sum of eighty pounds
per annum be made to yield a quotient which will cover that man's weekly
expenses? This was the problem presented by the position of the Rev. Amos
Barton, as curate of Shepperton, rather more than twenty years ago.
What was thought of this problem, and of the man who had to work it out,
by some of the well-to-do inhabitants of Shepperton, two years or more
after Mr. Barton's arrival among them, you shall hear, if you will
accompany me to Cross Farm, and to the fireside of Mrs. Patten, a
childless old lady, who had got rich chiefly by the negative process of
spending nothing. Mrs. Patten's passive accumulation of wealth, through
all sorts of 'bad times', on the farm of which she had been sole tenant
since her husband's death, her epigrammatic neighbour, Mrs. Hackit,
sarcastically accounted for by supposing that 'sixpences grew on the
bents of Cross Farm;' while Mr. Hackit, expressing his views more
literally, reminded his wife that 'money breeds money'. Mr. and Mrs.
Hackit, from the neighbouring farm, are Mrs. Patten's guests this
evening; so is Mr. Pilgrim, the doctor from the nearest market-town, who,
though occasionally affecting aristocratic airs, and giving late dinners
with enigmatic side-dishes and poisonous port, is never so comfortable as
when he is relaxing his professional legs in one of those excellent
farmhouses where the mice are sleek and the mistress sickly. And he is at
this moment in clover.
For the flickering of Mrs. Patten's bright fire is reflected in her
bright copper tea-kettle, the home-made muffins glisten with an inviting
succulence, and Mrs. Patten's niece, a single lady of fifty, who has
refused the most ineligible offers out of devotion to her aged aunt, is
pouring the rich cream into the fragrant tea with a discreet liberality.
Reader! _did_ you ever taste such a cup of tea as Miss Gibbs is this
moment handing to Mr. Pilgrim? Do you know the dulcet strength, the
animating blandness of tea sufficiently blended with real farmhouse
cream? No--most likely you are a miserable town-bred reader, who think of
cream as a thinnish white fluid, delivered in infinitesimal pennyworths
down area steps; or perhaps, from a presentiment of calves' brains, you
refrain from any lacteal addition, and rasp your tongue with unmitigated
bohea. You have a vague idea of a milch cow as probably a white-plaster
animal standing in a butterman's window, and you know nothing of the
sweet history of genuine cream, such as Miss Gibbs's: how it was this
morning in the udders of the large sleek beasts, as they stood lowing a
patient entreaty under the milking-shed; how it fell with a pleasant
rhythm into Betty's pail, sending a delicious incense into the cool air;
how it was carried into that temple of moist cleanliness, the dairy,
where it quietly separated itself from the meaner elements of milk, and
lay in mellowed whiteness, ready for the skimming-dish which transferred
it to Miss Gibbs's glass cream-jug. If I am right in my conjecture, you
are unacquainted with the highest possibilities of tea; and Mr. Pilgrim,
who is holding that cup in his hands, has an idea beyond you.
Mrs. Hackit declines cream; she has so long abstained from it with an eye
to the weekly butter-money, that abstinence, wedded to habit, has
begotten aversion. She is a thin woman with a chronic liver-complaint,
which would have secured her Mr. Pilgrim's entire regard and unreserved
good word, even if he had not been in awe of her tongue, which was as
sharp as his own lancet. She has brought her knitting--no frivolous fancy
knitting, but a substantial woollen stocking; the click-click of her
knitting-needles is the running accompaniment to all her conversation,
and in her utmost enjoyment of spoiling a friend's self-satisfaction, she
was never known to spoil a stocking. Mrs. Patten does not admire this
excessive click-clicking activity. Quiescence in an easy-chair, under the
sense of compound interest perpetually accumulating, has long seemed an
ample function to her, and she does her malevolence gently. She is a
pretty little old woman of eighty, with a close cap and tiny flat white
curls round her face, as natty and unsoiled and invariable as the waxen
image of a little old lady under a glass-case; once a lady's-maid, and
married for her beauty. She used to adore her husband, and now she adores
her money, cherishing a quiet blood-relation's hatred for her niece,
Janet Gibbs, who, she knows, expects a large legacy, and whom she is
determined to disappoint. Her money shall all go in a lump to a distant
relation of her husband's, and Janet shall be saved the trouble of
pretending to cry, by finding that she is left with a miserable pittance.
Mrs. Patten has more respect for her neighbour Mr. Hackit than for most
people. Mr. Hackit is a shrewd substantial man, whose advice about crops
is always worth listening to, and who is too well off to want to borrow
money.
And now that we are snug and warm with this little tea-party, while it is
freezing with February bitterness outside, we will listen to what they
are talking about.
'So,' said Mr. Pilgrim, with his mouth only half empty of muffin, 'you
had a row in Shepperton Church last Sunday. I was at Jim Hood's, the
bassoon-man's, this morning, attending his wife, and he swears he'll be
revenged on the parson--a confounded, methodistical, meddlesome chap, who
must be putting his finger in every pie. What was it all about?'
'O, a passill o' nonsense,' said Mr. Hackit, sticking one thumb between
the buttons of his capacious waistcoat, and retaining a pinch of snuff
with the other--for he was but moderately given to 'the cups that cheer
but not inebriate', and had already finished his tea; 'they began to sing
the wedding psalm for a new-married couple, as pretty a psalm an' as
pretty a tune as any in the prayer-book. It's been sung for every
new-married couple since I was a boy. And what can be better?' Here Mr.
Hackit stretched out his left arm, threw back his head, and broke into
melody--
'O what a happy thing it is,
And joyful for to see,
Brethren to dwell together in
Friendship and unity.
But Mr. Barton is all for th' hymns, and a sort o' music as I can't join
in at all.'
'And so,' said Mr. Pilgrim, recalling Mr. Hackit from lyrical
reminiscences to narrative, 'he called out Silence! did he? when he got
into the pulpit; and gave a hymn out himself to some meeting-house tune?'
'Yes,' said Mrs. Hackit, stooping towards the candle to pick up a stitch,
'and turned as red as a turkey-cock. I often say, when he preaches about
meekness, he gives himself a slap in the face. He's like me--he's got a
temper of his own.'
'Rather a low-bred fellow, I think, Barton,' said Mr. Pilgrim, who hated
the Reverend Amos for two reasons--because he had called in a new doctor,
recently settled in Shepperton; and because, being himself a dabbler in
drugs, he had the credit of having cured a patient of Mr. Pilgrim's.
'They say his father was a Dissenting shoemaker; and he's half a
Dissenter himself. Why, doesn't he preach extempore in that cottage up
here, of a Sunday evening?'
'Tchuh!'--this was Mr. Hackit's favourite interjection--'that preaching
without book's no good, only when a man has a gift, and has the Bible at
his fingers' ends. It was all very well for Parry--he'd a gift; and in my
youth I've heard the Ranters out o' doors in Yorkshire go on for an hour
or two on end, without ever sticking fast a minute. There was one clever
chap, I remember, as used to say, "You're like the woodpigeon; it says
do, do, do all day, and never sets about any work itself." That's
bringing it home to people. But our parson's no gift at all that way; he
can preach as good a sermon as need be heard when he writes it down. But
when he tries to preach wi'out book, he rambles about, and doesn't stick
to his text; and every now and then he flounders about like a sheep as
has cast itself, and can't get on'ts legs again. You wouldn't like that,
Mrs. Patten, if you was to go to church now?'
'Eh, dear,' said Mrs. Patten, falling back in her chair, and lifting up
her little withered hands, 'what 'ud Mr. Gilfil say, if he was worthy to
know the changes as have come about i' the Church these last ten years? I
don't understand these new sort o' doctrines. When Mr. Barton comes to
see me, he talks about nothing but my sins and my need o' marcy. Now, Mr.
Hackit, I've never been a sinner. From the fust beginning, when I went
into service, I al'ys did my duty by my emplyers. I was a good wife as
any in the county--never aggravated my husband. The cheese-factor used to
say my cheese was al'ys to be depended on. I've known women, as their
cheeses swelled a shame to be seen, when their husbands had counted on
the cheese-money to make up their rent; and yet they'd three gowns to my
one. If I'm not to be saved, I know a many as are in a bad way. But it's
well for me as I can't go to church any longer, for if th' old singers
are to be done away with, there'll be nothing left as it was in Mr.
Patten's time; and what's more, I hear you've settled to pull the church
down and build it up new?'
Now the fact was that the Rev. Amos Barton, on his last visit to Mrs.
Patten, had urged her to enlarge her promised subscription of twenty
pounds, representing to her that she was only a steward of her riches,
and that she could not spend them more for the glory of God than by
giving a heavy subscription towards the rebuilding of Shepperton
Church--a practical precept which was not likely to smooth the way to her
acceptance of his theological doctrine. Mr. Hackit, who had more
doctrinal enlightenment than Mrs. Patten, had been a little shocked by
the heathenism of her speech, and was glad of the new turn given to the
subject by this question, addressed to him as church-warden and an
authority in all parochial matters.
'Ah,' he answered, 'the parson's bothered us into it at last, and we're
to begin pulling down this spring. But we haven't got money enough yet. I
was for waiting till we'd made up the sum, and, for my part, I think the
congregation's fell off o' late; though Mr. Barton says that's because
there's been no room for the people when they've come. You see, the
congregation got so large in Parry's time, the people stood in the
aisles; but there's never any crowd now, as I can see.'
'Well,' said Mrs. Hackit, whose good-nature began to act now that it was
a little in contradiction with the dominant tone of the conversation,
'_I_ like Mr. Barton. I think he's a good sort o' man, for all he's not
overburthen'd i' th' upper storey; and his wife's as nice a lady-like
woman as I'd wish to see. How nice she keeps her children! and little
enough money to do't with; and a delicate creatur'--six children, and
another a-coming. I don't know how they make both ends meet, I'm sure,
now her aunt has left 'em. But I sent 'em a cheese and a sack o' potatoes
last week; that's something towards filling the little mouths.'
'Ah!' said Mr. Hackit, 'and my wife makes Mr. Barton a good stiff glass
o' brandy-and-water, when he comes into supper after his cottage
preaching. The parson likes it; it puts a bit o' colour into 'is face,
and makes him look a deal handsomer.'
This allusion to brandy-and-water suggested to Miss Gibbs the
introduction of the liquor decanters, now that the tea was cleared away;
for in bucolic society five-and-twenty years ago, the human animal of the
male sex was understood to be perpetually athirst, and 'something to
drink' was as necessary a 'condition of thought' as Time and Space.
'Now, that cottage preaching,' said Mr. Pilgrim, mixing himself a strong
glass of 'cold without,' 'I was talking about it to our Parson Ely the
other day, and he doesn't approve of it at all. He said it did as much
harm as good to give a too familiar aspect to religious teaching. That
was what Ely said--it does as much harm as good to give a too familiar
aspect to religious teaching.'
Mr. Pilgrim generally spoke with an intermittent kind of splutter;
indeed, one of his patients had observed that it was a pity such a clever
man had a 'pediment' in his speech. But when he came to what he conceived
the pith of his argument or the point of his joke, he mouthed out his
words with slow emphasis; as a hen, when advertising her accouchement,
passes at irregular intervals from pianissimo semiquavers to fortissimo
crotchets. He thought this speech of Mr. Ely's particularly metaphysical
and profound, and the more decisive of the question because it was a
generality which represented no particulars to his mind.
'Well, I don't know about that,' said Mrs. Hackit, who had always the
courage of her opinion, 'but I know, some of our labourers and
stockingers as used never to come to church, come to the cottage, and
that's better than never hearing anything good from week's end to week's
end. And there's that Track Society's as Mr. Barton has begun--I've seen
more o' the poor people with going tracking, than all the time I've lived
in the parish before. And there'd need be something done among 'em; for
the drinking at them Benefit Clubs is shameful. There's hardly a steady
man or steady woman either, but what's a dissenter.'
During this speech of Mrs. Hackit's, Mr. Pilgrim had emitted a succession
of little snorts, something like the treble grunts of a guinea-pig, which
were always with him the sign of suppressed disapproval. But he never
contradicted Mrs. Hackit--a woman whose 'pot-luck' was always to be
relied on, and who on her side had unlimited reliance on bleeding,
blistering, and draughts.
Mrs. Patten, however, felt equal disapprobation, and had no reasons for
suppressing it.
'Well,' she remarked, 'I've heared of no good from interfering with one's
neighbours, poor or rich. And I hate the sight o' women going about
trapesing from house to house in all weathers, wet or dry, and coming in
with their petticoats dagged and their shoes all over mud. Janet wanted
to join in the tracking, but I told her I'd have nobody tracking out o'
my house; when I'm gone, she may do as she likes. I never dagged my
petticoats in _my_ life, and I've no opinion o' that sort o' religion.'
'No,' said Mr. Hackit, who was fond of soothing the acerbities of the
feminine mind with a jocose compliment, 'you held your petticoats so
high, to show your tight ankles: it isn't everybody as likes to show her
ankles.'
This joke met with general acceptance, even from the snubbed Janet, whose
ankles were only tight in the sense of looking extremely squeezed by her
boots. But Janet seemed always to identify herself with her aunt's
personality, holding her own under protest.
Under cover of the general laughter the gentlemen replenished their
glasses, Mr. Pilgrim attempting to give his the character of a
stirrup-cup by observing that he 'must be going'. Miss Gibbs seized this
opportunity of telling Mrs. Hackit that she suspected Betty, the
dairymaid, of frying the best bacon for the shepherd, when he sat up with
her to 'help brew'; whereupon Mrs. Hackit replied that she had always
thought Betty false; and Mrs. Patten said there was no bacon stolen when
_she_ was able to manage. Mr. Hackit, who often complained that he 'never
saw the like to women with their maids--he never had any trouble with his
men', avoided listening to this discussion, by raising the question of
vetches with Mr. Pilgrim. The stream of conversation had thus diverged:
and no more was said about the Rev. Amos Barton, who is the main object
of interest to us just now. So we may leave Cross Farm without waiting
till Mrs. Hackit, resolutely donning her clogs and wrappings, renders it
incumbent on Mr. Pilgrim also to fulfil his frequent threat of going.
Chapter 2
It was happy for the Rev. Amos Barton that he did not, like us, overhear
the conversation recorded in the last chapter. Indeed, what mortal is
there of us, who would find his satisfaction enhanced by an opportunity
of comparing the picture he presents to himself of his own doings, with
the picture they make on the mental retina of his neighbours? We are poor
plants buoyed up by the air-vessels of our own conceit: alas for us, if
we get a few pinches that empty us of that windy self-subsistence! The
very capacity for good would go out of us. For, tell the most impassioned
orator, suddenly, that his wig is awry, or his shirt-lap hanging out, and
that he is tickling people by the oddity of his person, instead of
thrilling them by the energy of his periods, and you would infallibly dry
up the spring of his eloquence. That is a deep and wide saying, that no
miracle can be wrought without faith--without the worker's faith in
himself, as well as the recipient's faith in him. And the greater part of
the worker's faith in himself is made up of the faith that others believe
in him.
Let me be persuaded that my neighbour Jenkins considers me a blockhead,
and I shall never shine in conversation with him any more. Let me
discover that the lovely Phoebe thinks my squint intolerable, and I shall
never be able to fix her blandly with my disengaged eye again. Thank
heaven, then, that a little illusion is left to us, to enable us to be
useful and agreeable--that we don't know exactly what our friends think
of us--that the world is not made of looking-glass, to show us just the
figure we are making, and just what is going on behind our backs! By the
help of dear friendly illusion, we are able to dream that we are charming
and our faces wear a becoming air of self-possession; we are able to
dream that other men admire our talents--and our benignity is
undisturbed; we are able to dream that we are doing much good--and we do
a little. Thus it was with Amos Barton on that very Thursday evening,
when he was the subject of the conversation at Cross Farm. He had been
dining at Mr. Farquhar's, the secondary squire of the parish, and,
stimulated by unwonted gravies and port-wine, had been delivering his
opinion on affairs parochial and otherwise with considerable animation.
And he was now returning home in the moonlight--a little chill, it is
true, for he had just now no greatcoat compatible with clerical dignity,
and a fur boa round one's neck, with a waterproof cape over one's
shoulders, doesn't frighten away the cold from one's legs; but entirely
unsuspicious, not only of Mr. Hackit's estimate of his oratorical powers,
but also of the critical remarks passed on him by the Misses Farquhar as
soon as the drawing-room door had closed behind him. Miss Julia had
observed that she _never_ heard any one sniff so frightfully as Mr.
Barton did--she had a great mind to offer him her pocket-handkerchief;
and Miss Arabella wondered why he always said he was going _for_ to do a
thing. He, excellent man! was meditating fresh pastoral exertions on the
morrow; he would set on foot his lending library; in which he had
introduced some books that would be a pretty sharp blow to the
Dissenters--one especially, purporting to be written by a working man
who, out of pure zeal for the welfare of his class, took the trouble to
warn them in this way against those hypocritical thieves, the Dissenting
preachers. The Rev. Amos Barton profoundly believed in the existence of
that working man, and had thoughts of writing to him. Dissent, he
considered, would have its head bruised in Shepperton, for did he not
attack it in two ways? He preached Low-Church doctrine--as evangelical as
anything to be heard in the Independent Chapel; and he made a High-Church
assertion of ecclesiastical powers and functions. Clearly, the Dissenters
would feel that 'the parson' was too many for them. Nothing like a man
who combines shrewdness with energy. The wisdom of the serpent, Mr.
Barton considered, was one of his strong points.
Look at him as he winds through the little churchyard! The silver light
that falls aslant on church and tomb, enables you to see his slim black
figure, made all the slimmer by tight pantaloons, as it flits past the
pale gravestones. He walks with a quick step, and is now rapping with
sharp decision at the vicarage door. It is opened without delay by the
nurse, cook, and housemaid, all at once--that is to say, by the robust
maid-of-all-work, Nanny; and as Mr. Barton hangs up his hat in the
passage, you see that a narrow face of no particular complexion--even the
small-pox that has attacked it seems to have been of a mongrel,
indefinite kind--with features of no particular shape, and an eye of no
particular expression is surmounted by a slope of baldness gently rising
from brow to crown. You judge him, rightly, to be about forty. The house
is quiet, for it is half-past ten, and the children have long been gone
to bed. He opens the sitting-room door, but instead of seeing his wife,
as he expected, stitching with the nimblest of fingers by the light of
one candle, he finds her dispensing with the light of a candle
altogether. She is softly pacing up and down by the red firelight,
holding in her arms little Walter, the year-old baby, who looks over her
shoulder with large wide-open eyes, while the patient mother pats his
back with her soft hand, and glances with a sigh at the heap of large and
small stockings lying unmended on the table.
She was a lovely woman--Mrs. Amos Barton, a large, fair, gentle Madonna,
with thick, close, chestnut curls beside her well-rounded cheeks, and
with large, tender, short-sighted eyes. The flowing lines of her tall
figure made the limpest dress look graceful, and her old frayed black
silk seemed to repose on her bust and limbs with a placid elegance and
sense of distinction, in strong contrast with the uneasy sense of being
no fit, that seemed to express itself in the rustling of Mrs. Farquhar's
_gros de Naples_. The caps she wore would have been pronounced, when off
her head, utterly heavy and hideous--for in those days even fashionable
caps were large and floppy; but surmounting her long arched neck, and
mingling their borders of cheap lace and ribbon with her chestnut curls,
they seemed miracles of successful millinery. Among strangers she was shy
and tremulous as a girl of fifteen; she blushed crimson if any one
appealed to her opinion; yet that tall, graceful, substantial presence
was so imposing in its mildness, that men spoke to her with an agreeable
sensation of timidity.
Soothing, unspeakable charm of gentle womanhood! which supersedes all
acquisitions, all accomplishments. You would never have asked, at any
period of Mrs. Amos Barton's life, if she sketched or played the piano.
You would even perhaps have been rather scandalized if she had descended
from the serene dignity of _being_ to the assiduous unrest of _doing_.
Happy the man, you would have thought, whose eye will rest on her in the
pauses of his fireside reading--whose hot aching forehead will be soothed
by the contact of her cool soft hand who will recover himself from
dejection at his mistakes and failures in the loving light of her
unreproaching eyes! You would not, perhaps, have anticipated that this
bliss would fall to the share of precisely such a man as Amos Barton,
whom you have already surmised not to have the refined sensibilities for
which you might have imagined Mrs. Barton's qualities to be destined by
pre-established harmony. But I, for one, do not grudge Amos Barton this
sweet wife. I have all my life had a sympathy for mongrel ungainly dogs,
who are nobody's pets; and I would rather surprise one of them by a pat
and a pleasant morsel, than meet the condescending advances of the
loveliest Skye-terrier who has his cushion by my lady's chair. That, to
be sure, is not the way of the world: if it happens to see a fellow of
fine proportions and aristocratic mien, who makes no _faux pas_, and wins
golden opinions from all sorts of men, it straightway picks out for him
the loveliest of unmarried women, and says, _There_ would be a proper
match! Not at all, say I: let that successful, well-shapen, discreet and
able gentleman put up with something less than the best in the
matrimonial department; and let the sweet woman go to make sunshine and a
soft pillow for the poor devil whose legs are not models, whose efforts
are often blunders, and who in general gets more kicks than halfpence.
She--the sweet woman--will like it as well; for her sublime capacity of
loving will have all the more scope; and I venture to say, Mrs. Barton's
nature would never have grown half so angelic if she had married the man
you would perhaps have had in your eye for her--a man with sufficient
income and abundant personal eclat. Besides, Amos was an affectionate
husband, and, in his way, valued his wife as his best treasure.
But now he has shut the door behind him, and said, 'Well, Milly!'
'Well, dear!' was the corresponding greeting, made eloquent by a smile.
'So that young rascal won't go to sleep! Can't you give him to Nanny?'
'Why, Nanny has been busy ironing this evening; but I think I'll take him
to her now.' And Mrs. Barton glided towards the kitchen, while her
husband ran up-stairs to put on his maize-coloured dressing-gown, in
which costume he was quietly filling his long pipe when his wife returned
to the sitting-room. Maize is a colour that decidedly did _not_ suit his
complexion, and it is one that soon soils; why, then, did Mr. Barton
select it for domestic wear? Perhaps because he had a knack of hitting on
the wrong thing in garb as well as in grammar.
Mrs. Barton now lighted her candle, and seated herself before her heap of
stockings. She had something disagreeable to tell her husband, but she
would not enter on it at once. 'Have you had a nice evening, dear?'
'Yes, pretty well. Ely was there to dinner, but went away rather early.
Miss Arabella is setting her cap at him with a vengeance. But I don't
think he's much smitten. I've a notion Ely's engaged to some one at a
distance, and will astonish all the ladies who are languishing for him
here, by bringing home his bride one of these days. Ely's a sly dog;
he'll like that.'
'Did the Farquhars say anything about the singing last Sunday?'
'Yes; Farquhar said he thought it was time there was some improvement in
the choir. But he was rather scandalized at my setting the tune of
"Lydia." He says he's always hearing it as he passes the Independent
meeting.' Here Mr. Barton laughed--he had a way of laughing at criticisms
that other people thought damaging--and thereby showed the remainder of a
set of teeth which, like the remnants of the Old Guard, were few in
number, and very much the worse for wear. 'But,' he continued, 'Mrs.
Farquhar talked the most about Mr. Bridmain and the Countess. She has
taken up all the gossip about them, and wanted to convert me to her
opinion, but I told her pretty strongly what I thought.'
'Dear me! why will people take so much pains to find out evil about
others? I have had a note from the Countess since you went, asking us to
dine with them on Friday.'
Here Mrs. Barton reached the note from the mantelpiece, and gave it to
her husband. We will look over his shoulder while he reads it:--
"Sweetest Milly, Bring your lovely face with your husband to dine with us
on Friday at seven--do. If not, I will be sulky with you till Sunday,
when I shall be obliged to see you, and shall long to kiss you that very
moment. Yours, according to your answer,
Caroline Czerlaski."
'Just like her, isn't it?' said Mrs. Barton. 'I suppose we can go?'
'Yes; I have no engagement. The Clerical Meeting is tomorrow, you know.'
'And, dear, Woods the butcher called, to say he must have some money next
week. He has a payment to make up.'
This announcement made Mr. Barton thoughtful. He puffed more rapidly, and
looked at the fire.
'I think I must ask Hackit to lend me twenty pounds, for it is nearly two
months till Lady-day, and we can't give Woods our last shilling.'
'I hardly like you to ask Mr. Hackit, dear--he and Mrs. Hackit have been
so very kind to us; they have sent us so many things lately.'
'Then I must ask Oldinport. I'm going to write to him tomorrow morning,
for to tell him the arrangement I've been thinking of about having
service in the workhouse while the church is being enlarged. If he agrees
to attend service there once or twice, the other people will come. Net
the large fish, and you're sure to have the small fry.'
'I wish we could do without borrowing money, and yet I don't see how we
can. Poor Fred must have some new shoes; I couldn't let him go to Mrs.
Bond's yesterday because his toes were peeping out, dear child! and I
can't let him walk anywhere except in the garden. He must have a pair
before Sunday. Really, boots and shoes are the greatest trouble of my
life. Everything else one can turn and turn about, and make old look like
new; but there's no coaxing boots and shoes to look better than they
are.'
Mrs. Barton was playfully undervaluing her skill in metamorphosing boots
and shoes. She had at that moment on her feet a pair of slippers which
had long ago lived through the prunella phase of their existence, and
were now running a respectable career as black silk slippers, having been
neatly covered with that material by Mrs. Barton's own neat fingers.
Wonderful fingers those! they were never empty; for if she went to spend
a few hours with a friendly parishioner, out came her thimble and a piece
of calico or muslin, which, before she left, had become a mysterious
little garment with all sorts of hemmed ins and outs. She was even trying
to persuade her husband to leave off tight pantaloons, because if he
would wear the ordinary gun-cases, she knew she could make them so well
that no one would suspect the sex of the tailor.
But by this time Mr. Barton has finished his pipe, the candle begins to
burn low, and Mrs. Barton goes to see if Nanny has succeeded in lulling
Walter to sleep. Nanny is that moment putting him in the little cot by
his mother's bedside; the head, with its thin wavelets of brown hair,
indents the little pillow; and a tiny, waxen, dimpled fist hides the rosy
lips, for baby is given to the infantile peccadillo of thumb-sucking. So
Nanny could now join in the short evening prayer, and all could go to
bed. Mrs. Barton carried up-stairs the remainder of her heap of
stockings, and laid them on a table close to her bedside, where also she
placed a warm shawl, removing her candle, before she put it out, to a tin
socket fixed at the head of her bed. Her body was very weary, but her
heart was not heavy, in spite of Mr. Woods the butcher, and the
transitory nature of shoe-leather; for her heart so overflowed with love,
she felt sure she was near a fountain of love that would care for husband
and babes better than she could foresee; so she was soon asleep. But
about half-past five o'clock in the morning, if there were any angels
watching round her bed--and angels might be glad of such an office they
saw Mrs. Barton rise up quietly, careful not to disturb the slumbering
Amos, who was snoring the snore of the just, light her candle, prop
herself upright with the pillows, throw the warm shawl round her
shoulders, and renew her attack on the heap of undarned stockings. She
darned away until she heard Nanny stirring, and then drowsiness came with
the dawn; the candle was put out, and she sank into a doze. But at nine
o'clock she was at the breakfast-table, busy cutting bread-and-butter for
five hungry mouths, while Nanny, baby on one arm, in rosy cheeks, fat
neck, and night-gown, brought in a jug of hot milk-and-water. Nearest her
mother sits the nine-year-old Patty, the eldest child, whose sweet fair
face is already rather grave sometimes, and who always wants to run
up-stairs to save mamma's legs, which get so tired of an evening. Then
there are four other blond heads--two boys and two girls, gradually
decreasing in size down to Chubby, who is making a round O of her mouth
to receive a bit of papa's 'baton'. Papa's attention was divided between
petting Chubby, rebuking the noisy Fred, which he did with a somewhat
excessive sharpness, and eating his own breakfast. He had not yet looked
at Mamma, and did not know that her cheek was paler than usual. But Patty
whispered, 'Mamma, have you the headache?'
Happily coal was cheap in the neighbourhood of Shepperton, and Mr. Hackit
would any time let his horses draw a load for 'the parson' without
charge; so there was a blazing fire in the sitting-room, and not without
need, for the vicarage garden, as they looked out on it from the
bow-window, was hard with black frost, and the sky had the white woolly
look that portends snow.
Breakfast over, Mr. Barton mounted to his study, and occupied himself in
the first place with his letter to Mr. Oldinport. It was very much the
same sort of letter as most clergymen would have written under the same
circumstances, except that instead of perambulate, the Rev. Amos wrote
preambulate, and instead of 'if haply', 'if happily', the contingency
indicated being the reverse of happy. Mr. Barton had not the gift of
perfect accuracy in English orthography and syntax, which was
unfortunate, as he was known not to be a Hebrew scholar, and not in the
least suspected of being an accomplished Grecian. These lapses, in a man
who had gone through the Eleusinian mysteries of a university education,
surprised the young ladies of his parish extremely; especially the Misses
Farquhar, whom he had once addressed in a letter as Dear Mads.,
apparently an abbreviation for Madams. The persons least surprised at the
Rev. Amos's deficiencies were his clerical brethren, who had gone through
the mysteries themselves.
At eleven o'clock, Mr. Barton walked forth in cape and boa, with the
sleet driving in his face, to read prayers at the workhouse,
euphemistically called the 'College'. The College was a huge square stone
building, standing on the best apology for an elevation of ground that
could be seen for about ten miles around Shepperton. A flat ugly district
this; depressing enough to look at even on the brightest days. The roads
are black with coal-dust, the brick houses dingy with smoke; and at that
time--the time of handloom weavers--every other cottage had a loom at its
window, where you might see a pale, sickly-looking man or woman pressing
a narrow chest against a board, and doing a sort of treadmill work with
legs and arms. A troublesome district for a clergyman; at least to one
who, like Amos Barton, understood the 'cure of souls' in something more
than an official sense; for over and above the rustic stupidity furnished
by the farm-labourers, the miners brought obstreperous animalism, and the
weavers in an acrid Radicalism and Dissent. Indeed, Mrs. Hackit often
observed that the colliers, who many of them earned better wages than Mr.
Barton, 'passed their time in doing nothing but swilling ale and smoking,
like the beasts that perish' (speaking, we may presume, in a remotely
analogical sense); and in some of the alehouse corners the drink was
flavoured by a dingy kind of infidelity, something like rinsings of Tom
Paine in ditch-water. A certain amount of religious excitement created by
the popular preaching of Mr. Parry, Amos's predecessor, had nearly died
out, and the religious life of Shepperton was falling back towards
low-water mark. Here, you perceive, was a terrible stronghold of Satan;
and you may well pity the Rev. Amos Barton, who had to stand
single-handed and summon it to surrender. We read, indeed, that the walls
of Jericho fell down before the sound of trumpets; but we nowhere hear
that those trumpets were hoarse and feeble. Doubtless they were trumpets
that gave forth clear ringing tones, and sent a mighty vibration through
brick and mortar. But the oratory of the Rev. Amos resembled rather a
Belgian railway-horn, which shows praiseworthy intentions inadequately
fulfilled. He often missed the right note both in public and private
exhortation, and got a little angry in consequence. For though Amos
thought himself strong, he did not _feel_ himself strong. Nature had
given him the opinion, but not the sensation. Without that opinion he
would probably never have worn cambric bands, but would have been an
excellent cabinetmaker and deacon of an Independent church, as his father
was before him (he was not a shoemaker, as Mr. Pilgrim had reported). He
might then have sniffed long and loud in the corner of his pew in Gun
Street Chapel; he might have indulged in halting rhetoric at
prayer-meetings, and have spoken faulty English in private life; and
these little infirmities would not have prevented him, honest faithful
man that he was, from being a shining light in the dissenting circle of
Bridgeport. A tallow dip, of the long-eight description, is an excellent
thing in the kitchen candlestick, and Betty's nose and eye are not
sensitive to the difference between it and the finest wax; it is only
when you stick it in the silver candlestick, and introduce it into the
drawing-room, that it seems plebeian, dim, and ineffectual. Alas for the
worthy man who, like that candle, gets himself into the wrong place! It
is only the very largest souls who will be able to appreciate and pity
him--who will discern and love sincerity of purpose amid all the bungling
feebleness of achievement.
But now Amos Barton has made his way through the sleet as far as the
College, has thrown off his hat, cape, and boa, and is reading, in the
dreary stone-floored dining-room, a portion of the morning service to the
inmates seated on the benches before him. Remember, the New Poor-law had
not yet come into operation, and Mr. Barton was not acting as paid
chaplain of the Union, but as the pastor who had the cure of all souls in
his parish, pauper as well as other. After the prayers he always
addressed to them a short discourse on some subject suggested by the
lesson for the day, striving if by this means some edifying matter might
find its way into the pauper mind and conscience--perhaps a task as
trying as you could well imagine to the faith and patience of any honest
clergyman. For, on the very first bench, these were the faces on which
his eye had to rest, watching whether there was any stirring under the
stagnant surface.
Right in front of him--probably because he was stone-deaf, and it was
deemed more edifying to hear nothing at a short distance than at a long
one--sat 'Old Maxum', as he was familiarly called, his real patronymic
remaining a mystery to most persons. A fine philological sense discerns
in this cognomen an indication that the pauper patriarch had once been
considered pithy and sententious in his speech; but now the weight of
ninety-five years lay heavy on his tongue as well as in his ears, and he
sat before the clergyman with protruded chin, and munching mouth, and
eyes that seemed to look at emptiness.
Next to him sat Poll Fodge--known to the magistracy of her county as Mary
Higgins--a one-eyed woman, with a scarred and seamy face, the most
notorious rebel in the workhouse, said to have once thrown her broth over
the master's coat-tails, and who, in spite of nature's apparent
safeguards against that contingency, had contributed to the perpetuation
of the Fodge characteristics in the person of a small boy, who was
behaving naughtily on one of the back benches. Miss Fodge fixed her one
sore eye on Mr. Barton with a sort of hardy defiance.
Beyond this member of the softer sex, at the end of the bench, sat 'Silly
Jim', a young man afflicted with hydrocephalus, who rolled his head from
side to side, and gazed at the point of his nose. These were the
supporters of Old Maxum on his right.
On his left sat Mr. Fitchett, a tall fellow, who had once been a footman
in the Oldinport family, and in that giddy elevation had enunciated a
contemptuous opinion of boiled beef, which had been traditionally handed
down in Shepperton as the direct cause of his ultimate reduction to
pauper commons. His calves were now shrunken, and his hair was grey
without the aid of powder; but he still carried his chin as if he were
conscious of a stiff cravat; he set his dilapidated hat on with a knowing
inclination towards the left ear; and when he was on field-work, he
carted and uncarted the manure with a sort of flunkey grace, the ghost of
that jaunty demeanour with which he used to usher in my lady's morning
visitors. The flunkey nature was nowhere completely subdued but in his
stomach, and he still divided society into gentry, gentry's flunkeys, and
the people who provided for them. A clergyman without a flunkey was an
anomaly, belonging to neither of these classes. Mr. Fitchett had an
irrepressible tendency to drowsiness under spiritual instruction, and in
the recurrent regularity with which he dozed off until he nodded and
awaked himself, he looked not unlike a piece of mechanism, ingeniously
contrived for measuring the length of Mr. Barton's discourse.
Perfectly wide-awake, on the contrary, was his left-hand neighbour, Mrs.
Brick, one of those hard undying old women, to whom age seems to have
given a network of wrinkles, as a coat of magic armour against the
attacks of winters, warm or cold. The point on which Mrs. Brick was still
sensitive--the theme on which you might possibly excite her hope and
fear--was snuff. It seemed to be an embalming powder, helping her soul to
do the office of salt.
And now, eke out an audience of which this front benchful was a sample,
with a certain number of refractory children, over whom Mr. Spratt, the
master of the workhouse, exercised an irate surveillance, and I think you
will admit that the university-taught clergyman, whose office it is to
bring home the gospel to a handful of such souls, has a sufficiently hard
task. For, to have any chance of success, short of miraculous
intervention, he must bring his geographical, chronological, exegetical
mind pretty nearly to the pauper point of view, or of no view; he must
have some approximate conception of the mode in which the doctrines that
have so much vitality in the plenum of his own brain will comport
themselves _in vacuo_--that is to say, in a brain that is neither
geographical, chronological, nor exegetical. It is a flexible imagination
that can take such a leap as that, and an adroit tongue that can adapt
its speech to so unfamiliar a position. The Rev. Amos Barton had neither
that flexible imagination, nor that adroit tongue. He talked of Israel
and its sins, of chosen vessels, of the Paschal lamb, of blood as a
medium of reconciliation; and he strove in this way to convey religious
truth within reach of the Fodge and Fitchett mind. This very morning, the
first lesson was the twelfth chapter of Exodus, and Mr. Barton's
exposition turned on unleavened bread. Nothing in the world more suited
to the simple understanding than instruction through familiar types and
symbols! But there is always this danger attending it, that the interest
or comprehension of your hearers may stop short precisely at the point
where your spiritual interpretation begins. And Mr. Barton this morning
succeeded in carrying the pauper imagination to the dough-tub, but
unfortunately was not able to carry it upwards from that well-known
object to the unknown truths which it was intended to shadow forth.
Alas! a natural incapacity for teaching, finished by keeping 'terms' at
Cambridge, where there are able mathematicians, and butter is sold by the
yard, is not apparently the medium through which Christian doctrine will
distil as welcome dew on withered souls.
And so, while the sleet outside was turning to unquestionable snow, and
the stony dining-room looked darker and drearier, and Mr. Fitchett was
nodding his lowest, and Mr. Spratt was boxing the boys' ears with a
constant _rinforzando_, as he felt more keenly the approach of
dinner-time, Mr. Barton wound up his exhortation with something of the
February chill at his heart as well as his feet. Mr. Fitchett, thoroughly
roused now the instruction was at an end, obsequiously and gracefully
advanced to help Mr. Barton in putting on his cape, while Mrs. Brick
rubbed her withered forefinger round and round her little shoe-shaped
snuff-box, vainly seeking for the fraction of a pinch. I can't help
thinking that if Mr. Barton had shaken into that little box a small
portion of Scotch high-dried, he might have produced something more like
an amiable emotion in Mrs. Brick's mind than anything she had felt under
his morning's exposition of the unleavened bread. But our good Amos
laboured under a deficiency of small tact as well as of small cash; and
when he observed the action of the old woman's forefinger, he said, in
his brusque way, 'So your snuff is all gone, eh?'
Mrs. Brick's eyes twinkled with the visionary hope that the parson might
be intending to replenish her box, at least mediately, through the
present of a small copper.
'Ah, well! you'll soon be going where there is no more snuff. You'll be
in need of mercy then. You must remember that you may have to seek for
mercy and not find it, just as you're seeking for snuff.'
At the first sentence of this admonition, the twinkle subsided from Mrs.
Brick's eyes. The lid of her box went 'click!' and her heart was shut up
at the same moment.
But now Mr. Barton's attention was called for by Mr. Spratt, who was
dragging a small and unwilling boy from the rear. Mr. Spratt was a
small-featured, small-statured man, with a remarkable power of language,
mitigated by hesitation, who piqued himself on expressing unexceptionable
sentiments in unexceptional language on all occasions.
'Mr. Barton, sir--aw--aw--excuse my trespassing on your time--aw--to beg
that you will administer a rebuke to this boy; he is--aw--aw--most
inveterate in ill-behaviour during service-time.'
The inveterate culprit was a boy of seven, vainly contending against
'candles' at his nose by feeble sniffing. But no sooner had Mr. Spratt
uttered his impeachment, than Miss Fodge rushed forward and placed
herself between Mr. Barton and the accused.
'That's _my_ child, Muster Barton,' she exclaimed, further manifesting
her maternal instincts by applying her apron to her offspring's nose.
'He's al'ys a-findin' faut wi' him, and a-poundin' him for nothin'. Let
him goo an' eat his roost goose as is a-smellin' up in our noses while
we're a-swallering them greasy broth, an' let my boy alooan.'
Mr. Spratt's small eyes flashed, and he was in danger of uttering
sentiments not unexceptionable before the clergyman; but Mr. Barton,
foreseeing that a prolongation of this episode would not be to
edification, said 'Silence!' in his severest tones.
'Let me hear no abuse. Your boy is not likely to behave well, if you set
him the example of being saucy.' Then stooping down to Master Fodge, and
taking him by the shoulder, 'Do you like being beaten?'
'No-a.'
'Then what a silly boy you are to be naughty. If you were not naughty,
you wouldn't be beaten. But if you are naughty, God will be angry, as
well as Mr. Spratt; and God can burn you for ever. That will be worse
than being beaten.'
Master Fodge's countenance was neither affirmative nor negative of this
proposition.
'But,' continued Mr. Barton, 'if you will be a good boy, God will love
you, and you will grow up to be a good man. Now, let me hear next
Thursday that you have been a good boy.'
Master Fodge had no distinct vision of the benefit that would accrue to
him from this change of courses. But Mr. Barton, being aware that Miss
Fodge had touched on a delicate subject in alluding to the roast goose,
was determined to witness no more polemics between her and Mr. Spratt,
so, saying good morning to the latter, he hastily left the College.
The snow was falling in thicker and thicker flakes, and already the
vicarage-garden was cloaked in white as he passed through the gate. Mrs.
Barton heard him open the door, and ran out of the sitting-room to meet
him.
'I'm afraid your feet are very wet, dear. What a terrible morning! Let me
take your hat. Your slippers are at the fire.'
Mr. Barton was feeling a little cold and cross. It is difficult, when you
have been doing disagreeable duties, without praise, on a snowy day, to
attend to the very minor morals. So he showed no recognition of Milly's
attentions, but simply said, 'Fetch me my dressing-gown, will you?'
'It is down, dear. I thought you wouldn't go into the study, because you
said you would letter and number the books for the Lending Library. Patty
and I have been covering them, and they are all ready in the
sitting-room.'
'Oh, I can't do those this morning,' said Mr. Barton, as he took off his
boots and put his feet into the slippers Milly had brought him; 'you must
put them away into the parlour.'
The sitting-room was also the day nursery and schoolroom; and while
Mamma's back was turned, Dickey, the second boy, had insisted on
superseding Chubby in the guidance of a headless horse, of the
red-wafered species, which she was drawing round the room, so that when
Papa opened the door Chubby was giving tongue energetically.
'Milly, some of these children must go away. I want to be quiet.'
'Yes, dear. Hush, Chubby; go with Patty, and see what Nanny is getting
for our dinner. Now, Fred and Sophy and Dickey, help me to carry these
books into the parlour. There are three for Dickey. Carry them steadily.'
Papa meanwhile settled himself in his easy-chair, and took up a work on
Episcopacy, which he had from the Clerical Book Society; thinking he
would finish it and return it this afternoon, as he was going to the
Clerical Meeting at Milby Vicarage, where the Book Society had its
headquarters.
The Clerical Meetings and Book Society, which had been founded some eight
or ten months, had had a noticeable effect on the Rev. Amos Barton. When
he first came to Shepperton he was simply an evangelical clergyman, whose
Christian experiences had commenced under the teaching of the Rev. Mr.
Johns, of Gun Street Chapel, and had been consolidated at Cambridge under
the influence of Mr. Simeon. John Newton and Thomas Scott were his
doctrinal ideals; he would have taken in the "Christian Observer" and the
"Record," if he could have afforded it; his anecdotes were chiefly of the
pious-jocose kind, current in dissenting circles; and he thought an
Episcopalian Establishment unobjectionable.
But by this time the effect of the Tractarian agitation was beginning to
be felt in backward provincial regions, and the Tractarian satire on the
Low-Church party was beginning to tell even on those who disavowed or
resisted Tractarian doctrines. The vibration of an intellectual movement
was felt from the golden head to the miry toes of the Establishment; and
so it came to pass that, in the district round Milby, the market-town
close to Shepperton, the clergy had agreed to have a clerical meeting
every month, wherein they would exercise their intellects by discussing
theological and ecclesiastical questions, and cement their brotherly love
by discussing a good dinner. A Book Society naturally suggested itself as
an adjunct of this agreeable plan; and thus, you perceive, there was
provision made for ample friction of the clerical mind.
Now, the Rev. Amos Barton was one of those men who have a decided will
and opinion of their own; he held himself bolt upright, and had no
self-distrust. He would march very determinedly along the road he thought
best; but then it was wonderfully easy to convince him which was the best
road. And so a very little unwonted reading and unwonted discussion made
him see that an Episcopalian Establishment was much more than
unobjectionable, and on many other points he began to feel that he held
opinions a little too far-sighted and profound to be crudely and suddenly
communicated to ordinary minds. He was like an onion that has been rubbed
with spices; the strong original odour was blended with something new and
foreign. The Low-Church onion still offended refined High Church
nostrils, and the new spice was unwelcome to the palate of the genuine
onion-eater.
We will not accompany him to the Clerical Meeting today, because we shall
probably want to go thither some day when he will be absent. And just now
I am bent on introducing you to Mr. Bridmain and the Countess Czerlaski,
with whom Mr. and Mrs. Barton are invited to dine tomorrow.
Chapter 3
Outside, the moon is shedding its cold light on the cold snow, and the
white-bearded fir-trees round Camp Villa are casting a blue shadow across
the white ground, while the Rev. Amos Barton, and his wife are audibly
crushing the crisp snow beneath their feet, as, about seven o'clock on
Friday evening, they approach the door of the above-named desirable
country residence, containing dining, breakfast, and drawing rooms, etc.,
situated only half a mile from the market-town of Milby.
Inside, there is a bright fire in the drawing-room, casting a pleasant
but uncertain light on the delicate silk dress of a lady who is reclining
behind a screen in the corner of the sofa, and allowing you to discern
that the hair of the gentleman who is seated in the arm-chair opposite,
with a newspaper over his knees, is becoming decidedly grey. A little
'King Charles', with a crimson ribbon round his neck, who has been lying
curled up in the very middle of the hearth-rug, has just discovered that
that zone is too hot for him, and is jumping on the sofa, evidently with
the intention of accommodating his person on the silk gown. On the table
there are two wax-candles, which will be lighted as soon as the expected
knock is heard at the door.
The knock is heard, the candles are lighted, and presently Mr. and Mrs.
Barton are ushered in--Mr. Barton erect and clerical, in a faultless tie
and shining cranium; Mrs. Barton graceful in a newly-turned black silk.
'Now this is charming of you,' said the Countess Czerlaski, advancing to
meet them, and embracing Milly with careful elegance. 'I am really
ashamed of my selfishness in asking my friends to come and see me in this
frightful weather.' Then, giving her hand to Amos, 'And you, Mr. Barton,
whose time is so precious! But I am doing a good deed in drawing you away
from your labours. I have a plot to prevent you from martyrizing
yourself.'
While this greeting was going forward, Mr. Bridmain, and Jet the spaniel,
looked on with the air of actors who had no idea of by-play. Mr.
Bridmain, a stiff and rather thick-set man, gave his welcome with a
laboured cordiality. It was astonishing how very little he resembled his
beautiful sister.
For the Countess Czerlaski was undeniably beautiful. As she seated
herself by Mrs. Barton on the sofa, Milly's eyes, indeed, rested--must it
be confessed?--chiefly on the details of the tasteful dress, the rich
silk of a pinkish lilac hue (the Countess always wore delicate colours in
an evening), the black lace pelerine, and the black lace veil falling at
the back of the small closely-braided head. For Milly had one
weakness--don't love her any the less for it, it was a pretty woman's
weakness--she was fond of dress; and often, when she was making up her
own economical millinery, she had romantic visions how nice it would be
to put on really handsome stylish things--to have very stiff balloon
sleeves, for example, without which a woman's dress was nought in those
days. You and I, too, reader, have our weakness, have we not? which makes
us think foolish things now and then. Perhaps it may lie in an excessive
admiration for small hands and feet, a tall lithe figure, large dark
eyes, and dark silken braided hair. All these the Countess possessed, and
she had, moreover, a delicately-formed nose, the least bit curved, and a
clear brunette complexion. Her mouth it must be admitted, receded too
much from her nose and chin and to a prophetic eye threatened
'nut-crackers' in advanced age. But by the light of fire and wax candles
that age seemed very far off indeed, and you would have said that the
Countess was not more than thirty.
Look at the two women on the sofa together! The large, fair, mild-eyed
Milly is timid even in friendship: it is not easy to her to speak of the
affection of which her heart is full. The lithe, dark, thin-lipped
Countess is racking her small brain for caressing words and charming
exaggerations.
'And how are all the cherubs at home?' said the Countess, stooping to
pick up Jet, and without waiting for an answer. 'I have been kept
in-doors by a cold ever since Sunday, or I should not have rested without
seeing you. What have you done with those wretched singers, Mr. Barton?'
'O, we have got a new choir together, which will go on very well with a
little practice. I was quite determined that the old set of singers
should be dismissed. I had given orders that they should not sing the
wedding psalm, as they call it, again, to make a new-married couple look
ridiculous, and they sang it in defiance of me. I could put them into the
Ecclesiastical Court, if I chose for to do so, for lifting up their
voices in church in opposition to the clergyman.'
'And a most wholesome discipline that would be,' said the Countess,
'indeed, you are too patient and forbearing, Mr. Barton. For my part, _I_
lose _my_ temper when I see how far you are from being appreciated in
that miserable Shepperton.'
If, as is probable, Mr. Barton felt at a loss what to say in reply to the
insinuated compliment, it was a relief to him that dinner was announced
just then, and that he had to offer his arm to the Countess.
As Mr. Bridmain was leading Mrs. Barton to the dining-room, he observed,
'The weather is very severe.'
'Very, indeed,' said Milly.
Mr. Bridmain studied conversation as an art. To ladies he spoke of the
weather, and was accustomed to consider it under three points of view: as
a question of climate in general, comparing England with other countries
in this respect; as a personal question, inquiring how it affected his
lady interlocutor in particular; and as a question of probabilities,
discussing whether there would be a change or a continuance of the
present atmospheric conditions. To gentlemen he talked politics, and he
read two daily papers expressly to qualify himself for this function. Mr.
Barton thought him a man of considerable political information, but not
of lively parts.
'And so you are always to hold your Clerical Meetings at Mr. Ely's?' said
the Countess, between her spoonfuls of soup. (The soup was a little
over-spiced. Mrs. Short of Camp Villa, who was in the habit of letting
her best apartments, gave only moderate wages to her cook.)
'Yes,' said Mr. Barton; 'Milby is a central place, and there are many
conveniences in having only one point of meeting.'
'Well,' continued the Countess, 'every one seems to agree in giving the
precedence to Mr. Ely. For my part, I _cannot_ admire him. His preaching
is too cold for me. It has no fervour--no heart. I often say to my
brother, it is a great comfort to me that Shepperton Church is not too
far off for us to go to; don't I, Edmund?'
'Yes,' answered Mr. Bridmain; 'they show us into such a bad pew at
Milby--just where there is a draught from that door. I caught a stiff
neck the first time I went there.'
'O, it is the cold in the pulpit that affects me, not the cold in the
pew. I was writing to my friend Lady Porter this morning, and telling her
all about my feelings. She and I think alike on such matters. She is most
anxious that when Sir William has an opportunity of giving away the
living at their place, Dippley, they should have a thoroughly zealous
clever man there. I have been describing a certain friend of mine to her,
who, I think, would be just to her mind. And there is such a pretty
rectory, Milly; shouldn't I like to see you the mistress of it?'
Milly smiled and blushed slightly. The Rev. Amos blushed very red, and
gave a little embarrassed laugh--he could rarely keep his muscles within
the limits of a smile. At this moment John, the man-servant, approached
Mrs. Barton with a gravy-tureen, and also with a slight odour of the
stable, which usually adhered to him through his in-door functions. John
was rather nervous; and the Countess happening to speak to him at this
inopportune moment, the tureen slipped and emptied itself on Mrs.
Barton's newly-turned black silk.
'O, horror! Tell Alice to come directly and rub Mrs. Barton's dress,'
said the Countess to the trembling John, carefully abstaining from
approaching the gravy-sprinkled spot on the floor with her own lilac
silk. But Mr. Bridmain, who had a strictly private interest in silks,
good-naturedly jumped up and applied his napkin at once to Mrs. Barton's
gown.
Milly felt a little inward anguish, but no ill-temper, and tried to make
light of the matter for the sake of John as well as others. The Countess
felt inwardly thankful that her own delicate silk had escaped, but threw
out lavish interjections of distress and indignation.
'Dear saint that you are,' she said, when Milly laughed, and suggested
that, as her silk was not very glossy to begin with, the dim patch would
not be much seen; 'you don't mind about these things, I know. Just the
same sort of thing happened to me at the Princess Wengstein's one day, on
a pink satin. I was in an agony. But you are so indifferent to dress; and
well you may be. It is you who make dress pretty, and not dress that
makes you pretty.'
Alice, the buxom lady's-maid, wearing a much better dress than Mrs.
Barton's, now appeared to take Mr. Bridmain's place in retrieving the
mischief, and after a great amount of supplementary rubbing, composure
was restored, and the business of dining was continued. When John was
recounting his accident to the cook in the kitchen, he observed, 'Mrs.
Barton's a hamable woman; I'd a deal sooner ha' throwed the gravy o'er
the Countess's fine gownd. But laws! what tantrums she'd ha' been in
arter the visitors was gone.'
'You'd a deal sooner not ha' throwed it down at all, _I_ should think,'
responded the unsympathetic cook, to whom John did _not_ make love. 'Who
d'you think's to mek gravy anuff, if you're to baste people's gownds wi'
it?'
'Well,' suggested John, humbly, 'you should wet the bottom of the _duree_
a bit, to hold it from slippin'.'
'Wet your granny!' returned the cook; a retort which she probably
regarded in the light of a _reductio ad absurdum_, and which in fact
reduced John to silence.
Later on in the evening, while John was removing the teathings from the
drawing-room, and brushing the crumbs from the table-cloth with an
accompanying hiss, such as he was wont to encourage himself with in
rubbing down Mr. Bridmain's horse, the Rev. Amos Barton drew from his
pocket a thin green-covered pamphlet, and, presenting it to the Countess,
said,--'You were pleased, I think, with my sermon on Christmas Day. It
has been printed in "The Pulpit," and I thought you might like a copy.'
'That indeed I shall. I shall quite value the opportunity of reading that
sermon. There was such depth in it!--such argument! It was not a sermon
to be heard only once. I am delighted that it should become generally
known, as it will be now it is printed in "The Pulpit."'
'Yes,' said Milly, innocently, 'I was so pleased with the editor's
letter.' And she drew out her little pocket-book, where she carefully
treasured the editorial autograph, while Mr. Barton laughed and blushed,
and said, 'Nonsense, Milly!'
'You see,' she said, giving the letter to the Countess, 'I am very proud
of the praise my husband gets.'
The sermon in question, by the by, was an extremely argumentative one on
the Incarnation; which, as it was preached to a congregation not one of
whom had any doubt of that doctrine, and to whom the Socinians therein
confuted were as unknown as the Arimaspians, was exceedingly well adapted
to trouble and confuse the Sheppertonian mind.
'Ah,' said the Countess, returning the editor's letter, 'he may well say
he will be glad of other sermons from the same source. But I would rather
you should publish your sermons in an independent volume, Mr. Barton; it
would be so desirable to have them in that shape. For instance, I could
send a copy to the Dean of Radborough. And there is Lord Blarney, whom I
knew before he was chancellor. I was a special favourite of his, and you
can't think what sweet things he used to say to me. I shall not resist
the temptation to write to him one of these days _sans facon_, and tell
him how he ought to dispose of the next vacant living in his gift.'
Whether Jet the spaniel, being a much more knowing dog than was
suspected, wished to express his disapproval of the Countess's last
speech, as not accordant with his ideas of wisdom and veracity, I cannot
say; but at this moment he jumped off her lap, and, turning his back upon
her, placed one paw on the fender, and held the other up to warm, as if
affecting to abstract himself from the current of conversation.
But now Mr. Bridmain brought out the chess-board, and Mr. Barton accepted
his challenge to play a game, with immense satisfaction. The Rev. Amos
was very fond of chess, as most people are who can continue through many
years to create interesting vicissitudes in the game, by taking
long-meditated moves with their knights, and subsequently discovering
that they have thereby exposed their queen.
Chess is a silent game; and the Countess's chat with Milly is in quite an
under-tone--probably relating to women's matters that it would be
impertinent for us to listen to; so we will leave Camp Villa, and proceed
to Milby Vicarage, where Mr. Farquhar has sat out two other guests with
whom he has been dining at Mr. Ely's, and is now rather wearying that
reverend gentleman by his protracted small-talk.
Mr. Ely was a tall, dark-haired, distinguished-looking man of
three-and-thirty. By the laity of Milby and its neighbourhood he was
regarded as a man of quite remarkable powers and learning, who must make
a considerable sensation in London pulpits and drawing-rooms on his
occasional visit to the metropolis; and by his brother clergy he was
regarded as a discreet and agreeable fellow. Mr. Ely never got into a
warm discussion; he suggested what might be thought, but rarely said what
he thought himself; he never let either men or women see that he was
laughing at them, and he never gave any one an opportunity of laughing at
_him_. In one thing only he was injudicious. He parted his dark wavy hair
down the middle; and as his head was rather flat than otherwise, that
style of coiffure was not advantageous to him.
Mr. Farquhar, though not a parishioner of Mr. Ely's, was one of his
warmest admirers, and thought he would make an unexceptionable
son-in-law, in spite of his being of no particular 'family'. Mr. Farquhar
was susceptible on the point of 'blood'--his own circulating fluid, which
animated a short and somewhat flabby person, being, he considered, of
very superior quality.
'By the by,' he said, with a certain pomposity counteracted by a lisp,
'what an ath Barton makth of himthelf, about that Bridmain and the
Counteth, ath she callth herthelf. After you were gone the other evening,
Mithith Farquhar wath telling him the general opinion about them in the
neighbourhood, and he got quite red and angry. Bleth your thoul, he
believth the whole thtory about her Polish huthband and hith wonderful
ethcapeth; and ath for her--why, he thinkth her perfection, a woman of
motht refined fellingth, and no end of thtuff.'
Mr. Ely smiled. 'Some people would say our friend Barton was not the best
judge of refinement. Perhaps the lady flatters him a little, and we men
are susceptible. She goes to Shepperton Church every Sunday--drawn there,
let us suppose, by Mr. Barton's eloquence.'
'Pshaw,' said Mr. Farquhar: 'Now, to my mind, you have only to look at
that woman to thee what she ith--throwing her eyth about when she comth
into church, and drething in a way to attract attention. I should thay,
she'th tired of her brother Bridmain, and looking out for another brother
with a thtronger family likeneth. Mithith Farquhar ith very fond of
Mithith Barton, and ith quite dithtrethed that she should athothiate with
thuch a woman, tho she attacked him on the thubject purpothly. But I tell
her it'th of no uthe, with a pig-headed fellow like him. Barton'th
well-meaning enough, but _tho_ contheited. I've left off giving him my
advithe.'
Mr. Ely smiled inwardly and said to himself, 'What a punishment!' But to
Mr. Farquhar he said, 'Barton might be more judicious, it must be
confessed.' He was getting tired, and did not want to develop the
subject.
'Why, nobody vithit-th them but the Bartonth,' continued Mr. Farquhar,
'and why should thuch people come here, unleth they had particular
reathonth for preferring a neighbourhood where they are not known? Pooh!
it lookth bad on the very fathe of it. _You_ called on them, now; how did
you find them?'
'O!--Mr. Bridmain strikes me as a common sort of man, who is making an
effort to seem wise and well-bred. He comes down on one tremendously with
political information, and seems knowing about the king of the French.
The Countess is certainly a handsome woman, but she puts on the grand air
a little too powerfully. Woodcock was immensely taken with her, and
insisted on his wife's calling on her and asking her to dinner; but I
think Mrs. Woodcock turned restive after the first visit, and wouldn't
invite her again.'
'Ha, ha! Woodcock hath alwayth a thoft place in hith heart for a pretty
fathe. It'th odd how he came to marry that plain woman, and no fortune
either.'
'Mysteries of the tender passion,' said Mr. Ely. 'I am not initiated yet,
you know.'
Here Mr. Farquhar's carriage was announced, and as we have not found his
conversation particularly brilliant under the stimulus of Mr. Ely's
exceptional presence, we will not accompany him home to the less exciting
atmosphere of domestic life.
Mr. Ely threw himself with a sense of relief into his easiest chair, set
his feet on the hobs, and in this attitude of bachelor enjoyment began to
read Bishop Jebb's Memoirs.
Chapter 4
I am by no means sure that if the good people of Milby had known the
truth about the Countess Czerlaski, they would not have been considerably
disappointed to find that it was very far from being as bad as they
imagined. Nice distinctions are troublesome. It is so much easier to say
that a thing is black, than to discriminate the particular shade of
brown, blue, or green, to which it really belongs. It is so much easier
to make up your mind that your neighbour is good for nothing, than to
enter into all the circumstances that would oblige you to modify that
opinion.
Besides, think of all the virtuous declamation, all the penetrating
observation, which had been built up entirely on the fundamental position
that the Countess was a very objectionable person indeed, and which would
be utterly overturned and nullified by the destruction of that premiss.
Mrs. Phipps, the banker's wife, and Mrs. Landor, the attorney's wife, had
invested part of their reputation for acuteness in the supposition that
Mr. Bridmain was not the Countess's brother. Moreover, Miss Phipps was
conscious that if the Countess was not a disreputable person, she, Miss
Phipps, had no compensating superiority in virtue to set against the
other lady's manifest superiority in personal charms. Miss Phipps's
stumpy figure and unsuccessful attire, instead of looking down from a
mount of virtue with an aureole round its head, would then be seen on the
same level and in the same light as the Countess Czerlaski's Diana-like
form and well-chosen drapery. Miss Phipps, for her part, didn't like
dressing for effect--she had always avoided that style of appearance
which was calculated to create a sensation.
Then what amusing innuendoes of the Milby gentlemen over their wine would
have been entirely frustrated and reduced to nought, if you had told them
that the Countess had really been guilty of no misdemeanours which
demanded her exclusion from strictly respectable society; that her
husband had been the veritable Count Czerlaski, who had had wonderful
escapes, as she said, and who, as she did _not_ say, but as was said in
certain circulars once folded by her fair hands, had subsequently given
dancing lessons in the metropolis; that Mr. Bridmain was neither more nor
less than her half-brother, who, by unimpeached integrity and industry,
had won a partnership in a silk-manufactory, and thereby a moderate
fortune, that enabled him to retire, as you see, to study politics, the
weather, and the art of conversation at his leisure. Mr. Bridmain, in
fact, quadragenarian bachelor as he was, felt extremely well pleased to
receive his sister in her widowhood, and to shine in the reflected light
of her beauty and title. Every man who is not a monster, a mathematician,
or a mad philosopher, is the slave of some woman or other. Mr. Bridmain
had put his neck under the yoke of his handsome sister, and though his
soul was a very little one--of the smallest description indeed--he would
not have ventured to call it his own. He might be slightly recalcitrant
now and then, as is the habit of long-eared pachyderms, under the thong
of the fair Countess's tongue; but there seemed little probability that
he would ever get his neck loose. Still, a bachelor's heart is an
outlying fortress that some fair enemy may any day take either by storm
or stratagem; and there was always the possibility that Mr. Bridmain's
first nuptials might occur before the Countess was quite sure of her
second. As it was, however, he submitted to all his sister's caprices,
never grumbled because her dress and her maid formed a considerable item
beyond her own little income of sixty pounds per annum, and consented to
lead with her a migratory life, as personages on the debatable ground
between aristocracy and commonalty, instead of settling in some spot
where his five hundred a-year might have won him the definite dignity of
a parochial magnate.
The Countess had her views in choosing a quiet provincial place like
Milby. After three years of widowhood, she had brought her feelings to
contemplate giving a successor to her lamented Czerlaski, whose fine
whiskers, fine air, and romantic fortunes had won her heart ten years
ago, when, as pretty Caroline Bridmain, in the full bloom of
five-and-twenty, she was governess to Lady Porter's daughters, whom he
initiated into the mysteries of the _pas de bas_, and the lancers'
quadrilles. She had had seven years of sufficiently happy matrimony with
Czerlaski, who had taken her to Paris and Germany, and introduced her
there to many of his old friends with large titles and small fortunes. So
that the fair Caroline had had considerable experience of life, and had
gathered therefrom, not, indeed, any very ripe and comprehensive wisdom,
but much external polish, and certain practical conclusions of a very
decided kind. One of these conclusions was, that there were things more
solid in life than fine whiskers and a title, and that, in accepting a
second husband, she would regard these items as quite subordinate to a
carriage and a settlement. Now, she had ascertained, by tentative
residences, that the kind of bite she was angling for was difficult to be
met with at watering-places, which were already preoccupied with
abundance of angling beauties, and were chiefly stocked with men whose
whiskers might be dyed, and whose incomes were still more problematic; so
she had determined on trying a neighbourhood where people were extremely
well acquainted with each other's affairs, and where the women were
mostly ill-dressed and ugly. Mr. Bridmain's slow brain had adopted his
sister's views, and it seemed to him that a woman so handsome and
distinguished as the Countess must certainly make a match that might lift
himself into the region of county celebrities, and give him at least a
sort of cousinship to the quarter-sessions.
All this, which was the simple truth, would have seemed extremely flat to
the gossips of Milby, who had made up their minds to something much more
exciting. There was nothing here so very detestable. It is true, the
Countess was a little vain, a little ambitious, a little selfish, a
little shallow and frivolous, a little given to white lies.--But who
considers such slight blemishes, such moral pimples as these,
disqualifications for entering into the most respectable society! Indeed,
the severest ladies in Milby would have been perfectly aware that these
characteristics would have created no wide distinction between the
Countess Czerlaski and themselves; and since it was clear there _was_ a
wide distinction--why, it must lie in the possession of some vices from
which they were undeniably free.
Hence it came to pass that Milby respectability refused to recognize the
Countess Czerlaski, in spite of her assiduous church-going, and the deep
disgust she was known to have expressed at the extreme paucity of the
congregations on Ash-Wednesdays. So she began to feel that she had
miscalculated the advantages of a neighbourhood where people are well
acquainted with each other's private affairs. Under these circumstances,
you will imagine how welcome was the perfect credence and admiration she
met with from Mr. and Mrs. Barton. She had been especially irritated by
Mr. Ely's behaviour to her; she felt sure that he was not in the least
struck with her beauty, that he quizzed her conversation, and that he
spoke of her with a sneer. A woman always knows where she is utterly
powerless, and shuns a coldly satirical eye as she would shun a Gorgon.
And she was especially eager for clerical notice and friendship, not
merely because that is quite the most respectable countenance to be
obtained in society, but because she really cared about religious
matters, and had an uneasy sense that she was not altogether safe in that
quarter. She had serious intentions of becoming _quite_ pious--without
any reserves--when she had once got her carriage and settlement. Let us
do this one sly trick, says Ulysses to Neoptolemus, and we will be
perfectly honest ever after--
[Greek: all edu gar toi ktema tes uikes labien
tolma dikaioi d' authis ekphanoumetha.]
The Countess did not quote Sophocles, but she said to herself, 'Only this
little bit of pretence and vanity, and then I will be _quite_ good, and
make myself quite safe for another world.'
And as she had by no means such fine taste and insight in theological
teaching as in costume, the Rev. Amos Barton seemed to her a man not only
of learning--_that_ is always understood with a clergyman--but of much
power as a spiritual director. As for Milly, the Countess really loved
her as well as the preoccupied state of her affections would allow. For
you have already perceived that there was one being to whom the Countess
was absorbingly devoted, and to whose desires she made everything else
subservient--namely, Caroline Czerlaski, _nee_ Bridmain.
Thus there was really not much affectation in her sweet speeches and
attentions to Mr. and Mrs. Barton. Still their friendship by no means
adequately represented the object she had in view when she came to Milby,
and it had been for some time clear to her that she must suggest a new
change of residence to her brother.
The thing we look forward to often comes to pass, but never precisely in
the way we have imagined to ourselves. The Countess did actually leave
Camp Villa before many months were past, but under circumstances which
had not at all entered into her contemplation.
Chapter 5
The Rev. Amos Barton, whose sad fortunes I have undertaken to relate,
was, you perceive, in no respect an ideal or exceptional character; and
perhaps I am doing a bold thing to bespeak your sympathy on behalf of a
man who was so very far from remarkable,--a man whose virtues were not
heroic, and who had no undetected crime within his breast; who had not
the slightest mystery hanging about him, but was palpably and
unmistakably commonplace; who was not even in love, but had had that
complaint favourably many years ago. 'An utterly uninteresting
character!' I think I hear a lady reader exclaim--Mrs. Farthingale, for
example, who prefers the ideal in fiction; to whom tragedy means ermine
tippets, adultery, and murder; and comedy, the adventures of some
personage who is quite a 'character'.
But, my dear madam, it is so very large a majority of your
fellow-countrymen that are of this insignificant stamp. At least eighty
out of a hundred of your adult male fellow-Britons returned in the last
census are neither extraordinarily silly, nor extraordinarily wicked, nor
extraordinarily wise; their eyes are neither deep and liquid with
sentiment, nor sparkling with suppressed witticisms; they have probably
had no hairbreadth escapes or thrilling adventures; their brains are
certainly not pregnant with genius, and their passions have not
manifested themselves at all after the fashion of a volcano. They are
simply men of complexions more or less muddy, whose conversation is more
or less bald and disjointed. Yet these commonplace people--many of
them--bear a conscience, and have felt the sublime prompting to do the
painful right; they have their unspoken sorrows, and their sacred joys;
their hearts have perhaps gone out towards their first-born, and they
have mourned over the irreclaimable dead. Nay, is there not a pathos in
their very insignificance--in our comparison of their dim and narrow
existence with the glorious possibilities of that human nature which they
share?
Depend upon it, you would gain unspeakably if you would learn with me to
see some of the poetry and the pathos, the tragedy and the comedy, lying
in the experience of a human soul that looks out through dull grey eyes,
and that speaks in a voice of quite ordinary tones. In that case, I
should have no fear of your not caring to know what farther befell the
Rev. Amos Barton, or of your thinking the homely details I have to tell
at all beneath your attention. As it is, you can, if you please, decline
to pursue my story farther; and you will easily find reading more to your
taste, since I learn from the newspapers that many remarkable novels,
full of striking situations, thrilling incidents, and eloquent writing,
have appeared only within the last season.
Meanwhile, readers who have begun to feel an interest in the Rev. Amos
Barton and his wife, will be glad to learn that Mr. Oldinport lent the
twenty pounds. But twenty pounds are soon exhausted when twelve are due
as back payment to the butcher, and when the possession of eight extra
sovereigns in February weather is an irresistible temptation to order a
new greatcoat. And though Mr. Bridmain so far departed from the necessary
economy entailed on him by the Countess's elegant toilette and expensive
maid, as to choose a handsome black silk, stiff, as his experienced eye
discerned, with the genuine strength of its own texture, and not with the
factitious strength of gum, and present it to Mrs. Barton, in retrieval
of the accident that had occurred at his table, yet, dear me--as every
husband has heard--what is the present of a gown when you are deficiently
furnished with the et-ceteras of apparel, and when, moreover, there are
six children whose wear and tear of clothes is something incredible to
the non-maternal mind?
Indeed, the equation of income and expenditure was offering new and
constantly accumulating difficulties to Mr. and Mrs. Barton; for shortly
after the birth of little Walter, Milly's aunt, who had lived with her
ever since her marriage, had withdrawn herself, her furniture, and her
yearly income, to the household of another niece; prompted to that step,
very probably, by a slight 'tiff' with the Rev. Amos, which occurred
while Milly was upstairs, and proved one too many for the elderly lady's
patience and magnanimity. Mr. Barton's temper was a little warm, but, on
the other hand, elderly maiden ladies are known to be susceptible; so we
will not suppose that all the blame lay on his side--the less so, as he
had every motive for humouring an inmate whose presence kept the wolf
from the door. It was now nearly a year since Miss Jackson's departure,
and, to a fine ear, the howl of the wolf was audibly approaching.
It was a sad thing, too, that when the last snow had melted, when the
purple and yellow crocuses were coming up in the garden, and the old
church was already half pulled down, Milly had an illness which made her
lips look pale, and rendered it absolutely necessary that she should not
exert herself for some time. Mr. Brand, the Shepperton doctor so
obnoxious to Mr. Pilgrim, ordered her to drink port-wine, and it was
quite necessary to have a charwoman very often, to assist Nanny in all
the extra work that fell upon her.
Mrs. Hackit, who hardly ever paid a visit to any one but her oldest and
nearest neighbour, Mrs. Patten, now took the unusual step of calling at
the vicarage one morning; and the tears came into her unsentimental eyes
as she saw Milly seated pale and feeble in the parlour, unable to
persevere in sewing the pinafore that lay on the table beside her. Little
Dickey, a boisterous boy of five, with large pink cheeks and sturdy legs,
was having his turn to sit with Mamma, and was squatting quiet as a mouse
at her knee, holding her soft white hand between his little red
black-nailed fists. He was a boy whom Mrs. Hackit, in a severe mood, had
pronounced 'stocky' (a word that etymologically in all probability,
conveys some allusion to an instrument of punishment for the refractory);
but seeing him thus subdued into goodness, she smiled at him with her
kindest smile, and stooping down, suggested a kiss--a favour which Dicky
resolutely declined.
'Now _do_ you take nourishing things enough?' was one of Mrs. Hackit's
first questions, and Milly endeavoured to make it appear that no woman
was ever so much in danger of being over-fed and led into self-indulgent
habits as herself. But Mrs. Hackit gathered one fact from her replies,
namely, that Mr. Brand had ordered port-wine.
While this conversation was going forward, Dickey had been furtively
stroking and kissing the soft white hand; so that at last, when a pause
came, his mother said, smilingly, 'Why are you kissing my hand, Dickey?'
'It id to yovely,' answered Dickey, who, you observe, was decidedly
backward in his pronunciation.
Mrs. Hackit remembered this little scene in after days, and thought with
peculiar tenderness and pity of the 'stocky boy'.
The next day there came a hamper with Mrs. Hackit's respects; and on
being opened it was found to contain half-a-dozen of port-wine and two
couples of fowls. Mrs. Farquhar, too, was very kind; insisted on Mrs.
Barton's rejecting all arrowroot but hers, which was genuine Indian, and
carried away Sophy and Fred to stay with her a fortnight. These and other
good-natured attentions made the trouble of Milly's illness more
bearable; but they could not prevent it from swelling expenses, and Mr.
Barton began to have serious thoughts of representing his case to a
certain charity for the relief of needy curates.
Altogether, as matters stood in Shepperton, the parishioners were more
likely to have a strong sense that the clergyman needed their material
aid, than that they needed his spiritual aid,--not the best state of
things in this age and country, where faith in men solely on the ground
of their spiritual gifts has considerably diminished, and especially
unfavourable to the influence of the Rev. Amos, whose spiritual gifts
would not have had a very commanding power even in an age of faith.
But, you ask, did not the Countess Czerlaski pay any attention to her
friends all this time? To be sure she did. She was indefatigable in
visiting her 'sweet Milly', and sitting with her for hours together. It
may seem remarkable to you that she neither thought of taking away any of
the children, nor of providing for any of Milly's probable wants; but
ladies of rank and of luxurious habits, you know, cannot be expected to
surmise the details of poverty. She put a great deal of eau-de-Cologne on
Mrs. Barton's pocket-handkerchief, rearranged her pillow and footstool,
kissed her cheeks, wrapped her in a soft warm shawl from her own
shoulders, and amused her with stories of the life she had seen abroad.
When Mr. Barton joined them she talked of Tractarianism, of her
determination not to re-enter the vortex of fashionable life, and of her
anxiety to see him in a sphere large enough for his talents. Milly
thought her sprightliness and affectionate warmth quite charming, and was
very fond of her; while the Rev. Amos had a vague consciousness that he
had risen into aristocratic life, and only associated with his
middle-class parishioners in a pastoral and parenthetic manner.
However, as the days brightened, Milly's cheeks and lips brightened too;
and in a few weeks she was almost as active as ever, though watchful eyes
might have seen that activity was not easy to her. Mrs. Hackit's eyes
were of that kind, and one day, when Mr. and Mrs. Barton had been dining
with her for the first time since Milly's illness, she observed to her
husband--'That poor thing's dreadful weak an' delicate; she won't stan'
havin' many more children.
Mr. Barton, meanwhile, had been indefatigable in his vocation. He had
preached two extemporary sermons every Sunday at the workhouse, where a
room had been fitted up for divine service, pending the alterations in
the church; and had walked the same evening to a cottage at one or other
extremity of his parish to deliver another sermon, still more
extemporary, in an atmosphere impregnated with spring-flowers and
perspiration. After all these labours you will easily conceive that he
was considerably exhausted by half-past nine o'clock in the evening, and
that a supper at a friendly parishioner's, with a glass, or even two
glasses, of brandy-and-water after it, was a welcome reinforcement. Mr.
Barton was not at all an ascetic; he thought the benefits of fasting were
entirely confined to the Old Testament dispensation; he was fond of
relaxing himself with a little gossip; indeed, Miss Bond, and other
ladies of enthusiastic views, sometimes regretted that Mr. Barton did not
more uninterruptedly exhibit a superiority to the things of the flesh.
Thin ladies, who take little exercise, and whose livers are not strong
enough to bear stimulants, are so extremely critical about one's personal
habits! And, after all, the Rev. Amos never came near the borders of a
vice. His very faults were middling--he was not _very_ ungrammatical. It
was not in his nature to be superlative in anything; unless, indeed, he
was superlatively middling, the quintessential extract of mediocrity. If
there was any one point on which he showed an inclination to be
excessive, it was confidence in his own shrewdness and ability in
practical matters, so that he was very full of plans which were something
like his moves in chess--admirably well calculated, supposing the state
of the case were otherwise. For example, that notable plan of introducing
anti-dissenting books into his Lending Library did not in the least
appear to have bruised the head of Dissent, though it had certainly made
Dissent strongly inclined to bite the Rev. Amos's heel. Again, he vexed
the souls of his churchwardens and influential parishioners by his
fertile suggestiveness as to what it would be well for them to do in the
matter of the church repairs, and other ecclesiastical secularities.
'I never saw the like to parsons,' Mr. Hackit said one day in
conversation with his brother churchwarden, Mr. Bond; 'they're al'ys for
meddling with business, an they know no more about it than my black
filly.'
'Ah,' said Mr. Bond, 'they're too high learnt to have much common-sense.'
'Well,' remarked Mr. Hackit, in a modest and dubious tone, as if throwing
out a hypothesis which might be considered bold, 'I should say that's a
bad sort of eddication as makes folks onreasonable.'
So that, you perceive, Mr. Barton's popularity was in that precarious
condition, in that toppling and contingent state, in which a very slight
push from a malignant destiny would utterly upset it. That push was not
long in being given, as you shall hear.
One fine May morning, when Amos was out on his parochial visits, and the
sunlight was streaming through the bow-window of the sitting-room, where
Milly was seated at her sewing, occasionally looking up to glance at the
children playing in the garden, there came a loud rap at the door, which
she at once recognized as the Countess's, and that well-dressed lady
presently entered the sitting-room, with her veil drawn over her face.
Milly was not at all surprised or sorry to see her; but when the Countess
threw up her veil, and showed that her eyes were red and swollen, she was
both surprised and sorry.
'What can be the matter, dear Caroline?'
Caroline threw down Jet, who gave a little yelp; then she threw her arms
round Milly's neck, and began to sob; then she threw herself on the sofa,
and begged for a glass of water; then she threw off her bonnet and shawl;
and by the time Milly's imagination had exhausted itself in conjuring up
calamities, she said,--'Dear, how shall I tell you? I am the most
wretched woman. To be deceived by a brother to whom I have been so
devoted--to see him degrading himself--giving himself utterly to the
dogs!'
'What can it be?' said Milly, who began to picture to herself the sober
Mr. Bridmain taking to brandy and betting.
'He is going to be married--to marry my own maid, that deceitful Alice,
to whom I have been the most indulgent mistress. Did you ever hear of
anything so disgraceful? so mortifying? so disreputable?'
'And has he only just told you of it?' said Milly, who, having really
heard of worse conduct, even in her innocent life, avoided a direct
answer.
'Told me of it! he had not even the grace to do that. I went into the
dining-room suddenly and found him kissing her--disgusting at his time of
life, is it not?--and when I reproved her for allowing such liberties,
she turned round saucily, and said she was engaged to be married to my
brother, and she saw no shame in allowing him to kiss her. Edmund is a
miserable coward, you know, and looked frightened; but when she asked him
to say whether it was not so, he tried to summon up courage and say yes.
I left the room in disgust, and this morning I have been questioning
Edmund, and find that he is bent on marrying this woman, and that he has
been putting off telling me--because he was ashamed of himself, I
suppose. I couldn't possibly stay in the house after this, with my own
maid turned mistress. And now, Milly, I am come to throw myself on your
charity for a week or two. _Will_ you take me in?'
'That we will,' said Milly, 'if you will only put up with our poor rooms
and way of living. It will be delightful to have you!'
'It will soothe me to be with you and Mr. Barton a little while. I feel
quite unable to go among my other friends just at present. What those two
wretched people will do I don't know--leave the neighbourhood at once, I
hope. I entreated my brother to do so, before he disgraced himself.'
When Amos came home, he joined his cordial welcome and sympathy to
Milly's. By-and-by the Countess's formidable boxes, which she had
carefully packed before her indignation drove her away from Camp Villa,
arrived at the vicarage, and were deposited in the spare bedroom, and in
two closets, not spare, which Milly emptied for their reception. A week
afterwards, the excellent apartments at Camp Villa, comprising dining and
drawing rooms, three bedrooms and a dressing-room, were again to let, and
Mr. Bridmain's sudden departure, together with the Countess Czerlaski's
installation as a visitor at Shepperton Vicarage, became a topic of
general conversation in the neighbourhood. The keen-sighted virtue of
Milby and Shepperton saw in all this a confirmation of its worst
suspicions, and pitied the Rev. Amos Barton's gullibility.
But when week after week, and month after month, slipped by without
witnessing the Countess's departure--when summer and harvest had fled,
and still left her behind them occupying the spare bedroom and the
closets, and also a large proportion of Mrs. Barton's time and attention,
new surmises of a very evil kind were added to the old rumours, and began
to take the form of settled convictions in the minds even of Mr. Barton's
most friendly parishioners.
And now, here is an opportunity for an accomplished writer to
apostrophize calumny, to quote Virgil, and to show that he is acquainted
with the most ingenious things which have been said on that subject in
polite literature.
But what is opportunity to the man who can't use it? An undefecundated
egg, which the waves of time wash away into nonentity. So, as my memory
is ill-furnished, and my notebook still worse, I am unable to show myself
either erudite or eloquent apropos of the calumny whereof the Rev. Amos
Barton was the victim. I can only ask my reader,--did you ever upset your
ink-bottle, and watch, in helpless agony, the rapid spread of Stygian
blackness over your fair manuscript or fairer table-cover? With a like
inky swiftness did gossip now blacken the reputation of the Rev. Amos
Barton, causing the unfriendly to scorn and even the friendly to stand
aloof, at a time when difficulties of another kind were fast thickening
around him.
Chapter 6
One November morning, at least six months after the Countess Czerlaski
had taken up her residence at the vicarage, Mrs. Hackit heard that her
neighbour Mrs. Patten had an attack of her old complaint, vaguely called
'the spasms'. Accordingly, about eleven o'clock, she put on her velvet
bonnet and cloth cloak, with a long boa and muff large enough to stow a
prize baby in; for Mrs. Hackit regulated her costume by the calendar, and
brought out her furs on the first of November; whatever might be the
temperature. She was not a woman weakly to accommodate herself to
shilly-shally proceedings. If the season didn't know what it ought to do,
Mrs. Hackit did. In her best days, it was always sharp weather at
'Gunpowder Plot', and she didn't like new fashions.
And this morning the weather was very rationally in accordance with her
costume, for as she made her way through the fields to Cross Farm, the
yellow leaves on the hedge-girt elms, which showed bright and golden
against the long-hanging purple clouds, were being scattered across the
grassy path by the coldest of November winds. 'Ah,' Mrs. Hackit thought
to herself, 'I daresay we shall have a sharp pinch this winter, and if we
do, I shouldn't wonder if it takes the old lady off. They say a green
Yule makes a fat churchyard; but so does a white Yule too, for that
matter. When the stool's rotten enough, no matter who sits on it.'
However, on her arrival at Cross Farm, the prospect of Mrs. Patten's
decease was again thrown into the dim distance in her imagination, for
Miss Janet Gibbs met her with the news that Mrs. Patten was much better,
and led her, without any preliminary announcement, to the old lady's
bedroom. Janet had scarcely reached the end of her circumstantial
narrative how the attack came on and what were her aunt's sensations--a
narrative to which Mrs. Patten, in her neatly-plaited nightcap, seemed to
listen with a contemptuous resignation to her niece's historical
inaccuracy, contenting herself with occasionally confounding Janet by a
shake of the head--when the clatter of a horse's hoofs on the yard
pavement announced the arrival of Mr. Pilgrim, whose large, top-booted
person presently made its appearance upstairs. He found Mrs. Patten going
on so well that there was no need to look solemn. He might glide from
condolence into gossip without offence, and the temptation of having Mrs.
Hackit's ear was irresistible.
'What a disgraceful business this is turning out of your parson's,' was
the remark with which he made this agreeable transition, throwing himself
back in the chair from which he had been leaning towards the patient.
'Eh, dear me!' said Mrs. Hackit, 'disgraceful enough. I stuck to Mr.
Barton as long as I could, for his wife's sake; but I can't countenance
such goings-on. It's hateful to see that woman coming with 'em to service
of a Sunday, and if Mr. Hackit wasn't churchwarden and I didn't think it
wrong to forsake one's own parish, I should go to Knebley Church. There's
a many parish'ners as do.'
'I used to think Barton was only a fool,' observed Mr. Pilgrim, in a tone
which implied that he was conscious of having been weakly charitable. 'I
thought he was imposed upon and led away by those people when they first
came. But that's impossible now.'
'O, it's as plain as the nose in your face,' said Mrs. Hackit,
unreflectingly, not perceiving the equivoque in her comparison--'comin'
to Milby, like a sparrow perchin' on a bough, as I may say, with her
brother, as she called him; and then all on a sudden the brother goes off
with himself, and she throws herself on the Bartons. Though what could
make her take up with a poor notomise of a parson, as hasn't got enough
to keep wife and children, there's One above knows--_I_ don't.'
'Mr. Barton may have attractions we don't know of,' said Mr. Pilgrim, who
piqued himself on a talent for sarcasm. 'The Countess has no maid now,
and they say Mr. Barton is handy in assisting at her toilette--laces her
boots, and so forth.'
'Tilette, be fiddled!' said Mrs. Hackit, with indignant boldness of
metaphor; 'an' there's that poor thing a-sewing her fingers to the bone
for them children--an' another comin' on. What she must have to go
through! It goes to my heart to turn my back on her. But she's i' the
wrong to let herself be put upon i' that manner.'
'Ah! I was talking to Mrs. Farquhar about that the other day. She said,
"I think Mrs. Barton a v-e-r-y w-e-a-k w-o-m-a-n".' (Mr. Pilgrim gave
this quotation with slow emphasis, as if he thought Mrs. Farquhar had
uttered a remarkable sentiment.) 'They find it impossible to invite her
to their house while she has that equivocal person staying with her.'
'Well!' remarked Miss Gibbs, 'if I was a wife, nothing should induce me
to bear what Mrs. Barton does.'
'Yes, it's fine talking,' said Mrs. Patten, from her pillow; 'old maids'
husbands are al'ys well-managed. If you was a wife you'd be as foolish as
your betters, belike.'
'All my wonder is,' observed Mrs. Hackit, 'how the Bartons make both ends
meet. You may depend on it, _she's_ got nothing to give 'em; for I
understand as he's been having money from some clergy charity. They said
at fust as she stuffed Mr. Barton wi' notions about her writing to the
Chancellor an' her fine friends, to give him a living. Howiver, I don't
know what's true an' what's false. Mr. Barton keeps away from our house
now, for I gave him a bit o' my mind one day. Maybe he's ashamed of
himself. He seems to me to look dreadful thin an' harassed of a Sunday.'
'O, he must be aware he's getting into bad odour everywhere. The clergy
are quite disgusted with his folly. They say Carpe would be glad to get
Barton out of the curacy if he could; but he can't do that without coming
to Shepperton himself, as Barton's a licensed curate; and he wouldn't
like that, I suppose.'
At this moment Mrs. Patten showed signs of uneasiness, which recalled Mr.
Pilgrim to professional attentions; and Mrs. Hackit, observing that it
was Thursday, and she must see after the butter, said good-bye, promising
to look in again soon, and bring her knitting.
This Thursday, by the by, is the first in the month--the day on which the
Clerical Meeting is held at Milby Vicarage; and as the Rev. Amos Barton
has reasons for not attending, he will very likely be a subject of
conversation amongst his clerical brethren Suppose we go there, and hear
whether Mr. Pilgrim has reported their opinion correctly.
There is not a numerous party today, for it is a season of sore throats
and catarrhs; so that the exegetical and theological discussions, which
are the preliminary of dining, have not been quite so spirited as usual;
and although a question relative to the Epistle of Jude has not been
quite cleared up, the striking of six by the church clock, and the
simultaneous announcement of dinner, are sounds that no one feels to be
importunate.
Pleasant (when one is not in the least bilious) to enter a comfortable
dining-room, where the closely-drawn red curtains glow with the double
light of fire and candle, where glass and silver are glittering on the
pure damask, and a soup-tureen gives a hint of the fragrance that will
presently rush out to inundate your hungry senses, and prepare them, by
the delicate visitation of atoms, for the keen gusto of ampler contact!
Especially if you have confidence in the dinner-giving capacity of your
host--if you know that he is not a man who entertains grovelling views of
eating and drinking as a mere satisfaction of hunger and thirst, and,
dead to all the finer influences of the palate, expects his guest to be
brilliant on ill-flavoured gravies and the cheapest Marsala. Mr. Ely was
particularly worthy of such confidence, and his virtues as an Amphitryon
had probably contributed quite as much as the central situation of Milby
to the selection of his house as a clerical rendezvous. He looks
particularly graceful at the head of his table, and, indeed, on all
occasions where he acts as president or moderator: he is a man who seems
to listen well, and is an excellent amalgam of dissimilar ingredients.
At the other end of the table, as 'Vice', sits Mr. Fellowes, rector and
magistrate, a man of imposing appearance, with a mellifluous voice and
the readiest of tongues. Mr. Fellowes once obtained a living by the
persuasive charms of his conversation, and the fluency with which he
interpreted the opinions of an obese and stammering baronet, so as to
give that elderly gentleman a very pleasing perception of his own wisdom.
Mr. Fellowes is a very successful man, and has the highest character
everywhere except in his own parish, where, doubtless because his
parishioners happen to be quarrelsome people, he is always at fierce feud
with a farmer or two, a colliery proprietor, a grocer who was once
churchwarden, and a tailor who formerly officiated as clerk.
At Mr. Ely's right hand you see a very small man with a sallow and
somewhat puffy face, whose hair is brushed straight up, evidently with
the intention of giving him a height somewhat less disproportionate to
his sense of his own importance than the measure of five feet three
accorded him by an oversight of nature. This is Rev. Archibald Duke, a
very dyspeptic and evangelical man, who takes the gloomiest view of
mankind and their prospects, and thinks the immense sale of the 'Pickwick
Papers,' recently completed, one of the strongest proofs of original sin.
Unfortunately, though Mr. Duke was not burdened with a family, his yearly
expenditure was apt considerably to exceed his income; and the unpleasant
circumstances resulting from this, together with heavy meat-breakfasts,
may probably have contributed to his desponding views of the world
generally.
Next to him is seated Mr. Furness, a tall young man, with blond hair and
whiskers, who was plucked at Cambridge entirely owing to his genius; at
least I know that he soon afterwards published a volume of poems, which
were considered remarkably beautiful by many young ladies of his
acquaintance. Mr. Furness preached his own sermons, as any one of
tolerable critical acumen might have certified by comparing them with his
poems: in both, there was an exuberance of metaphor and simile entirely
original, and not in the least borrowed from any resemblance in the
things compared.
On Mr. Furness's left you see Mr. Pugh, another young curate, of much
less marked characteristics. He had not published any poems; he had not
even been plucked; he had neat black whiskers and a pale complexion; read
prayers and a sermon twice every Sunday, and might be seen any day
sallying forth on his parochial duties in a white tie, a well-brushed
hat, a perfect suit of black, and well-polished boots--an equipment which
he probably supposed hieroglyphically to represent the spirit of
Christianity to the parishioners of Whittlecombe.
Mr. Pugh's _vis-a-vis_ is the Rev. Martin Cleves, a man about forty
--middle-sized, broad-shouldered, with a negligently-tied cravat, large
irregular features, and a large head, thickly covered with lanky brown
hair. To a superficial glance, Mr. Cleves is the plainest and least
clerical-looking of the party; yet, strange to say, _there_ is the true
parish priest, the pastor beloved, consulted, relied on by his flock; a
clergyman who is not associated with the undertaker, but thought of as
the surest helper under a difficulty, as a monitor who is encouraging
rather than severe. Mr. Cleves has the wonderful art of preaching sermons
which the wheelwright and the blacksmith can understand; not because he
talks condescending twaddle, but because he can call a spade a spade, and
knows how to disencumber ideas of their wordy frippery. Look at him more
attentively, and you will see that his face is a very interesting one
--that there is a great deal of humour and feeling playing in his grey
eyes, and about the corners of his roughly-cut mouth: a man, you observe,
who has most likely sprung from the harder-working section of the middle
class, and has hereditary sympathies with the checkered life of the
people. He gets together the working men in his parish on a Monday
evening, and gives them a sort of conversational lecture on useful
practical matters, telling them stories, or reading some select passages
from an agreeable book, and commenting on them; and if you were to ask
the first labourer or artisan in Tripplegate what sort of man the parson
was, he would say,--'a uncommon knowin', sensable, free-spoken gentleman;
very kind an' good-natur'd too'. Yet for all this, he is perhaps the best
Grecian of the party, if we except Mr. Baird, the young man on his left.
Mr. Baird has since gained considerable celebrity as an original writer
and metropolitan lecturer, but at that time he used to preach in a little
church something like a barn, to a congregation consisting of three rich
farmers and their servants, about fifteen labourers, and the due
proportion of women and children. The rich farmers understood him to be
'very high learnt;' but if you had interrogated them for a more precise
description, they would have said that he was 'a thinnish-faced man, with
a sort o' cast in his eye, like'.
Seven, altogether: a delightful number for a dinner-party, supposing the
units to be delightful, but everything depends on that. During dinner Mr.
Fellowes took the lead in the conversation, which set strongly in the
direction of mangold-wurzel and the rotation of crops; for Mr. Fellowes
and Mr. Cleves cultivated their own glebes. Mr. Ely, too, had some
agricultural notions, and even the Rev. Archibald Duke was made alive to
that class of mundane subjects by the possession of some potato-ground.
The two young curates talked a little aside during these discussions,
which had imperfect interest for their unbeneficed minds; and the
transcendental and near-sighted Mr. Baird seemed to listen somewhat
abstractedly, knowing little more of potatoes and mangold-wurzel than
that they were some form of the 'Conditioned'.
'What a hobby farming is with Lord Watling!' said Mr. Fellowes, when the
cloth was being drawn. 'I went over his farm at Tetterley with him last
summer. It is really a model farm; first-rate dairy, grazing and wheat
land, and such splendid farm-buildings! An expensive hobby, though. He
sinks a good deal of money there, I fancy. He has a great whim for black
cattle, and he sends that drunken old Scotch bailiff of his to Scotland
every year, with hundreds in his pocket, to buy these beasts.'
'By the by,' said Mr. Ely, 'do you know who is the man to whom Lord
Watling has given the Bramhill living?'
'A man named Sargent. I knew him at Oxford. His brother is a lawyer, and
was very useful to Lord Watling in that ugly Brounsell affair. That's why
Sargent got the living.'
'Sargent,' said Mr. Ely. 'I know him. Isn't he a showy, talkative fellow;
has written travels in Mesopotamia, or something of that sort?'
'That's the man.'
'He was at Witherington once, as Bagshawe's curate. He got into rather
bad odour there, through some scandal about a flirtation, I think.'
'Talking of scandal,' returned Mr. Fellowes, 'have you heard the last
story about Barton? Nisbett was telling me the other day that he dines
alone with the Countess at six, while Mrs. Barton is in the kitchen
acting as cook.'
'Rather an apocryphal authority, Nisbett,' said Mr. Ely.
'Ah,' said Mr. Cleves, with good-natured humour twinkling in his eyes,
'depend upon it, that is a corrupt version. The original text is, that
they all dined together _with_ six--meaning six children--and that Mrs.
Barton is an excellent cook.'
'I wish dining alone together may be the worst of that sad business,'
said the Rev. Archibald Duke, in a tone implying that his wish was a
strong figure of speech.
'Well,' said Mr. Fellowes, filling his glass and looking jocose, 'Barton
is certain either the greatest gull in existence, or he has some cunning
secret,--some philtre or other to make himself charming in the eyes of a
fair lady. It isn't all of us that can make conquests when our ugliness
is past its bloom.'
'The lady seemed to have made a conquest of him at the very outset,' said
Mr. Ely. 'I was immensely amused one night at Granby's when he was
telling us her story about her husband's adventures. He said, "When she
told me the tale, I felt I don't know how,--I felt it from the crown of
my head to the sole of my feet."'
Mr. Ely gave these words dramatically, imitating the Rev. Amos's fervour
and symbolic action, and every one laughed except Mr. Duke, whose
after-dinner view of things was not apt to be jovial. He said,--'I think
some of us ought to remonstrate with Mr. Barton on the scandal he is
causing. He is not only imperilling his own soul, but the souls of his
flock.'
'Depend upon it,' said Mr. Cleves, 'there is some simple explanation of
the whole affair, if we only happened to know it. Barton has always
impressed me as a right-minded man, who has the knack of doing himself
injustice by his manner.'
'Now I never liked Barton,' said Mr. Fellowes. 'He's not a gentleman.
Why, he used to be on terms of intimacy with that canting Prior, who died
a little while ago;--a fellow who soaked himself with spirits, and talked
of the Gospel through an inflamed nose.'
'The Countess has given him more refined tastes, I daresay,' said Mr.
Ely.
'Well,' observed Mr. Cleves, 'the poor fellow must have a hard pull to
get along, with his small income and large family. Let us hope the
Countess does something towards making the pot boil.'
'Not she,' said Mr. Duke; 'there are greater signs of poverty about them
than ever.'
'Well, come,' returned Mr. Cleves, who could be caustic sometimes, and
who was not at all fond of his reverend brother, Mr. Duke, 'that's
something in Barton's favour at all events. He might be poor _without_
showing signs of poverty.'
Mr. Duke turned rather yellow, which was his way of blushing, and Mr. Ely
came to his relief by observing,--'They're making a very good piece of
work of Shepperton Church. Dolby, the architect, who has it in hand, is a
very clever fellow.'
'It's he who has been doing Coppleton Church,' said Mr. Furness. 'They've
got it in excellent order for the visitation.'
This mention of the visitation suggested the Bishop, and thus opened a
wide duct, which entirely diverted the stream of animadversion from that
small pipe--that capillary vessel, the Rev. Amos Barton.
The talk of the clergy about their Bishop belongs to the esoteric part of
their profession; so we will at once quit the dining-room at Milby
Vicarage, lest we should happen to overhear remarks unsuited to the lay
understanding, and perhaps dangerous to our repose of mind.
Chapter 7
I dare say the long residence of the Countess Czerlaski at Shepperton
Vicarage is very puzzling to you also, dear reader, as well as to Mr.
Barton's clerical brethren; the more so, as I hope you are not in the
least inclined to put that very evil interpretation on it which evidently
found acceptance with the sallow and dyspeptic Mr. Duke, and with the
florid and highly peptic Mr. Fellowes. You have seen enough, I trust, of
the Rev. Amos Barton, to be convinced that he was more apt to fall into a
blunder than into a sin--more apt to be deceived than to incur a
necessity for being deceitful: and if you have a keen eye for
physiognomy, you will have detected that the Countess Czerlaski loved
herself far too well to get entangled in an unprofitable vice.
How then, you will say, could this fine lady choose to quarter herself on
the establishment of a poor curate, where the carpets were probably
falling into holes, where the attendance was limited to a maid of all
work, and where six children were running loose from eight o'clock in the
morning till eight o'clock in the evening? Surely you must be
misrepresenting the facts.
Heaven forbid! For not having a lofty imagination, as you perceive, and
being unable to invent thrilling incidents for your amusement, my only
merit must lie in the truth with which I represent to you the humble
experience of an ordinary fellow-mortal. I wish to stir your sympathy
with commonplace troubles--to win your tears for real sorrow: sorrow such
as may live next door to you--such as walks neither in rags nor in
velvet, but in very ordinary decent apparel.
Therefore, that you may dismiss your suspicions of my veracity, I will
beg you to consider, that at the time the Countess Czerlaski left Camp
Villa in dudgeon, she had only twenty pounds in her pocket, being about
one-third of the income she possessed independently of her brother. You
will then perceive that she was in the extremely inconvenient predicament
of having quarrelled, not indeed with her bread and cheese, but certainly
with her chicken and tart--a predicament all the more inconvenient to
her, because the habit of idleness had quite unfitted her for earning
those necessary superfluities, and because, with all her fascinations,
she had not secured any enthusiastic friends whose houses were open to
her, and who were dying to see her. Thus she had completely checkmated
herself, unless she could resolve on one unpleasant move--namely, to
humble herself to her brother, and recognize his wife. This seemed quite
impossible to her as long as she entertained the hope that he would make
the first advances; and in this flattering hope she remained month after
month at Shepperton Vicarage, gracefully overlooking the deficiencies of
accommodation, and feeling that she was really behaving charmingly. 'Who
indeed,' she thought to herself, 'could do otherwise, with a lovely,
gentle creature like Milly? I shall really be sorry to leave the poor
thing.'
So, though she lay in bed till ten, and came down to a separate breakfast
at eleven, she kindly consented to dine as early as five, when a hot
joint was prepared, which coldly furnished forth the children's table the
next day; she considerately prevented Milly from devoting herself too
closely to the children, by insisting on reading, talking, and walking
with her; and she even began to embroider a cap for the next baby, which
must certainly be a girl, and be named Caroline.
After the first month or two of her residence at the Vicarage, the Rev.
Amos Barton became aware--as, indeed, it was unavoidable that he
should--of the strong disapprobation it drew upon him, and the change of
feeling towards him which it was producing in his kindest parishioners.
But, in the first place, he still believed in the Countess as a charming
and influential woman, disposed to befriend him, and, in any case, he
could hardly hint departure to a lady guest who had been kind to him and
his, and who might any day spontaneously announce the termination of her
visit; in the second place, he was conscious of his own innocence, and
felt some contemptuous indignation towards people who were ready to
imagine evil of him; and, lastly, he had, as I have already intimated, a
strong will of his own, so that a certain obstinacy and defiance mingled
itself with his other feelings on the subject.
The one unpleasant consequence which was not to be evaded or counteracted
by any mere mental state, was the increasing drain on his slender purse
for household expenses, to meet which the remittance he had received from
the clerical charity threatened to be quite inadequate. Slander may be
defeated by equanimity; but courageous thoughts will not pay your baker's
hill, and fortitude is nowhere considered legal tender for beef. Month
after month the financial aspect of the Rev. Amos's affairs became more
and more serious to him, and month after month, too, wore away more and
more of that armour of indignation and defiance with which he had at
first defended himself from the harsh looks of faces that were once the
friendliest.
But quite the heaviest pressure of the trouble fell on Milly--on gentle,
uncomplaining Milly--whose delicate body was becoming daily less fit for
all the many things that had to be done between rising up and lying down.
At first, she thought the Countess's visit would not last long, and she
was quite glad to incur extra exertion for the sake of making her friend
comfortable. I can hardly bear to think of all the rough work she did
with those lovely hands--all by the sly, without letting her husband know
anything about it, and husbands are not clairvoyant: how she salted
bacon, ironed shirts and cravats, put patches on patches, and re-darned
darns. Then there was the task of mending and eking out baby-linen in
prospect, and the problem perpetually suggesting itself how she and Nanny
should manage when there was another baby, as there would be before very
many months were past.
When time glided on, and the Countess's visit did not end, Milly was not
blind to any phase of their position. She knew of the slander; she was
aware of the keeping aloof of old friends; but these she felt almost
entirely on her husband's account. A loving woman's world lies within the
four walls of her own home; and it is only through her husband that she
is in any electric communication with the world beyond. Mrs. Simpkins may
have looked scornfully at her, but baby crows and holds out his little
arms none the less blithely; Mrs. Tomkins may have left off calling on
her, but her husband comes home none the less to receive her care and
caresses; it has been wet and gloomy out of doors today, but she has
looked well after the shirt buttons, has cut out baby's pinafores, and
half finished Willy's blouse.
So it was with Milly. She was only vexed that her husband should be
vexed--only wounded because he was misconceived. But the difficulty about
ways and means she felt in quite a different manner. Her rectitude was
alarmed lest they should have to make tradesmen wait for their money; her
motherly love dreaded the diminution of comforts for the children; and
the sense of her own failing health gave exaggerated force to these
fears.
Milly could no longer shut her eyes to the fact, that the Countess was
inconsiderate, if she did not allow herself to entertain severer
thoughts; and she began to feel that it would soon be a duty to tell her
frankly that they really could not afford to have her visit farther
prolonged. But a process was going forward in two other minds, which
ultimately saved Milly from having to perform this painful task.
In the first place, the Countess was getting weary of Shepperton--weary
of waiting for her brother's overtures which never came; so, one fine
morning, she reflected that forgiveness was a Christian duty, that a
sister should be placable, that Mr. Bridmain must feel the need of her
advice, to which he had been accustomed for three years, and that very
likely 'that woman' didn't make the poor man happy. In this amiable frame
of mind she wrote a very affectionate appeal, and addressed it to Mr.
Bridmain, through his banker.
Another mind that was being wrought up to a climax was Nanny's, the
maid-of-all-work, who had a warm heart and a still warmer temper. Nanny
adored her mistress: she had been heard to say, that she was 'ready to
kiss the ground as the missis trod on'; and Walter, she considered, was
_her_ baby, of whom she was as jealous as a lover. But she had, from the
first, very slight admiration for the Countess Czerlaski. That lady, from
Nanny's point of view, was a personage always 'drawed out i' fine
clothes', the chief result of whose existence was to cause additional
bed-making, carrying of hot water, laying of table-cloths, and cooking of
dinners. It was a perpetually heightening 'aggravation' to Nanny that she
and her mistress had to 'slave' more than ever, because there was this
fine lady in the house.
'An, she pays nothin' for't neither,' observed Nanny to Mr. Jacob Tomms,
a young gentleman in the tailoring line, who occasionally--simply out of
a taste for dialogue--looked into the vicarage kitchen of an evening. 'I
know the master's shorter o' money than iver, an' it meks no end o'
difference i' th' housekeepin'--her bein' here, besides bein' obliged to
have a charwoman constant.'
'There's fine stories i' the village about her,' said Mr. Tomms. 'They
say as Muster Barton's great wi' her, or else she'd niver stop here.'
'Then they say a passill o' lies, an' you ought to be ashamed to go an'
tell 'em o'er again. Do you think as the master, as has got a wife like
the missis, 'ud go running arter a stuck-up piece o' goods like that
Countess, as isn't fit to black the missis's shoes? I'm none so fond o'
the master, but I know better on him nor that.'
'Well, I didn't b'lieve it,' said Mr. Tomms, humbly.
'B'lieve it? you'd ha' been a ninny if yer did. An' she's a nasty, stingy
thing, that Countess. She's niver giv me a sixpence nor an old rag
neither, sin' here's she's been. A-lyin' a bed an a-comin' down to
breakfast when other folks wants their dinner!'
If such was the state of Nanny's mind as early as the end of August, when
this dialogue with Mr. Tomms occurred, you may imagine what it must have
been by the beginning of November, and that at that time a very slight
spark might any day cause the long-smouldering anger to flame forth in
open indignation.
That spark happened to fall the very morning that Mrs. Hackit paid the
visit to Mrs. Patten, recorded in the last chapter. Nanny's dislike of
the Countess extended to the innocent dog Jet, whom she 'couldn't a-bear
to see made a fuss wi' like a Christian. An' the little ouzle must be
washed, too, ivery Saturday, as if there wasn't children enoo to wash,
wi'out washin' dogs.'
Now this particular morning it happened that Milly was quite too poorly
to get up, and Mr. Barton observed to Nanny, on going out, that he would
call and tell Mr. Brand to come. These circumstances were already enough
to make Nanny anxious and susceptible. But the Countess, comfortably
ignorant of them, came down as usual about eleven o'clock to her separate
breakfast, which stood ready for her at that hour in the parlour; the
kettle singing on the hob that she might make her own tea. There was a
little jug of cream, taken according to custom from last night's milk,
and specially saved for the Countess's breakfast. Jet always awaited his
mistress at her bedroom door, and it was her habit to carry him down
stairs.
'Now, my little Jet,' she said, putting him down gently on the
hearth-rug, 'you shall have a nice, nice breakfast.'
Jet indicated that he thought that observation extremely pertinent and
well-timed, by immediately raising himself on his hind-legs, and the
Countess emptied the cream-jug into the saucer. Now there was usually a
small jug of milk standing on the tray by the side of the cream, and
destined for Jet's breakfast, but this morning Nanny, being 'moithered',
had forgotten that part of the arrangements, so that when the Countess
had made her tea, she perceived there was no second jug, and rang the
bell. Nanny appeared, looking very red and heated--the fact was, she had
been 'doing up' the kitchen fire, and that is a sort of work which by no
means conduces to blandness of temper. 'Nanny, you have forgotten Jet's
milk; will you bring me some more cream, please?'
This was just a little too much for Nanny's forbearance. 'Yes, I dare
say. Here am I wi' my hands full o' the children an' the dinner, and
missis ill a-bed, and Mr. Brand a-comin'; and I must run o'er the village
to get more cream, 'cause you've give it to that nasty little
blackamoor.'
'Is Mrs. Barton ill?'
'Ill--yes--I should think she is ill, an' much you care. She's likely to
be ill, moithered as _she_ is from mornin' to night, wi' folks as had
better be elsewhere.'
'What do you mean by behaving in this way?'
'Mean? Why I mean as the missis is a slavin' her life out an' a-sittin'
up o'nights, for folks as are better able to wait of _her_, i'stid o'
lyin' a-bed an' doin' nothin' all the blessed day, but mek work.'
'Leave the room and don't be insolent.'
'Insolent! I'd better be insolent than like what some folks is,--a-livin'
on other folks, an' bringin' a bad name on 'em into the bargain.'
Here Nanny flung out of the room, leaving the lady to digest this
unexpected breakfast at her leisure.
The Countess was stunned for a few minutes, but when she began to recall
Nanny's words, there was no possibility of avoiding very unpleasant
conclusions from them, or of failing to see her position at the Vicarage
in an entirely new light. The interpretation too of Nanny's allusion to a
'bad name' did not lie out of the reach of the Countess's imagination,
and she saw the necessity of quitting Shepperton without delay. Still,
she would like to wait for her brother's letter--no--she would ask Milly
to forward it to her--still better, she would go at once to London,
inquire her brother's address at his banker's, and go to see him without
preliminary.
She went up to Milly's room, and, after kisses and inquiries, said--'I
find, on consideration, dear Milly, from the letter I had yesterday, that
I must bid you good-bye and go up to London at once. But you must not let
me leave you ill, you naughty thing.'
'Oh no,' said Milly, who felt as if a load had been taken off her back,
'I shall be very well in an hour or two. Indeed, I'm much better now. You
will want me to help you to pack. But you won't go for two or three
days?'
'Yes, I must go to-morrow. But I shall not let you help me to pack, so
don't entertain any unreasonable projects, but lie still. Mr. Brand is
coming, Nanny says.'
The news was not an unpleasant surprise to Mr. Barton when he came home,
though he was able to express more regret at the idea of parting than
Milly could summon to her lips. He retained more of his original feeling
for the Countess than Milly did, for women never betray themselves to men
as they do to each other; and the Rev. Amos had not a keen instinct for
character. But he felt that he was being relieved from a difficulty, and
in the way that was easiest for him. Neither he nor Milly suspected that
it was Nanny who had cut the knot for them, for the Countess took care to
give no sign on that subject. As for Nanny, she was perfectly aware of
the relation between cause and effect in the affair, and secretly
chuckled over her outburst of 'sauce' as the best morning's work she had
ever done.
So, on Friday morning, a fly was seen standing at the Vicarage gate with
the Countess's boxes packed upon it; and presently that lady herself was
seen getting into the vehicle. After a last shake of the hand to Mr.
Barton, and last kisses to Milly and the children, the door was closed;
and as the fly rolled off, the little party at the Vicarage gate caught a
last glimpse of the handsome Countess leaning and waving kisses from the
carriage window. Jet's little black phiz was also seen, and doubtless he
had his thoughts and feelings on the occasion, but he kept them strictly
within his own bosom.
The schoolmistress opposite witnessed this departure, and lost no time in
telling it to the schoolmaster, who again communicated the news to the
landlord of 'The Jolly Colliers', at the close of the morning
school-hours. Nanny poured the joyful tidings into the ear of Mr.
Farquhar's footman, who happened to call with a letter, and Mr. Brand
carried them to all the patients he visited that morning, after calling
on Mrs. Barton. So that, before Sunday, it was very generally known in
Shepperton parish that the Countess Czerlaski had left the Vicarage.
The Countess had left, but alas, the bills she had contributed to swell
still remained; so did the exiguity of the children's clothing, which
also was partly an indirect consequence of her presence; and so, too, did
the coolness and alienation in the parishioners, which could not at once
vanish before the fact of her departure. The Rev. Amos was not
exculpated--the past was not expunged. But what was worse than all,
Milly's health gave frequent cause for alarm, and the prospect of baby's
birth was overshadowed by more than the usual fears. The birth came
prematurely, about six weeks after the Countess's departure, but Mr.
Brand gave favourable reports to all inquirers on the following day,
which was Saturday. On Sunday, after morning service, Mrs. Hackit called
at the Vicarage to inquire how Mrs. Barton was, and was invited up-stairs
to see her. Milly lay placid and lovely in her feebleness, and held out
her hand to Mrs. Hackit with a beaming smile. It was very pleasant to her
to see her old friend unreserved and cordial once more. The seven months'
baby was very tiny and very red, but 'handsome is that handsome does'--he
was pronounced to be 'doing well', and Mrs. Hackit went home gladdened at
heart to think that the perilous hour was over.
Chapter 8
The following Wednesday, when Mr. and Mrs. Hackit were seated comfortably
by their bright hearth, enjoying the long afternoon afforded by an early
dinner, Rachel, the housemaid, came in and said,--'If you please 'm, the
shepherd says, have you heard as Mrs. Barton's wuss, and not expected to
live?'
Mrs. Hackit turned pale, and hurried out to question the shepherd, who,
she found, had heard the sad news at an ale-house in the village. Mr.
Hackit followed her out and said, 'Thee'dst better have the pony-chaise,
and go directly.'
'Yes,' said Mrs. Hackit, too much overcome to utter any exclamations.
'Rachel, come an' help me on wi' my things.'
When her husband was wrapping her cloak round her feet in the
pony-chaise, she said,--'If I don't come home to-night, I shall send back
the pony-chaise, and you'll know I'm wanted there.'
'Yes, yes.'
It was a bright frosty day, and by the time Mrs. Hackit arrived at the
Vicarage, the sun was near its setting. There was a carriage and pair
standing at the gate, which she recognized as Dr Madeley's, the physician
from Rotherby. She entered at the kitchen door that she might avoid
knocking, and quietly question Nanny. No one was in the kitchen, but,
passing on, she saw the sitting-room door open, and Nanny, with Walter in
her arms, removing the knives and forks, which had been laid for dinner
three hours ago.
'Master says he can't eat no dinner,' was Nanny's first word. 'He's never
tasted nothin' sin' yesterday mornin', but a cup o' tea.'
'When was your missis took worse?'
'O' Monday night. They sent for Dr Madeley i' the middle o' the day
yisterday, an' he's here again now.'
'Is the baby alive?'
'No, it died last night. The children's all at Mrs. Bond's. She come and
took 'em away last night, but the master says they must be fetched soon.
He's up-stairs now, wi' Dr Madeley and Mr. Brand.'
At this moment Mrs. Hackit heard the sound of a heavy, slow foot, in the
passage; and presently Amos Barton entered, with dry despairing eyes,
haggard and unshaven. He expected to find the sitting-room as he left it,
with nothing to meet his eyes but Milly's work-basket in the corner of
the sofa, and the children's toys overturned in the bow-window. But when
he saw Mrs. Hackit come towards him with answering sorrow in her face,
the pent-up fountain of tears was opened; he threw himself on the sofa,
hid his face, and sobbed aloud.
'Bear up, Mr. Barton,' Mrs. Hackit ventured to say at last; 'bear up, for
the sake o' them dear children.'
'The children,' said Amos, starting up. 'They must be sent for. Some one
must fetch them. Milly will want to ...'
He couldn't finish the sentence, but Mrs. Hackit understood him, and
said, 'I'll send the man with the pony-carriage for 'em.'
She went out to give the order, and encountered Dr Madeley and Mr. Brand,
who were just going.
Mr. Brand said: 'I am very glad to see you are here, Mrs. Hackit. No time
must be lost in sending for the children. Mrs. Barton wants to see them.'
'Do you quite give her up then?'
'She can hardly live through the night. She begged us to tell her how
long she had to live; and then asked for the children.'
The pony-carriage was sent; and Mrs. Hackit, returning to Mr. Barton,
said she would like to go up-stairs now. He went up-stairs with her and
opened the door. The chamber fronted the west; the sun was just setting,
and the red light fell full upon the bed, where Milly lay with the hand
of death visibly upon her. The feather-bed had been removed, and she lay
low on a mattress, with her head slightly raised by pillows. Her long
fair neck seemed to be struggling with a painful effort; her features
were pallid and pinched, and her eyes were closed. There was no one in
the room but the nurse, and the mistress of the free school, who had come
to give her help from the beginning of the change.
Amos and Mrs. Hackit stood beside the bed, and Milly opened her eyes.
'My darling, Mrs. Hackit is come to see you.'
Milly smiled and looked at her with that strange, far-off look which
belongs to ebbing life.
'Are the children coming?' she said, painfully.
'Yes, they will be here directly.'
She closed her eyes again.
Presently the pony-carriage was heard; and Amos, motioning to Mrs. Hackit
to follow him, left the room. On their way downstairs she suggested that
the carriage should remain to take them away again afterwards, and Amos
assented.
There they stood in the melancholy sitting-room--the five sweet children,
from Patty to Chubby--all, with their mother's eyes--all, except Patty,
looking up with a vague fear at their father as he entered. Patty
understood the great sorrow that was come upon them, and tried to check
her sobs as she heard her papa's footsteps.
'My children,' said Amos, taking Chubby in his arms, 'God is going to
take away your dear mamma from us. She wants to see you to say good-bye.
You must try to be very good and not cry.'
He could say no more, but turned round to see if Nanny was there with
Walter, and then led the way up-stairs, leading Dickey with the other
hand. Mrs. Hackit followed with Sophy and Patty, and then came Nanny with
Walter and Fred.
It seemed as if Milly had heard the little footsteps on the stairs, for
when Amos entered her eyes were wide open, eagerly looking towards the
door. They all stood by the bedside--Amos nearest to her, holding Chubby
and Dickey. But she motioned for Patty to come first, and clasping the
poor pale child by the hand, said,--'Patty, I'm going away from you. Love
your papa. Comfort him; and take care of your little brothers and
sisters. God will help you.'
Patty stood perfectly quiet, and said, 'Yes, mamma.'
The mother motioned with her pallid lips for the dear child to lean
towards her and kiss her; and then Patty's great anguish overcame her,
and she burst into sobs. Amos drew her towards him and pressed her head
gently to him, while Milly beckoned Fred and Sophy, and said to them more
faintly,--'Patty will try to be your mamma when I am gone, my darlings.
You will be good and not vex her.'
They leaned towards her, and she stroked their fair heads, and kissed
their tear-stained cheeks. They cried because mamma was ill and papa
looked so unhappy; but they thought, perhaps next week things would be as
they used to be again.
The little ones were lifted on the bed to kiss her. Little Walter said,
'Mamma, mamma', and stretched out his fat arms and smiled; and Chubby
seemed gravely wondering; but Dickey, who had been looking fixedly at
her, with lip hanging down, ever since he came into the room, now seemed
suddenly pierced with the idea that mamma was going away somewhere; his
little heart swelled and he cried aloud.
Then Mrs. Hackit and Nanny took them all away. Patty at first begged to
stay at home and not go to Mrs. Bond's again; but when Nanny reminded her
that she had better go to take care of the younger ones, she submitted at
once, and they were all packed in the pony-carriage once more.
Milly kept her eyes shut for some time after the children were gone. Amos
had sunk on his knees, and was holding her hand while he watched her
face. By-and-by she opened her eyes, and, drawing him close to her,
whispered slowly,--'My dear--dear--husband--you have been--very--good to
me. You--have--made me--very--happy.'
She spoke no more for many hours. They watched her breathing becoming
more and more difficult, until evening deepened into night, and until
midnight was past. About half-past twelve she seemed to be trying to
speak, and they leaned to catch her words. 'Music--music--didn't you hear
it?'
Amos knelt by the bed and held her hand in his. He did not believe in his
sorrow. It was a bad dream. He did not know when she was gone. But Mr.
Brand, whom Mrs. Hackit had sent for before twelve o'clock, thinking that
Mr. Barton might probably need his help, now came up to him, and
said,--'She feels no more pain now. Come, my dear sir, come with me.'
'She isn't _dead_?' shrieked the poor desolate man, struggling to shake
off Mr. Brand, who had taken him by the arm. But his weary weakened frame
was not equal to resistance, and he was dragged out of the room.
Chapter 9
They laid her in the grave--the sweet mother with her baby in her
arms--while the Christmas snow lay thick upon the graves. It was Mr.
Cleves who buried her. On the first news of Mr. Barton's calamity, he had
ridden over from Tripplegate to beg that he might be made of some use,
and his silent grasp of Amos's hand had penetrated like the painful
thrill of life-recovering warmth to the poor benumbed heart of the
stricken man.
The snow lay thick upon the graves, and the day was cold and dreary; but
there was many a sad eye watching that black procession as it passed from
the vicarage to the church, and from the church to the open grave. There
were men and women standing in that churchyard who had bandied vulgar
jests about their pastor, and who had lightly charged him with sin; but
now, when they saw him following the coffin, pale and haggard, he was
consecrated anew by his great sorrow, and they looked at him with
respectful pity.
All the children were there, for Amos had willed it so, thinking that
some dim memory of that sacred moment might remain even with little
Walter, and link itself with what he would hear of his sweet mother in
after years. He himself led Patty and Dickey; then came Sophy and Fred;
Mr. Brand had begged to carry Chubby, and Nanny followed with Walter.
They made a circle round the grave while the coffin was being lowered.
Patty alone of all the children felt that mamma was in that coffin, and
that a new and sadder life had begun for papa and herself. She was pale
and trembling, but she clasped his hand more firmly as the coffin went
down, and gave no sob. Fred and Sophy, though they were only two and
three years younger, and though they had seen mamma in her coffin, seemed
to themselves to be looking at some strange show. They had not learned to
decipher that terrible handwriting of human destiny, illness and death.
Dickey had rebelled against his black clothes, until he was told that it
would be naughty to mamma not to put them on, when he at once submitted;
and now, though he had heard Nanny say that mamma was in heaven, he had a
vague notion that she would come home again tomorrow, and say he had been
a good boy and let him empty her work-box. He stood close to his father,
with great rosy cheeks, and wide open blue eyes, looking first up at Mr.
Cleves and then down at the coffin, and thinking he and Chubby would play
at that when they got home.
The burial was over, and Amos turned with his children to re-enter the
house--the house where, an hour ago, Milly's dear body lay, where the
windows were half darkened, and sorrow seemed to have a hallowed precinct
for itself, shut out from the world. But now she was gone; the broad
snow-reflected daylight was in all the rooms; the Vicarage again seemed
part of the common working-day world, and Amos, for the first time, felt
that he was alone--that day after day, month after month, year after
year, would have to be lived through without Milly's love. Spring would
come, and she would not be there; summer, and she would not be there; and
he would never have her again with him by the fireside in the long
evenings. The seasons all seemed irksome to his thoughts; and how dreary
the sunshiny days that would be sure to come! She was gone from him; and
he could never show her his love any more, never make up for omissions in
the past by filling future days with tenderness.
O the anguish of that thought that we can never atone to our dead for the
stinted affection we gave them, for the light answers we returned to
their plaints or their pleadings, for the little reverence we showed to
that sacred human soul that lived so close to us, and was the divinest
thing God had given us to know.
Amos Barton had been an affectionate husband, and while Milly was with
him, he was never visited by the thought that perhaps his sympathy with
her was not quick and watchful enough; but now he re-lived all their life
together, with that terrible keenness of memory and imagination which
bereavement gives, and he felt as if his very love needed a pardon for
its poverty and selfishness.
No outward solace could counteract the bitterness of this inward woe. But
outward solace came. Cold faces looked kind again, and parishioners
turned over in their minds what they could best do to help their pastor.
Mr. Oldinport wrote to express his sympathy, and enclosed another
twenty-pound note, begging that he might be permitted to contribute in
this way to the relief of Mr. Barton's mind from pecuniary anxieties,
under the pressure of a grief which all his parishioners must share; and
offering his interest towards placing the two eldest girls in a school
expressly founded for clergymen's daughters. Mr. Cleves succeeded in
collecting thirty pounds among his richer clerical brethren, and, adding
ten pounds himself, sent the sum to Amos, with the kindest and most
delicate words of Christian fellowship and manly friendship. Miss Jackson
forgot old grievances, and came to stay some months with Milly's
children, bringing such material aid as she could spare from her small
income. These were substantial helps, which relieved Amos from the
pressure of his money difficulties; and the friendly attentions, the kind
pressure of the hand, the cordial looks he met with everywhere in his
parish, made him feel that the fatal frost which had settled on his
pastoral duties, during the Countess's residence at the Vicarage, was
completely thawed, and that the hearts of his parishioners were once more
open to him. No one breathed the Countess's name now; for Milly's memory
hallowed her husband, as of old the place was hallowed on which an angel
from God had alighted.
When the spring came, Mrs. Hackit begged that she might have Dickey to
stay with her, and great was the enlargement of Dickey's experience from
that visit. Every morning he was allowed--being well wrapt up as to his
chest by Mrs. Hackit's own hands, but very bare and red as to his
legs--to run loose in the cow and poultry yard, to persecute the
turkey-cock by satirical imitations of his gobble-gobble, and to put
difficult questions to the groom as to the reasons why horses had four
legs, and other transcendental matters. Then Mr. Hackit would take Dickey
up on horseback when he rode round his farm, and Mrs. Hackit had a large
plumcake in cut, ready to meet incidental attacks of hunger. So that
Dickey had considerably modified his views as to the desirability of Mrs.
Hackit's kisses.
The Misses Farquhar made particular pets of Fred and Sophy, to whom they
undertook to give lessons twice a-week in writing and geography; and Mrs.
Farquhar devised many treats for the little ones. Patty's treat was to
stay at home, or walk about with her papa; and when he sat by the fire in
an evening, after the other children were gone to bed, she would bring a
stool, and, placing it against his feet, would sit down upon it and lean
her head against his knee. Then his hand would rest on that fair head,
and he would feel that Milly's love was not quite gone out of his life.
So the time wore on till it was May again, and the church was quite
finished and reopened in all its new splendour, and Mr. Barton was
devoting himself with more vigour than ever to his parochial duties. But
one morning--it was a very bright morning, and evil tidings sometimes
like to fly in the finest weather--there came a letter for Mr. Barton,
addressed in the Vicar's handwriting. Amos opened it with some
anxiety--somehow or other he had a presentiment of evil. The letter
contained the announcement that Mr. Carpe had resolved on coming to
reside at Shepperton, and that, consequently, in six months from that
time Mr. Barton's duties as curate in that parish would be closed.
O, it was hard! Just when Shepperton had become the place where he most
wished to stay--where he had friends who knew his sorrows--where he lived
close to Milly's grave. To part from that grave seemed like parting with
Milly a second time; for Amos was one who clung to all the material links
between his mind and the past. His imagination was not vivid, and
required the stimulus of actual perception.
It roused some bitter feeling, too, to think that Mr. Carpe's wish to
reside at Shepperton was merely a pretext for removing Mr. Barton, in
order that he might ultimately give the curacy of Shepperton to his own
brother-in-law, who was known to be wanting a new position.
Still, it must be borne; and the painful business of seeking another
curacy must be set about without loss of time. After the lapse of some
months, Amos was obliged to renounce the hope of getting one at all near
Shepperton, and he at length resigned himself to accepting one in a
distant county. The parish was in a large manufacturing town, where his
walks would lie among noisy streets and dingy alleys, and where the
children would have no garden to play in, no pleasant farm-houses to
visit.
It was another blow inflicted on the bruised man.
Chapter 10
At length the dreaded week was come, when Amos and his children must
leave Shepperton. There was general regret among the parishioners at his
departure: not that any one of them thought his spiritual gifts
pre-eminent, or was conscious of great edification from his ministry. But
his recent troubles had called out their better sympathies, and that is
always a source of love. Amos failed to touch the spring of goodness by
his sermons, but he touched it effectually by his sorrows; and there was
now a real bond between him and his flock.
'My heart aches for them poor motherless children,' said Mrs. Hackit to
her husband, 'a-going among strangers, and into a nasty town, where
there's no good victuals to be had, and you must pay dear to get bad
uns.'
Mrs. Hackit had a vague notion of a town life as a combination of dirty
backyards, measly pork, and dingy linen.
The same sort of sympathy was strong among the poorer class of
parishioners. Old stiff-jointed Mr. Tozer, who was still able to earn a
little by gardening 'jobs', stopped Mrs. Cramp, the charwoman, on her way
home from the Vicarage, where she had been helping Nanny to pack up the
day before the departure, and inquired very particularly into Mr.
Barton's prospects.
'Ah, poor mon,' he was heard to say, 'I'm sorry for un. He hedn't much
here, but he'll be wuss off theer. Half a loaf's better nor ne'er un.'
The sad good-byes had all been said before that last evening; and after
all the packing was done and all the arrangements were made, Amos felt
the oppression of that blank interval in which one has nothing left to
think of but the dreary future--the separation from the loved and
familiar, and the chilling entrance on the new and strange. In every
parting there is an image of death.
Soon after ten o'clock, when he had sent Nanny to bed, that she might
have a good night's rest before the fatigues of the morrow, he stole
softly out to pay a last visit to Milly's grave. It was a moonless night,
but the sky was thick with stars, and their light was enough to show that
the grass had grown long on the grave, and that there was a tombstone
telling in bright letters, on a dark ground, that beneath were deposited
the remains of Amelia, the beloved wife of Amos Barton, who died in the
thirty-fifth year of her age, leaving a husband and six children to
lament her loss. The final words of the inscription were, 'Thy will be
done.'
The husband was now advancing towards the dear mound from which he was so
soon to be parted, perhaps for ever. He stood a few minutes reading over
and over again the words on the tombstone, as if to assure himself that
all the happy and unhappy past was a reality. For love is frightened at
the intervals of insensibility and callousness that encroach by little
and little on the dominion of grief, and it makes efforts to recall the
keenness of the first anguish.
Gradually, as his eye dwelt on the words, 'Amelia, the beloved wife,' the
waves of feeling swelled within his soul, and he threw himself on the
grave, clasping it with his arms, and kissing the cold turf.
'Milly, Milly, dost thou hear me? I didn't love thee enough--I wasn't
tender enough to thee--but I think of it all now.'
The sobs came and choked his utterance, and the warm tears fell.
CONCLUSION
Only once again in his life has Amos Barton visited Milly's grave. It was
in the calm and softened light of an autumnal afternoon, and he was not
alone. He held on his arm a young woman, with a sweet, grave face, which
strongly recalled the expression of Mrs. Barton's, but was less lovely in
form and colour. She was about thirty, but there were some premature
lines round her mouth and eyes, which told of early anxiety.
Amos himself was much changed. His thin circlet of hair was nearly white,
and his walk was no longer firm and upright. But his glance was calm, and
even cheerful, and his neat linen told of a woman's care. Milly did not
take all her love from the earth when she died. She had left some of it
in Patty's heart.
All the other children were now grown up, and had gone their several
ways. Dickey, you will be glad to hear, had shown remarkable talents as
an engineer. His cheeks are still ruddy, in spite of mixed mathematics,
and his eyes are still large and blue; but in other respects his person
would present no marks of identification for his friend Mrs. Hackit, if
she were to see him; especially now that her eyes must be grown very dim,
with the wear of more than twenty additional years. He is nearly six feet
high, and has a proportionately broad chest; he wears spectacles, and
rubs his large white hands through a mass of shaggy brown hair. But I am
sure you have no doubt that Mr. Richard Barton is a thoroughly good
fellow, as well as a man of talent, and you will be glad any day to shake
hands with him, for his own sake as well as his mother's.
Patty alone remains by her father's side, and makes the evening sunshine
of his life.
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE STORY
Chapter 1
When old Mr. Gilfil died, thirty years ago, there was general sorrow in
Shepperton; and if black cloth had not been hung round the pulpit and
reading-desk, by order of his nephew and principal legatee, the
parishioners would certainly have subscribed the necessary sum out of
their own pockets, rather than allow such a tribute of respect to be
wanting. All the farmers' wives brought out their black bombasines; and
Mrs. Jennings, at the Wharf, by appearing the first Sunday after Mr.
Gilfil's death in her salmon-coloured ribbons and green shawl, excited
the severest remark. To be sure, Mrs. Jennings was a new-comer, and
town-bred, so that she could hardly be expected to have very clear
notions of what was proper; but, as Mrs. Higgins observed in an undertone
to Mrs. Parrot when they were coming out of church, 'Her husband, who'd
been born i' the parish, might ha' told her better.' An unreadiness to
put on black on all available occasions, or too great an alacrity in
putting it off, argued, in Mrs. Higgins's opinion, a dangerous levity of
character, and an unnatural insensibility to the essential fitness of
things.
'Some folks can't a-bear to put off their colours,' she remarked; 'but
that was never the way i' _my_ family. Why, Mrs. Parrot, from the time I
was married, till Mr. Higgins died, nine years ago come Candlemas, I
niver was out o' black two year together!'
'Ah,' said Mrs. Parrot, who was conscious of inferiority in this respect,
'there isn't many families as have had so many deaths as yours, Mrs.
Higgins.'
Mrs. Higgins, who was an elderly widow, 'well left', reflected with
complacency that Mrs. Parrot's observation was no more than just, and
that Mrs. Jennings very likely belonged to a family which had had no
funerals to speak of.
Even dirty Dame Fripp, who was a very rare church-goer, had been to Mrs.
Hackit to beg a bit of old crape, and with this sign of grief pinned on
her little coal-scuttle bonnet, was seen dropping her curtsy opposite the
reading-desk. This manifestation of respect towards Mr. Gilfil's memory
on the part of Dame Fripp had no theological bearing whatever. It was due
to an event which had occurred some years back, and which, I am sorry to
say, had left that grimy old lady as indifferent to the means of grace as
ever. Dame Fripp kept leeches, and was understood to have such remarkable
influence over those wilful animals in inducing them to bite under the
most unpromising circumstances, that though her own leeches were usually
rejected, from a suspicion that they had lost their appetite, she herself
was constantly called in to apply the more lively individuals furnished
from Mr. Pilgrim's surgery, when, as was very often the case, one of that
clever man's paying patients was attacked with inflammation. Thus Dame
Fripp, in addition to 'property' supposed to yield her no less than
half-a-crown a-week, was in the receipt of professional fees, the gross
amount of which was vaguely estimated by her neighbours as 'pouns an'
pouns'. Moreover, she drove a brisk trade in lollipop with epicurean
urchins, who recklessly purchased that luxury at the rate of two hundred
per cent. Nevertheless, with all these notorious sources of income, the
shameless old woman constantly pleaded poverty, and begged for scraps at
Mrs. Hackit's, who, though she always said Mrs. Fripp was 'as false as
two folks', and no better than a miser and a heathen, had yet a leaning
towards her as an old neighbour.
'There's that case-hardened old Judy a-coming after the tea-leaves
again,' Mrs. Hackit would say; 'an' I'm fool enough to give 'em her,
though Sally wants 'em all the while to sweep the floors with!'
Such was Dame Fripp, whom Mr. Gilfil, riding leisurely in top-boots and
spurs from doing duty at Knebley one warm Sunday afternoon, observed
sitting in the dry ditch near her cottage, and by her side a large pig,
who, with that ease and confidence belonging to perfect friendship, was
lying with his head in her lap, and making no effort to play the
agreeable beyond an occasional grunt.
'Why, Mrs. Fripp,' said the Vicar, 'I didn't know you had such a fine
pig. You'll have some rare flitches at Christmas!'
'Eh, God forbid! My son gev him me two 'ear ago, an' he's been company to
me iver sin'. I couldn't find i' my heart to part wi'm, if I niver knowed
the taste o' bacon-fat again.'
'Why, he'll eat his head off, and yours too. How can you go on keeping a
pig, and making nothing by him?'
'O, he picks a bit hisself wi' rootin', and I dooant mind doing wi'out to
gi' him summat. A bit o' company's meat an' drink too, an' he follers me
about, and grunts when I spake to'm, just like a Christian.'
Mr. Gilfil laughed, and I am obliged to admit that he said good-bye to
Dame Fripp without asking her why she had not been to church, or making
the slightest effort for her spiritual edification. But the next day he
ordered his man David to take her a great piece of bacon, with a message,
saying, the parson wanted to make sure that Mrs. Fripp would know the
taste of bacon-fat again. So, when Mr. Gilfil died, Dame Fripp manifested
her gratitude and reverence in the simply dingy fashion I have mentioned.
You already suspect that the Vicar did not shine in the more spiritual
functions of his office; and indeed, the utmost I can say for him in this
respect is, that he performed those functions with undeviating attention
to brevity and despatch. He had a large heap of short sermons, rather
yellow and worn at the edges, from which he took two every Sunday,
securing perfect impartiality in the selection by taking them as they
came, without reference to topics; and having preached one of these
sermons at Shepperton in the morning, he mounted his horse and rode
hastily with the other in his pocket to Knebley, where he officiated in a
wonderful little church, with a checkered pavement which had once rung to
the iron tread of military monks, with coats of arms in clusters on the
lofty roof, marble warriors and their wives without noses occupying a
large proportion of the area, and the twelve apostles, with their heads
very much on one side, holding didactic ribbons, painted in fresco on the
walls. Here, in an absence of mind to which he was prone, Mr. Gilfil
would sometimes forget to take off his spurs before putting on his
surplice, and only become aware of the omission by feeling something
mysteriously tugging at the skirts of that garment as he stepped into the
reading-desk. But the Knebley farmers would as soon have thought of
criticizing the moon as their pastor. He belonged to the course of
nature, like markets and toll-gates and dirty bank-notes; and being a
vicar, his claim on their veneration had never been counteracted by an
exasperating claim on their pockets. Some of them, who did not indulge in
the superfluity of a covered cart without springs, had dined half an hour
earlier than usual--that is to say, at twelve o'clock--in order to have
time for their long walk through miry lanes, and present themselves duly
in their places at two o'clock, when Mr. Oldinport and Lady Felicia, to
whom Knebley Church was a sort of family temple, made their way among the
bows and curtsies of their dependants to a carved and canopied pew in the
chancel, diffusing as they went a delicate odour of Indian roses on the
unsusceptible nostrils of the congregation.
The farmers' wives and children sat on the dark oaken benches, but the
husbands usually chose the distinctive dignity of a stall under one of
the twelve apostles, where, when the alternation of prayers and responses
had given place to the agreeable monotony of the sermon, Paterfamilias
might be seen or heard sinking into a pleasant doze, from which he
infallibly woke up at the sound of the concluding doxology. And then they
made their way back again through the miry lanes, perhaps almost as much
the better for this simple weekly tribute to what they knew of good and
right, as many a more wakeful and critical congregation of the present
day.
Mr. Gilfil, too, used to make his way home in the later years of his
life, for he had given up the habit of dining at Knebley Abbey on a
Sunday, having, I am sorry to say, had a very bitter quarrel with Mr.
Oldinport, the cousin and predecessor of the Mr. Oldinport who flourished
in the Rev. Amos Barton's time. That quarrel was a sad pity, for the two
had had many a good day's hunting together when they were younger, and in
those friendly times not a few members of the hunt envied Mr. Oldinport
the excellent terms he was on with his vicar; for, as Sir Jasper Sitwell
observed, 'next to a man's wife, there's nobody can be such an infernal
plague to you as a parson, always under your nose on your own estate.'
I fancy the original difference which led to the rupture was very slight;
but Mr. Gilfil was of an extremely caustic turn, his satire having a
flavour of originality which was quite wanting in his sermons; and as Mr.
Oldinport's armour of conscious virtue presented some considerable and
conspicuous gaps, the Vicar's keen-edged retorts probably made a few
incisions too deep to be forgiven. Such, at least, was the view of the
case presented by Mr. Hackit, who knew as much of the matter as any third
person. For, the very week after the quarrel, when presiding at the
annual dinner of the Association for the Prosecution of Felons, held at
the Oldinport Arms, he contributed an additional zest to the conviviality
on that occasion by informing the company that 'the parson had given the
squire a lick with the rough side of his tongue.' The detection of the
person or persons who had driven off Mr. Parrot's heifer, could hardly
have been more welcome news to the Shepperton tenantry, with whom Mr.
Oldinport was in the worst odour as a landlord, having kept up his rents
in spite of falling prices, and not being in the least stung to emulation
by paragraphs in the provincial newspapers, stating that the Honourable
Augustus Purwell, or Viscount Blethers, had made a return of ten per cent
on their last rent-day. The fact was, Mr. Oldinport had not the slightest
intention of standing for Parliament, whereas he had the strongest
intention of adding to his unentailed estate. Hence, to the Shepperton
farmers it was as good as lemon with their grog to know that the Vicar
had thrown out sarcasms against the Squire's charities, as little better
than those of the man who stole a goose, and gave away the giblets in
alms. For Shepperton, you observe, was in a state of Attic culture
compared with Knebley; it had turnpike roads and a public opinion,
whereas, in the Boeotian Knebley, men's minds and waggons alike moved in
the deepest of ruts, and the landlord was only grumbled at as a necessary
and unalterable evil, like the weather, the weevils, and the turnip-fly.
Thus in Shepperton this breach with Mr. Oldinport tended only to heighten
that good understanding which the Vicar had always enjoyed with the rest
of his parishioners, from the generation whose children he had christened
a quarter of a century before, down to that hopeful generation
represented by little Tommy Bond, who had recently quitted frocks and
trousers for the severe simplicity of a tight suit of corduroys, relieved
by numerous brass buttons. Tommy was a saucy boy, impervious to all
impressions of reverence, and excessively addicted to humming-tops and
marbles, with which recreative resources he was in the habit of
immoderately distending the pockets of his corduroys. One day, spinning
his top on the garden-walk, and seeing the Vicar advance directly towards
it, at that exciting moment when it was beginning to 'sleep'
magnificently, he shouted out with all the force of his lungs--'Stop!
don't knock my top down, now!' From that day 'little Corduroys' had been
an especial favourite with Mr. Gilfil, who delighted to provoke his ready
scorn and wonder by putting questions which gave Tommy the meanest
opinion of his intellect.
'Well, little Corduroys, have they milked the geese today?'
'Milked the geese! why, they don't milk the geese, you silly!'
'No! dear heart! why, how do the goslings live, then?'
The nutriment of goslings rather transcending Tommy's observations in
natural history, he feigned to understand this question in an exclamatory
rather than an interrogatory sense, and became absorbed in winding up his
top.
'Ah, I see you don't know how the goslings live! But did you notice how
it rained sugar-plums yesterday?' (Here Tommy became attentive.) 'Why,
they fell into my pocket as I rode along. You look in my pocket and see
if they didn't.' Tommy, without waiting to discuss the alleged
antecedent, lost no time in ascertaining the presence of the agreeable
consequent, for he had a well-founded belief in the advantages of diving
into the Vicar's pocket. Mr. Gilfil called it his wonderful pocket,
because, as he delighted to tell the 'young shavers' and 'two-shoes'--so
he called all little boys and girls--whenever he put pennies into it,
they turned into sugar-plums or gingerbread, or some other nice thing.
Indeed, little Bessie Parrot, a flaxen-headed 'two-shoes', very white and
fat as to her neck, always had the admirable directness and sincerity to
salute him with the question--'What zoo dot in zoo pottet?'
You can imagine, then, that the christening dinners were none the less
merry for the presence of the parson. The farmers relished his society
particularly, for he could not only smoke his pipe, and season the
details of parish affairs with abundance of caustic jokes and proverbs,
but, as Mr. Bond often said, no man knew more than the Vicar about the
breed of cows and horses. He had grazing-land of his own about five miles
off, which a bailiff, ostensibly a tenant, farmed under his direction;
and to ride backwards and forwards, and look after the buying and selling
of stock, was the old gentleman's chief relaxation, now his hunting days
were over. To hear him discussing the respective merits of the Devonshire
breed and the short-horns, or the last foolish decision of the
magistrates about a pauper, a superficial observer might have seen little
difference, beyond his superior shrewdness, between the Vicar and his
bucolic parishioners; for it was his habit to approximate his accent and
mode of speech to theirs, doubtless because he thought it a mere
frustration of the purposes of language to talk of 'shear-hogs' and
'ewes' to men who habitually said 'sharrags' and 'yowes'. Nevertheless
the farmers themselves were perfectly aware of the distinction between
them and the parson, and had not at all the less belief in him as a
gentleman and a clergyman for his easy speech and familiar manners. Mrs.
Parrot smoothed her apron and set her cap right with the utmost
solicitude when she saw the Vicar coming, made him her deepest curtsy,
and every Christmas had a fat turkey ready to send him with her 'duty'
And in the most gossiping colloquies with Mr. Gilfil, you might have
observed that both men and women 'minded their words', and never became
indifferent to his approbation.
The same respect attended him in his strictly clerical functions. The
benefits of baptism were supposed to be somehow bound up with Mr.
Gilfil's personality, so metaphysical a distinction as that between a man
and his office being, as yet, quite foreign to the mind of a good
Shepperton Churchman, savouring, he would have thought, of Dissent on the
very face of it. Miss Selina Parrot put off her marriage a whole month
when Mr. Gilfil had an attack of rheumatism, rather than be married in a
makeshift manner by the Milby curate.
'We've had a very good sermon this morning', was the frequent remark,
after hearing one of the old yellow series, heard with all the more
satisfaction because it had been heard for the twentieth time; for to
minds on the Shepperton level it is repetition, not novelty, that
produces the strongest effect; and phrases, like tunes, are a long time
making themselves at home in the brain.
Mr. Gilfil's sermons, as you may imagine, were not of a highly doctrinal,
still less of a polemical, cast. They perhaps did not search the
conscience very powerfully; for you remember that to Mrs. Patten, who had
listened to them thirty years, the announcement that she was a sinner
appeared an uncivil heresy; but, on the other hand, they made no
unreasonable demand on the Shepperton intellect--amounting, indeed, to
little more than an expansion of the concise thesis, that those who do
wrong will find it the worse for them, and those who do well will find it
the better for them; the nature of wrong-doing being exposed in special
sermons against lying, backbiting, anger, slothfulness, and the like; and
well-doing being interpreted as honesty, truthfulness, charity, industry,
and other common virtues, lying quite on the surface of life, and having
very little to do with deep spiritual doctrine. Mrs. Patten understood
that if she turned out ill-crushed cheeses, a just retribution awaited
her; though, I fear, she made no particular application of the sermon on
backbiting. Mrs. Hackit expressed herself greatly edified by the sermon
on honesty, the allusion to the unjust weight and deceitful balance
having a peculiar lucidity for her, owing to a recent dispute with her
grocer; but I am not aware that she ever appeared to be much struck by
the sermon on anger.
As to any suspicion that Mr. Gilfil did not dispense the pure Gospel, or
any strictures on his doctrine and mode of delivery, such thoughts never
visited the minds of the Shepperton parishioners--of those very
parishioners who, ten or fifteen years later, showed themselves extremely
critical of Mr. Barton's discourses and demeanour. But in the interim
they had tasted that dangerous fruit of the tree of knowledge--innovation
which is well known to open the eyes, even in an uncomfortable manner. At
present, to find fault with the sermon was regarded as almost equivalent
to finding fault with religion itself. One Sunday, Mr. Hackit's nephew,
Master Tom Stokes, a flippant town youth, greatly scandalized his
excellent relatives by declaring that he could write as good a sermon as
Mr. Gilfil's; whereupon Mr. Hackit sought to reduce the presumptuous
youth to utter confusion, by offering him a sovereign if he would fulfil
his vaunt. The sermon was written, however; and though it was not
admitted to be anywhere within reach of Mr. Gilfil's. It was yet so
astonishingly like a sermon, having a text, three divisions, and a
concluding exhortation beginning 'And now, my brethren', that the
sovereign, though denied formally, was bestowed informally, and the
sermon was pronounced, when Master Stokes's back was turned, to be 'an
uncommon cliver thing'.
The Rev. Mr. Pickard, indeed, of the Independent Meeting, had stated, in
a sermon preached at Rotheby, for the reduction of a debt on New Zion,
built, with an exuberance of faith and a deficiency of funds, by seceders
from the original Zion, that he lived in a parish where the Vicar was
very 'dark', and in the prayers he addressed to his own congregation, he
was in the habit of comprehensively alluding to the parishioners outside
the chapel walls, as those who, 'Gallio-like, cared for none of these
things'. But I need hardly say that no church-goer ever came within
earshot of Mr. Pickard.
It was not to the Shepperton farmers only that Mr. Gilfil's society was
acceptable; he was a welcome guest at some of the best houses in that
part of the country. Old Sir Jasper Sitwell would have been glad to see
him every week; and if you had seen him conducting Lady Sitwell in to
dinner, or had heard him talking to her with quaint yet graceful
gallantry, you would have inferred that the earlier period of his life
had been passed in more stately society than could be found in
Shepperton, and that his slipshod chat and homely manners were but like
weather-stains on a fine old block of marble, allowing you still to see
here and there the fineness of the grain, and the delicacy of the
original tint. But in his later years these visits became a little too
troublesome to the old gentleman, and he was rarely to be found anywhere
of an evening beyond the bounds of his own parish--most frequently,
indeed, by the side of his own sitting-room fire, smoking his pipe, and
maintaining the pleasing antithesis of dryness and moisture by an
occasional sip of gin-and-water.
Here I am aware that I have run the risk of alienating all my refined
lady-readers, and utterly annihilating any curiosity they may have felt
to know the details of Mr. Gilfil's love-story. 'Gin-and-water! foh! you
may as well ask us to interest ourselves in the romance of a
tallow-chandler, who mingles the image of his beloved with short dips and
moulds.'
But in the first place, dear ladies, allow me to plead that
gin-and-water, like obesity, or baldness, or the gout, does not exclude a
vast amount of antecedent romance, any more than the neatly-executed
'fronts' which you may some day wear, will exclude your present
possession of less expensive braids. Alas, alas! we poor mortals are
often little better than wood-ashes--there is small sign of the sap, and
the leafy freshness, and the bursting buds that were once there; but
wherever we see wood-ashes, we know that all that early fullness of life
must have been. I, at least, hardly ever look at a bent old man, or a
wizened old woman, but I see also, with my mind's eye, that Past of which
they are the shrunken remnant, and the unfinished romance of rosy cheeks
and bright eyes seems sometimes of feeble interest and significance,
compared with that drama of hope and love which has long ago reached its
catastrophe, and left the poor soul, like a dim and dusty stage, with all
its sweet garden-scenes and fair perspectives overturned and thrust out
of sight.
In the second place, let me assure you that Mr. Gilfil's potations of
gin-and-water were quite moderate. His nose was not rubicund; on the
contrary, his white hair hung around a pale and venerable face. He drank
it chiefly, I believe, because it was cheap; and here I find myself
alighting on another of the Vicar's weaknesses, which, if I had cared to
paint a flattering portrait rather than a faithful one, I might have
chosen to suppress. It is undeniable that, as the years advanced, Mr.
Gilfil became, as Mr. Hackit observed, more and more 'close-fisted',
though the growing propensity showed itself rather in the parsimony of
his personal habits, than in withholding help from the needy. He was
saving--so he represented the matter to himself--for a nephew, the only
son of a sister who had been the dearest object, all but one, in his
life. 'The lad,' he thought, 'will have a nice little fortune to begin
life with, and will bring his pretty young wife some day to see the spot
where his old uncle lies. It will perhaps be all the better for his
hearth that mine was lonely.'
Mr. Gilfil was a bachelor, then?
That is the conclusion to which you would probably have come if you had
entered his sitting-room, where the bare tables, the large old-fashioned
horse-hair chairs, and the threadbare Turkey carpet perpetually fumigated
with tobacco, seemed to tell a story of wifeless existence that was
contradicted by no portrait, no piece of embroidery, no faded bit of
pretty triviality, hinting of taper-fingers and small feminine ambitions.
And it was here that Mr. Gilfil passed his evenings, seldom with other
society than that of Ponto, his old brown setter, who, stretched out at
full length on the rug with his nose between his fore-paws, would wrinkle
his brows and lift up his eyelids every now and then, to exchange a
glance of mutual understanding with his master. But there was a chamber
in Shepperton Vicarage which told a different story from that bare and
cheerless dining-room--a chamber never entered by any one besides Mr.
Gilfil and old Martha the housekeeper, who, with David her husband as
groom and gardener, formed the Vicar's entire establishment. The blinds
of this chamber were always down, except once a-quarter, when Martha
entered that she might air and clean it. She always asked Mr. Gilfil for
the key, which he kept locked up in his bureau, and returned it to him
when she had finished her task.
It was a touching sight that the daylight streamed in upon, as Martha
drew aside the blinds and thick curtains, and opened the Gothic casement
of the oriel window! On the little dressing-table there was a dainty
looking-glass in a carved and gilt frame; bits of wax-candle were still
in the branched sockets at the sides, and on one of these branches hung a
little black lace kerchief; a faded satin pin-cushion, with the pins
rusted in it, a scent-bottle, and a large green fan, lay on the table;
and on a dressing-box by the side of the glass was a work-basket, and an
unfinished baby-cap, yellow with age, lying in it. Two gowns, of a
fashion long forgotten, were hanging on nails against the door, and a
pair of tiny red slippers, with a bit of tarnished silver embroidery on
them, were standing at the foot of the bed. Two or three water-colour
drawings, views of Naples, hung upon the walls; and over the mantelpiece,
above some bits of rare old china, two miniatures in oval frames. One of
these miniatures represented a young man about seven-and-twenty, with a
sanguine complexion, full lips, and clear candid grey eyes. The other was
the likeness of a girl probably not more than eighteen, with small
features, thin cheeks, a pale southern-looking complexion, and large dark
eyes. The gentleman wore powder; the lady had her dark hair gathered away
from her face, and a little cap, with a cherry-coloured bow, set on the
top of her head--a coquettish head-dress, but the eyes spoke of sadness
rather than of coquetry.
Such were the things that Martha had dusted and let the air upon, four
times a-year, ever since she was a blooming lass of twenty; and she was
now, in this last decade of Mr. Gilfil's life, unquestionably on the
wrong side of fifty. Such was the locked-up chamber in Mr. Gilfil's
house: a sort of visible symbol of the secret chamber in his heart, where
he had long turned the key on early hopes and early sorrows, shutting up
for ever all the passion and the poetry of his life.
There were not many people in the parish, besides Martha, who had any
very distinct remembrance of Mr. Gilfil's wife, or indeed who knew
anything of her, beyond the fact that there was a marble tablet, with a
Latin inscription in memory of her, over the vicarage pew. The
parishioners who were old enough to remember her arrival were not
generally gifted with descriptive powers, and the utmost you could gather
from them was, that Mrs. Gilfil looked like a 'furriner, wi' such eyes,
you can't think, an' a voice as went through you when she sung at
church.' The one exception was Mrs. Patten, whose strong memory and taste
for personal narrative made her a great source of oral tradition in
Shepperton. Mr. Hackit, who had not come into the parish until ten years
after Mrs. Gilfil's death, would often put old questions to Mrs. Patten
for the sake of getting the old answers, which pleased him in the same
way as passages from a favourite book, or the scenes of a familiar play,
please more accomplished people.
'Ah, you remember well the Sunday as Mrs. Gilfil first come to church,
eh, Mrs. Patten?'
'To be sure I do. It was a fine bright Sunday as ever was seen, just at
the beginnin' o' hay harvest. Mr. Tarbett preached that day, and Mr.
Gilfil sat i' the pew with his wife. I think I see him now, a-leading her
up the aisle, an' her head not reachin' much above his elber: a little
pale woman, with eyes as black as sloes, an' yet lookin' blank-like, as
if she see'd nothing with 'em.'
'I warrant she had her weddin' clothes on?' said Mr. Hackit.
'Nothin' partikler smart--on'y a white hat tied down under her chin, an'
a white Indy muslin gown. But you don't know what Mr. Gilfil was in those
times. He was fine an' altered before you come into the parish. He'd a
fresh colour then, an' a bright look wi' his eyes, as did your heart good
to see. He looked rare and happy that Sunday; but somehow, I'd a feelin'
as it wouldn't last long. I've no opinion o' furriners, Mr. Hackit, for
I've travelled i' their country with my lady in my time, an' seen enough
o' their victuals an' their nasty ways.'
'Mrs. Gilfil come from It'ly, didn't she?'
'I reckon she did, but I niver could rightly hear about that. Mr. Gilfil
was niver to be spoke to about her, and nobody else hereabout knowed
anythin'. Howiver, she must ha' come over pretty young, for she spoke
English as well as you an' me. It's them Italians as has such fine
voices, an' Mrs. Gilfil sung, you never heared the like. He brought her
here to have tea with me one afternoon, and says he, in his jovial way,
"Now, Mrs. Patten, I want Mrs. Gilfil to see the neatest house, and drink
the best cup o' tea, in all Shepperton; you must show her your dairy and
your cheese-room, and then she shall sing you a song." An' so she did;
an' her voice seemed sometimes to fill the room; an' then it went low an'
soft, as if it was whisperin' close to your heart like.'
'You never heared her again, I reckon?'
'No; she was sickly then, and she died in a few months after. She wasn't
in the parish much more nor half a year altogether. She didn't seem
lively that afternoon, an' I could see she didn't care about the dairy,
nor the cheeses, on'y she pretended, to please him. As for him, I niver
see'd a man so wrapt up in a woman. He looked at her as if he was
worshippin' her, an' as if he wanted to lift her off the ground ivery
minute, to save her the trouble o' walkin'. Poor man, poor man! It had
like to ha' killed him when she died, though he niver gev way, but went
on ridin' about and preachin'. But he was wore to a shadder, an' his eyes
used to look as dead--you wouldn't ha' knowed 'em.'
'She brought him no fortune?'
'Not she. All Mr. Gilfil's property come by his mother's side. There was
blood an' money too, there. It's a thousand pities as he married i' that
way--a fine man like him, as might ha' had the pick o' the county, an'
had his grandchildren about him now. An' him so fond o' children, too.'
In this manner Mrs. Patten usually wound up her reminiscences of the
Vicar's wife, of whom, you perceive, she knew but little. It was clear
that the communicative old lady had nothing to tell of Mrs. Gilfil's
history previous to her arrival in Shepperton, and that she was
unacquainted with Mr. Gilfil's love-story.
But I, dear reader, am quite as communicative as Mrs. Patten, and much
better informed; so that, if you care to know more about the Vicar's
courtship and marriage, you need only carry your imagination back to the
latter end of the last century, and your attention forward into the next
chapter.
Chapter 2
It is the evening of the 21st of June 1788. The day has been bright and
sultry, and the sun will still be more than an hour above the horizon,
but his rays, broken by the leafy fretwork of the elms that border the
park, no longer prevent two ladies from carrying out their cushions and
embroidery, and seating themselves to work on the lawn in front of
Cheverel Manor. The soft turf gives way even under the fairy tread of the
younger lady, whose small stature and slim figure rest on the tiniest of
full-grown feet. She trips along before the elder, carrying the cushions,
which she places in the favourite spot, just on the slope by a clump of
laurels, where they can see the sunbeams sparkling among the
water-lilies, and can be themselves seen from the dining-room windows.
She has deposited the cushions, and now turns round, so that you may have
a full view of her as she stands waiting the slower advance of the elder
lady. You are at once arrested by her large dark eyes, which, in their
inexpressive unconscious beauty, resemble the eyes of a fawn, and it is
only by an effort of attention that you notice the absence of bloom on
her young cheek, and the southern yellowish tint of her small neck and
face, rising above the little black lace kerchief which prevents the too
immediate comparison of her skin with her white muslin gown. Her large
eyes seem all the more striking because the dark hair is gathered away
from her face, under a little cap set at the top of her head, with a
cherry-coloured bow on one side.
The elder lady, who is advancing towards the cushions, is cast in a very
different mould of womanhood. She is tall, and looks the taller because
her powdered hair is turned backward over a toupee, and surmounted by
lace and ribbons. She is nearly fifty, but her complexion is still fresh
and beautiful, with the beauty of an auburn blond; her proud pouting
lips, and her head thrown a little backward as she walks, give an
expression of hauteur which is not contradicted by the cold grey eye. The
tucked-in kerchief, rising full over the low tight bodice of her blue
dress, sets off the majestic form of her bust, and she treads the lawn as
if she were one of Sir Joshua Reynolds' stately ladies, who had suddenly
stepped from her frame to enjoy the evening cool.
'Put the cushions lower, Caterina, that we may not have so much sun upon
us,' she called out, in a tone of authority, when still at some distance.
Caterina obeyed, and they sat down, making two bright patches of red and
white and blue on the green background of the laurels and the lawn, which
would look none the less pretty in a picture because one of the women's
hearts was rather cold and the other rather sad.
And a charming picture Cheverel Manor would have made that evening, if
some English Watteau had been there to paint it: the castellated house of
grey-tinted stone, with the flickering sunbeams sending dashes of golden
light across the many-shaped panes in the mullioned windows, and a great
beech leaning athwart one of the flanking towers, and breaking, with its
dark flattened boughs, the too formal symmetry of the front; the broad
gravel-walk winding on the right, by a row of tall pines, alongside the
pool--on the left branching out among swelling grassy mounds, surmounted
by clumps of trees, where the red trunk of the Scotch fir glows in the
descending sunlight against the bright green of limes and acacias; the
great pool, where a pair of swans are swimming lazily with one leg tucked
under a wing, and where the open water-lilies lie calmly accepting the
kisses of the fluttering light-sparkles; the lawn, with its smooth
emerald greenness, sloping down to the rougher and browner herbage of the
park, from which it is invisibly fenced by a little stream that winds
away from the pool, and disappears under a wooden bridge in the distant
pleasure-ground; and on this lawn our two ladies, whose part in the
landscape the painter, standing at a favourable point of view in the
park, would represent with a few little dabs of red and white and blue.
Seen from the great Gothic windows of the dining-room, they had much more
definiteness of outline, and were distinctly visible to the three
gentlemen sipping their claret there, as two fair women in whom all three
had a personal interest. These gentlemen were a group worth considering
attentively; but any one entering that dining-room for the first time,
would perhaps have had his attention even more strongly arrested by the
room itself, which was so bare of furniture that it impressed one with
its architectural beauty like a cathedral. A piece of matting stretched
from door to door, a bit of worn carpet under the dining-table, and a
sideboard in a deep recess, did not detain the eye for a moment from the
lofty groined ceiling, with its richly-carved pendants, all of creamy
white, relieved here and there by touches of gold. On one side, this
lofty ceiling was supported by pillars and arches, beyond which a lower
ceiling, a miniature copy of the higher one, covered the square
projection which, with its three large pointed windows, formed the
central feature of the building. The room looked less like a place to
dine in than a piece of space enclosed simply for the sake of beautiful
outline; and the small dining-table, with the party round it, seemed an
odd and insignificant accident, rather than anything connected with the
original purpose of the apartment.
But, examined closely, that group was far from insignificant; for the
eldest, who was reading in the newspaper the last portentous proceedings
of the French parliaments, and turning with occasional comments to his
young companions, was as fine a specimen of the old English gentleman as
could well have been found in those venerable days of cocked-hats and
pigtails. His dark eyes sparkled under projecting brows, made more
prominent by bushy grizzled eyebrows; but any apprehension of severity
excited by these penetrating eyes, and by a somewhat aquiline nose, was
allayed by the good-natured lines about the mouth, which retained all its
teeth and its vigour of expression in spite of sixty winters. The
forehead sloped a little from the projecting brows, and its peaked
outline was made conspicuous by the arrangement of the profusely-powdered
hair, drawn backward and gathered into a pigtail. He sat in a small hard
chair, which did not admit the slightest approach to a lounge, and which
showed to advantage the flatness of his back and the breadth of his
chest. In fact, Sir Christopher Cheverel was a splendid old gentleman, as
any one may see who enters the saloon at Cheverel Manor, where his
full-length portrait, taken when he was fifty, hangs side by side with
that of his wife, the stately lady seated on the lawn.
Looking at Sir Christopher, you would at once have been inclined to hope
that he had a full-grown son and heir; but perhaps you would have wished
that it might not prove to be the young man on his right hand, in whom a
certain resemblance to the Baronet, in the contour of the nose and brow,
seemed to indicate a family relationship. If this young man had been less
elegant in his person, he would have been remarked for the elegance of
his dress. But the perfections of his slim well-proportioned figure were
so striking that no one but a tailor could notice the perfections of his
velvet coat; and his small white hands, with their blue veins and taper
fingers, quite eclipsed the beauty of his lace ruffles. The face,
however--it was difficult to say why--was certainly not pleasing. Nothing
could be more delicate than the blond complexion--its bloom set off by
the powdered hair--than the veined overhanging eye-lids, which gave an
indolent expression to the hazel eyes; nothing more finely cut than the
transparent nostril and the short upper-lip. Perhaps the chin and lower
jaw were too small for an irreproachable profile, but the defect was on
the side of that delicacy and _finesse_ which was the distinctive
characteristic of the whole person, and which was carried out in the
clear brown arch of the eyebrows, and the marble smoothness of the
sloping forehead. Impossible to say that this face was not eminently
handsome; yet, for the majority both of men and women, it was destitute
of charm. Women disliked eyes that seemed to be indolently accepting
admiration instead of rendering it; and men, especially if they had a
tendency to clumsiness in the nose and ankles, were inclined to think
this Antinous in a pig-tail a 'confounded puppy'. I fancy that was
frequently the inward interjection of the Rev. Maynard Gilfil, who was
seated on the opposite side of the dining-table, though Mr. Gilfil's legs
and profile were not at all of a kind to make him peculiarly alive to the
impertinence and frivolity of personal advantages. His healthy open face
and robust limbs were after an excellent pattern for everyday wear, and,
in the opinion of Mr. Bates, the north-country gardener, would have
become regimentals 'a fain saight' better than the 'peaky' features and
slight form of Captain Wybrow, notwithstanding that this young gentleman,
as Sir Christopher's nephew and destined heir, had the strongest
hereditary claim on the gardener's respect, and was undeniably
'clean-limbed'. But alas! human longings are perversely obstinate; and to
the man whose mouth is watering for a peach, it is of no use to offer the
largest vegetable marrow. Mr. Gilfil was not sensitive to Mr. Bates's
opinion, whereas he was sensitive to the opinion of another person, who
by no means shared Mr. Bates's preference.
Who the other person was it would not have required a very keen observer
to guess, from a certain eagerness in Mr. Gilfil's glance as that little
figure in white tripped along the lawn with the cushions. Captain Wybrow,
too, was looking in the same direction, but his handsome face remained
handsome--and nothing more.
'Ah,' said Sir Christopher, looking up from his paper, 'there's my lady.
Ring for coffee, Anthony; we'll go and join her, and the little monkey
Tina shall give us a song.'
The coffee presently appeared, brought not as usual by the footman, in
scarlet and drab, but by the old butler, in threadbare but well-brushed
black, who, as he was placing it on the table, said--'If you please, Sir
Christopher, there's the widow Hartopp a-crying i' the still room, and
begs leave to see your honour.'
'I have given Markham full orders about the widow Hartopp,' said Sir
Christopher, in a sharp decided tone. 'I have nothing to say to her.'
'Your honour,' pleaded the butler, rubbing his hands, and putting on an
additional coating of humility, 'the poor woman's dreadful overcome, and
says she can't sleep a wink this blessed night without seeing your
honour, and she begs you to pardon the great freedom she's took to come
at this time. She cries fit to break her heart.'
'Ay, ay; water pays no tax. Well, show her into the library.'
Coffee despatched, the two young men walked out through the open window,
and joined the ladies on the lawn, while Sir Christopher made his way to
the library, solemnly followed by Rupert, his pet bloodhound, who, in his
habitual place at the Baronet's right hand, behaved with great urbanity
during dinner; but when the cloth was drawn, invariably disappeared under
the table, apparently regarding the claret-jug as a mere human weakness,
which he winked at, but refused to sanction.
The library lay but three steps from the dining-room, on the other side
of a cloistered and matted passage. The oriel window was overshadowed by
the great beech, and this, with the flat heavily-carved ceiling and the
dark hue of the old books that lined the walls, made the room look
sombre, especially on entering it from the dining-room, with its aerial
curves and cream-coloured fretwork touched with gold. As Sir Christopher
opened the door, a jet of brighter light fell on a woman in a widow's
dress, who stood in the middle of the room, and made the deepest of
curtsies as he entered. She was a buxom woman approaching forty, her eyes
red with the tears which had evidently been absorbed by the handkerchief
gathered into a damp ball in her right hand.
'Now. Mrs. Hartopp,' said Sir Christopher, taking out his gold snuff-box
and tapping the lid, 'what have you to say to me? Markham has delivered
you a notice to quit, I suppose?'
'O yis, your honour, an' that's the reason why I've come. I hope your
honour 'll think better on it, an' not turn me an' my poor children out
o' the farm, where my husband al'ys paid his rent as reglar as the day
come.'
'Nonsense! I should like to know what good it will do you and your
children to stay on a farm and lose every farthing your husband has left
you, instead of selling your stock and going into some little place where
you can keep your money together. It is very well known to every tenant
of mine that I never allow widows to stay on their husbands' farms.'
'O, Sir Christifer, if you _would_ consider--when I've sold the hay, an'
corn, an' all the live things, an' paid the debts, an' put the money out
to use, I shall have hardly enough to keep our souls an' bodies together.
An' how can I rear my boys and put 'em 'prentice? They must go for
dey-labourers, an' their father a man wi' as good belongings as any on
your honour's estate, an' niver threshed his wheat afore it was well i'
the rick, nor sold the straw off his farm, nor nothin'. Ask all the
farmers round if there was a stiddier, soberer man than my husband as
attended Ripstone market. An' he says, "Bessie," says he--them was his
last words--"you'll mek a shift to manage the farm, if Sir Christifer
'ull let you stay on."'
'Pooh, pooh!' said Sir Christopher, Mrs. Hartopp's sobs having
interrupted her pleadings, 'now listen to me, and try to understand a
little common sense. You are about as able to manage the farm as your
best milch cow. You'll be obliged to have some managing man, who will
either cheat you out of your money or wheedle you into marrying him.'
'O, your honour, I was never that sort o' woman, an' nobody has known it
on me.'
'Very likely not, because you were never a widow before. A woman's always
silly enough, but she's never quite as great a fool as she can be until
she puts on a widow's cap. Now, just ask yourself how much the better you
will be for staying on your farm at the end of four years, when you've
got through your money, and let your farm run down, and are in arrears
for half your rent; or, perhaps, have got some great hulky fellow for a
husband, who swears at you and kicks your children.'
'Indeed, Sir Christifer, I know a deal o' farmin,' an' was brought up i'
the thick on it, as you may say. An' there was my husband's great-aunt
managed a farm for twenty year, an' left legacies to all her nephys an'
nieces, an' even to my husband, as was then a babe unborn.'
'Psha! a woman six feet high, with a squint and sharp elbows, I
daresay--a man in petticoats. Not a rosy-cheeked widow like you, Mrs.
Hartopp.'
'Indeed, your honour, I never heard of her squintin', an' they said as
she might ha' been married o'er and o'er again, to people as had no call
to hanker after her money.'
'Ay, ay, that's what you all think. Every man that looks at you wants to
marry you, and would like you the better the more children you have and
the less money. But it is useless to talk and cry. I have good reasons
for my plans, and never alter them. What you have to do is to take the
best of your stock, and to look out for some little place to go to, when
you leave The Hollows. Now, go back to Mrs. Bellamy's room, and ask her
to give you a dish of tea.'
Mrs. Hartopp, understanding from Sir Christopher's tone that he was not
to be shaken, curtsied low and left the library, while the Baronet,
seating himself at his desk in the oriel window, wrote the following
letter:
Mr. Markham,--Take no steps about letting Crowsfoot Cottage, as I intend
to put in the widow Hartopp when she leaves her farm; and if you will be
here at eleven on Saturday morning, I will ride round with you, and
settle about making some repairs, and see about adding a bit of land to
the take, as she will want to keep a cow and some pigs.--Yours
faithfully,
Christopher Cheverel
After ringing the bell and ordering this letter to be sent, Sir
Christopher walked out to join the party on the lawn. But finding the
cushions deserted, he walked on to the eastern front of the building,
where, by the side of the grand entrance, was the large bow-window of the
saloon, opening on to the gravel-sweep, and looking towards a long vista
of undulating turf, bordered by tall trees, which, seeming to unite
itself with the green of the meadows and a grassy road through a
plantation, only terminated with the Gothic arch of a gateway in the far
distance. The bow-window was open, and Sir Christopher, stepping in,
found the group he sought, examining the progress of the unfinished
ceiling. It was in the same style of florid pointed Gothic as the
dining-room, but more elaborate in its tracery, which was like petrified
lace-work picked out with delicate and varied colouring. About a fourth
of its still remained uncoloured, and under this part were scaffolding,
ladders, and tools; otherwise the spacious saloon was empty of furniture,
and seemed to be a grand Gothic canopy for the group of five human
figures standing in the centre.
'Francesco has been getting on a little better the last day or two,' said
Sir Christopher, as he joined the party: 'he's a sad lazy dog, and I
fancy he has a knack of sleeping as he stands, with his brushes in his
hands. But I must spur him on, or we may not have the scaffolding cleared
away before the bride comes, if you show dexterous generalship in your
wooing, eh, Anthony? and take your Magdeburg quickly.'
'Ah, sir, a siege is known to be one of the most tedious operations in
war,' said Captain Wybrow, with an easy smile.
'Not when there's a traitor within the walls in the shape of a soft
heart. And that there will be, if Beatrice has her mother's tenderness as
well as her mother's beauty.'
'What do you think, Sir Christopher,' said Lady Cheverel, who seemed to
wince a little under her husband's reminiscences, 'of hanging Guercino's
"Sibyl" over that door when we put up the pictures? It is rather lost in
my sitting-room.'
'Very good, my love,' answered Sir Christopher, in a tone of
punctiliously polite affection; 'if you like to part with the ornament
from your own room, it will show admirably here. Our portraits, by Sir
Joshua, will hang opposite the window, and the "Transfiguration" at that
end. You see, Anthony, I am leaving no good places on the walls for you
and your wife. We shall turn you with your faces to the wall in the
gallery, and you may take your revenge on us by-and-by.'
While this conversation was going on, Mr. Gilfil turned to Caterina and
said,--'I like the view from this window better than any other in the
house.'
She made no answer, and he saw that her eyes were filling with tears; so
he added, 'Suppose we walk out a little; Sir Christopher and my lady seem
to be occupied.'
Caterina complied silently, and they turned down one of the gravel walks
that led, after many windings under tall trees and among grassy openings,
to a large enclosed flower-garden. Their walk was perfectly silent, for
Maynard Gilfil knew that Caterina's thoughts were not with him, and she
had been long used to make him endure the weight of those moods which she
carefully hid from others. They reached the flower-garden, and turned
mechanically in at the gate that opened, through a high thick hedge, on
an expanse of brilliant colour, which, after the green shades they had
passed through, startled the eye like flames. The effect was assisted by
an undulation of the ground, which gradually descended from the
entrance-gate, and then rose again towards the opposite end, crowned by
an orangery. The flowers were glowing with their evening splendours;
verbenas and heliotropes were sending up their finest incense. It seemed
a gala where all was happiness and brilliancy, and misery could find no
sympathy. This was the effect it had on Caterina. As she wound among the
beds of gold and blue and pink, where the flowers seemed to be looking at
her with wondering elf-like eyes, knowing nothing of sorrow, the feeling
of isolation in her wretchedness overcame her, and the tears, which had
been before trickling slowly down her pale cheeks, now gushed forth
accompanied with sobs. And yet there was a loving human being close
beside her, whose heart was aching for hers, who was possessed by the
feeling that she was miserable, and that he was helpless to soothe her.
But she was too much irritated by the idea that his wishes were different
from hers, that he rather regretted the folly of her hopes than the
probability of their disappointment, to take any comfort in his sympathy.
Caterina, like the rest of us, turned away from sympathy which she
suspected to be mingled with criticism, as the child turns away from the
sweetmeat in which it suspects imperceptible medicine.
'Dear Caterina, I think I hear voices,' said Mr. Gilfil; 'they may be
coming this way.'
She checked herself like one accustomed to conceal her emotions, and ran
rapidly to the other end of the garden, where she seemed occupied in
selecting a rose. Presently Lady Cheverel entered, leaning on the arm of
Captain Wybrow, and followed by Sir Christopher. The party stopped to
admire the tiers of geraniums near the gate; and in the mean time
Caterina tripped back with a moss rose-bud in her hand, and, going up to
Sir Christopher, said--'There, Padroncello--there is a nice rose for your
button-hole.'
'Ah, you black-eyed monkey,' he said, fondly stroking her cheek; 'so you
have been running off with Maynard, either to torment or coax him an inch
or two deeper into love. Come, come, I want you to sing us "_Ho perduto_"
before we sit down to picquet. Anthony goes tomorrow, you know; you must
warble him into the right sentimental lover's mood, that he may acquit
himself well at Bath.' He put her little arm under his, and calling to
Lady Cheverel, 'Come, Henrietta!' led the way towards the house.
The party entered the drawing-room, which, with its oriel window,
corresponded to the library in the other wing, and had also a flat
ceiling heavy with carving and blazonry; but the window being unshaded,
and the walls hung with full-length portraits of knights and dames in
scarlet, white, and gold, it had not the sombre effect of the library.
Here hung the portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel, who in the reign of
Charles II. was the renovator of the family splendour, which had suffered
some declension from the early brilliancy of that Chevreuil who came over
with the Conqueror. A very imposing personage was this Sir Anthony,
standing with one arm akimbo, and one fine leg and foot advanced,
evidently with a view to the gratification of his contemporaries and
posterity. You might have taken off his splendid peruke, and his scarlet
cloak, which was thrown backward from his shoulders, without annihilating
the dignity of his appearance. And he had known how to choose a wife,
too, for his lady, hanging opposite to him, with her sunny brown hair
drawn away in bands from her mild grave face, and falling in two large
rich curls on her snowy gently-sloping neck, which shamed the harsher hue
and outline of her white satin robe, was a fit mother of 'large-acred'
heirs.
In this room tea was served; and here, every evening, as regularly as the
great clock in the court-yard with deliberate bass tones struck nine, Sir
Christopher and Lady Cheverel sat down to picquet until half-past ten,
when Mr. Gilfil read prayers to the assembled household in the chapel.
But now it was not near nine, and Caterina must sit down to the
harpsichord and sing Sir Christopher's favourite airs from Gluck's
'Orfeo', an opera which, for the happiness of that generation, was then
to be heard on the London stage. It happened this evening that the
sentiment of these airs, '_Che faro senza Eurydice?_' and '_Ho perduto il
bel sembiante_', in both of which the singer pours out his yearning after
his lost love, came very close to Caterina's own feeling. But her
emotion, instead of being a hindrance to her singing, gave her additional
power. Her singing was what she could do best; it was her one point of
superiority, in which it was probable she would excel the highborn beauty
whom Anthony was to woo; and her love, her jealousy, her pride, her
rebellion against her destiny, made one stream of passion which welled
forth in the deep rich tones of her voice. She had a rare contralto,
which Lady Cheverel, who had high musical taste, had been careful to
preserve her from straining.
'Excellent, Caterina,' said Lady Cheverel, as there was a pause after the
wonderful linked sweetness of '_Che faro_'. 'I never heard you sing that
so well. Once more!'
It was repeated; and then came, 'Ho perduto', which Sir Christopher
encored, in spite of the clock, just striking nine. When the last note
was dying out he said--'There's a clever black-eyed monkey. Now bring out
the table for picquet.'
Caterina drew out the table and placed the cards; then, with her rapid
fairy suddenness of motion, threw herself on her knees, and clasped Sir
Christopher's knee. He bent down, stroked her cheek and smiled.
'Caterina, that is foolish,' said Lady Cheverel. 'I wish you would leave
off those stage-players' antics.'
She jumped up, arranged the music on the harpsichord, and then, seeing
the Baronet and his lady seated at picquet, quietly glided out of the
room.
Captain Wybrow had been leaning near the harpsichord during the singing,
and the chaplain had thrown himself on a sofa at the end of the room.
They both now took up a book. Mr. Gilfil chose the last number of the
'Gentleman's Magazine'; Captain Wybrow, stretched on an ottoman near the
door, opened 'Faublas'; and there was perfect silence in the room which,
ten minutes before, was vibrating to the passionate tones of Caterina.
She had made her way along the cloistered passages, now lighted here and
there by a small oil-lamp, to the grand-staircase, which led directly to
a gallery running along the whole eastern side of the building, where it
was her habit to walk when she wished to be alone. The bright moonlight
was streaming through the windows, throwing into strange light and shadow
the heterogeneous objects that lined the long walls Greek statues and
busts of Roman emperors; low cabinets filled with curiosities, natural
and antiquarian; tropical birds and huge horns of beasts; Hindoo gods and
strange shells; swords and daggers, and bits of chain-armour; Roman lamps
and tiny models of Greek temples; and, above all these, queer old family
portraits--of little boys and girls, once the hope of the Cheverels, with
close-shaven heads imprisoned in stiff ruffs--of faded, pink-faced
ladies, with rudimentary features and highly-developed head-dresses--of
gallant gentlemen, with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointed
beards.
Here, on rainy days, Sir Christopher and his lady took their promenade,
and here billiards were played; but, in the evening, it was forsaken by
all except Caterina--and, sometimes, one other person.
She paced up and down in the moonlight, her pale face and thin
white-robed form making her look like the ghost of some former Lady
Cheverel come to revisit the glimpses of the moon.
By-and-by she paused opposite the broad window above the portico, and
looked out on the long vista of turf and trees now stretching chill and
saddened in the moonlight.
Suddenly a breath of warmth and roses seemed to float towards her, and an
arm stole gently round her waist, while a soft hand took up her tiny
fingers. Caterina felt an electric thrill, and was motionless for one
long moment; then she pushed away the arm and hand, and, turning round,
lifted up to the face that hung over her eyes full of tenderness and
reproach. The fawn-like unconsciousness was gone, and in that one look
were the ground tones of poor little Caterina's nature--intense love and
fierce jealousy.
'Why do you push me away, Tina?' said Captain Wybrow in a half-whisper;
'are you angry with me for what a hard fate puts upon me? Would you have
me cross my uncle--who has done so much for us both--in his dearest wish?
You know I have duties--we both have duties--before which feeling must be
sacrificed.'
'Yes, yes,' said Caterina, stamping her foot, and turning away her head;
'don't tell me what I know already.'
There was a voice speaking in Caterina's mind to which she had never yet
given vent. That voice said continually. 'Why did he make me love
him--why did he let me know he loved me, if he knew all the while that he
couldn't brave everything for my sake?' Then love answered, 'He was led
on by the feeling of the moment, as you have been, Caterina; and now you
ought to help him to do what is right.' Then the voice rejoined, 'It was
a slight matter to him. He doesn't much mind giving you up. He will soon
love that beautiful woman, and forget a poor little pale thing like you.'
Thus love, anger, and jealousy were struggling in that young soul.
'Besides, Tina,' continued Captain Wybrow in still gentler tones, 'I
shall not succeed. Miss Assher very likely prefers some one else; and you
know I have the best will in the world to fail. I shall come back a
hapless bachelor--perhaps to find you already married to the good-looking
chaplain, who is over head and ears in love with you. Poor Sir
Christopher has made up his mind that you're to have Gilfil.
'Why will you speak so? You speak from your own want of feeling. Go away
from me.'
'Don't let us part in anger, Tina. All this may pass away. It's as likely
as not that I may never marry any one at all. These palpitations may
carry me off, and you may have the satisfaction of knowing that I shall
never be anybody's bride-groom. Who knows what may happen? I may be my
own master before I get into the bonds of holy matrimony, and be able to
choose my little singing-bird. Why should we distress ourselves before
the time?'
'It is easy to talk so when you are not feeling,' said Caterina, the
tears flowing fast. 'It is bad to bear now, whatever may come after. But
you don't care about my misery.'
'Don't I, Tina?' said Anthony in his tenderest tones, again stealing his
arm round her waist, and drawing her towards him. Poor Tina was the slave
of this voice and touch. Grief and resentment, retrospect and foreboding,
vanished--all life before and after melted away in the bliss of that
moment, as Anthony pressed his lips to hers.
Captain Wybrow thought, 'Poor little Tina! it would make her very happy
to have me. But she is a mad little thing.'
At that moment a loud bell startled Caterina from her trance of bliss. It
was the summons to prayers in the chapel, and she hastened away, leaving
Captain Wybrow to follow slowly.
It was a pretty sight, that family assembled to worship in the little
chapel, where a couple of wax-candles threw a mild faint light on the
figures kneeling there. In the desk was Mr. Gilfil, with his face a shade
graver than usual. On his right hand, kneeling on their red velvet
cushions, were the master and mistress of the household, in their elderly
dignified beauty. On his left, the youthful grace of Anthony and
Caterina, in all the striking contrast of their colouring--he, with his
exquisite outline and rounded fairness, like an Olympian god; she, dark
and tiny, like a gypsy changeling. Then there were the domestics kneeling
on red-covered forms,--the women headed by Mrs. Bellamy, the natty little
old housekeeper, in snowy cap and apron, and Mrs. Sharp, my lady's maid,
of somewhat vinegar aspect and flaunting attire; the men by Mr. Bellamy
the butler, and Mr. Warren, Sir Christopher's venerable valet.
A few collects from the Evening Service was what Mr. Gilfil habitually
read, ending with the simple petition, 'Lighten our darkness.'
And then they all rose, the servants turning to curtsy and bow as they
went out. The family returned to the drawing-room, said good-night to
each other, and dispersed--all to speedy slumber except two. Caterina
only cried herself to sleep after the clock had struck twelve. Mr. Gilfil
lay awake still longer, thinking that very likely Caterina was crying.
Captain Wybrow, having dismissed his valet at eleven, was soon in a soft
slumber, his face looking like a fine cameo in high relief on the
slightly indented pillow.
Chapter 3
The last chapter has given the discerning reader sufficient insight into
the state of things at Cheverel Manor in the summer of 1788. In that
summer, we know, the great nation of France was agitated by conflicting
thoughts and passions, which were but the beginning of sorrows. And in
our Caterina's little breast, too, there were terrible struggles. The
poor bird was beginning to flutter and vainly dash its soft breast
against the hard iron bars of the inevitable, and we see too plainly the
danger, if that anguish should go on heightening instead of being
allayed, that the palpitating heart may be fatally bruised.
Meanwhile, if, as I hope, you feel some interest in Caterina and her
friends at Cheverel Manor, you are perhaps asking, How came she to be
there? How was it that this tiny, dark-eyed child of the south, whose
face was immediately suggestive of olive-covered hills and taper-lit
shrines, came to have her home in that stately English manor-house, by
the side of the blonde matron, Lady Cheverel--almost as if a humming-bird
were found perched on one of the elm-trees in the park, by the side of
her ladyship's handsomest pouter-pigeon? Speaking good English, too, and
joining in Protestant prayers! Surely she must have been adopted and
brought over to England at a very early age. She was.
During Sir Christopher's last visit to Italy with his lady, fifteen years
before, they resided for some time at Milan, where Sir Christopher, who
was an enthusiast for Gothic architecture, and was then entertaining the
project of metamorphosing his plain brick family mansion into the model
of a Gothic manor-house, was bent on studying the details of that marble
miracle, the Cathedral. Here Lady Cheverel, as at other Italian cities
where she made any protracted stay, engaged a _maestro_ to give her
lessons in singing, for she had then not only fine musical taste, but a
fine soprano voice. Those were days when very rich people used manuscript
music, and many a man who resembled Jean Jacques in nothing else,
resembled him in getting a livelihood 'a copier la musique a tant la
page'. Lady Cheverel having need of this service, Maestro Albani told her
he would send her a poveraccio of his acquaintance, whose manuscript was
the neatest and most correct he knew of. Unhappily, the poveraccio was
not always in his best wits, and was sometimes rather slow in
consequence; but it would be a work of Christian charity worthy of the
beautiful Signora to employ poor Sarti.
The next morning, Mrs. Sharp, then a blooming abigail of
three-and-thirty, entered her lady's private room and said, 'If you
please, my lady, there's the frowsiest, shabbiest man you ever saw,
outside, and he's told Mr. Warren as the singing-master sent him to see
your ladyship. But I think you'll hardly like him to come in here. Belike
he's only a beggar.'
'O yes, show him in immediately.'
Mrs. Sharp retired, muttering something about 'fleas and worse'. She had
the smallest possible admiration for fair Ausonia and its natives, and
even her profound deference for Sir Christopher and her lady could not
prevent her from expressing her amazement at the infatuation of
gentlefolks in choosing to sojourn among 'Papises, in countries where
there was no getting to air a bit o' linen, and where the people smelt o'
garlick fit to knock you down.'
However she presently reappeared, ushering in a small meagre man, sallow
and dingy, with a restless wandering look in his dull eyes, and an
excessive timidity about his deep reverences, which gave him the air of a
man who had been long a solitary prisoner. Yet through all this squalor
and wretchedness there were some traces discernible of comparative youth
and former good looks. Lady Cheverel, though not very tender-hearted,
still less sentimental, was essentially kind, and liked to dispense
benefits like a goddess, who looks down benignly on the halt, the maimed,
and the blind that approach her shrine. She was smitten with some
compassion at the sight of poor Sarti, who struck her as the mere
battered wreck of a vessel that might have once floated gaily enough on
its outward voyage to the sound of pipes and tabors. She spoke gently as
she pointed out to him the operatic selections she wished him to copy,
and he seemed to sun himself in her auburn, radiant presence, so that
when he made his exit with the music-books under his arm, his bow, though
not less reverent, was less timid.
It was ten years at least since Sarti had seen anything so bright and
stately and beautiful as Lady Cheverel. For the time was far off in which
he had trod the stage in satin and feathers, the _primo tenore_ of one
short season. He had completely lost his voice in the following winter,
and had ever since been little better than a cracked fiddle, which is
good for nothing but firewood. For, like many Italian singers, he was too
ignorant to teach, and if it had not been for his one talent of
penmanship, he and his young helpless wife might have starved. Then, just
after their third child was born, fever came, swept away the sickly
mother and the two eldest children, and attacked Sarti himself, who rose
from his sick-bed with enfeebled brain and muscle, and a tiny baby on his
hands, scarcely four months old. He lodged over a fruit-shop kept by a
stout virago, loud of tongue and irate in temper, but who had had
children born to her, and so had taken care of the tiny yellow,
black-eyed _bambinetto_, and tended Sarti himself through his sickness.
Here he continued to live, earning a meagre subsistence for himself and
his little one by the work of copying music, put into his hands chiefly
by Maestro Albani. He seemed to exist for nothing but the child: he
tended it, he dandled it, he chatted to it, living with it alone in his
one room above the fruit-shop, only asking his landlady to take care of
the marmoset during his short absences in fetching and carrying home
work. Customers frequenting that fruit-shop might often see the tiny
Caterina seated on the floor with her legs in a heap of pease, which it
was her delight to kick about; or perhaps deposited, like a kitten, in a
large basket out of harm's way.
Sometimes, however, Sarti left his little one with another kind of
protectress. He was very regular in his devotions, which he paid thrice
a-week in the great cathedral, carrying Caterina with him. Here, when the
high morning sun was warming the myriad glittering pinnacles without, and
struggling against the massive gloom within, the shadow of a man with a
child on his arm might be seen flitting across the more stationary
shadows of pillar and mullion, and making its way towards a little tinsel
Madonna hanging in a retired spot near the choir. Amid all the
sublimities of the mighty cathedral, poor Sarti had fixed on this tinsel
Madonna as the symbol of divine mercy and protection,--just as a child,
in the presence of a great landscape, sees none of the glories of wood
and sky, but sets its heart on a floating feather or insect that happens
to be on a level with its eye. Here, then, Sarti worshipped and prayed,
setting Caterina on the floor by his side; and now and then, when the
cathedral lay near some place where he had to call, and did not like to
take her, he would leave her there in front of the tinsel Madonna, where
she would sit, perfectly good, amusing herself with low crowing noises
and see-sawings of her tiny body. And when Sarti came back, he always
found that the Blessed Mother had taken good care of Caterina.
That was briefly the history of Sarti, who fulfilled so well the orders
Lady Cheverel gave him, that she sent him away again with a stock of new
work. But this time, week after week passed, and he neither reappeared
nor sent home the music intrusted to him. Lady Cheverel began to be
anxious, and was thinking of sending Warren to inquire at the address
Sarti had given her, when one day, as she was equipped for driving out,
the valet brought in a small piece of paper, which, he said, had been
left for her ladyship by a man who was carrying fruit. The paper
contained only three tremulous lines, in Italian:--'Will the
Eccelentissima, for the love of God, have pity on a dying man, and come
to him?'
Lady Cheverel recognized the handwriting as Sarti's in spite of its
tremulousness, and, going down to her carriage, ordered the Milanese
coachman to drive to Strada Quinquagesima, Numero 10. The coach stopped
in a dirty narrow street opposite La Pazzini's fruit-shop, and that large
specimen of womanhood immediately presented herself at the door, to the
extreme disgust of Mrs. Sharp, who remarked privately to Mr. Warren that
La Pazzini was a 'hijeous porpis'. The fruit-woman, however, was all
smiles and deep curtsies to the Eccelentissima, who, not very well
understanding her Milanese dialect, abbreviated the conversation by
asking to be shown at once to Signor Sarti. La Pazzini preceded her up
the dark narrow stairs, and opened a door through which she begged her
ladyship to enter. Directly opposite the door lay Sarti, on a low
miserable bed. His eyes were glazed, and no movement indicated that he
was conscious of their entrance.
On the foot of the bed was seated a tiny child, apparently not three
years old, her head covered by a linen cap, her feet clothed with leather
boots, above which her little yellow legs showed thin and naked. A frock,
made of what had once been a gay flowered silk, was her only other
garment. Her large dark eyes shone from out her queer little face, like
two precious stones in a grotesque image carved in old ivory. She held an
empty medicine-bottle in her hand, and was amusing herself with putting
the cork in and drawing it out again, to hear how it would pop.
La Pazzini went up to the bed and said, 'Ecco la nobilissima donna;' but
directly after screamed out, 'Holy mother! he is dead!'
It was so. The entreaty had not been sent in time for Sarti to carry out
his project of asking the great English lady to take care of his
Caterina. That was the thought which haunted his feeble brain as soon as
he began to fear that his illness would end in death. She had wealth--she
was kind--she would surely do something for the poor orphan. And so, at
last, he sent that scrap of paper which won the fulfilment of his prayer,
though he did not live to utter it. Lady Cheverel gave La Pazzini money
that the last decencies might be paid to the dead man, and carried away
Caterina, meaning to consult Sir Christopher as to what should be done
with her. Even Mrs. Sharp had been so smitten with pity by the scene she
had witnessed when she was summoned up-stairs to fetch Caterina, as to
shed a small tear, though she was not at all subject to that weakness;
indeed, she abstained from it on principle, because, as she often said,
it was known to be the worst thing in the world for the eyes.
On the way back to her hotel, Lady Cheverel turned over various projects
in her mind regarding Caterina, but at last one gained the preference
over all the rest. Why should they not take the child to England, and
bring her up there? They had been married twelve years, yet Cheverel
Manor was cheered by no children's voices, and the old house would be all
the better for a little of that music. Besides, it would be a Christian
work to train this little Papist into a good Protestant, and graft as
much English fruit as possible on the Italian stem.
Sir Christopher listened to this plan with hearty acquiescence. He loved
children, and took at once to the little black-eyed monkey--his name for
Caterina all through her short life. But neither he nor Lady Cheverel had
any idea of adopting her as their daughter, and giving her their own rank
in life. They were much too English and aristocratic to think of anything
so romantic. No! the child would be brought up at Cheverel Manor as a
protegee, to be ultimately useful, perhaps, in sorting worsteds, keeping
accounts, reading aloud, and otherwise supplying the place of spectacles
when her ladyship's eyes should wax dim.
So Mrs. Sharp had to procure new clothes, to replace the linen cap,
flowered frock, and leathern boots; and now, strange to say, little
Caterina, who had suffered many unconscious evils in her existence of
thirty moons, first began to know conscious troubles. 'Ignorance,' says
Ajax, 'is a painless evil;' so, I should think, is dirt, considering the
merry faces that go along with it. At any rate, cleanliness is sometimes
a painful good, as any one can vouch who has had his face washed the
wrong way, by a pitiless hand with a gold ring on the third finger. If
you, reader, have not known that initiatory anguish, it is idle to expect
that you will form any approximate conception of what Caterina endured
under Mrs. Sharp's new dispensation of soap-and-water. Happily, this
purgatory came presently to be associated in her tiny brain with a
passage straightway to a seat of bliss--the sofa in Lady Cheverel's
sitting-room, where there were toys to be broken, a ride was to be had on
Sir Christopher's knee, and a spaniel of resigned temper was prepared to
undergo small tortures without flinching.
Chapter 4
In three months from the time of Caterina's adoption--namely, in the late
autumn of 1773--the chimneys of Cheverel Manor were sending up unwonted
smoke, and the servants were awaiting in excitement the return of their
master and mistress after a two years' absence. Great was the
astonishment of Mrs. Bellamy, the housekeeper, when Mr. Warren lifted a
little black-eyed child out of the carriage, and great was Mrs. Sharp's
sense of superior information and experience, as she detailed Caterina's
history, interspersed with copious comments, to the rest of the upper
servants that evening, as they were taking a comfortable glass of grog
together in the housekeeper's room.
A pleasant room it was as any party need desire to muster in on a cold
November evening. The fireplace alone was a picture: a wide and deep
recess with a low brick altar in the middle, where great logs of dry wood
sent myriad sparks up the dark chimney-throat; and over the front of this
recess a large wooden entablature bearing this motto, finely carved in
old English letters, 'Fear God and honour the King'. And beyond the
party, who formed a half-moon with their chairs and well-furnished table
round this bright fireplace, what a space of chiaroscuro for the
imagination to revel in! Stretching across the far end of the room, what
an oak table, high enough surely for Homer's gods, standing on four
massive legs, bossed and bulging like sculptured urns! and, lining the
distant wall, what vast cupboards, suggestive of inexhaustible apricot
jam and promiscuous butler's perquisites! A stray picture or two had
found their way down there, and made agreeable patches of dark brown on
the buff-coloured walls. High over the loud-resounding double door hung
one which, from some indications of a face looming out of blackness,
might, by a great synthetic effort, be pronounced a Magdalen.
Considerably lower down hung the similitude of a hat and feathers, with
portions of a ruff, stated by Mrs. Bellamy to represent Sir Francis
Bacon, who invented gunpowder, and, in her opinion, 'might ha' been
better emplyed.'
But this evening the mind is but slightly arrested by the great Verulam,
and is in the humour to think a dead philosopher less interesting than a
living gardener, who sits conspicuous in the half-circle round the
fireplace. Mr. Bates is habitually a guest in the housekeeper's room of
an evening, preferring the social pleasures there--the feast of gossip
and the flow of grog--to a bachelor's chair in his charming thatched
cottage on a little island, where every sound is remote, but the cawing
of rooks and the screaming of wild geese, poetic sounds, doubtless, but,
humanly speaking, not convivial.
Mr. Bates was by no means an average person, to be passed without special
notice. He was a sturdy Yorkshireman, approaching forty, whose face
Nature seemed to have coloured when she was in a hurry, and had no time
to attend to _nuances_, for every inch of him visible above his neckcloth
was of one impartial redness; so that when he was at some distance your
imagination was at liberty to place his lips anywhere between his nose
and chin. Seen closer, his lips were discerned to be of a peculiar cut,
and I fancy this had something to do with the peculiarity of his dialect,
which, as we shall see, was individual rather than provincial. Mr. Bates
was further distinguished from the common herd by a perpetual blinking of
the eyes; and this, together with the red-rose tint of his complexion,
and a way he had of hanging his head forward, and rolling it from side to
side as he walked, gave him the air of a Bacchus in a blue apron, who, in
the present reduced circumstances of Olympus, had taken to the management
of his own vines. Yet, as gluttons are often thin, so sober men are often
rubicund; and Mr. Bates was sober, with that manly, British,
churchman-like sobriety which can carry a few glasses of grog without any
perceptible clarification of ideas.
'Dang my boottons!' observed Mr. Bates, who, at the conclusion of Mrs.
Sharp's narrative, felt himself urged to his strongest interjection,
'it's what I shouldn't ha' looked for from Sir Cristhifer an' my ledy, to
bring a furrin child into the coonthry; an' depend on't, whether you an'
me lives to see't or noo, it'll coom to soom harm. The first sitiation
iver I held--it was a hold hancient habbey, wi' the biggest orchard o'
apples an' pears you ever see--there was a French valet, an' he stool
silk stoockins, an' shirts, an' rings, an' iverythin' he could ley his
hands on, an' run awey at last wi' th' missis's jewl-box. They're all
alaike, them furriners. It roons i' th' blood.'
'Well,' said Mrs. Sharp, with the air of a person who held liberal views,
but knew where to draw the line, 'I'm not a-going to defend the
furriners, for I've as good reason to know what they are as most folks,
an' nobody'll ever hear me say but what they're next door to heathens,
and the hile they eat wi' their victuals is enough to turn any
Christian's stomach. But for all that--an' for all as the trouble in
respect o' washin' and managin' has fell upo' me through the journey--I
can't say but what I think as my Lady an' Sir Cristifer's done a right
thing by a hinnicent child as doesn't know its right hand from its left,
i' bringing it where it'll learn to speak summat better nor gibberish,
and be brought up i' the true religion. For as for them furrin churches
as Sir Cristifer is so unaccountable mad after, wi' pictures o' men an'
women a-showing themselves just for all the world as God made 'em. I
think, for my part, as it's welly a sin to go into 'em.'
'You're likely to have more foreigners, however,' said Mr. Warren, who
liked to provoke the gardener, 'for Sir Christopher has engaged some
Italian workmen to help in the alterations in the house.'
'Olterations!' exclaimed Mrs. Bellamy, in alarm. 'What olterations!'
'Why,' answered Mr. Warren, 'Sir Christopher, as I understand, is going
to make a new thing of the old Manor-house both inside and out. And he's
got portfolios full of plans and pictures coming. It is to be cased with
stone, in the Gothic style--pretty near like the churches, you know, as
far as I can make out; and the ceilings are to be beyond anything that's
been seen in the country. Sir Christopher's been giving a deal of study
to it.'
'Dear heart alive!' said Mrs. Bellamy, 'we shall be pisoned wi' lime an'
plaster, an' hev the house full o' workmen colloguing wi' the maids, an'
makin' no end o' mischief.'
'That ye may ley your life on, Mrs. Bellamy,' said Mr. Bates. 'Howiver,
I'll noot denay that the Goothic stayle's prithy anoof, an' it's
woonderful how near them stoon-carvers cuts oot the shapes o' the pine
apples, an' shamrucks, an' rooses. I dare sey Sir Cristhifer'll meck a
naice thing o' the Manor, an' there woon't be many gentlemen's houses i'
the coonthry as'll coom up to't, wi' sich a garden an' pleasure-groons
an' wall-fruit as King George maight be prood on.'
'Well, I can't think as the house can be better nor it is, Gothic or no
Gothic,' said Mrs. Bellamy; 'an' I've done the picklin' and preservin' in
it fourteen year Michaelmas was a three weeks. But what does my lady say
to't?'
'My lady knows better than cross Sir Cristifer in what he's set his mind
on,' said Mr. Bellamy, who objected to the critical tone of the
conversation. 'Sir Cristifer'll hev his own way, _that_ you may tek your
oath. An' i' the right on't too. He's a gentleman born, an's got the
money. But come, Mester Bates, fill your glass, an' we'll drink health
an' happiness to his honour an' my lady, and then you shall give us a
song. Sir Cristifer doesn't come hum from Italy ivery night.'
This demonstrable position was accepted without hesitation as ground for
a toast; but Mr. Bates, apparently thinking that his song was not an
equally reasonable sequence, ignored the second part of Mr. Bellamy's
proposal. So Mrs. Sharp, who had been heard to say that she had no
thoughts at all of marrying Mr. Bates, though he was 'a sensable
fresh-coloured man as many a woman 'ud snap at for a husband,' enforced
Mr. Bellamy's appeal.
'Come, Mr. Bates, let us hear "Roy's Wife." I'd rether hear a good old
song like that, nor all the fine Italian toodlin.'
Mr. Bates, urged thus flatteringly, stuck his thumbs into the armholes of
his waistcoat, threw himself back in his chair with his head in that
position in which he could look directly towards the zenith, and struck
up a remarkably _staccato_ rendering of 'Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch'. This
melody may certainly be taxed with excessive iteration, but that was
precisely its highest recommendation to the present audience, who found
it all the easier to swell the chorus. Nor did it at all diminish their
pleasure that the only particular concerning 'Roy's Wife', which Mr.
Bates's enunciation allowed them to gather, was that she 'chated'
him,--whether in the matter of garden stuff or of some other commodity,
or why her name should, in consequence, be repeatedly reiterated with
exultation, remaining an agreeable mystery.
Mr. Bates's song formed the climax of the evening's good-fellowship, and
the party soon after dispersed--Mrs. Bellamy perhaps to dream of
quicklime flying among her preserving-pans, or of love-sick housemaids
reckless of unswept corners--and Mrs. Sharp to sink into pleasant visions
of independent housekeeping in Mr. Bates's cottage, with no bells to
answer, and with fruit and vegetables_ ad libitum_.
Caterina soon conquered all prejudices against her foreign blood; for
what prejudices will hold out against helplessness and broken prattle?
She became the pet of the household, thrusting Sir Christopher's
favourite bloodhound of that day, Mrs. Bellamy's two canaries, and Mr.
Bates's largest Dorking hen, into a merely secondary position. The
consequence was, that in the space of a summer's day she went through a
great cycle of experiences, commencing with the somewhat acidulated
goodwill of Mrs. Sharp's nursery discipline. Then came the grave luxury
of her ladyship's sitting-room, and, perhaps, the dignity of a ride on
Sir Christopher's knee, sometimes followed by a visit with him to the
stables, where Caterina soon learned to hear without crying the baying of
the chained bloodhounds, and say, with ostentatious bravery, clinging to
Sir Christopher's leg all the while, 'Dey not hurt Tina.' Then Mrs.
Bellamy would perhaps be going out to gather the rose-leaves and
lavender, and Tina was made proud and happy by being allowed to carry a
handful in her pinafore; happier still, when they were spread out on
sheets to dry, so that she could sit down like a frog among them, and
have them poured over her in fragrant showers. Another frequent pleasure
was to take a journey with Mr. Bates through the kitchen-gardens and the
hothouses, where the rich bunches of green and purple grapes hung from
the roof, far out of reach of the tiny yellow hand that could not help
stretching itself out towards them; though the hand was sure at last to
be satisfied with some delicate-flavoured fruit or sweet-scented flower.
Indeed, in the long monotonous leisure of that great country-house, you
may be sure there was always some one who had nothing better to do than
to play with Tina. So that the little southern bird had its northern nest
lined with tenderness, and caresses, and pretty things. A loving
sensitive nature was too likely, under such nurture, to have its
susceptibility heightened into unfitness for an encounter with any harder
experience; all the more, because there were gleams of fierce resistance
to any discipline that had a harsh or unloving aspect. For the only thing
in which Caterina showed any precocity was a certain ingenuity in
vindictiveness. When she was five years old she had revenged herself for
an unpleasant prohibition by pouring the ink into Mrs. Sharp's
work-basket; and once, when Lady Cheverel took her doll from her, because
she was affectionately licking the paint off its face, the little minx
straightway climbed on a chair and threw down a flower-vase that stood on
a bracket. This was almost the only instance in which her anger overcame
her awe of Lady Cheverel, who had the ascendancy always belonging to
kindness that never melts into caresses, and is severely but uniformly
beneficent.
By-and-by the happy monotony of Cheverel Manor was broken in upon in the
way Mr. Warren had announced. The roads through the park were cut up by
waggons carrying loads of stone from a neighbouring quarry, the green
courtyard became dusty with lime, and the peaceful house rang with the
sound of tools. For the next ten years Sir Christopher was occupied with
the architectural metamorphosis of his old family mansion; thus
anticipating, through the prompting of his individual taste, that general
reaction from the insipid imitation of the Palladian style, towards a
restoration of the Gothic, which marked the close of the eighteenth
century. This was the object he had set his heart on, with a singleness
of determination which was regarded with not a little contempt by his
fox-hunting neighbours, who wondered greatly that a man with some of the
best blood in England in his veins, should be mean enough to economize in
his cellar, and reduce his stud to two old coach-horses and a hack, for
the sake of riding a hobby, and playing the architect. Their wives did
not see so much to blame in the matter of the cellar and stables, but
they were eloquent in pity for poor Lady Cheverel, who had to live in no
more than three rooms at once, and who must be distracted with noises,
and have her constitution undermined by unhealthy smells. It was as bad
as having a husband with an asthma. Why did not Sir Christopher take a
house for her at Bath, or, at least, if he must spend his time in
overlooking workmen, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Manor? This
pity was quite gratuitous, as the most plentiful pity always is; for
though Lady Cheverel did not share her husband's architectural
enthusiasm, she had too rigorous a view of a wife's duties, and too
profound a deference for Sir Christopher, to regard submission as a
grievance. As for Sir Christopher, he was perfectly indifferent to
criticism. 'An obstinate, crotchety man,' said his neighbours. But I, who
have seen Cheverel Manor, as he bequeathed it to his heirs, rather
attribute that unswerving architectural purpose of his, conceived and
carried out through long years of systematic personal exertion, to
something of the fervour of genius, as well as inflexibility of will; and
in walking through those rooms, with their splendid ceilings and their
meagre furniture, which tell how all the spare money had been absorbed
before personal comfort was thought of, I have felt that there dwelt in
this old English baronet some of that sublime spirit which distinguishes
art from luxury, and worships beauty apart from self-indulgence.
While Cheverel Manor was growing from ugliness into beauty, Caterina too
was growing from a little yellow bantling into a whiter maiden, with no
positive beauty indeed, but with a certain light airy grace, which, with
her large appealing dark eyes, and a voice that, in its low-toned
tenderness, recalled the love-notes of the stock-dove, gave her a more
than usual charm. Unlike the building, however, Caterina's development
was the result of no systematic or careful appliances. She grew up very
much like the primroses, which the gardener is not sorry to see within
his enclosure, but takes no pains to cultivate. Lady Cheverel taught her
to read and write, and say her catechism; Mr. Warren, being a good
accountant, gave her lessons in arithmetic, by her ladyship's desire; and
Mrs. Sharp initiated her in all the mysteries of the needle. But, for a
long time, there was no thought of giving her any more elaborate
education. It is very likely that to her dying day Caterina thought the
earth stood still, and that the sun and stars moved round it; but so, for
the matter of that, did Helen, and Dido, and Desdemona, and Juliet;
whence I hope you will not think my Caterina less worthy to be a heroine
on that account. The truth is, that, with one exception, her only talent
lay in loving; and there, it is probable, the most astronomical of women
could not have surpassed her. Orphan and protegee though she was, this
supreme talent of hers found plenty of exercise at Cheverel Manor, and
Caterina had more people to love than many a small lady and gentleman
affluent in silver mugs and blood relations. I think the first place in
her childish heart was given to Sir Christopher, for little girls are apt
to attach themselves to the finest-looking gentleman at hand, especially
as he seldom has anything to do with discipline. Next to the Baronet came
Dorcas, the merry rosy-cheeked damsel who was Mrs. Sharp's lieutenant in
the nursery, and thus played the part of the raisins in a dose of senna.
It was a black day for Caterina when Dorcas married the coachman, and
went, with a great sense of elevation in the world, to preside over a
'public' in the noisy town of Sloppeter. A little china-box, bearing the
motto 'Though lost to sight, to memory dear', which Dorcas sent her as a
remembrance, was among Caterina's treasures ten years after.
The one other exceptional talent, you already guess, was music. When the
fact that Caterina had a remarkable ear for music, and a still more
remarkable voice, attracted Lady Cheverel's notice, the discovery was
very welcome both to her and Sir Christopher. Her musical education
became at once an object of interest. Lady Cheverel devoted much time to
it; and the rapidity of Tina's progress surpassing all hopes, an Italian
singing-master was engaged, for several years, to spend some months
together at Cheverel Manor. This unexpected gift made a great alteration
in Caterina's position. After those first years in which little girls are
petted like puppies and kittens, there comes a time when it seems less
obvious what they can be good for, especially when, like Caterina, they
give no particular promise of cleverness or beauty; and it is not
surprising that in that uninteresting period there was no particular plan
formed as to her future position. She could always help Mrs. Sharp,
supposing she were fit for nothing else, as she grew up; but now, this
rare gift of song endeared her to Lady Cheverel, who loved music above
all things, and it associated her at once with the pleasures of the
drawing-room. Insensibly she came to be regarded as one of the family,
and the servants began to understand that Miss Sarti was to be a lady
after all.
'And the raight on't too,' said Mr. Bates, 'for she hasn't the cut of a
gell as must work for her bread; she's as nesh an' dilicate as a
paich-blossom--welly laike a linnet, wi' on'y joost body anoof to hold
her voice.'
But long before Tina had reached this stage of her history, a new era had
begun for her, in the arrival of a younger companion than any she had
hitherto known. When she was no more than seven, a ward of Sir
Christopher's--a lad of fifteen, Maynard Gilfil by name--began to spend
his vacations at Cheverel Manor, and found there no playfellow so much to
his mind as Caterina. Maynard was an affectionate lad, who retained a
propensity to white rabbits, pet squirrels, and guinea-pigs, perhaps a
little beyond the age at which young gentlemen usually look down on such
pleasures as puerile. He was also much given to fishing, and to
carpentry, considered as a fine art, without any base view to utility.
And in all these pleasures it was his delight to have Caterina as his
companion, to call her little pet names, answer her wondering questions,
and have her toddling after him as you may have seen a Blenheim spaniel
trotting after a large setter. Whenever Maynard went back to school,
there was a little scene of parting.
'You won't forget me, Tina, before I come back again? I shall leave you
all the whip-cord we've made; and don't you let Guinea die. Come, give me
a kiss, and promise not to forget me.'
As the years wore on, and Maynard passed from school to college, and from
a slim lad to a stalwart young man, their companionship in the vacations
necessarily took a different form, but it retained a brotherly and
sisterly familiarity. With Maynard the boyish affection had insensibly
grown into ardent love. Among all the many kinds of first love, that
which begins in childish companionship is the strongest and most
enduring: when passion comes to unite its force to long affection, love
is at its spring-tide. And Maynard Gilfil's love was of a kind to make
him prefer being tormented by Caterina to any pleasure, apart from her,
which the most benevolent magician could have devised for him. It is the
way with those tall large-limbed men, from Samson downwards. As for Tina,
the little minx was perfectly well aware that Maynard was her slave; he
was the one person in the world whom she did as she pleased with; and I
need not tell you that this was a symptom of her being perfectly
heart-whole so far as he was concerned: for a passionate woman's love is
always overshadowed by fear.
Maynard Gilfil did not deceive himself in his interpretation of
Caterina's feelings, but he nursed the hope that some time or other she
would at least care enough for him to accept his love. So he waited
patiently for the day when he might venture to say, 'Caterina, I love
you!' You see, he would have been content with very little, being one of
those men who pass through life without making the least clamour about
themselves; thinking neither the cut of his coat, nor the flavour of his
soup, nor the precise depth of a servant's bow, at all momentous. He
thought--foolishly enough, as lovers _will_ think--that it was a good
augury for him when he came to be domesticated at Cheverel Manor in the
quality of chaplain there, and curate of a neighbouring parish; judging
falsely, from his own case, that habit and affection were the likeliest
avenues to love. Sir Christopher satisfied several feelings in installing
Maynard as chaplain in his house. He liked the old-fashioned dignity of
that domestic appendage; he liked his ward's companionship; and, as
Maynard had some private fortune, he might take life easily in that
agreeable home, keeping his hunter, and observing a mild regimen of
clerical duty, until the Cumbermoor living should fall in, when he might
be settled for life in the neighbourhood of the manor. 'With Caterina for
a wife, too,' Sir Christopher soon began to think; for though the good
Baronet was not at all quick to suspect what was unpleasant and opposed
to his views of fitness, he was quick to see what would dovetail with his
own plans; and he had first guessed, and then ascertained, by direct
inquiry, the state of Maynard's feelings. He at once leaped to the
conclusion that Caterina was of the same mind, or at least would be, when
she was old enough. But these were too early days for anything definite
to be said or done.
Meanwhile, new circumstances were arising, which, though they made no
change in Sir Christopher's plans and prospects, converted Mr. Gilfil's
hopes into anxieties, and made it clear to him not only that Caterina's
heart was never likely to be his, but that it was given entirely to
another.
Once or twice in Caterina's childhood, there had been another boy-visitor
at the manor, younger than Maynard Gilfil--a beautiful boy with brown
curls and splendid clothes, on whom Caterina had looked with shy
admiration. This was Anthony Wybrow, the son of Sir Christopher's
youngest sister, and chosen heir of Cheverel Manor. The Baronet had
sacrificed a large sum, and even straitened the resources by which he was
to carry out his architectural schemes, for the sake of removing the
entail from his estate, and making this boy his heir--moved to the step,
I am sorry to say, by an implacable quarrel with his elder sister; for a
power of forgiveness was not among Sir Christopher's virtues. At length,
on the death of Anthony's mother, when he was no longer a curly-headed
boy, but a tall young man, with a captain's commission, Cheverel Manor
became _his_ home too, whenever he was absent from his regiment. Caterina
was then a little woman, between sixteen and seventeen, and I need not
spend many words in explaining what you perceive to be the most natural
thing in the world.
There was little company kept at the Manor, and Captain Wybrow would have
been much duller if Caterina had not been there. It was pleasant to pay
her attentions--to speak to her in gentle tones, to see her little
flutter of pleasure, the blush that just lit up her pale cheek, and the
momentary timid glance of her dark eyes, when he praised her singing,
leaning at her side over the piano. Pleasant, too, to cut out that
chaplain with his large calves! What idle man can withstand
the temptation of a woman to fascinate, and another man to
eclipse?--especially when it is quite clear to himself that he means no
mischief, and shall leave everything to come right again by-and-by? At
the end of eighteen months, however, during which Captain Wybrow had
spent much of his time at the Manor, he found that matters had reached a
point which he had not at all contemplated. Gentle tones had led to
tender words, and tender words had called forth a response of looks which
made it impossible not to carry on the _crescendo_ of love-making. To
find one's self adored by a little, graceful, dark-eyed, sweet-singing
woman, whom no one need despise, is an agreeable sensation, comparable to
smoking the finest Latakia, and also imposes some return of tenderness as
a duty.
Perhaps you think that Captain Wybrow, who knew that it would be
ridiculous to dream of his marrying Caterina, must have been a reckless
libertine to win her affections in this manner! Not at all. He was a
young man of calm passions, who was rarely led into any conduct of which
he could not give a plausible account to himself; and the tiny fragile
Caterina was a woman who touched the imagination and the affections
rather than the senses. He really felt very kindly towards her, and would
very likely have loved her--if he had been able to love any one. But
nature had not endowed him with that capability. She had given him an
admirable figure, the whitest of hands, the most delicate of nostrils,
and a large amount of serene self-satisfaction; but, as if to save such a
delicate piece of work from any risk of being shattered, she had guarded
him from the liability to a strong emotion. There was no list of youthful
misdemeanours on record against him, and Sir Christopher and Lady
Cheverel thought him the best of nephews, the most satisfactory of heirs,
full of grateful deference to themselves, and, above all things, guided
by a sense of duty. Captain Wybrow always did the thing easiest and most
agreeable to him from a sense of duty: he dressed expensively, because it
was a duty he owed to his position; from a sense of duty he adapted
himself to Sir Christopher's inflexible will, which it would have been
troublesome as well as useless to resist; and, being of a delicate
constitution, he took care of his health from a sense of duty. His health
was the only point on which he gave anxiety to his friends; and it was
owing to this that Sir Christopher wished to see his nephew early
married, the more so as a match after the Baronet's own heart appeared
immediately attainable. Anthony had seen and admired Miss Assher, the
only child of a lady who had been Sir Christopher's earliest love, but
who, as things will happen in this world, had married another baronet
instead of him. Miss Assher's father was now dead, and she was in
possession of a pretty estate. If, as was probable, she should prove
susceptible to the merits of Anthony's person and character, nothing
could make Sir Christopher so happy as to see a marriage which might be
expected to secure the inheritance of Cheverel Manor from getting into
the wrong hands. Anthony had already been kindly received by Lady Assher
as the nephew of her early friend; why should he not go to Bath, where
she and her daughter were then residing, follow up the acquaintance, and
win a handsome, well-born, and sufficiently wealthy bride?
Sir Christopher's wishes were communicated to his nephew, who at once
intimated his willingness to comply with them--from a sense of duty.
Caterina was tenderly informed by her lover of the sacrifice demanded
from them both; and three days afterwards occurred the parting scene you
have witnessed in the gallery, on the eve of Captain Wybrow's departure
for Bath.
Chapter 5
The inexorable ticking of the clock is like the throb of pain to
sensations made keen by a sickening fear. And so it is with the great
clockwork of nature. Daisies and buttercups give way to the brown waving
grasses, tinged with the warm red sorrel; the waving grasses are swept
away, and the meadows lie like emeralds set in the bushy hedgerows; the
tawny-tipped corn begins to bow with the weight of the full ear; the
reapers are bending amongst it, and it soon stands in sheaves, then
presently, the patches of yellow stubble lie side by side with streaks of
dark-red earth, which the plough is turning up in preparation for the
new-thrashed seed. And this passage from beauty to beauty, which to the
happy is like the flow of a melody, measures for many a human heart the
approach of foreseen anguish--seems hurrying on the moment when the
shadow of dread will be followed up by the reality of despair.
How cruelly hasty that summer of 1788 seemed to Caterina! Surely the
roses vanished earlier, and the berries on the mountain-ash were more
impatient to redden, and bring on the autumn, when she would be face to
face with her misery, and witness Anthony giving all his gentle tones,
tender words, and soft looks to another.
Before the end of July, Captain Wybrow had written word that Lady Assher
and her daughter were about to fly from the heat and gaiety of Bath to
the shady quiet of their place at Farleigh, and that he was invited to
join the party there. His letters implied that he was on an excellent
footing with both the ladies, and gave no hint of a rival; so that Sir
Christopher was more than usually bright and cheerful after reading them.
At length, towards the close of August, came the announcement that
Captain Wybrow was an accepted lover, and after much complimentary and
congratulatory correspondence between the two families, it was understood
that in September Lady Assher and her daughter would pay a visit to
Cheverel Manor, when Beatrice would make the acquaintance of her future
relatives, and all needful arrangements could be discussed. Captain
Wybrow would remain at Farleigh till then, and accompany the ladies on
their journey.
In the interval, every one at Cheverel Manor had something to do by way
of preparing for the visitors. Sir Christopher was occupied in
consultations with his steward and lawyer, and in giving orders to every
one else, especially in spurring on Francesco to finish the saloon. Mr.
Gilfil had the responsibility of procuring a lady's horse, Miss Assher
being a great rider. Lady Cheverel had unwonted calls to make and
invitations to deliver. Mr. Bates's turf, and gravel, and flower-beds
were always at such a point of neatness and finish that nothing
extraordinary could be done in the garden, except a little extraordinary
scolding of the under-gardener, and this addition Mr. Bates did not
neglect.
Happily for Caterina, she too had her task, to fill up the long dreary
daytime: it was to finish a chair-cushion which would complete the set of
embroidered covers for the drawing-room, Lady Cheverel's year-long work,
and the only noteworthy bit of furniture in the Manor. Over this
embroidery she sat with cold lips and a palpitating heart, thankful that
this miserable sensation throughout the daytime seemed to counteract the
tendency to tears which returned with night and solitude. She was most
frightened when Sir Christopher approached her. The Baronet's eye was
brighter and his step more elastic than ever, and it seemed to him that
only the most leaden or churlish souls could be otherwise than brisk and
exulting in a world where everything went so well. Dear old gentleman! he
had gone through life a little flushed with the power of his will, and
now his latest plan was succeeding, and Cheverel Manor would be inherited
by a grand-nephew, whom he might even yet live to see a fine young fellow
with at least the down on his chin. Why not? one is still young at sixty.
Sir Christopher had always something playful to say to Caterina.
'Now, little monkey, you must be in your best voice: you're the minstrel
of the Manor, you know, and be sure you have a pretty gown and a new
ribbon. You must not be dressed in russet, though you are a
singing-bird.' Or perhaps, 'It is your turn to be courted next, Tina. But
don't you learn any naughty proud airs. I must have Maynard let off
easily.'
Caterina's affection for the old Baronet helped her to summon up a smile
as he stroked her cheek and looked at her kindly, but that was the moment
at which she felt it most difficult not to burst out crying. Lady
Cheverel's conversation and presence were less trying; for her ladyship
felt no more than calm satisfaction in this family event; and besides,
she was further sobered by a little jealousy at Sir Christopher's
anticipation of pleasure in seeing Lady Assher, enshrined in his memory
as a mild-eyed beauty of sixteen, with whom he had exchanged locks before
he went on his first travels. Lady Cheverel would have died rather than
confess it, but she couldn't help hoping that he would be disappointed in
Lady Assher, and rather ashamed of having called her so charming.
Mr. Gilfil watched Caterina through these days with mixed feelings. Her
suffering went to his heart; but, even for her sake, he was glad that a
love which could never come to good should be no longer fed by false
hopes; and how could he help saying to himself, 'Perhaps, after a while,
Caterina will be tired of fretting about that cold-hearted puppy, and
then . . .'
At length the much-expected day arrived, and the brightest of September
suns was lighting up the yellowing lime-trees, as about five o'clock Lady
Assher's carriage drove under the portico. Caterina, seated at work in
her own room, heard the rolling of the wheels, followed presently by the
opening and shutting of doors, and the sound of voices in the corridors.
Remembering that the dinner-hour was six, and that Lady Cheverel had
desired her to be in the drawing-room early, she started up to dress, and
was delighted to find herself feeling suddenly brave and strong.
Curiosity to see Miss Assher--the thought that Anthony was in the
house--the wish not to look unattractive, were feelings that brought
some colour to her lips, and made it easy to attend to her toilette.
They would ask her to sing this evening, and she would sing well. Miss
Assher should not think her utterly insignificant. So she put on her
grey silk gown and her cherry coloured ribbon with as much care as if
she had been herself the betrothed; not forgetting the pair of round
pearl earrings which Sir Christopher had told Lady Cheverel to give her,
because Tina's little ears were so pretty.
Quick as she had been, she found Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel in the
drawing-room chatting with Mr. Gilfil, and telling him how handsome Miss
Assher was, but how entirely unlike her mother--apparently resembling her
father only.
'Aha!' said Sir Christopher, as he turned to look at Caterina, 'what do
you think of this, Maynard? Did you ever see Tina look so pretty before?
Why, that little grey gown has been made out of a bit of my
lady's, hasn't it? It doesn't take anything much larger than a
pocket-handkerchief to dress the little monkey.'
Lady Cheverel, too, serenely radiant in the assurance a single glance had
given her of Lady Assher's inferiority, smiled approval, and Caterina was
in one of those moods of self possession and indifference which come as
the ebb-tide between the struggles of passion. She retired to the piano,
and busied herself with arranging her music, not at all insensible to the
pleasure of being looked at with admiration the while, and thinking that,
the next time the door opened, Captain Wybrow would enter, and she would
speak to him quite cheerfully. But when she heard him come in, and the
scent of roses floated towards her, her heart gave one great leap. She
knew nothing till he was pressing her hand, and saying, in the old easy
way, 'Well, Caterina, how do you do? You look quite blooming.'
She felt her cheeks reddening with anger that he could speak and look
with such perfect nonchalance. Ah! he was too deeply in love with some
one else to remember anything he had felt for _her_. But the next moment
she was conscious of her folly;--'as if he could show any feeling then!'
This conflict of emotions stretched into a long interval the few moments
that elapsed before the door opened again, and her own attention, as well
as that of all the rest, was absorbed by the entrance of the two ladies.
The daughter was the more striking, from the contrast she presented to
her mother, a round-shouldered, middle-sized woman, who had once had the
transient pink-and-white beauty of a blonde, with ill-defined features
and early embonpoint. Miss Assher was tall, and gracefully though
substantially formed, carrying herself with an air of mingled
graciousness and self-confidence; her dark-brown hair, untouched by
powder, hanging in bushy curls round her face, and falling in long thick
ringlets nearly to her waist. The brilliant carmine tint of her
well-rounded cheeks, and the finely-cut outline of her straight nose,
produced an impression of splendid beauty, in spite of commonplace brown
eyes, a narrow forehead, and thin lips. She was in mourning, and the dead
black of her crape dress, relieved here and there by jet ornaments, gave
the fullest effect to her complexion, and to the rounded whiteness of her
arms, bare from the elbow. The first coup d'oeil was dazzling, and as she
stood looking down with a gracious smile on Caterina, whom Lady Cheverel
was presenting to her, the poor little thing seemed to herself to feel,
for the first time, all the folly of her former dream.
'We are enchanted with your place, Sir Christopher,' said Lady Assher,
with a feeble kind of pompousness, which she seemed to be copying from
some one else: 'I'm sure your nephew must have thought Farleigh
wretchedly out of order. Poor Sir John was so very careless about keeping
up the house and grounds. I often talked to him about it, but he said,
"Pooh pooh! as long as my friends find a good dinner and a good bottle of
wine, they won't care about my ceilings being rather smoky." He was so
very hospitable, was Sir John.'
'I think the view of the house from the park, just after we passed the
bridge, particularly fine,' said Miss Assher, interposing rather eagerly,
as if she feared her mother might be making infelicitous speeches, 'and
the pleasure of the first glimpse was all the greater because Anthony
would describe nothing to us beforehand. He would not spoil our first
impressions by raising false ideas. I long to go over the house, Sir
Christopher, and learn the history of all your architectural designs,
which Anthony says have cost you so much time and study.'
'Take care how you set an old man talking about the past, my dear,' said
the Baronet; 'I hope we shall find something pleasanter for you to do
than turning over my old plans and pictures. Our friend Mr. Gilfil here
has found a beautiful mare for you and you can scour the country to your
heart's content. Anthony has sent us word what a horsewoman you are.'
Miss Assher turned to Mr. Gilfil with her most beaming smile, and
expressed her thanks with the elaborate graciousness of a person who
means to be thought charming, and is sure of success.
'Pray do not thank me,' said Mr. Gilfil, 'till you have tried the mare.
She has been ridden by Lady Sara Linter for the last two years; but one
lady's taste may not be like another's in horses, any more than in other
matters.'
While this conversation was passing, Captain Wybrow was leaning against
the mantelpiece, contenting himself with responding from under his
indolent eyelids to the glances Miss Assher was constantly directing
towards him as she spoke. 'She is very much in love with him,' thought
Caterina. But she was relieved that Anthony remained passive in his
attentions. She thought, too, that he was looking paler and more languid
than usual. 'If he didn't love her very much--if he sometimes thought of
the past with regret, I think I could bear it all, and be glad to see Sir
Christopher made happy.'
During dinner there was a little incident which confirmed these thoughts.
When the sweets were on the table, there was a mould of jelly just
opposite Captain Wybrow, and being inclined to take some himself, he
first invited Miss Assher, who coloured, and said, in rather a sharper
key than usual, 'Have you not learned by this time that I never take
jelly?'
'Don't you?' said Captain Wybrow, whose perceptions were not acute enough
for him to notice the difference of a semitone. 'I should have thought
you were fond of it. There was always some on the table at Farleigh, I
think.'
'You don't seem to take much interest in my likes and dislikes.'
'I'm too much possessed by the happy thought that you like me,' was the
_ex officio_ reply, in silvery tones.
This little episode was unnoticed by every one but Caterina. Sir
Christopher was listening with polite attention to Lady Assher's history
of her last man-cook, who was first-rate at gravies, and for that reason
pleased Sir John--he was so particular about his gravies, was Sir John:
and so they kept the man six years in spite of his bad pastry. Lady
Cheverel and Mr. Gilfil were smiling at Rupert the bloodhound, who had
pushed his great head under his master's arm, and was taking a survey of
the dishes, after snuffing at the contents of the Baronet's plate.
When the ladies were in the drawing-room again, Lady Assher was soon deep
in a statement to Lady Cheverel of her views about burying people in
woollen.
'To be sure, you must have a woollen dress, because it's the law, you
know; but that need hinder no one from putting linen underneath. I always
used to say, "If Sir John died tomorrow, I would bury him in his shirt;"
and I did. And let me advise you to do so by Sir Christopher. You never
saw Sir John, Lady Cheverel. He was a large tall man, with a nose just
like Beatrice, and so very particular about his shirts.'
Miss Assher, meanwhile, had seated herself by Caterina, and, with that
smiling affability which seems to say, 'I am really not at all proud,
though you might expect it of me,' said,--'Anthony tells me you sing so
very beautifully. I hope we shall hear you this evening.'
'O yes,' said Caterina, quietly, without smiling; 'I always sing when I
am wanted to sing.'
'I envy you such a charming talent. Do you know, I have no ear; I cannot
hum the smallest tune, and I delight in music so. Is it not unfortunate?
But I shall have quite a treat while I am here; Captain Wybrow says you
will give us some music every day.'
'I should have thought you wouldn't care about music if you had no ear,'
said Caterina, becoming epigrammatic by force of grave simplicity.
'O, I assure you, I doat on it; and Anthony is so fond of it; it would be
so delightful if I could play and sing to him; though he says he likes me
best not to sing, because it doesn't belong to his idea of me. What style
of music do you like best?'
'I don't know. I like all beautiful music.'
'And are you as fond of riding as of music?'
'No; I never ride. I think I should be very frightened.'
'O no! indeed you would not, after a little practice. I have never been
in the least timid. I think Anthony is more afraid for me than I am for
myself; and since I have been riding with him, I have been obliged to be
more careful, because he is so nervous about me.'
Caterina made no reply; but she said to herself, 'I wish she would go
away and not talk to me. She only wants me to admire her good-nature, and
to talk about Anthony.'
Miss Assher was thinking at the same time, 'This Miss Sarti seems a
stupid little thing. Those musical people often are. But she is prettier
than I expected; Anthony said she was not pretty.'
Happily at this moment Lady Assher called her daughter's attention to the
embroidered cushions, and Miss Assher, walking to the opposite sofa, was
soon in conversation with Lady Cheverel about tapestry and embroidery in
general, while her mother, feeling herself superseded there, came and
placed herself beside Caterina.
'I hear you are the most beautiful singer,' was of course the opening
remark. 'All Italians sing so beautifully. I travelled in Italy with Sir
John when we were first married, and we went to Venice, where they go
about in gondolas, you know. You don't wear powder, I see. No more will
Beatrice; though many people think her curls would look all the better
for powder. She has so much hair, hasn't she? Our last maid dressed it
much better than this; but, do you know, she wore Beatrice's stockings
before they went to the wash, and we couldn't keep her after that, could
we?'
Caterina, accepting the question as a mere bit of rhetorical effect,
thought it superfluous to reply, till Lady Assher repeated, 'Could we,
now?' as if Tina's sanction were essential to her repose of mind. After a
faint 'No', she went on.
'Maids are so very troublesome, and Beatrice is so particular, you can't
imagine. I often say to her, "My dear, you can't have perfection." That
very gown she has on--to be sure, it fits her beautifully now--but it has
been unmade and made up again twice. But she is like poor Sir John--he
was so very particular about his own things, was Sir John. Is Lady
Cheverel particular?'
'Rather. But Mrs. Sharp has been her maid twenty years.'
'I wish there was any chance of our keeping Griffin twenty years. But I
am afraid we shall have to part with her because her health is so
delicate; and she is so obstinate, she will not take bitters as I want
her. _You_ look delicate, now. Let me recommend you to take camomile tea
in a morning, fasting. Beatrice is so strong and healthy, she never takes
any medicine; but if I had had twenty girls, and they had been delicate,
I should have given them all camomile tea. It strengthens the
constitution beyond anything. Now, will you promise me to take camomile
tea?'
'Thank you: I'm not at all ill,' said Caterina. 'I've always been pale
and thin.'
Lady Assher was sure camomile tea would make all the difference in the
world--Caterina must see if it wouldn't--and then went dribbling on like
a leaky shower-bath, until the early entrance of the gentlemen created a
diversion, and she fastened on Sir Christopher, who probably began to
think that, for poetical purposes, it would be better not to meet one's
first love again, after a lapse of forty years.
Captain Wybrow, of course, joined his aunt and Miss Assher, and Mr.
Gilfil tried to relieve Caterina from the awkwardness of sitting aloof
and dumb, by telling her how a friend of his had broken his arm and
staked his horse that morning, not at all appearing to heed that she
hardly listened, and was looking towards the other side of the room. One
of the tortures of jealousy is, that it can never turn its eyes away from
the thing that pains it.
'By-and-by every one felt the need of a relief from chit-chat--Sir
Christopher perhaps the most of all--and it was he who made the
acceptable proposition--
'Come, Tina, are we to have no music to-night before we sit down to
cards? Your ladyship plays at cards, I think?' he added, recollecting
himself, and turning to Lady Assher.
'O yes! Poor dear Sir John would have a whist-table every night.'
Caterina sat down to the harpsichord at once, and had no sooner begun to
sing than she perceived with delight that Captain Wybrow was gliding
towards the harpsichord, and soon standing in the old place. This
consciousness gave fresh strength to her voice; and when she noticed that
Miss Assher presently followed him with that air of ostentatious
admiration which belongs to the absence of real enjoyment, her closing
_bravura_ was none the worse for being animated by a little triumphant
contempt.
'Why, you are in better voice than ever, Caterina,' said Captain Wybrow,
when she had ended. 'This is rather different from Miss Hibbert's small
piping that we used to be glad of at Farleigh, is it not, Beatrice?'
'Indeed it is. You are a most enviable creature,
Miss Sarti--Caterina--may I not call you Caterina? for I have heard
Anthony speak of you so often, I seem to know you quite well. You will
let me call you Caterina?'
'O yes, every one calls me Caterina, only when they call me Tina.'
'Come, come, more singing, more singing, little monkey,' Sir Christopher
called out from the other side of the room. 'We have not had half enough
yet.'
Caterina was ready enough to obey, for while she was singing she was
queen of the room, and Miss Assher was reduced to grimacing admiration.
Alas! you see what jealousy was doing in this poor young soul. Caterina,
who had passed her life as a little unobtrusive singing-bird, nestling so
fondly under the wings that were outstretched for her, her heart beating
only to the peaceful rhythm of love, or fluttering with some easily
stifled fear, had begun to know the fierce palpitations of triumph and
hatred.
When the singing was over, Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel sat down to
whist with Lady Assher and Mr. Gilfil, and Caterina placed herself at the
Baronet's elbow, as if to watch the game, that she might not appear to
thrust herself on the pair of lovers. At first she was glowing with her
little triumph, and felt the strength of pride; but her eye _would_ steal
to the opposite side of the fireplace, where Captain Wybrow had seated
himself close to Miss Assher, and was leaning with his arm over the back
of the chair, in the most lover-like position. Caterina began to feel a
choking sensation. She could see, almost without looking, that he was
taking up her arm to examine her bracelet; their heads were bending close
together, her curls touching his cheek--now he was putting his lips to
her hand. Caterina felt her cheeks burn--she could sit no longer. She got
up, pretended to be gliding about in search of something, and at length
slipped out of the room.
Outside, she took a candle, and, hurrying along the passages and up the
stairs to her own room, locked the door.
'O, I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it!' the poor thing burst out aloud,
clasping her little fingers, and pressing them back against her forehead,
as if she wanted to break them.
Then she walked hurriedly up and down the room.
'And this must go on for days and days, and I must see it.'
She looked about nervously for something to clutch. There was a muslin
kerchief lying on the table; she took it up and tore it into shreds as
she walked up and down, and then pressed it into hard balls in her hand.
'And Anthony,' she thought, 'he can do this without caring for what I
feel. O, he can forget everything: how he used to say he loved me--how he
used to take my hand in his as we walked--how he used to stand near me in
the evenings for the sake of looking into my eyes.'
'Oh, it is cruel, it is cruel!' she burst out again aloud, as all those
love-moments in the past returned upon her. Then the tears gushed forth,
she threw herself on her knees by the bed, and sobbed bitterly.
She did not know how long she had been there, till she was startled by
the prayer-bell; when, thinking Lady Cheverel might perhaps send some one
to inquire after her, she rose, and began hastily to undress, that there
might be no possibility of her going down again. She had hardly
unfastened her hair, and thrown a loose gown about her, before there was
a knock at the door, and Mrs. Sharp's voice said--'Miss Tina, my lady
wants to know if you're ill.'
Caterina opened the door and said, 'Thank you, dear Mrs. Sharp; I have a
bad headache; please tell my lady I felt it come on after singing.'
'Then, goodness me! why arn't you in bed, istid o' standing shivering
there, fit to catch your death? Come, let me fasten up your hair and tuck
you up warm.'
'O no, thank you; I shall really be in bed very soon. Good-night, dear
Sharpy; don't scold; I will be good, and get into bed.'
Caterina kissed her old friend coaxingly, but Mrs. Sharp was not to be
'come over' in that way, and insisted on seeing her former charge in bed,
taking away the candle which the poor child had wanted to keep as a
companion. But it was impossible to lie there long with that beating
heart; and the little white figure was soon out of bed again, seeking
relief in the very sense of chill and uncomfort. It was light enough for
her to see about her room, for the moon, nearly at full, was riding high
in the heavens among scattered hurrying clouds. Caterina drew aside the
window-curtain; and, sitting with her forehead pressed against the cold
pane, looked out on the wide stretch of park and lawn.
How dreary the moonlight is! robbed of all its tenderness and repose by
the hard driving wind. The trees are harassed by that tossing motion,
when they would like to be at rest; the shivering grass makes her quake
with sympathetic cold; and the willows by the pool, bent low and white
under that invisible harshness, seem agitated and helpless like herself.
But she loves the scene the better for its sadness: there is some pity in
it. It is not like that hard unfeeling happiness of lovers, flaunting in
the eyes of misery.
She set her teeth tight against the window-frame, and the tears fell
thick and fast. She was so thankful she could cry, for the mad passion
she had felt when her eyes were dry frightened her. If that dreadful
feeling were to come on when Lady Cheverel was present, she should never
be able to contain herself.
Then there was Sir Christopher--so good to her--so happy about Anthony's
marriage; and all the while she had these wicked feelings.
'O, I cannot help it, I cannot help it!' she said in a loud whisper
between her sobs. 'O God, have pity upon me!'
In this way Tina wore out the long hours of the windy moon-light, till at
last, with weary aching limbs, she lay down in bed again, and slept from
mere exhaustion.
While this poor little heart was being bruised with a weight too heavy
for it, Nature was holding on her calm inexorable way, in unmoved and
terrible beauty. The stars were rushing in their eternal courses; the
tides swelled to the level of the last expectant weed; the sun was making
brilliant day to busy nations on the other side of the swift earth. The
stream of human thought and deed was hurrying and broadening onward. The
astronomer was at his telescope; the great ships were labouring over the
waves; the toiling eagerness of commerce, the fierce spirit of
revolution, were only ebbing in brief rest; and sleepless statesmen were
dreading the possible crisis of the morrow. What were our little Tina and
her trouble in this mighty torrent, rushing from one awful unknown to
another? Lighter than the smallest centre of quivering life in the
waterdrop, hidden and uncared for as the pulse of anguish in the breast
of the tiniest bird that has fluttered down to its nest with the
long-sought food, and has found the nest torn and empty.
Chapter 6
The next morning, when Caterina was waked from her heavy sleep by Martha
bringing in the warm water, the sun was shining, the wind had abated, and
those hours of suffering in the night seemed unreal and dreamlike, in
spite of weary limbs and aching eyes. She got up and began to dress with
a strange feeling of insensibility, as if nothing could make her cry
again; and she even felt a sort of longing to be down-stairs in the midst
of company, that she might get rid of this benumbed condition by contact.
There are few of us that are not rather ashamed of our sins and follies
as we look out on the blessed morning sunlight, which comes to us like a
bright-winged angel beckoning us to quit the old path of vanity that
stretches its dreary length behind us; and Tina, little as she knew about
doctrines and theories, seemed to herself to have been both foolish and
wicked yesterday. Today she would try to be good; and when she knelt down
to say her short prayer--the very form she had learned by heart when she
was ten years old--she added, 'O God, help me to bear it!'
That day the prayer seemed to be answered, for after some remarks on her
pale looks at breakfast, Caterina passed the morning quietly, Miss Assher
and Captain Wybrow being out on a riding excursion. In the evening there
was a dinner-party, and after Caterina had sung a little, Lady Cheverel
remembering that she was ailing, sent her to bed, where she soon sank
into a deep sleep. Body and mind must renew their force to suffer as well
as to enjoy.
On the morrow, however, it was rainy, and every one must stay in-doors;
so it was resolved that the guests should be taken over the house by Sir
Christopher, to hear the story of the architectural alterations, the
family portraits, and the family relics. All the party, except Mr.
Gilfil, were in the drawing-room when the proposition was made; and when
Miss Assher rose to go, she looked towards Captain Wybrow, expecting to
see him rise too; but he kept his seat near the fire, turning his eyes
towards the newspaper which he had been holding unread in his hand.
'Are you not coming, Anthony?' said Lady Cheverel, noticing Miss Assher's
look of expectation.
'I think not, if you'll excuse me,' he answered, rising and opening the
door; 'I feel a little chilled this morning, and I am afraid of the cold
rooms and draughts.'
Miss Assher reddened, but said nothing, and passed on, Lady Cheverel
accompanying her.
Caterina was seated at work in the oriel window. It was the first time
she and Anthony had been alone together, and she had thought before that
he wished to avoid her. But now, surely, he wanted to speak to her--he
wanted to say something kind. Presently he rose from his seat near the
fire, and placed himself on the ottoman opposite to her.
'Well, Tina, and how have you been all this long time?' Both the tone and
the words were an offence to her; the tone was so different from the old
one, the words were so cold and unmeaning. She answered, with a little
bitterness,--'I think you needn't ask. It doesn't make much difference to
you.'
'Is that the kindest thing you have to say to me after my long absence?'
'I don't know why you should expect me to say kind things.'
Captain Wybrow was silent. He wished very much to avoid allusions to the
past or comments on the present. And yet he wished to be well with
Caterina. He would have liked to caress her, make her presents, and have
her think him very kind to her. But these women are plaguy perverse!
There's no bringing them to look rationally at anything. At last he said,
'I hoped you would think all the better of me, Tina, for doing as I have
done, instead of bearing malice towards me. I hoped you would see that it
is the best thing for every one--the best for your happiness too.'
'O pray don't make love to Miss Assher for the sake of my happiness,'
answered Tina.
At this moment the door opened, and Miss Assher entered, to fetch her
reticule, which lay on the harpsichord. She gave a keen glance at
Caterina, whose face was flushed, and saying to Captain Wybrow with a
slight sneer, 'Since you are so chill I wonder you like to sit in the
window,' left the room again immediately.
The lover did not appear much discomposed, but sat quiet a little longer,
and then, seating himself on the music-stool, drew it near to Caterina,
and, taking her hand, said, 'Come, Tina, look kindly at me, and let us be
friends. I shall always be your friend.'
'Thank you,' said Caterina, drawing away her hand. 'You are very
generous. But pray move away. Miss Assher may come in again.'
'Miss Assher be hanged!' said Anthony, feeling the fascination of old
habit returning on him in his proximity to Caterina. He put his arm round
her waist, and leaned his cheek down to hers. The lips couldn't help
meeting after that; but the next moment, with heart swelling and tears
rising, Caterina burst away from him, and rushed out of the room.
Chapter 7
Caterina tore herself from Anthony with the desperate effort of one who
has just self-recollection enough left to be conscious that the fumes of
charcoal will master his senses unless he bursts a way for himself to the
fresh air; but when she reached her own room, she was still too
intoxicated with that momentary revival of old emotions, too much
agitated by the sudden return of tenderness in her lover, to know whether
pain or pleasure predominated. It was as if a miracle had happened in her
little world of feeling, and made the future all vague--a dim morning
haze of possibilities, instead of the sombre wintry daylight and clear
rigid outline of painful certainty.
She felt the need of rapid movement. She must walk out in spite of the
rain. Happily, there was a thin place in the curtain of clouds which
seemed to promise that now, about noon, the day had a mind to clear up.
Caterina thought to herself, 'I will walk to the Mosslands, and carry Mr.
Bates the comforter I have made for him, and then Lady Cheverel will not
wonder so much at my going out.' At the hall door she found Rupert, the
old bloodhound, stationed on the mat, with the determination that the
first person who was sensible enough to take a walk that morning should
have the honour of his approbation and society. As he thrust his great
black and tawny head under her hand, and wagged his tail with vigorous
eloquence, and reached the climax of his welcome by jumping up to lick
her face, which was at a convenient licking height for him, Caterina felt
quite grateful to the old dog for his friendliness. Animals are such
agreeable friends--they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms.
The 'Mosslands' was a remote part of the grounds, encircled by the little
stream issuing from the pool; and certainly, for a wet day, Caterina
could hardly have chosen a less suitable walk, for though the rain was
abating, and presently ceased altogether, there was still a smart shower
falling from the trees which arched over the greater part of her way. But
she found just the desired relief from her feverish excitement in
labouring along the wet paths with an umbrella that made her arm ache.
This amount of exertion was to her tiny body what a day's hunting often
was to Mr. Gilfil, who at times had _his_ fits of jealousy and sadness to
get rid of, and wisely had recourse to nature's innocent opium--fatigue.
When Caterina reached the pretty arched wooden bridge which formed the
only entrance to the Mosslands for any but webbed feet, the sun had
mastered the clouds, and was shining through the boughs of the tall elms
that made a deep nest for the gardener's cottage--turning the raindrops
into diamonds, and inviting the nasturtium flowers creeping over the
porch and low-thatched roof to lift up their flame-coloured heads once
more. The rooks were cawing with many-voiced monotony, apparently--by a
remarkable approximation to human intelligence--finding great
conversational resources in the change of weather. The mossy turf,
studded with the broad blades of marsh-loving plants, told that Mr.
Bates's nest was rather damp in the best of weather; but he was of
opinion that a little external moisture would hurt no man who was not
perversely neglectful of that obvious and providential antidote,
rum-and-water.
Caterina loved this nest. Every object in it, every sound that haunted
it, had been familiar to her from the days when she had been carried
thither on Mr. Bates's arm, making little cawing noises to imitate the
rooks, clapping her hands at the green frogs leaping in the moist grass,
and fixing grave eyes on the gardener's fowls cluck-clucking under their
pens. And now the spot looked prettier to her than ever; it was so out of
the way of Miss Assher, with her brilliant beauty, and personal claims,
and small civil remarks. She thought Mr. Bates would not be come into his
dinner yet, so she would sit down and wait for him.
But she was mistaken. Mr. Bates was seated in his arm-chair, with his
pocket-handkerchief thrown over his face, as the most eligible mode of
passing away those superfluous hours between meals when the weather
drives a man in-doors. Roused by the furious barking of his chained
bulldog, he descried his little favourite approaching, and forthwith
presented himself at the doorway, looking disproportionately tall
compared with the height of his cottage. The bulldog, meanwhile, unbent
from the severity of his official demeanour, and commenced a friendly
interchange of ideas with Rupert.
Mr. Bates's hair was now grey, but his frame was none the less stalwart,
and his face looked all the redder, making an artistic contrast with the
deep blue of his cotton neckerchief, and of his linen apron twisted into
a girdle round his waist.
'Why, dang my boottons, Miss Tiny,' he exclaimed, 'hoo coom ye to coom
oot dabblin' your faet laike a little Muscovy duck, sich a day as this?
Not but what ai'm delaighted to sae ye. Here Hesther,' he called to his
old humpbacked house-keeper, 'tek the young ledy's oombrella an' spread
it oot to dray. Coom, coom in, Miss Tiny, an' set ye doon by the faire
an' dray yer faet, an' hev summat warm to kape ye from ketchin' coold.'
Mr. Bates led the way, stooping under the doorplaces, into his small
sitting-room, and, shaking the patchwork cushion in his arm-chair, moved
it to within a good roasting distance of the blazing fire.
'Thank you, uncle Bates' (Caterina kept up her childish epithets for her
friends, and this was one of them); 'not quite so close to the fire, for
I am warm with walking.'
'Eh, but yer shoes are faine an' wet, an' ye must put up yer faet on the
fender. Rare big faet, baint 'em?--aboot the saize of a good big spoon. I
woonder ye can mek a shift to stan' on 'em. Now, what'll ye hev to warm
yer insaide?--a drop o' hot elder wain, now?'
'No, not anything to drink, thank you; it isn't very long since
breakfast,' said Caterina, drawing out the comforter from her deep
pocket. Pockets were capacious in those days. 'Look here, uncle Bates,
here is what I came to bring you. I made it on purpose for you. You must
wear it this winter, and give your red one to old Brooks.'
'Eh, Miss Tiny, this _is_ a beauty. An' ye made it all wi' yer little
fingers for an old feller laike mae! I tek it very kaind on ye, an' I
belave ye I'll wear it, and be prood on't too. These sthraipes, blue an'
whaite, now, they mek it uncommon pritty.'
'Yes, that will suit your complexion, you know, better than the old
scarlet one. I know Mrs. Sharp will be more in love with you than ever
when she sees you in the new one.'
'My complexion, ye little roogue! ye're a laughin' at me. But talkin' o'
complexions, what a beautiful colour the bride as is to be has on her
cheeks! Dang my boottons! she looks faine and handsome o' hossback--sits
as upraight as a dart, wi' a figure like a statty! Misthress Sharp has
promised to put me behaind one o' the doors when the ladies are comin'
doon to dinner, so as I may sae the young un i' full dress, wi' all her
curls an' that. Misthress Sharp says she's almost beautifuller nor my
ledy was when she was yoong; an' I think ye'll noot faind man i' the
counthry as'll coom up to that.'
'Yes, Miss Assher is very handsome,' said Caterina, rather faintly,
feeling the sense of her own insignificance returning at this picture of
the impression Miss Assher made on others.
'Well, an' I hope she's good too, an'll mek a good naice to Sir
Cristhifer an' my ledy. Misthress Griffin, the maid, says as she's rether
tatchy and find-fautin' aboot her cloothes, laike. But she's yoong--she's
yoong; that'll wear off when she's got a hoosband, an' children, an'
summat else to think on. Sir Cristhifer's fain an' delaighted, I can see.
He says to me th' other mornin', says he, "Well, Bates, what do you think
of your young misthress as is to be?" An' I says, "Whay, yer honour, I
think she's as fain a lass as iver I set eyes on; an' I wish the Captain
luck in a fain family, an' your honour laife an' health to see't." Mr.
Warren says as the masther's all for forrardin' the weddin', an' it'll
very laike be afore the autumn's oot.'
As Mr. Bates ran on, Caterina felt something like a painful contraction
at her heart. 'Yes,' she said, rising, 'I dare say it will. Sir
Christopher is very anxious for it. But I must go, uncle Bates; Lady
Cheverel will be wanting me, and it is your dinner-time.'
'Nay, my dinner doon't sinnify a bit; but I moosn't kaep ye if my ledy
wants ye. Though I hevn't thanked ye half anoof for the comfiter--the
wrapraskil, as they call't. My feckins, it's a beauty. But ye look very
whaite and sadly, Miss Tiny; I doubt ye're poorly; an' this walking i'
th' wet isn't good for ye.'
'O yes, it is indeed,' said Caterina, hastening out, and taking up her
umbrella from the kitchen floor. 'I must really go now; so good-bye.'
She tripped off, calling Rupert, while the good gardener, his hands
thrust deep in his pockets, stood looking after her and shaking his head
with rather a melancholy air.
'She gets moor nesh and dillicat than iver,' he said, half to himself and
half to Hester. 'I shouldn't woonder if she fades away laike them
cyclamens as I transplanted. She puts me i' maind on 'em somehow, hangin'
on their little thin stalks, so whaite an' tinder.'
The poor little thing made her way back, no longer hungering for the cold
moist air as a counteractive of inward excitement, but with a chill at
her heart which made the outward chill only depressing. The golden
sunlight beamed through the dripping boughs like a Shechinah, or visible
divine presence, and the birds were chirping and trilling their new
autumnal songs so sweetly, it seemed as if their throats, as well as the
air, were all the clearer for the rain; but Caterina moved through all
this joy and beauty like a poor wounded leveret painfully dragging its
little body through the sweet clover-tufts--for it, sweet in vain. Mr.
Bates's words about Sir Christopher's joy, Miss Assher's beauty, and the
nearness of the wedding, had come upon her like the pressure of a cold
hand, rousing her from confused dozing to a perception of hard, familiar
realities. It is so with emotional natures whose thoughts are no more
than the fleeting shadows cast by feeling: to them words are facts, and
even when known to be false, have a mastery over their smiles and tears.
Caterina entered her own room again, with no other change from her former
state of despondency and wretchedness than an additional sense of injury
from Anthony. His behaviour towards her in the morning was a new wrong.
To snatch a caress when she justly claimed an expression of penitence, of
regret, of sympathy, was to make more light of her than ever.
Chapter 8
That evening Miss Assher seemed to carry herself with unusual
haughtiness, and was coldly observant of Caterina. There was unmistakably
thunder in the air. Captain Wybrow appeared to take the matter very
easily, and was inclined to brave it out by paying more than ordinary
attention to Caterina. Mr. Gilfil had induced her to play a game at
draughts with him, Lady Assher being seated at picquet with Sir
Christopher, and Miss Assher in determined conversation with Lady
Cheverel. Anthony, thus left as an odd unit, sauntered up to Caterina's
chair, and leaned behind her, watching the game. Tina, with all the
remembrances of the morning thick upon her, felt her cheeks becoming more
and more crimson, and at last said impatiently, 'I wish you would go
away.'
This happened directly under the view of Miss Assher, who saw Caterina's
reddening cheeks, saw that she said something impatiently, and that
Captain Wybrow moved away in consequence. There was another person, too,
who had noticed this incident with strong interest, and who was moreover
aware that Miss Assher not only saw, but keenly observed what was
passing. That other person was Mr. Gilfil, and he drew some painful
conclusions which heightened his anxiety for Caterina.
The next morning, in spite of the fine weather, Miss Assher declined
riding, and Lady Cheverel, perceiving that there was something wrong
between the lovers, took care that they should be left together in the
drawing-room. Miss Assher, seated on the sofa near the fire, was busy
with some fancy-work, in which she seemed bent on making great progress
this morning. Captain Wybrow sat opposite with a newspaper in his hand,
from which he obligingly read extracts with an elaborately easy air,
wilfully unconscious of the contemptuous silence with which she pursued
her filigree work. At length he put down the paper, which he could no
longer pretend not to have exhausted, and Miss Assher then said,--'You
seem to be on very intimate terms with Miss Sarti.'
'With Tina? oh yes; she has always been the pet of the house, you know.
We have been quite brother and sister together.'
'Sisters don't generally colour so very deeply when their brothers
approach them.'
'Does she colour? I never noticed it. But she's a timid little thing.'
'It would be much better if you would not be so hypocritical, Captain
Wybrow. I am confident there has been some flirtation between you. Miss
Sarti, in her position, would never speak to you with the petulance she
did last night, if you had not given her some kind of claim on you.'
'My dear Beatrice, now do be reasonable; do ask yourself what earthly
probability there is that I should think of flirting with poor little
Tina. _Is_ there anything about her to attract that sort of attention?
She is more child than woman. One thinks of her as a little girl to be
petted and played with.'
'Pray, what were you playing at with her yesterday morning, when I came
in unexpectedly, and her cheeks were flushed, and her hands trembling?
'Yesterday morning?--O, I remember. You know I always tease her about
Gilfil, who is over head and ears in love with her; and she is angry at
that,--perhaps, because she likes him. They were old playfellows years
before I came here, and Sir Christopher has set his heart on their
marrying.'
'Captain Wybrow, you are very false. It had nothing to do with Mr. Gilfil
that she coloured last night when you leaned over her chair. You might
just as well be candid. If your own mind is not made up, pray do no
violence to yourself. I am quite ready to give way to Miss Sarti's
superior attractions. Understand that, so far as I am concerned, you are
perfectly at liberty. I decline any share in the affection of a man who
forfeits my respect by duplicity.'
In saying this Miss Assher rose, and was sweeping haughtily out of the
room, when Captain Wybrow placed himself before her, and took her hand.
'Dear, dear Beatrice, be patient; do not judge me so rashly. Sit down
again, sweet,' he added in a pleading voice, pressing both her hands
between his, and leading her back to the sofa, where he sat down beside
her. Miss Assher was not unwilling to be led back or to listen, but she
retained her cold and haughty expression.
'Can you not trust me, Beatrice? Can you not believe me, although there
may be things I am unable to explain?'
'Why should there be anything you are unable to explain? An honourable
man will not be placed in circumstances which he cannot explain to the
woman he seeks to make his wife. He will not ask her to _believe_ that he
acts properly; he will let her _know_ that he does so. Let me go, sir.'
She attempted to rise, but he passed his hand round her waist and
detained her.
'Now, Beatrice dear,' he said imploringly, 'can you not understand that
there are things a man doesn't like to talk about--secrets that he must
keep for the sake of others, and not for his own sake? Everything that
relates to myself you may ask me, but do not ask me to tell other
people's secrets. Don't you understand me?'
'O yes,' said Miss Assher scornfully, 'I understand. Whenever you make
love to a woman--that is her secret, which you are bound to keep for her.
But it is folly to be talking in this way, Captain Wybrow. It is very
plain that there is some relation more than friendship between you and
Miss Sarti. Since you cannot explain that relation, there is no more to
be said between us.'
'Confound it, Beatrice! you'll drive me mad. Can a fellow help a girl's
falling in love with him? Such things are always happening, but men don't
talk of them. These fancies will spring up without the slightest
foundation, especially when a woman sees few people; they die out again
when there is no encouragement. If you could like me, you ought not to be
surprised that other people can; you ought to think the better of them
for it.'
'You mean to say, then, that Miss Sarti is in love with you, without your
ever having made love to her.'
'Do not press me to say such things, dearest. It is enough that you know
I love you--that I am devoted to you. You naughty queen, you, you know
there is no chance for any one else where you are. You are only
tormenting me, to prove your power over me. But don't be too cruel; for
you know they say I have another heart-disease besides love, and these
scenes bring on terrible palpitations.'
'But I must have an answer to this one question,' said Miss Assher, a
little softened: 'Has there been, or is there, any love on your side
towards Miss Sarti? I have nothing to do with her feelings, but I have a
right to know yours.'
'I like Tina very much; who would not like such a little simple thing?
You would not wish me not to like her? But love--that is a very different
affair. One has a brotherly affection for such a woman as Tina; but it is
another sort of woman that one loves.'
These last words were made doubly significant by a look of tenderness,
and a kiss imprinted on the hand Captain Wybrow held in his. Miss Assher
was conquered. It was so far from probable that Anthony should love that
pale insignificant little thing--so highly probable that he should adore
the beautiful Miss Assher. On the whole, it was rather gratifying that
other women should be languishing for her handsome lover; he really was
an exquisite creature. Poor Miss Sarti! Well, she would get over it.
Captain Wybrow saw his advantage. 'Come, sweet love,' he continued, 'let
us talk no more about unpleasant things. You will keep Tina's secret, and
be very kind to her--won't you?--for my sake. But you will ride out now?
See what a glorious day it is for riding. Let me order the horses. I'm
terribly in want of the air. Come, give me one forgiving kiss, and say
you will go.'
Miss Assher complied with the double request, and then went to equip
herself for the ride, while her lover walked to the stables.
Chapter 9
Meanwhile Mr. Gilfil, who had a heavy weight on his mind, had watched for
the moment when, the two elder ladies having driven out, Caterina would
probably be alone in Lady Cheverel's sitting-room. He went up and knocked
at the door.
'Come in,' said the sweet mellow voice, always thrilling to him as the
sound of rippling water to the thirsty.
He entered and found Caterina standing in some confusion as if she had
been startled from a reverie. She felt relieved when she saw it was
Maynard, but, the next moment, felt a little pettish that he should have
come to interrupt and frighten her.
'Oh, it is you, Maynard! Do you want Lady Cheverel?'
'No, Caterina,' he answered gravely; 'I want you. I have something very
particular to say to you. Will you let me sit down with you for half an
hour?'
'Yes, dear old preacher,' said Caterina, sitting down with an air of
weariness; 'what is it?'
Mr. Gilfil placed himself opposite to her, and said, 'I hope you will not
be hurt, Caterina, by what I am going to say to you. I do not speak from
any other feelings than real affection and anxiety for you. I put
everything else out of the question. You know you are more to me than all
the world; but I will not thrust before you a feeling which you are
unable to return. I speak to you as a brother--the old Maynard that used
to scold you for getting your fishing-line tangled ten years ago. You
will not believe that I have any mean, selfish motive in mentioning
things that are painful to you?'
'No; I know you are very good,' said Caterina, abstractedly.
'From what I saw yesterday evening,' Mr. Gilfil went on, hesitating and
colouring slightly, 'I am led to fear--pray forgive me if I am wrong,
Caterina--that you--that Captain Wybrow is base enough still to trifle
with your feelings, that he still allows himself to behave to you as no
man ought who is the declared lover of another woman.'
'What do you mean, Maynard?' said Caterina, with anger flashing from her
eyes. 'Do you mean that I let him make love to me? What right have you to
think that of me? What do you mean that you saw yesterday evening?'
'Do not be angry, Caterina. I don't suspect you of doing wrong. I only
suspect that heartless puppy of behaving so as to keep awake feelings in
you that not only destroy your own peace of mind, but may lead to very
bad consequences with regard to others. I want to warn you that Miss
Assher has her eyes open on what passes between you and Captain Wybrow,
and I feel sure she is getting jealous of you. Pray be very careful,
Caterina, and try to behave with politeness and indifference to him. You
must see by this time that he is not worth the feeling you have given
him. He's more disturbed at his pulse beating one too many in a minute,
than at all the misery he has caused you by his foolish tritling.'
'You ought not to speak so of him, Maynard,' said Caterina, passionately.
'He is not what you think. He _did_ care for me; he _did_ love me; only
he wanted to do what his uncle wished.'
'O to be sure! I know it is only from the most virtuous motives that he
does what is convenient to himself.'
Mr. Gilfil paused. He felt that he was getting irritated, and defeating
his own object. Presently he continued in a calm and affectionate tone.
'I will say no more about what I think of him, Caterina. But whether he
loved you or not, his position now with Miss Assher is such that any love
you may cherish for him can bring nothing but misery. God knows, I don't
expect you to leave off loving him at a moment's notice. Time and
absence, and trying to do what is right, are the only cures. If it were
not that Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel would be displeased and
puzzled at your wishing to leave home just now, I would beg you to pay a
visit to my sister. She and her husband are good creatures, and would
make their house a home to you. But I could not urge the thing just now
without giving a special reason; and what is most of all to be dreaded is
the raising of any suspicion in Sir Christopher's mind of what has
happened in the past, or of your present feelings. You think so too,
don't you, Tina?'
Mr. Gilfil paused again, but Caterina said nothing. She was looking away
from him, out of the window, and her eyes were filling with tears. He
rose, and, advancing a little towards her, held out his hand and said,
--'Forgive me, Caterina, for intruding on your feelings in this way. I
was so afraid you might not be aware how Miss Assher watched you.
Remember, I entreat you, that the peace of the whole family depends on
your power of governing yourself. Only say you forgive me before I go.'
'Dear, good Maynard,' she said, stretching out her little hand, and
taking two of his large fingers in her grasp, while her tears flowed
fast; 'I am very cross to you. But my heart is breaking. I don't know
what I do. Good-bye.'
He stooped down, kissed the little hand, and then left the room.
'The cursed scoundrel!' he muttered between his teeth, as he closed the
door behind him. 'If it were not for Sir Christopher, I should like to
pound him into paste to poison puppies like himself.'
Chapter 10
That evening Captain Wybrow, returning from a long ride with Miss Assher,
went up to his dressing-room, and seated himself with an air of
considerable lassitude before his mirror. The reflection there presented
of his exquisite self was certainly paler and more worn than usual, and
might excuse the anxiety with which he first felt his pulse, and then
laid his hand on his heart.
'It's a devil of a position this for a man to be in,' was the train of
his thought, as he kept his eyes fixed on the glass, while he leaned back
in his chair, and crossed his hands behind his head; 'between two jealous
women, and both of them as ready to take fire as tinder. And in my state
of health, too! I should be glad enough to run away from the whole
affair, and go off to some lotos-eating place or other where there are no
women, or only women who are too sleepy to be jealous. Here am I, doing
nothing to please myself, trying to do the best thing for everybody else,
and all the comfort I get is to have fire shot at me from women's eyes,
and venom spirted at me from women's tongues. If Beatrice takes another
jealous fit into her head--and it's likely enough, Tina is so
unmanageable--I don't know what storm she may raise. And any hitch in
this marriage, especially of that sort, might be a fatal business for the
old gentleman. I wouldn't have such a blow fall upon him for a great
deal. Besides, a man must be married some time in his life, and I could
hardly do better than marry Beatrice. She's an uncommonly fine woman, and
I'm really very fond of her; and as I shall let her have her own way, her
temper won't signify much. I wish the wedding was over and done with, for
this fuss doesn't suit me at all. I haven't been half so well lately.
That scene about Tina this morning quite upset me. Poor little Tina! What
a little simpleton it was, to set her heart on me in that way! But she
ought to see how impossible it is that things should be different. If she
would but understand how kindly I feel towards her, and make up her mind
to look on me as a friend;--but that it what one never can get a woman to
do. Beatrice is very good-natured; I'm sure she would be kind to the
little thing. It would be a great comfort if Tina would take to Gilfil,
if it were only in anger against me. He'd make her a capital husband, and
I should like to see the little grass-hopper happy. If I had been in a
different position, I would certainly have married her myself: hut that
was out of the question with my responsibilities to Sir Christopher. I
think a little persuasion from my uncle would bring her to accept Gilfil;
I know she would never be able to oppose my uncle's wishes. And if they
were once married, she's such a loving little thing, she would soon be
billing and cooing with him as if she had never known me. It would
certainly be the best thing for her happiness if that marriage were
hastened. Heigho! Those are lucky fellows that have no women falling in
love with them. It's a confounded responsibility.'
At this point in his meditations he turned his head a little, so as to
get a three-quarter view of his face. Clearly it was the '_dono infelice
della bellezza_' that laid these onerous duties upon him--an idea which
naturally suggested that he should ring for his valet.
For the next few days, however, there was such a cessation of threatening
symptoms as to allay the anxiety both of Captain Wybrow and Mr. Gilfil.
All earthly things have their lull: even on nights when the most
unappeasable wind is raging, there will be a moment of stillness before
it crashes among the boughs again, and storms against the windows, and
howls like a thousand lost demons through the keyholes.
Miss Assher appeared to be in the highest good-humour; Captain Wybrow was
more assiduous than usual, and was very circumspect in his behaviour to
Caterina, on whom Miss Assher bestowed unwonted attentions. The weather
was brilliant; there were riding excursions in the mornings and
dinner-parties in the evenings. Consultations in the library between Sir
Christopher and Lady Assher seemed to be leading to a satisfactory
result; and it was understood that this visit at Cheverel Manor would
terminate in another fortnight, when the preparations for the wedding
would be carried forward with all despatch at Farleigh. The Baronet
seemed every day more radiant. Accustomed to view people who entered into
his plans by the pleasant light which his own strong will and bright
hopefulness were always casting on the future, he saw nothing hut
personal charms and promising domestic qualities in Miss Assher, whose
quickness of eye and taste in externals formed a real ground of sympathy
between her and Sir Christopher. Lady Cheverel's enthusiasm never rose
above the temperate mark of calm satisfaction, and, having quite her
share of the critical acumen which characterizes the mutual estimates of
the fair sex, she had a more moderate opinion of Miss Assher's qualities.
She suspected that the fair Beatrice had a sharp and imperious temper;
and being herself, on principle and by habitual self-command, the most
deferential of wives, she noticed with disapproval Miss Assher's
occasional air of authority towards Captain Wybrow. A proud woman who has
learned to submit, carries all her pride to the reinforcement of her
submission, and looks down with severe superiority on all feminine
assumption as 'unbecoming'. Lady Cheverel, however, confined her
criticisms to the privacy of her own thoughts, and, with a reticence
which I fear may seem incredible, did not use them as a means of
disturbing her husband's complacency.
And Caterina? How did she pass these sunny autumn days, in which the
skies seemed to be smiling on the family gladness? To her the change in
Miss Assher's manner was unaccountable. Those compassionate attentions,
those smiling condescensions, were torture to Caterina, who was
constantly tempted to repulse them with anger. She thought, 'Perhaps
Anthony has told her to be kind to poor Tina.' This was an insult. He
ought to have known that the mere presence of Miss Assher was painful to
her, that Miss Assher's smiles scorched her, that Miss Assher's kind
words were like poison stings inflaming her to madness. And he--Anthony
--he was evidently repenting of the tenderness he had been betrayed into
that morning in the drawing-room. He was cold and distant and civil to
her, to ward off Beatrice's suspicions, and Beatrice could be so gracious
now, because she was sure of Anthony's entire devotion. Well! and so it
ought to be--and she ought not to wish it otherwise. And yet--oh, he
_was_ cruel to her. She could never have behaved so to him. To make her
love him so--to speak such tender words--to give her such caresses, and
then to behave as if such things had never been. He had given her the
poison that seemed so sweet while she was drinking it, and now it was in
her blood, and she was helpless.'
With this tempest pent up in her bosom, the poor child went up to her
room every night, and there it all burst forth. There, with loud whispers
and sobs, restlessly pacing up and down, lying on the hard floor,
courting cold and weariness, she told to the pitiful listening night the
anguish which she could pour into no mortal ear. But always sleep came at
last, and always in the morning the reactive calm that enabled her to
live through the day.
It is amazing how long a young frame will go on battling with this sort
of secret wretchedness, and yet show no traces of the conflict for any
but sympathetic eyes. The very delicacy of Caterina's usual appearance,
her natural paleness and habitually quiet mouse-like ways, made any
symptoms of fatigue and suffering less noticeable. And her singing--the
one thing in which she ceased to be passive, and became prominent--lost
none of its energy. She herself sometimes wondered how it was that,
whether she felt sad or angry, crushed with the sense of Anthony's
indifference, or burning with impatience under Miss Assher's attentions,
it was always a relief to her to sing. Those full deep notes she sent
forth seemed to be lifting the pain from her heart--seemed to be carrying
away the madness from her brain.
Thus Lady Cheverel noticed no change in Caterina, and it was only Mr.
Gilfil who discerned with anxiety the feverish spot that sometimes rose
on her cheek, the deepening violet tint under her eyes, and the strange
absent glance, the unhealthy glitter of the beautiful eyes themselves.
But those agitated nights were producing a more fatal effect than was
represented by these slight outward changes.
Chapter 11
The following Sunday, the morning being rainy, it was determined that the
family should not go to Cumbermoor Church as usual, but that Mr. Gilfil,
who had only an afternoon service at his curacy, should conduct the
morning service in the chapel.
Just before the appointed hour of eleven, Caterina came down into the
drawing-room, looking so unusually ill as to call forth an anxious
inquiry from Lady Cheverel, who, on learning that she had a severe
headache, insisted that she should not attend service, and at once packed
her up comfortably on a sofa near the fire, putting a volume of
Tillotson's Sermons into her hands--as appropriate reading, if Caterina
should feel equal to that means of edification.
Excellent medicine for the mind are the good Archbishop's sermons, but a
medicine, unhappily, not suited to Tina's case. She sat with the book
open on her knees, her dark eyes fixed vacantly on the portrait of that
handsome Lady Cheverel, wife of the notable Sir Anthony. She gazed at the
picture without thinking of it, and the fair blonde dame seemed to look
down on her with that benignant unconcern, that mild wonder, with which
happy self-possessed women are apt to look down on their agitated and
weaker sisters.
Caterina was thinking of the near future--of the wedding that was so soon
to come--of all she would have to live through in the next months.
'I wish I could be very ill, and die before then,' she thought. 'When
people get very ill, they don't mind about things. Poor Patty Richards
looked so happy when she was in a decline. She didn't seem to care any
more about her lover that she was engaged to be married to, and she liked
the smell of the flowers so, that I used to take her. O, if I could but
like anything--if I could but think about anything else! If these
dreadful feelings would go away, I wouldn't mind about not being happy. I
wouldn't want anything--and I could do what would please Sir Christopher
and Lady Cheverel. But when that rage and anger comes into me, I don't
know what to do. I don't feel the ground under me; I only feel my head
and heart beating, and it seems as if I must do something dreadful. O! I
wonder if any one ever felt like me before. I must be very wicked. But
God will have pity on me; He knows all I have to bear.'
In this way the time wore on till Tina heard the sound of voices along
the passage, and became conscious that the volume of Tillotson had
slipped on the floor. She had only just picked it up, and seen with alarm
that the pages were bent, when Lady Assher, Beatrice, and Captain Wybrow
entered, all with that brisk and cheerful air which a sermon is often
observed to produce when it is quite finished.
Lady Assher at once came and seated herself by Caterina. Her ladyship had
been considerably refreshed by a doze, and was in great force for
monologue.
'Well, my dear Miss Sarti, and how do you feel now?--a little better, I
see. I thought you would be, sitting quietly here. These headaches, now,
are all from weakness. You must not over-exert yourself, and you must
take bitters. I used to have just the same sort of headaches when I was
your age, and old Dr Samson used to say to my mother, "Madam, what your
daughter suffers from is weakness." He was such a curious old man, was Dr
Samson. But I wish you could have heard the sermon this morning. Such an
excellent sermon! It was about the ten virgins: five of them were
foolish, and five were clever, you know; and Mr. Gilfil explained all
that. What a very pleasant young man he is! so very quiet and agreeable,
and such a good hand at whist. I wish we had him at Farleigh. Sir John
would have liked him beyond anything; he is so good-tempered at cards,
and he was such a man for cards, was Sir John. And our rector is a very
irritable man; he can't bear to lose his money at cards. I don't think a
clergyman ought to mind about losing his money; do you?--do you now?'
'O pray, Lady Assher,' interposed Beatrice, in her usual tone of
superiority, 'do not weary poor Caterina with such uninteresting
questions. Your head seems very bad still, dear,' she continued, in a
condoling tone, to Caterina; 'do take my vinaigrette, and keep it in your
pocket. It will perhaps refresh you now and then.'
'No, thank you,' answered Caterina; 'I will not take it away from you.'
'Indeed, dear, I never use it; you must take it,' Miss Assher persisted,
holding it close to Tina's hand. Tina coloured deeply, pushed the
vinaigrette away with some impatience, and said, 'Thank you, I never use
those things. I don't like vinaigrettes.'
Miss Assher returned the vinaigrette to her pocket in surprise and
haughty silence, and Captain Wybrow, who had looked on in some alarm,
said hastily, 'See! it is quite bright out of doors now. There is time
for a walk before luncheon. Come, Beatrice, put on your hat and cloak,
and let us have half an hour's walk on the gravel.'
'Yes, do, my dear,' said Lady Assher, 'and I will go and see if Sir
Christopher is having his walk in the gallery.'
As soon as the door had closed behind the two ladies, Captain Wybrow,
standing with his back to the fire, turned towards Caterina, and said in
a tone of earnest remonstrance, 'My dear Caterina. Let me beg of you to
exercise more control over your feelings; you are really rude to Miss
Assher, and I can see that she is quite hurt. Consider how strange your
behaviour must appear to her. She will wonder what can be the cause of
it. Come, dear Tina,' he added, approaching her, and attempting to take
her hand; 'for your own sake let me entreat you to receive her attentions
politely. She really feels very kindly towards you, and I should be so
happy to see you friends.'
Caterina was already in such a state of diseased susceptibility that the
most innocent words from Captain Wybrow would have been irritating to
her, as the whirr of the most delicate wing will afflict a nervous
patient. But this tone of benevolent remonstrance was intolerable. He had
inflicted a great and unrepented injury on her, and now he assumed an air
of benevolence towards her. This was a new outrage. His profession of
goodwill was insolence.
Caterina snatched away her hand and said indignantly, 'Leave me to
myself, Captain Wybrow! I do not disturb you.'
'Caterina, why will you be so violent--so unjust to me? It is for you
that I feel anxious. Miss Assher has already noticed how strange your
behaviour is both to her and me, and it puts me into a very difficult
position. What can I say to her?'
'Say?' Caterina burst forth with intense bitterness, rising, and moving
towards the door; 'say that I am a poor silly girl, and have fallen in
love with you, and am jealous of her; but that you have never had any
feeling but pity for me--you have never behaved with anything more than
friendliness to me. Tell her that, and she will think all the better of
you.'
Tina uttered this as the bitterest sarcasm her ideas would furnish her
with, not having the faintest suspicion that the sarcasm derived any of
its bitterness from truth. Underneath all her sense of wrong, which was
rather instinctive than reflective--underneath all the madness of
her jealousy, and her ungovernable impulses of resentment and
vindictiveness--underneath all this scorching passion there were still
left some hidden crystal dews of trust, of self-reproof, of belief that
Anthony was trying to do the right. Love had not all gone to feed the
fires of hatred. Tina still trusted that Anthony felt more for her than
he seemed to feel; she was still far from suspecting him of a wrong
which a woman resents even more than inconstancy. And she threw out this
taunt simply as the most intense expression she could find for the anger
of the moment.
As she stood nearly in the middle of the room, her little body trembling
under the shock of passions too strong for it, her very lips pale, and
her eyes gleaming, the door opened, and Miss Assher appeared, tall,
blooming, and splendid, in her walking costume. As she entered, her face
wore the smile appropriate to the exits and entrances of a young lady who
feels that her presence is an interesting fact; but the next moment she
looked at Caterina with grave surprise, and then threw a glance of angry
suspicion at Captain Wybrow, who wore an air of weariness and vexation.
'Perhaps you are too much engaged to walk out, Captain Wybrow? I will go
alone.'
'No, no, I am coming,' he answered, hurrying towards her, and leading her
out of the room; leaving poor Caterina to feel all the reaction of shame
and self-reproach after her outburst of passion.
Chapter 12
'Pray, what is likely to be the next scene in the drama between you and
Miss Sarti?' said Miss Assher to Captain Wybrow as soon as they were out
on the gravel. 'It would be agreeable to have some idea of what is
coming.'
Captain Wybrow was silent. He felt out of humour, wearied, annoyed. There
come moments when one almost determines never again to oppose anything
but dead silence to an angry woman. 'Now then, confound it,' he said to
himself, 'I'm going to be battered on the other flank.' He looked
resolutely at the horizon, with something more like a frown on his face
than Beatrice had ever seen there.
After a pause of two or three minutes, she continued in a still haughtier
tone, 'I suppose you are aware, Captain Wybrow, that I expect an
explanation of what I have just seen.'
'I have no explanation, my dear Beatrice,' he answered at last, making a
strong effort over himself, 'except what I have already given you. I
hoped you would never recur to the subject.'
'Your explanation, however, is very far from satisfactory. I can only say
that the airs Miss Sarti thinks herself entitled to put on towards you,
are quite incompatible with your position as regards me. And her
behaviour to me is most insulting. I shall certainly not stay in the
house under such circumstances, and mamma must state the reasons to Sir
Christopher.'
'Beatrice,' said Captain Wybrow, his irritation giving way to alarm, 'I
beseech you to be patient, and exercise your good feelings in this
affair. It is very painful, I know, but I am sure you would be grieved to
injure poor Caterina--to bring down my uncle's anger upon her. Consider
what a poor little dependent thing she is.'
'It is very adroit of you to make these evasions, but do not suppose that
they deceive me. Miss Sarti would never dare to behave to you as she
does, if you had not flirted with her, or made love to her. I suppose she
considers your engagement to me a breach of faith to her. I am much
obliged to you, certainly, for making me Miss Sarti's rival. You have
told me a falsehood, Captain Wybrow.'
'Beatrice, I solemnly declare to you that Caterina is nothing more to me
than a girl I naturally feel kindly to--as a favourite of my uncle's, and
a nice little thing enough. I should be glad to see her married to Gilfil
to-morrow; that's a good proof that I'm not in love with her, I should
think. As to the past, I may have shown her little attentions, which she
has exaggerated and misinterpreted. What man is not liable to that sort
of thing?'
'But what can she found her behaviour on? What had she been saying to you
this morning to make her tremble and turn pale in that way?'
'O, I don't know. I just said something about her behaving peevishly.
With that Italian blood of hers, there's no knowing how she may take what
one says. She's a fierce little thing, though she seems so quiet
generally.'
'But she ought to be made to know how unbecoming and indelicate her
conduct is. For my part, I wonder Lady Cheverel has not noticed her short
answers and the airs she puts on.'
'Let me beg of you, Beatrice, not to hint anything of the kind to Lady
Cheverel. You must have observed how strict my aunt is. It never enters
her head that a girl can be in love with a man who has not made her an
offer.'
'Well, I shall let Miss Sarti know myself that I have observed her
conduct. It will be only a charity to her.'
'Nay, dear, that will be doing nothing but harm. Caterina's temper is
peculiar. The best thing you can do will be to leave her to herself as
much as possible. It will all wear off. I've no doubt she'll be married
to Gilfil before long. Girls' fancies are easily diverted from one object
to another. By jove, what a rate my heart is galloping at! These
confounded palpitations get worse instead of better.'
Thus ended the conversation, so far as it concerned Caterina, not without
leaving a distinct resolution in Captain Wybrow's mind--a resolution
carried into effect the next day, when he was in the library with Sir
Christopher for the purpose of discussing some arrangements about the
approaching marriage.
'By the by,' he said carelessly, when the business came to a pause, and
he was sauntering round the room with his hands in his coat-pockets,
surveying the backs of the books that lined the walls, 'when is the
wedding between Gilfil and Caterina to come off, sir? I've a
fellow-feeling for a poor devil so many fathoms deep in love as Maynard.
Why shouldn't their marriage happen as soon as ours? I suppose he has
come to an understanding with Tina?'
'Why,' said Sir Christopher, 'I did think of letting the thing be until
old Crichley died; he can't hold out very long, poor fellow; and then
Maynard might have entered into matrimony and the rectory both at once.
But, after all, that really is no good reason for waiting. There is no
need for them to leave the Manor when they are married. The little monkey
is quite old enough. It would be pretty to see her a matron, with a baby
about the size of a kitten in her arms.'
'I think that system of waiting is always bad. And if I can further any
settlement you would like to make on Caterina, I shall be delighted to
carry out your wishes.'
'My dear boy, that's very good of you; but Maynard will have enough; and
from what I know of him--and I know him well--I think he would rather
provide for Caterina himself. However, now you have put this matter into
my head, I begin to blame myself for not having thought of it before.
I've been so wrapt up in Beatrice and you, you rascal, that I had really
forgotten poor Maynard. And he's older than you--it's high time he was
settled in life as a family man.'
Sir Christopher paused, took snuff in a meditative manner, and presently
said, more to himself than to Anthony, who was humming a tune at the far
end of the room, 'Yes, yes. It will be a capital plan to finish off all
our family business at once.'
Riding out with Miss Assher the same morning, Captain Wybrow mentioned to
her incidentally, that Sir Christopher was anxious to bring about the
wedding between Gilfil and Caterina as soon as possible, and that he, for
his part, should do all he could to further the affair. It would be the
best thing in the world for Tina, in whose welfare he was really
interested.
With Sir Christopher there was never any long interval between purpose
and execution. He made up his mind promptly, and he acted promptly. On
rising from luncheon, he said to Mr. Gilfil, 'Come with me into the
library, Maynard. I want to have a word with you.'
'Maynard, my boy,' he began, as soon as they were seated, tapping his
snuff-box, and looking radiant at the idea of the unexpected pleasure he
was about to give, 'why shouldn't we have two happy couples instead of
one, before the autumn is over, eh?'
'Eh?' he repeated, after a moment's pause, lengthening out the
monosyllable, taking a slow pinch, and looking up at Maynard with a sly
smile.
'I'm not quite sure that I understand you, sir,' answered Mr. Gilfil, who
felt annoyed at the consciousness that he was turning pale.
'Not understand me, you rogue? You know very well whose happiness lies
nearest to my heart after Anthony's. You know you let me into your
secrets long ago, so there's no confession to make. Tina's quite old
enough to be a grave little wife now; and though the Rectory's not ready
for you, that's no matter. My lady and I shall feel all the more
comfortable for having you with us. We should miss our little
singing-bird if we lost her all at once.'
Mr. Gilfil felt himself in a painfully difficult position. He dreaded
that Sir Christopher should surmise or discover the true state of
Caterina's feelings, and yet he was obliged to make those feelings the
ground of his reply.
'My dear sir,' he at last said with some effort, 'you will not suppose
that I am not alive to your goodness--that I am not grateful for your
fatherly interest in my happiness; but I fear that Caterina's feelings
towards me are not such as to warrant the hope that she would accept a
proposal of marriage from me.'
'Have you ever asked her?'
'No, sir. But we often know these things too well without asking.'
'Pooh, pooh! the little monkey _must_ love you. Why, you were her first
playfellow; and I remember she used to cry if you cut your finger.
Besides, she has always silently admitted that you were her lover. You
know I have always spoken of you to her in that light. I took it for
granted you had settled the business between yourselves; so did Anthony.
Anthony thinks she's in love with you, and he has young eyes, which are
apt enough to see clearly in these matters. He was talking to me about it
this morning, and pleased me very much by the friendly interest he showed
in you and Tina.'
The blood--more than was wanted--rushed back to Mr. Gilfil's face; he set
his teeth and clenched his hands in the effort to repress a burst of
indignation. Sir Christopher noticed the flush, but thought it indicated
the fluctuation of hope and fear about Caterina. He went on:--'You're too
modest by half, Maynard. A fellow who can take a five-barred gate as you
can, ought not to be so faint-hearted. If you can't speak to her
yourself, leave me to talk to her.'
'Sir Christopher,' said poor Maynard earnestly, 'I shall really feel it
the greatest kindness you can possibly show me not to mention this
subject to Caterina at present. I think such a proposal, made
prematurely, might only alienate her from me.'
Sir Christopher was getting a little displeased at this contradiction.
His tone became a little sharper as he said, 'Have you any grounds to
state for this opinion, beyond your general notion that Tina is not
enough in love with you?'
'I can state none beyond my own very strong impression that she does not
love me well enough to marry me.'
'Then I think that ground is worth nothing at all. I am tolerably correct
in my judgement of people; and if I am not very much deceived in Tina,
she looks forward to nothing else but to your being her husband. Leave me
to manage the matter as I think best. You may rely on me that I shall do
no harm to your cause, Maynard.'
Mr. Gilfil, afraid to say more, yet wretched in the prospect of what
might result from Sir Christopher's determination, quitted the library in
a state of mingled indignation against Captain Wybrow, and distress for
himself and Caterina. What would she think of him? She might suppose that
_he_ had instigated or sanctioned Sir Christopher's proceeding. He should
perhaps not have an opportunity of speaking to her on the subject in
time; he would write her a note, and carry it up to her room after the
dressing-bell had rung. No; that would agitate her, and unfit her for
appearing at dinner, and passing the evening calmly. He would defer it
till bed-time. After prayers, he contrived to lead her back to the
drawing-room, and to put a letter in her hand. She carried it up to her
own room, wondering, and there read,--
'Dear Caterina, Do not suspect for a moment that anything Sir Christopher
may say to you about our marriage has been prompted by me. I have done
all I dare do to dissuade him from urging the subject, and have only been
prevented from speaking more strongly by the dread of provoking questions
which I could not answer without causing you fresh misery. I write this,
both to prepare you for anything Sir Christopher may say, and to assure
you--but I hope you already believe it--that your feelings are sacred to
me. I would rather part with the dearest hope of my life than be the
means of adding to your trouble.
'It is Captain Wybrow who has prompted Sir Christopher to take up the
subject at this moment. I tell you this, to save you from hearing it
suddenly when you are with Sir Christopher. You see now what sort of
stuff that dastard's heart is made of. Trust in me always, dearest
Caterina, as--whatever may come--your faithful friend and brother,
'Maynard Gilfil.'
Caterina was at first too terribly stung by the words about Captain
Wybrow to think of the difficulty which threatened her--to think either
of what Sir Christopher would say to her, or of what she could say in
reply. Bitter sense of injury, fierce resentment, left no room for fear.
With the poisoned garment upon him, the victim writhes under the
torture--he has no thought of the coming death.
Anthony could do this!--Of this there could be no explanation but the
coolest contempt for her feelings, the basest sacrifice of all the
consideration and tenderness he owed her to the ease of his position with
Miss Assher. No. It was worse than that: it was deliberate, gratuitous
cruelty. He wanted to show her how he despised her; he wanted to make her
feel her folly in having ever believed that he loved her.
The last crystal drops of trust and tenderness, she thought, were dried
up; all was parched, fiery hatred. Now she need no longer check her
resentment by the fear of doing him an injustice: he _had_ trifled with
her, as Maynard had said; he _had_ been reckless of her; and now he was
base and cruel. She had cause enough for her bitterness and anger; they
were not so wicked as they had seemed to her.
As these thoughts were hurrying after each other like so many sharp
throbs of fevered pain, she shed no tear. She paced restlessly to and
fro, as her habit was--her hands clenched, her eyes gleaming fiercely and
wandering uneasily, as if in search of something on which she might throw
herself like a tigress.
'If I could speak to him,' she whispered, 'and tell him I hate him, I
despise him, I loathe him!'
Suddenly, as if a new thought had struck her, she drew a key from her
pocket, and, unlocking an inlaid desk where she stored up her keepsakes,
took from it a small miniature. It was in a very slight gold frame, with
a ring to it, as if intended to be worn on a chain; and under the glass
at the back were two locks of hair, one dark and the other auburn,
arranged in a fantastic knot. It was Anthony's secret present to her a
year ago a copy he had had made specially for her. For the last month she
had not taken it from its hiding-place: there was no need to heighten the
vividness of the past. But now she clutched it fiercely, and dashed it
across the room against the bare hearth-stone.
Will she crush it under her feet, and grind it under her high-heeled
shoe, till every trace of those false cruel features is gone? Ah, no! She
rushed across the room; but when she saw the little treasure she had
cherished so fondly, so often smothered with kisses, so often laid under
her pillow, and remembered with the first return of consciousness in the
morning--when she saw this one visible relic of the too happy past lying
with the glass shivered, the hair fallen out, the thin ivory cracked,
there was a revulsion of the overstrained feeling: relenting came, and
she burst into tears.
Look at her stooping down to gather up her treasure, searching for the
hair and replacing it, and then mournfully examining the crack that
disfigures the once-loved image. Alas! there is no glass now to guard
either the hair or the portrait; but see how carefully she wraps delicate
paper round it, and locks it up again in its old place. Poor child! God
send the relenting may always come before the worst irrevocable deed!
This action had quieted her, and she sat down to read Maynard's letter
again. She read it two or three times without seeming to take in the
sense; her apprehension was dulled by the passion of the last hour, and
she found it difficult to call up the ideas suggested by the words. At
last she began to have a distinct conception of the impending interview
with Sir Christopher. The idea of displeasing the Baronet, of whom every
one at the Manor stood in awe, frightened her so much that she thought it
would be impossible to resist his wish. He believed that she loved
Maynard; he had always spoken as if he were quite sure of it. How could
she tell him he was deceived--and what if he were to ask her whether she
loved anybody else? To have Sir Christopher looking angrily at her, was
more than she could bear, even in imagination. He had always been so good
to her! Then she began to think of the pain she might give him, and the
more selfish distress of fear gave way to the distress of affection.
Unselfish tears began to flow, and sorrowful gratitude to Sir Christopher
helped to awaken her sensibility to Mr. Gilfil's tenderness and
generosity.
'Dear, good Maynard!--what a poor return I make him! If I could but have
loved him instead--but I can never love or care for anything again. My
heart is broken.'
Chapter 13
The next morning the dreaded moment came. Caterina, stupified by the
suffering of the previous night, with that dull mental aching which
follows on acute anguish, was in Lady Cheverel's sitting-room, copying
out some charity lists, when her ladyship came in, and said,--'Tina, Sir
Christopher wants you; go down into the library.'
She went down trembling. As soon as she entered, Sir Christopher, who was
seated near his writing-table, said, 'Now, little monkey, come and sit
down by me; I have something to tell you.'
Caterina took a footstool, and seated herself on it at the Baronet's
feet. It was her habit to sit on these low stools, and in this way she
could hide her face better. She put her little arm round his leg, and
leaned her cheek against his knee.
'Why, you seem out of spirits this morning, Tina. What's the matter, eh?'
'Nothing, Padroncello; only my head is bad.'
'Poor monkey! Well, now, wouldn't it do the head good if I were to
promise you a good husband, and smart little wedding-gowns, and by-and-by
a house of your own, where you would be a little mistress, and
Padroncello would come and see you sometimes?'
'O no, no! I shouldn't like ever to be married. Let me always stay with
you!'
'Pooh, pooh, little simpleton. I shall get old and tiresome, and there
will be Anthony's children putting your nose out of joint. You will want
some one to love you best of all, and you must have children of your own
to love. I can't have you withering away into an old maid. I hate old
maids: they make me dismal to look at them. I never see Sharp without
shuddering. My little black-eyed monkey was never meant for anything so
ugly. And there's Maynard Gilfil the best man in the county, worth his
weight in gold, heavy as he is; he loves you better than his eyes. And
you love him too, you silly monkey, whatever you may say about not being
married.'
'No, no, dear Padroncello, do not say so; I could not marry him.'
'Why not, you foolish child? You don't know your own mind. Why, it is
plain to everybody that you love him. My lady has all along said she was
sure you loved him--she has seen what little princess airs you put on to
him; and Anthony too, he thinks you are in love with Gilfil. Come, what
has made you take it into your head that you wouldn't like to marry him?'
Caterina was now sobbing too deeply to make any answer. Sir Christopher
patted her on the back and said, 'Come, come; why, Tina, you are not well
this morning. Go and rest, little one. You will see things in quite
another light when you are well. Think over what I have said, and
remember there is nothing, after Anthony's marriage, that I have set my
heart on so much as seeing you and Maynard settled for life. I must have
no whims and follies--no nonsense.' This was said with a slight severity;
but he presently added, in a soothing tone, There, there, stop crying,
and be a good little monkey. Go and lie down and get to sleep.'
Caterina slipped from the stool on to her knees, took the old Baronet's
hand, covered it with tears and kisses, and then ran out of the room.
Before the evening, Captain Wybrow had heard from his uncle the result of
the interview with Caterina. He thought, 'If I could have a long quiet
talk with her, I could perhaps persuade her to look more reasonably at
things. But there's no speaking to her in the house without being
interrupted, and I can hardly see her anywhere else without Beatrice's
finding it out.' At last he determined to make it a matter of confidence
with Miss Assher--to tell her that he wished to talk to Caterina quietly
for the sake of bringing her to a calmer state of mind, and persuade her
to listen to Gilfil's affection. He was very much pleased with this
judicious and candid plan, and in the course of the evening he had
arranged with himself the time and place of meeting, and had communicated
his purpose to Miss Assher, who gave her entire approval. Anthony, she
thought, would do well to speak plainly and seriously to Miss Sarti. He
was really very patient and kind to her, considering how she behaved.
Tina had kept her room all that day, and had been carefully tended as an
invalid, Sir Christopher having told her ladyship how matters stood. This
tendance was so irksome to Caterina, she felt so uneasy under attentions
and kindness that were based on a misconception, that she exerted herself
to appear at breakfast the next morning, and declared herself well,
though head and heart were throbbing. To be confined in her own room was
intolerable; it was wretched enough to be looked at and spoken to, but it
was more wretched to be left alone. She was frightened at her own
sensations: she was frightened at the imperious vividness with which
pictures of the past and future thrust themselves on her imagination. And
there was another feeling, too, which made her want to be down-stairs and
moving about. Perhaps she might have an opportunity of speaking to
Captain Wybrow alone--of speaking those words of hatred and scorn that
burned on her tongue. That opportunity offered itself in a very
unexpected manner.
Lady Cheverel having sent Caterina out of the drawing-room to fetch some
patterns of embroidery from her sitting-room, Captain Wybrow presently
walked out after her, and met her as she was returning down stairs.
'Caterina,' he said, laying his hand on her arm as she was hurrying on
without looking at him, 'will you meet me in the Rookery at twelve
o'clock? I must speak to you, and we shall be in privacy there. I cannot
speak to you in the house.'
To his surprise, there was a flash of pleasure across her face; she
answered shortly and decidedly, 'Yes', then snatched her arm away from
him, and passed down stairs.
Miss Assher was this morning busy winding silks, being bent on emulating
Lady Cheverel's embroidery, and Lady Assher chose the passive amusement
of holding the skeins. Lady Cheverel had now all her working apparatus
about her, and Caterina, thinking she was not wanted, went away and sat
down to the harpsichord in the sitting-room. It seemed as if playing
massive chords--bringing out volumes of sound, would be the easiest way
of passing the long feverish moments before twelve o'clock. Handel's
Messiah stood open on the desk, at the chorus 'All we like sheep', and
Caterina threw herself at once into the impetuous intricacies of that
magnificent fugue. In her happiest moments she could never have played it
so well: for now all the passion that made her misery was hurled by a
convulsive effort into her music, just as pain gives new force to the
clutch of the sinking wrestler, and as terror gives farsounding intensity
to the shriek of the feeble.
But at half-past eleven she was interrupted by Lady Cheverel, who said,
'Tina, go down, will you, and hold Miss Assher's silks for her. Lady
Assher and I have decided on having our drive before luncheon.'
Caterina went down, wondering how she should escape from the drawing-room
in time to be in the Rookery at twelve. Nothing should prevent her from
going; nothing should rob her of this one precious moment--perhaps the
last--when she could speak out the thoughts that were in her. After that,
she would be passive; she would bear anything.
But she had scarcely sat down with a skein of yellow silk on her hands,
when Miss Assher said, graciously,--'I know you have an engagement with
Captain Wybrow this morning. You must not let me detain you beyond the
time.'
'So he has been talking to her about me,' thought Caterina. Her hands
began to tremble as she held the skein.
Miss Assher continued in the same gracious tone: 'It is tedious work
holding these skeins. I am sure I am very much obliged to you.'
'No, you are not obliged to me,' said Caterina, completely mastered by
her irritation; 'I have only done it because Lady Cheverel told me.'
The moment was come when Miss Assher could no longer suppress her long
latent desire to 'let Miss Sarti know the impropriety of her conduct.'
With the malicious anger that assumes the tone of compassion, she said,
--'Miss Sarti, I am really sorry for you, that you are not able to
control yourself better. This giving way to unwarrantable feelings is
lowering you--it is indeed.'
'What unwarrantable feelings?' said Caterina, letting her hands fall, and
fixing her great dark eyes steadily on Miss Assher. 'It is quite
unnecessary for me to say more. You must be conscious what I mean. Only
summon a sense of duty to your aid. You are paining Captain Wybrow
extremely by your want of self-control.'
'Did he tell you I pained him?'
'Yes, indeed, he did. He is very much hurt that you should behave to me
as if you had a sort of enmity towards me. He would like you to make a
friend of me. I assure you we both feel very kindly towards you, and are
sorry you should cherish such feelings.'
'He is very good,' said Caterina, bitterly. 'What feelings did he say I
cherished?'
This bitter tone increased Miss Assher's irritation. There was still a
lurking suspicion in her mind, though she would not admit it to herself,
that Captain Wybrow had told her a falsehood about his conduct and
feelings towards Caterina. It was this suspicion, more even than the
anger of the moment, which urged her to say something that would test the
truth of his statement. That she would be humiliating Caterina at the
same time, was only an additional temptation.
'These are things I do not like to talk of, Miss Sarti. I cannot even
understand how a woman can indulge a passion for a man who has never
given her the least ground for it, as Captain Wybrow assures me is the
case.'
'He told you that, did he?' said Caterina, in clear low tones, her lips
turning white as she rose from her chair.
'Yes, indeed, he did. He was bound to tell it me after your strange
behaviour.'
Caterina said nothing, but turned round suddenly and left the room.
See how she rushes noiselessly, like a pale meteor, along the passages
and up the gallery stairs! Those gleaming eyes, those bloodless lips,
that swift silent tread, make her look like the incarnation of a fierce
purpose, rather than a woman. The mid-day sun is shining on the armour in
the gallery, making mimic suns on bossed sword-hilts and the angles of
polished breast-plates. Yes, there are sharp weapons in the gallery.
There is a dagger in that cabinet; she knows it well. And as a dragon-fly
wheels in its flight to alight for an instant on a leaf, she darts to the
cabinet, takes out the dagger, and thrusts it into her pocket. In three
minutes more she is out, in hat and cloak, on the gravel-walk, hurrying
along towards the thick shades of the distant Rookery. She threads the
windings of the plantations, not feeling the golden leaves that rain upon
her, not feeling the earth beneath her feet. Her hand is in her pocket,
clenching the handle of the dagger, which she holds half out of its
sheath.
She has reached the Rookery, and is under the gloom of the interlacing
boughs. Her heart throbs as if it would burst her bosom--as if every next
leap must be its last. Wait, wait, O heart!--till she has done this one
deed. He will be there--he will be before her in a moment. He will come
towards her with that false smile, thinking she does not know his
baseness--she will plunge that dagger into his heart.
Poor child! poor child! she who used to cry to have the fish put back
into the water--who never willingly killed the smallest living
thing--dreams now, in the madness of her passion, that she can kill the
man whose very voice unnerves her.
But what is that lying among the dank leaves on the path three yards
before her?
Good God! it is he--lying motionless--his hat fallen off. He is ill,
then--he has fainted. Her hand lets go the dagger, and she rushes towards
him. His eyes are fixed; he does not see her. She sinks down on her
knees, takes the dear head in her arms, and kisses the cold forehead.
'Anthony, Anthony! speak to me--it is Tina--speak to me! O God, he is
dead!'
Chapter 14
'Yes, Maynard,' said Sir Christopher, chatting with Mr. Gilfil in the
library, 'it really is a remarkable thing that I never in my life laid a
plan, and failed to carry it out. I lay my plans well, and I never swerve
from them--that's it. A strong will is the only magic. And next to
striking out one's plans, the pleasantest thing in the world is to see
them well accomplished. This year, now, will be the happiest of my life,
all but the year '53, when I came into possession of the Manor, and
married Henrietta. The last touch is given to the old house; Anthony's
marriage--the thing I had nearest my heart--is settled to my entire
satisfaction; and by-and-by you will be buying a little wedding-ring for
Tina's finger. Don't shake your head in that forlorn way;--when I make
prophecies they generally come to pass. But there's a quarter after
twelve striking. I must be riding to the High Ash to meet Markham about
felling some timber. My old oaks will have to groan for this wedding,
but'--
The door burst open, and Caterina, ghastly and panting, her eyes
distended with terror, rushed in, threw her arms round Sir Christopher's
neck, and gasping out--'Anthony ... the Rookery ... dead ... in the
Rookery', fell fainting on the floor.
In a moment Sir Christopher was out of the room, and Mr. Gilfil was
bending to raise Caterina in his arms. As he lifted her from the ground
he felt something hard and heavy in her pocket. What could it be? The
weight of it would be enough to hurt her as she lay. He carried her to
the sofa, put his hand in her pocket, and drew forth the dagger.
Maynard shuddered. Did she mean to kill herself, then, or ... or ... a
horrible suspicion forced itself upon him. 'Dead--in the Rookery.' He
hated himself for the thought that prompted him to draw the dagger from
its sheath. No! there was no trace of blood, and he was ready to kiss the
good steel for its innocence. He thrust the weapon into his own pocket;
he would restore it as soon as possible to its well-known place in the
gallery. Yet, why had Caterina taken this dagger? What was it that had
happened in the Rookery? Was it only a delirious vision of hers?
He was afraid to ring--afraid to summon any one to Caterina's assistance.
What might she not say when she awoke from this fainting fit? She might
be raving. He could not leave her, and yet he felt as if he were guilty
for not following Sir Christopher to see what was the truth. It took but
a moment to think and feel all this, but that moment seemed such a long
agony to him that he began to reproach himself for letting it pass
without seeking some means of reviving Caterina. Happily the decanter of
water on Sir Christopher's table was untouched. He would at least try the
effect of throwing that water over her. She might revive without his
needing to call any one else. Meanwhile Sir Christopher was hurrying at
his utmost speed towards the Rookery; his face, so lately bright and
confident, now agitated by a vague dread. The deep alarmed bark of
Rupert, who ran by his side, had struck the ear of Mr. Bates, then on his
way homeward, as something unwonted, and, hastening in the direction of
the sound, he met the Baronet just as he was approaching the entrance of
the Rookery. Sir Christopher's look was enough. Mr. Bates said nothing,
but hurried along by his side, while Rupert dashed forward among the dead
leaves with his nose to the ground. They had scarcely lost sight of him a
minute when a change in the tone of his bark told them that he had found
something, and in another instant he was leaping back over one of the
large planted mounds. They turned aside to ascend the mound, Rupert
leading them; the tumultuous cawing of the rooks, the very rustling of
the leaves, as their feet plunged among them, falling like an evil omen
on the Baronet's ear.
They had reached the summit of the mound, and had begun to descend. Sir
Christopher saw something purple down on the path below among the yellow
leaves. Rupert was already beside it, but Sir Christopher could not move
faster. A tremor had taken hold of the firm limbs. Rupert came back and
licked the trembling hand, as if to say 'Courage!' and then was down
again snuffing the body. Yes, it was a body ... Anthony's body. There was
the white hand with its diamond-ring clutching the dark leaves. His eyes
were half open, but did not heed the gleam of sunlight that darted itself
directly on them from between the boughs.
Still he might only have fainted; it might only be a fit. Sir Christopher
knelt down, unfastened the cravat, unfastened the waistcoat, and laid his
hand on the heart. It might be syncope; it might not--it could not be
death. No! that thought must be kept far off.
'Go, Bates, get help; we'll carry him to your cottage. Send some one to
the house to tell Mr. Gilfil and Warren. Bid them send off for Doctor
Hart, and break it to my lady and Miss Assher that Anthony is ill.'
Mr. Bates hastened away, and the Baronet was left alone kneeling beside
the body. The young and supple limbs, the rounded cheeks, the delicate
ripe lips, the smooth white hands, were lying cold and rigid; and the
aged face was bending over them in silent anguish; the aged deep-veined
hands were seeking with tremulous inquiring touches for some symptom that
life was not irrevocably gone.
Rupert was there too, waiting and watching; licking first the dead and
then the living hands; then running off on Mr. Bates's track as if he
would follow and hasten his return, but in a moment turning back again,
unable to quit the scene of his master's sorrow.
Chapter 15
It is a wonderful moment, the first time we stand by one who has fainted,
and witness the fresh birth of consciousness spreading itself over the
blank features, like the rising sunlight on the alpine summits that lay
ghastly and dead under the leaden twilight. A slight shudder, and the
frost-bound eyes recover their liquid light; for an instant they show the
inward semi-consciousness of an infant's; then, with a little start, they
open wider and begin to look; the present is visible, but only as a
strange writing, and the interpreter Memory is not yet there.
Mr. Gilfil felt a trembling joy as this change passed over Caterina's
face. He bent over her, rubbing her chill hands, and looking at her with
tender pity as her dark eyes opened on him wonderingly. He thought there
might be some wine in the dining-room close by. He left the room, and
Caterina's eyes turned towards the window--towards Sir Christopher's
chair. There was the link at which the chain of consciousness had
snapped, and the events of the morning were beginning to recur dimly like
a half-remembered dream, when Maynard returned with some wine. He raised
her, and she drank it; but still she was silent, seeming lost in the
attempt to recover the past, when the door opened, and Mr. Warren
appeared with looks that announced terrible tidings. Mr. Gilfil, dreading
lest he should tell them in Caterina's presence, hurried towards him with
his finger on his lips, and drew him away into the dining-room on the
opposite side of the passage.
Caterina, revived by the stimulant, was now recovering the full
consciousness of the scene in the Rookery. Anthony was lying there dead;
she had left him to tell Sir Christopher; she must go and see what they
were doing with him; perhaps he was not really dead--only in a trance;
people did fall into trances sometimes. While Mr. Gilfil was telling
Warren how it would be best to break the news to Lady Cheverel and Miss
Assher, anxious himself to return to Caterina, the poor child had made
her way feebly to the great entrance-door, which stood open. Her strength
increased as she moved and breathed the fresh air, and with every
increase of strength came increased vividness of emotion, increased
yearning to be where her thought was--in the Rookery with Anthony. She
walked more and more swiftly, and at last, gathering the artificial
strength of passionate excitement, began to run.
But now she heard the tread of heavy steps, and under the yellow shade
near the wooden bridge she saw men slowly carrying something. Soon she
was face to face with them. Anthony was no longer in the Rookery: they
were carrying him stretched on a door, and there behind him was Sir
Christopher, with the firmly-set mouth, the deathly paleness, and the
concentrated expression of suffering in the eye, which mark the
suppressed grief of the strong man. The sight of this face, on which
Caterina had never before beheld the signs of anguish, caused a rush of
new feeling which for the moment submerged all the rest. She went gently
up to him, put her little hand in his, and walked in silence by his side.
Sir Christopher could not tell her to leave him, and so she went on with
that sad procession to Mr. Bates's cottage in the Mosslands, and sat
there in silence, waiting and watching to know if Anthony were really
dead. She had not yet missed the dagger from her pocket; she had not yet
even thought of it. At the sight of Anthony lying dead, her nature had
rebounded from its new bias of resentment and hatred to the old sweet
habit of love. The earliest and the longest has still the mastery over
us; and the only past that linked itself with those glazed unconscious
eyes, was the past when they beamed on her with tenderness. She forgot
the interval of wrong and jealousy and hatred--all his cruelty, and all
her thoughts of revenge--as the exile forgets the stormy passage that lay
between home and happiness and the dreary land in which he finds himself
desolate.
Chapter 16
Before night all hope was gone. Dr Hart had said it was death; Anthony's
body had been carried to the house, and every one there knew the calamity
that had fallen on them.
Caterina had been questioned by Dr Hart, and had answered briefly that
she found Anthony lying in the Rookery. That she should have been walking
there just at that time was not a coincidence to raise conjectures in any
one besides Mr. Gilfil. Except in answering this question, she had not
broken her silence. She sat mute in a corner of the gardener's kitchen
shaking her head when Maynard entreated her to return with him, and
apparently unable to think of anything but the possibility that Anthony
might revive, until she saw them carrying away the body to the house.
Then she followed by Sir Christopher's side again, so quietly, that even
Dr Hart did not object to her presence.
It was decided to lay the body in the library until after the coroner's
inquest to-morrow; and when Caterina saw the door finally closed, she
turned up the gallery stairs on her way to her own room, the place where
she felt at home with her sorrows. It was the first time she had been in
the gallery since that terrible moment in the morning, and now the spot
and the objects around began to reawaken her half-stunned memory. The
armour was no longer glittering in the sunlight, but there it hung dead
and sombre above the cabinet from which she had taken the dagger. Yes!
now it all came back to her--all the wretchedness and all the sin. But
where was the dagger now? She felt in her pocket; it was not there. Could
it have been her fancy--all that about the dagger? She looked in the
cabinet; it was not there. Alas! no; it could not have been her fancy,
and she _was_ guilty of that wickedness. But where could the dagger be
now? Could it have fallen out of her pocket? She heard steps ascending
the stairs, and hurried on to her room, where, kneeling by the bed, and
burying her face to shut out the hateful light, she tried to recall every
feeling and incident of the morning.
It all came back; everything Anthony had done, and everything she had
felt for the last month--for many months--ever since that June evening
when he had last spoken to her in the gallery. She looked back on her
storms of passion, her jealousy and hatred of Miss Assher, her thoughts
of revenge on Anthony. O how wicked she had been! It was she who had been
sinning; it was she who had driven him to do and say those things that
had made her so angry. And if he had wronged her, what had she been on
the verge of doing to him? She was too wicked ever to be pardoned. She
would like to confess how wicked she had been, that they might punish
her; she would like to humble herself to the dust before every
one--before Miss Assher even. Sir Christopher would send her away--would
never see her again, if he knew all; and she would be happier to be
punished and frowned on, than to be treated tenderly while she had that
guilty secret in her breast. But then, if Sir Christopher were to know
all, it would add to his sorrow, and make him more wretched than ever.
No! she could not confess it--she should have to tell about Anthony. But
she could not stay at the Manor; she must go away; she could not bear Sir
Christopher's eye, could not bear the sight of all these things that
reminded her of Anthony and of her sin. Perhaps she should die soon: she
felt very feeble; there could not be much life in her. She would go away
and live humbly, and pray to God to pardon her, and let her die.
The poor child never thought of suicide. No sooner was the storm of anger
passed than the tenderness and timidity of her nature returned, and she
could do nothing but love and mourn. Her inexperience prevented her from
imagining the consequences of her disappearance from the Manor; she
foresaw none of the terrible details of alarm and distress and search
that must ensue. 'They will think I am dead,' she said to herself, 'and
by-and-by they will forget me, and Maynard will get happy again, and love
some one else.'
She was roused from her absorption by a knock at the door. Mrs. Bellamy
was there. She had come by Mr. Gilfil's request to see how Miss Sarti
was, and to bring her some food and wine.
'You look sadly, my dear,' said the old housekeeper, 'an' you're all of a
quake wi' cold. Get you to bed, now do. Martha shall come an' warm it,
an' light your fire. See now, here's some nice arrowroot, wi' a drop o'
wine in it. Take that, an' it'll warm you. I must go down again, for I
can't awhile to stay. There's so many things to see to; an' Miss Assher's
in hysterics constant, an' her maid's ill i' bed--a poor creachy
thing--an' Mrs. Sharp's wanted every minute. But I'll send Martha up, an'
do you get ready to go to bed, there's a dear child, an' take care o'
yourself.'
'Thank you, dear mammy,' said Tina, kissing the little old woman's
wrinkled cheek; 'I shall eat the arrowroot, and don't trouble about me
any more to-night. I shall do very well when Martha has lighted my fire.
Tell Mr. Gilfil I'm better. I shall go to bed by-and-by, so don't you
come up again, because you may only disturb me.'
'Well, well, take care o' yourself, there's a good child, an' God send
you may sleep.'
Caterina took the arrowroot quite eagerly, while Martha was lighting her
fire. She wanted to get strength for her journey, and she kept the plate
of biscuits by her that she might put some in her pocket. Her whole mind
was now bent on going away from the Manor, and she was thinking of all
the ways and means her little life's experience could suggest.
It was dusk now; she must wait till early dawn, for she was too timid to
go away in the dark, but she must make her escape before any one was up
in the house. There would be people watching Anthony in the library, but
she could make her way out of a small door leading into the garden,
against the drawing-room on the other side of the house.
She laid her cloak, bonnet, and veil ready; then she lighted a candle,
opened her desk, and took out the broken portrait wrapped in paper. She
folded it again in two little notes of Anthony's, written in pencil, and
placed it in her bosom. There was the little china box, too--Dorcas's
present, the pearl ear-rings, and a silk purse, with fifteen
seven-shilling pieces in it, the presents Sir Christopher had made her on
her birthday, ever since she had been at the Manor. Should she take the
earrings and the seven-shilling pieces? She could not bear to part with
them; it seemed as if they had some of Sir Christopher's love in them.
She would like them to be buried with her. She fastened the little round
earrings in her ears, and put the purse with Dorcas's box in her pocket.
She had another purse there, and she took it out to count her money, for
she would never spend her seven-shilling pieces. She had a guinea and
eight shillings; that would be plenty.
So now she sat down to wait for the morning, afraid to lay herself on the
bed lest she should sleep too long. If she could but see Anthony once
more and kiss his cold forehead! But that could not be. She did not
deserve it. She must go away from him, away from Sir Christopher, and
Lady Cheverel, and Maynard, and everybody who had been kind to her, and
thought her good while she was so wicked.
Chapter 17
Some of Mrs. Sharp's earliest thoughts, the next morning, were given to
Caterina whom she had not been able to visit the evening before, and
whom, from a nearly equal mixture of affection and self-importance, she
did not at all like resigning to Mrs. Bellamy's care. At half-past eight
o'clock she went up to Tina's room, bent on benevolent dictation as to
doses and diet and lying in bed. But on opening the door she found the
bed smooth and empty. Evidently it had not been slept in. What could this
mean? Had she sat up all night, and was she gone out to walk? The poor
thing's head might be touched by what had happened yesterday; it was such
a shock--finding Captain Wybrow in that way; she was perhaps gone out of
her mind. Mrs. Sharp looked anxiously in the place where Tina kept her
hat and cloak; they were not there, so that she had had at least the
presence of mind to put them on. Still the good woman felt greatly
alarmed, and hastened away to tell Mr. Gilfil, who, she knew, was in his
study.
'Mr. Gilfil,' she said, as soon as she had closed the door behind her,
'my mind misgives me dreadful about Miss Sarti.'
'What is it?' said poor Maynard, with a horrible fear that Caterina had
betrayed something about the dagger.
'She's not in her room, an' her bed's not been slept in this night, an'
her hat an' cloak's gone.'
For a minute or two Mr. Gilfil was unable to speak. He felt sure the
worst had come: Caterina had destroyed herself. The strong man suddenly
looked so ill and helpless that Mrs. Sharp began to be frightened at the
effect of her abruptness.
'O, sir, I'm grieved to my heart to shock you so; but I didn't know who
else to go to.'
'No, no, you were quite right.'
He gathered some strength from his very despair. It was all over, and he
had nothing now to do but to suffer and to help the suffering. He went on
in a firmer voice--'Be sure not to breathe a word about it to any one. We
must not alarm Lady Cheverel and Sir Christopher. Miss Sarti may be only
walking in the garden. She was terribly excited by what she saw
yesterday, and perhaps was unable to lie down from restlessness. Just go
quietly through the empty rooms, and see whether she is in the house. I
will go and look for her in the grounds.'
He went down, and, to avoid giving any alarm in the house, walked at once
towards the Mosslands in search of Mr. Bates, whom he met returning from
his breakfast. To the gardener he confided his fear about Caterina,
assigning as a reason for this fear the probability that the shock she
had undergone yesterday had unhinged her mind, and begging him to send
men in search of her through the gardens and park, and inquire if she had
been seen at the lodges; and if she were not found or heard of in this
way, to lose no time in dragging the waters round the Manor.
'God forbid it should be so, Bates, but we shall be the easier for having
searched everywhere.'
'Troost to mae, troost to mae, Mr. Gilfil. Eh! but I'd ha' worked for
day-wage all the rest o' my life, rether than anythin' should ha'
happened to her.'
The good gardener, in deep distress, strode away to the stables that he
might send the grooms on horseback through the park.
Mr. Gilfil's next thought was to search the Rookery: she might be
haunting the scene of Captain Wybrow's death. He went hastily over every
mound, looked round every large tree, and followed every winding of the
walks. In reality he had little hope of finding her there; but the bare
possibility fenced off for a time the fatal conviction that Caterina's
body would be found in the water. When the Rookery had been searched in
vain, he walked fast to the border of the little stream that bounded one
side of the grounds. The stream was almost everywhere hidden among trees,
and there was one place where it was broader and deeper than
elsewhere--she would be more likely to come to that spot than to the
pool. He hurried along with strained eyes, his imagination continually
creating what he dreaded to see.
There is something white behind that overhanging bough. His knees tremble
under him. He seems to see part of her dress caught on a branch, and her
dear dead face upturned. O God, give strength to thy creature, on whom
thou hast laid this great agony! He is nearly up to the bough, and the
white object is moving. It is a waterfowl, that spreads its wings and
flies away screaming. He hardly knows whether it is a relief or a
disappointment that she is not there. The conviction that she is dead
presses its cold weight upon him none the less heavily.
As he reached the great pool in front of the Manor, he saw Mr. Bates,
with a group of men already there, preparing for the dreadful search
which could only displace his vague despair by a definite horror; for the
gardener, in his restless anxiety, had been unable to defer this until
other means of search had proved vain. The pool was not now laughing with
sparkles among the water-lilies. It looked black and cruel under the
sombre sky, as if its cold depths held relentlessly all the murdered hope
and joy of Maynard Gilfil's life.
Thoughts of the sad consequences for others as well as himself were
crowding on his mind. The blinds and shutters were all closed in front of
the Manor, and it was not likely that Sir Christopher would be aware of
anything that was passing outside; but Mr. Gilfil felt that Caterina's
disappearance could not long be concealed from him. The coroner's inquest
would be held shortly; she would be inquired for, and then it would be
inevitable that the Baronet should know all.
Chapter 18
At twelve o'clock, when all search and inquiry had been in vain, and the
coroner was expected every moment, Mr. Gilfil could no longer defer the
hard duty of revealing this fresh calamity to Sir Christopher, who must
otherwise have it discovered to him abruptly.
The Baronet was seated in his dressing-room, where the dark
window-curtains were drawn so as to admit only a sombre light. It was the
first time Mr. Gilfil had had an interview with him this morning, and he
was struck to see how a single day and night of grief had aged the fine
old man. The lines in his brow and about his mouth were deepened; his
complexion looked dull and withered; there was a swollen ridge under his
eyes; and the eyes themselves, which used to cast so keen a glance on the
present, had the vacant expression which tells that vision is no longer a
sense, but a memory.
He held out his hand to Maynard, who pressed it, and sat down beside him
in silence. Sir Christopher's heart began to swell at this unspoken
sympathy; the tears would rise, would roll in great drops down his
cheeks. The first tears he had shed since boyhood were for Anthony.
Maynard felt as if his tongue were glued to the roof of his mouth. He
could not speak first: he must wait until Sir Christopher said something
which might lead on to the cruel words that must be spoken.
At last the Baronet mastered himself enough to say, 'I'm very weak,
Maynard--God help me! I didn't think anything would unman me in this way;
but I'd built everything on that lad. Perhaps I've been wrong in not
forgiving my sister. She lost one of _her_ sons a little while ago. I've
been too proud and obstinate.'
'We can hardly learn humility and tenderness enough except by suffering,'
said Maynard; 'and God sees we are in need of suffering, for it is
falling more and more heavily on us. We have a new trouble this morning.'
'Tina?' said Sir Christopher, looking up anxiously--'is Tina ill?'
'I am in dreadful uncertainty about her. She was very much agitated
yesterday--and with her delicate health--I am afraid to think what turn
the agitation may have taken.'
'Is she delirious, poor dear little one?'
'God only knows how she is. We are unable to find her. When Mrs. Sharp
went up to her room this morning, it was empty. She had not been in bed.
Her hat and cloak were gone. I have had search made for her
everywhere--in the house and garden, in the park, and--in the water. No
one has seen her since Martha went up to light her fire at seven o'clock
in the evening.'
While Mr. Gilfil was speaking, Sir Christopher's eyes, which were eagerly
turned on him, recovered some of their old keenness, and some sudden
painful emotion, as at a new thought, flitted rapidly across his already
agitated face, like the shadow of a dark cloud over the waves. When the
pause came, he laid his hand on Mr. Gilfil's arm, and said in a lower
voice,--'Maynard, did that poor thing love Anthony?'
'She did.'
Maynard hesitated after these words, struggling between his reluctance to
inflict a yet deeper wound on Sir Christopher, and his determination that
no injustice should be done to Caterina. Sir Christopher's eyes were
still fixed on him in solemn inquiry, and his own sunk towards the
ground, while he tried to find the words that would tell the truth least
cruelly.
'You must not have any wrong thoughts about Tina,' he said at length. 'I
must tell you now, for her sake, what nothing but this should ever have
caused to pass my lips. Captain Wybrow won her affections by attentions
which, in his position, he was bound not to show her. Before his marriage
was talked of, he had behaved to her like a lover.'
Sir Christopher relaxed his hold of Maynard's arm, and looked away from
him. He was silent for some minutes, evidently attempting to master
himself, so as to be able to speak calmly.
'I must see Henrietta immediately,' he said at last, with something of
his old sharp decision; 'she must know all; but we must keep it from
every one else as far as possible. My dear boy,' he continued in a kinder
tone, 'the heaviest burthen has fallen on you. But we may find her yet;
we must not despair: there has not been time enough for us to be certain.
Poor dear little one! God help me! I thought I saw everything, and was
stone-blind all the while.'
Chapter 19
The sad slow week was gone by at last. At the coroner's inquest a verdict
of sudden death had been pronounced. Dr Hart, acquainted with Captain
Wybrow's previous state of health, had given his opinion that death had
been imminent from long-established disease of the heart, though it had
probably been accelerated by some unusual emotion. Miss Assher was the
only person who positively knew the motive that had led Captain Wybrow to
the Rookery; but she had not mentioned Caterina's name, and all painful
details or inquiries were studiously kept from her. Mr. Gilfil and Sir
Christopher, however, knew enough to conjecture that the fatal agitation
was due to an appointed meeting with Caterina.
All search and inquiry after her had been fruitless, and were the more
likely to be so because they were carried on under the prepossession that
she had committed suicide. No one noticed the absence of the trifles she
had taken from her desk; no one knew of the likeness, or that she had
hoarded her seven-shilling pieces, and it was not remarkable that she
should have happened to be wearing the pearl earrings. She had left the
house, they thought, taking nothing with her; it seemed impossible she
could have gone far; and she must have been in a state of mental
excitement, that made it too probable she had only gone to seek relief in
death. The same places within three or four miles of the Manor were
searched again and again--every pond, every ditch in the neighbourhood
was examined.
Sometimes Maynard thought that death might have come on unsought, from
cold and exhaustion; and not a day passed but he wandered through the
neighbouring woods, turning up the heaps of dead leaves, as if it were
possible her dear body could be hidden there. Then another horrible
thought recurred, and before each night came he had been again through
all the uninhabited rooms of the house, to satisfy himself once more that
she was not hidden behind some cabinet, or door, or curtain--that he
should not find her there with madness in her eyes, looking and looking,
and yet not seeing him.
But at last those five long days and nights were at an end, the funeral
was over, and the carriages were returning through the park. When they
had set out, a heavy rain was falling; but now the clouds were breaking
up, and a gleam of sunshine was sparkling among the dripping boughs under
which they were passing. This gleam fell upon a man on horseback who was
jogging slowly along, and whom Mr. Gilfil recognized, in spite of
diminished rotundity, as Daniel Knott, the coachman who had married the
rosy-cheeked Dorcas ten years before.
Every new incident suggested the same thought to Mr. Gilfil; and his eye
no sooner fell on Knott than he said to himself 'Can he be come to tell
us anything about Caterina?' Then he remembered that Caterina had been
very fond of Dorcas, and that she always had some present ready to send
her when Knott paid an occasional visit to the Manor. Could Tina have
gone to Dorcas? But his heart sank again as he thought, very likely Knott
had only come because he had heard of Captain Wybrow's death, and wanted
to know how his old master had borne the blow.
As soon as the carriage reached the house, he went up to his study and
walked about nervously, longing, but afraid, to go down and speak to
Knott, lest his faint hope should be dissipated. Any one looking at that
face, usually so full of calm goodwill, would have seen that the last
week's suffering had left deep traces. By day he had been riding or
wandering incessantly, either searching for Caterina himself, or
directing inquiries to be made by others. By night he had not known
sleep--only intermittent dozing, in which he seemed to be finding
Caterina dead, and woke up with a start from this unreal agony to the
real anguish of believing that he should see her no more. The clear grey
eyes looked sunken and restless, the full careless lips had a strange
tension about them, and the brow, formerly so smooth and open, was
contracted as if with pain. He had not lost the object of a few months'
passion; he had lost the being who was bound up with his power of loving,
as the brook we played by or the flowers we gathered in childhood are
bound up with our sense of beauty. Love meant nothing for him but to love
Caterina. For years, the thought of her had been present in everything,
like the air and the light; and now she was gone, it seemed as if all
pleasure had lost its vehicle: the sky, the earth, the daily ride, the
daily talk might be there, but the loveliness and the joy that were in
them had gone for ever.
Presently, as he still paced backwards and forwards, he heard steps along
the corridor, and there was a knock at his door. His voice trembled as he
said 'Come in', and the rush of renewed hope was hardly distinguishable
from pain when he saw Warren enter with Daniel Knott behind him.
'Knott is come, sir, with news of Miss Sarti. I thought it best to bring
him to you first.'
Mr. Gilfil could not help going up to the old coachman and wringing his
hand; but he was unable to speak, and only motioned to him to take a
chair, while Warren left the room. He hung upon Daniel's moon-face, and
listened to his small piping voice, with the same solemn yearning
expectation with which he would have given ear to the most awful
messenger from the land of shades.
'It war Dorkis, sir, would hev me come; but we knowed nothin' o' what's
happened at the Manor. She's frightened out on her wits about Miss Sarti,
an' she would hev me saddle Blackbird this mornin', an' leave the
ploughin', to come an' let Sir Christifer an' my lady know. P'raps you've
heared, sir, we don't keep the Cross Keys at Sloppeter now; a uncle o'
mine died three 'ear ago, an' left me a leggicy. He was bailiff to Squire
Ramble, as hed them there big farms on his hans; an' so we took a little
farm o' forty acres or thereabouts, becos Dorkis didn't like the public
when she got moithered wi' children. As pritty a place as iver you see,
sir, wi' water at the back convenent for the cattle.'
'For God's sake,' said Maynard, 'tell me what it is about Miss Sarti.
Don't stay to tell me anything else now.'
'Well, sir,' said Knott, rather frightened by the parson's vehemence,
'she come t' our house i' the carrier's cart o' Wednesday, when it was
welly nine o'clock at night; and Dorkis run out, for she heared the cart
stop, an' Miss Sarti throwed her arms roun' Dorkis's neck an' says, "Tek
me in, Dorkis, tek me in," an' went off into a swoond, like. An' Dorkis
calls out to me,--"Dannel," she calls--an' I run out and carried the
young miss in, an' she come roun' arter a hit, an' opened her eyes, and
Dorkis got her to drink a spoonful o' rum-an'-water--we've got some
capital rum as we brought from the Cross Keys, and Dorkis won't let
nobody drink it. She says she keeps it for sickness; but for my part, I
think it's a pity to drink good rum when your mouth's out o' taste; you
may just as well hev doctor's stuff. However, Dorkis got her to bed, an'
there she's lay iver sin', stoopid like, an' niver speaks, an' on'y teks
little bits an' sups when Dorkis coaxes her. An' we begun to be
frightened, and couldn't think what had made her come away from the
Manor, and Dorkis was afeared there was summat wrong. So this mornin' she
could hold no longer, an' would hev no nay but I must come an' see; an'
so I've rode twenty mile upo' Blackbird, as thinks all the while he's
a-ploughin', an' turns sharp roun', every thirty yards, as if he was at
the end of a furrow. I've hed a sore time wi' him, I can tell you, sir.'
'God bless you, Knott, for coming!' said Mr. Gilfil, wringing the old
coachman's hand again. 'Now go down and have something and rest yourself.
You will stay here to-night, and by-and-by I shall come to you to learn
the nearest way to your house. I shall get ready to ride there
immediately, when I have spoken to Sir Christopher.'
In an hour from that time Mr. Gilfil was galloping on a stout mare
towards the little muddy village of Callam, five miles beyond Sloppeter.
Once more he saw some gladness in the afternoon sunlight; once more it
was a pleasure to see the hedgerow trees flying past him, and to be
conscious of a 'good seat' while his black Kitty bounded beneath him, and
the air whistled to the rhythm of her pace. Caterina was not dead; he had
found her; his love and tenderness and long-suffering seemed so strong,
they must recall her to life and happiness.
After that week of despair, the rebound was so violent that it carried
his hopes at once as far as the utmost mark they had ever reached.
Caterina would come to love him at last; she would be his. They had been
carried through all that dark and weary way that she might know the depth
of his love. How he would cherish her--his little bird with the timid
bright eye, and the sweet throat that trembled with love and music! She
would nestle against him, and the poor little breast which had been so
ruffled and bruised should be safe for evermore. In the love of a brave
and faithful man there is always a strain of maternal tenderness; he
gives out again those beams of protecting fondness which were shed on him
as he lay on his mother's knee. It was twilight as he entered the village
of Callam, and, asking a homeward-bound labourer the way to Daniel
Knott's, learned that it was by the church, which showed its stumpy
ivy-clad spire on a slight elevation of ground; a useful addition to the
means of identifying that desirable homestead afforded by Daniel's
description--'the prittiest place iver you see'--though a small cow-yard
full of excellent manure, and leading right up to the door, without any
frivolous interruption from garden or railing, might perhaps have been
enough to make that description unmistakably specific.
Mr. Gilfil had no sooner reached the gate leading into the cow-yard, than
he was descried by a flaxen-haired lad of nine, prematurely invested with
the _toga virilis_, or smock-frock, who ran forward to let in the unusual
visitor. In a moment Dorcas was at the door, the roses on her cheeks
apparently all the redder for the three pair of cheeks which formed a
group round her, and for the very fat baby who stared in her arms, and
sucked a long crust with calm relish.
'Is it Mr. Gilfil, sir?' said Dorcas, curtsying low as he made his way
through the damp straw, after tying up his horse.
'Yes, Dorcas; I'm grown out of your knowledge. How is Miss Sarti?'
'Just for all the world the same, sir, as I suppose Dannel's told you;
for I reckon you've come from the Manor, though you're come uncommon
quick, to be sure.'
'Yes, he got to the Manor about one o'clock, and I set off as soon as I
could. She's not worse, is she?'
'No change, sir, for better or wuss. Will you please to walk in, sir? She
lies there takin' no notice o' nothin', no more nor a baby as is on'y a
week old, an' looks at me as blank as if she didn't know me. O what can
it be, Mr. Gilfil? How come she to leave the Manor? How's his honour an'
my lady?'
'In great trouble, Dorcas. Captain Wybrow, Sir Christopher's nephew, you
know, has died suddenly. Miss Sarti found him lying dead, and I think the
shock has affected her mind.'
'Eh, dear! that fine young gentlemen as was to be th' heir, as Dannel
told me about. I remember seein' him when he was a little un, a-visitin'
at the Manor. Well-a-day, what a grief to his honour and my lady. But
that poor Miss Tina--an' she found him a-lyin' dead? O dear, O dear!'
Dorcas had led the way into the best kitchen, as charming a room as best
kitchens used to be in farmhouses which had no parlours--the fire
reflected in a bright row of pewter plates and dishes; the sand-scoured
deal tables so clean you longed to stroke them; the salt-coffer in one
chimney-corner, and a three-cornered chair in the other, the walls behind
handsomely tapestried with flitches of bacon, and the ceiling ornamented
with pendent hams.
'Sit ye down, sir--do,' said Dorcas, moving the three-cornered chair,
'an' let me get you somethin' after your long journey. Here, Becky, come
an' tek the baby.'
Becky, a red-armed damsel, emerged from the adjoining back-kitchen, and
possessed herself of baby, whose feelings or fat made him conveniently
apathetic under the transference.
'What'll you please to tek, sir, as I can give you? I'll get you a rasher
o' bacon i' no time, an' I've got some tea, or be-like you'd tek a glass
o' rum-an'-water. I know we've got nothin' as you're used t' eat and
drink; but such as I hev, sir, I shall be proud to give you.'
'Thank you, Dorcas; I can't eat or drink anything. I'm not hungry or
tired. Let us talk about Tina. Has she spoken at all?'
'Niver since the fust words. "Dear Dorkis," says she, "tek me in;" an'
then went off into a faint, an' not a word has she spoken since. I get
her t' eat little bits an' sups o' things, but she teks no notice o'
nothin'. I've took up Bessie wi' me now an' then'--here Dorcas lifted to
her lap a curly-headed little girl of three, who was twisting a corner of
her mother's apron, and opening round eyes at the gentleman--'folks'll
tek notice o' children sometimes when they won't o' nothin' else. An' we
gathered the autumn crocuses out o' th' orchard, and Bessie carried 'em
up in her hand, an' put 'em on the bed. I knowed how fond Miss Tina was
o' flowers an' them things, when she was a little un. But she looked at
Bessie an' the flowers just the same as if she didn't see 'em. It cuts me
to th' heart to look at them eyes o' hers; I think they're bigger nor
iver, an' they look like my poor baby's as died, when it got so thin--O
dear, its little hands you could see thro' 'em. But I've great hopes if
she was to see you, sir, as come from the Manor, it might bring back her
mind, like.'
Maynard had that hope too, but he felt cold mists of fear gathering round
him after the few bright warm hours of joyful confidence which had passed
since he first heard that Caterina was alive. The thought _would_ urge
itself upon him that her mind and body might never recover the strain
that had been put upon them--that her delicate thread of life had already
nearly spun itself out.
'Go now, Dorcas, and see how she is, but don't say anything about my
being here. Perhaps it would be better for me to wait till daylight
before I see her, and yet it would be very hard to pass another night in
this way.'
Dorcas set down little Bessie, and went away. The three other children,
including young Daniel in his smock-frock, were standing opposite to Mr.
Gilfil, watching him still more shyly now they were without their
mother's countenance. He drew little Bessie towards him, and set her on
his knee. She shook her yellow curls out of her eyes, and looked up at
him as she said,--'Zoo tome to tee ze yady? Zoo mek her peak? What zoo do
to her? Tiss her?'
'Do you like to be kissed, Bessie?'
'Det,' said Bessie, immediately ducking down her head very low, in
resistance to the expected rejoinder.
'We've got two pups,' said young Daniel, emboldened by observing the
gentleman's amenities towards Bessie. 'Shall I show 'em yer? One's got
white spots.'
'Yes, let me see them.'
Daniel ran out, and presently reappeared with two blind puppies, eagerly
followed by the mother, affectionate though mongrel, and an exciting
scene was beginning when Dorcas returned and said,--'There's niver any
difference in her hardly. I think you needn't wait, sir. She lies very
still, as she al'ys does. I've put two candle i' the room, so as she may
see you well. You'll please t' excuse the room, sir, an' the cap as she
has on; it's one o' mine.'
Mr. Gilfil nodded silently, and rose to follow her up-stairs. They turned
in at the first door, their footsteps making little noise on the plaster
floor. The red-checkered linen curtains were drawn at the head of the
bed, and Dorcas had placed the candles on this side of the room, so that
the light might not fall oppressively on Caterina's eyes. When she had
opened the door, Dorcas whispered, 'I'd better leave you, sir, I think?'
Mr. Gilfil motioned assent, and advanced beyond the curtain. Caterina lay
with her eyes turned the other way, and seemed unconscious that any one
had entered. Her eyes, as Dorcas had said, looked larger than ever,
perhaps because her face was thinner and paler, and her hair quite
gathered away under one of Dorcas's thick caps. The small hands, too,
that lay listlessly on the outside of the bed-clothes were thinner than
ever. She looked younger than she really was, and any one seeing the tiny
face and hands for the first time might have thought they belonged to a
little girl of twelve, who was being taken away from coming instead of
past sorrow.
When Mr. Gilfil advanced and stood opposite to her, the light fell full
upon his face. A slight startled expression came over Caterina's eyes;
she looked at him earnestly for a few moments, then lifted up her hand as
if to beckon him to stoop down towards her, and whispered 'Maynard!'
He seated himself on the bed, and stooped down towards her. She whispered
again--'Maynard, did you see the dagger?'
He followed his first impulse in answering her, and it was a wise one.
'Yes,' he whispered, 'I found it in your pocket, and put it back again in
the cabinet.'
He took her hand in his and held it gently, awaiting what she would say
next. His heart swelled so with thankfulness that she had recognized him,
he could hardly repress a sob. Gradually her eyes became softer and less
intense in their gaze. The tears were slowly gathering, and presently
some large hot drops rolled down her cheek. Then the flood-gates were
opened, and the heart-easing stream gushed forth; deep sobs came; and for
nearly an hour she lay without speaking, while the heavy icy pressure
that withheld her misery from utterance was thus melting away. How
precious these tears were to Maynard, who day after day had been
shuddering at the continually recurring image of Tina with the dry
scorching stare of insanity!
By degrees the sobs subsided, she began to breathe calmly, and lay quiet
with her eyes shut. Patiently Maynard sat, not heeding the flight of the
hours, not heeding the old clock that ticked loudly on the landing. But
when it was nearly ten, Dorcas, impatiently anxious to know the result of
Mr. Gilfil's appearance, could not help stepping in on tip-toe. Without
moving, he whispered in her ear to supply him with candles, see that the
cow-boy had shaken down his mare, and go to bed--he would watch with
Caterina--a great change had come over her.
Before long, Tina's lips began to move. 'Maynard,' she whispered again.
He leaned towards her, and she went on.
'You know how wicked I am, then? You know what I meant to do with the
dagger?'
'Did you mean to kill yourself, Tina?'
She shook her head slowly, and then was silent for a long while. At last,
looking at him with solemn eyes, she whispered, 'To kill _him_.'
'Tina, my loved one, you would never have done it. God saw your whole
heart; He knows you would never harm a living thing. He watches over His
children, and will not let them do things they would pray with their
whole hearts not to do. It was the angry thought of a moment, and He
forgives you.'
She sank into silence again till it was nearly midnight. The weary
enfeebled spirit seemed to be making its slow way with difficulty through
the windings of thought; and when she began to whisper again, it was in
reply to Maynard's words.
'But I had had such wicked feelings for a long while. I was so angry, and
I hated Miss Assher so, and I didn't care what came to anybody, because I
was so miserable myself. I was full of bad passions. No one else was ever
so wicked.'
'Yes, Tina, many are just as wicked. I often have very wicked feelings,
and am tempted to do wrong things; but then my body is stronger than
yours, and I can hide my feelings and resist them better. They do not
master me so. You have seen the little birds when they are very young and
just begin to fly, how all their feathers are ruffled when they are
frightened or angry; they have no power over themselves left, and might
fall into a pit from mere fright. You were like one of those little
birds. Your sorrow and suffering had taken such hold of you, you hardly
knew what you did.'
He would not speak long. Lest he should tire her, and oppress her with
too many thoughts. Long pauses seemed needful for her before she could
concentrate her feelings in short words.
'But when I meant to do it,' was the next thing she whispered, 'it was as
bad as if I had done it.'
'No, my Tina,' answered Maynard slowly, waiting a little between each
sentence; 'we mean to do wicked things that we never could do, just as we
mean to do good or clever things that we never could do. Our thoughts are
often worse than we are, just as they are often better than we are. And
God sees us as we are altogether, not in separate feelings or actions, as
our fellow-men see us. We are always doing each other injustice, and
thinking better or worse of each other than we deserve, because we only
hear and see separate words and actions. We don't see each other's whole
nature. But God sees that you could not have committed that crime.'
Caterina shook her head slowly, and was silent. After a while,--'I don't
know,' she said; 'I seemed to see him coming towards me, just as he would
really have looked, and I meant--I meant to do it.'
'But when you saw him--tell me how it was, Tina?'
'I saw him lying on the ground and thought he was ill. I don't know how
it was then; I forgot everything. I knelt down and spoke to him, and--and
he took no notice of me, and his eyes were fixed, and I began to think he
was dead.'
'And you have never felt angry since?'
'O no, no; it is I who have been more wicked than any one; it is I who
have been wrong all through.'
'No, Tina; the fault has not all been yours; _he_ was wrong; he gave you
provocation. And wrong makes wrong. When people use us ill, we can hardly
help having ill feeling towards them. But that second wrong is more
excusable. I am more sinful than you, Tina; I have often had very bad
feelings towards Captain Wybrow; and if he had provoked me as he did you,
I should perhaps have done something more wicked.'
'O, it was not so wrong in him; he didn't know how he hurt me. How was it
likely he could love me as I loved him? And how could he marry a poor
little thing like me?'
Maynard made no reply to this, and there was again silence, till Tina
said, 'Then I was so deceitful; they didn't know how wicked I was.
Padroncello didn't know; his good little monkey he used to call me; and
if he had known, O how naughty he would have thought me!'
'My Tina, we have all our secret sins; and if we knew ourselves, we
should not judge each other harshly. Sir Christopher himself has felt,
since this trouble came upon him, that he has been too severe and
obstinate.'
In this way--in these broken confessions and answering words of
comfort--the hours wore on, from the deep black night to the chill early
twilight, and from early twilight to the first yellow streak of morning
parting the purple cloud. Mr. Gilfil felt as if in the long hours of that
night the bond that united his love for ever and alone to Caterina had
acquired fresh strength and sanctity. It is so with the human relations
that rest on the deep emotional sympathy of affection: every new day and
night of joy or sorrow is a new ground, a new consecration, for the love
that is nourished by memories as well as hopes--the love to which
perpetual repetition is not a weariness but a want, and to which a
separated joy is the beginning of pain.
The cocks began to crow; the gate swung; there was a tramp of footsteps
in the yard, and Mr. Gilfil heard Dorcas stirring. These sounds seemed to
affect Caterina, for she looked anxiously at him and said, 'Maynard, are
you going away?'
'No, I shall stay here at Callam until you are better, and then you will
go away too.'
'Never to the Manor again, O no! I shall live poorly, and get my own
bread.'
'Well, dearest, you shall do what you would like best. But I wish you
could go to sleep now. Try to rest quietly, and by-and-by you will
perhaps sit up a little. God has kept you in life in spite of all this
sorrow; it will be sinful not to try and make the best of His gift. Dear
Tina, you will try;--and little Bessie brought you some crocuses once,
you didn't notice the poor little thing; but you _will_ notice her when
she comes again, will you not?'
'I will try,' whispered Tina humbly, and then closed her eyes.
By the time the sun was above the horizon, scattering the clouds, and
shining with pleasant morning warmth through the little leaded window,
Caterina was asleep. Maynard gently loosed the tiny hand, cheered Dorcas
with the good news, and made his way to the village inn, with a thankful
heart that Tina had been so far herself again. Evidently the sight of him
had blended naturally with the memories in which her mind was absorbed,
and she had been led on to an unburthening of herself that might be the
beginning of a complete restoration. But her body was so enfeebled--her
soul so bruised--that the utmost tenderness and care would be necessary.
The next thing to be done was to send tidings to Sir Christopher and Lady
Cheverel; then to write and summon his sister, under whose care he had
determined to place Caterina. The Manor, even if she had been wishing to
return thither, would, he knew, be the most undesirable home for her at
present: every scene, every object there, was associated with still
unallayed anguish. If she were domesticated for a time with his mild
gentle sister, who had a peaceful home and a prattling little boy, Tina
might attach herself anew to life, and recover, partly at least, the
shock that had been given to her constitution. When he had written his
letters and taken a hasty breakfast, he was soon in his saddle again, on
his way to Sloppeter, where he would post them, and seek out a medical
man, to whom he might confide the moral causes of Caterina's enfeebled
condition.
Chapter 20
In less than a week from that time, Caterina was persuaded to travel in a
comfortable carriage, under the care of Mr. Gilfil and his sister, Mrs.
Heron, whose soft blue eyes and mild manners were very soothing to the
poor bruised child--the more so as they had an air of sisterly equality
which was quite new to her. Under Lady Cheverel's uncaressing
authoritative goodwill, Tina had always retained a certain constraint and
awe; and there was a sweetness before unknown in having a young and
gentle woman, like an elder sister, bending over her caressingly, and
speaking in low loving tones.
Maynard was almost angry with himself for feeling happy while Tina's mind
and body were still trembling on the verge of irrecoverable decline; but
the new delight of acting as her guardian angel, of being with her every
hour of the day, of devising everything for her comfort, of watching for
a ray of returning interest in her eyes, was too absorbing to leave room
for alarm or regret.
On the third day the carriage drove up to the door of Foxholm Parsonage,
where the Rev. Arthur Heron presented himself on the door-step, eager to
greet his returning Lucy, and holding by the hand a broad-chested
tawny-haired boy of five, who was smacking a miniature hunting-whip with
great vigour.
Nowhere was there a lawn more smooth-shaven, walks better swept, or a
porch more prettily festooned with creepers, than at Foxholm Parsonage,
standing snugly sheltered by beeches and chestnuts half-way down the
pretty green hill which was surmounted by the church, and overlooking a
village that straggled at its ease among pastures and meadows, surrounded
by wild hedgerows and broad shadowing trees, as yet unthreatened by
improved methods of farming.
Brightly the fire shone in the great parlour, and brightly in the little
pink bedroom, which was to be Caterina's, because it looked away from the
churchyard, and on to a farm homestead, with its little cluster of
beehive ricks, and placid groups of cows, and cheerful matin sounds of
healthy labour. Mrs. Heron, with the instinct of a delicate, impressible
woman, had written to her husband to have this room prepared for
Caterina. Contented speckled hens, industriously scratching for the
rarely-found corn, may sometimes do more for a sick heart than a grove of
nightingales; there is something irresistibly calming in the
unsentimental cheeriness of top-knotted pullets, unpetted sheep-dogs, and
patient cart-horses enjoying a drink of muddy water.
In such a home as this parsonage, a nest of comfort, without any of the
stateliness that would carry a suggestion of Cheverel Manor, Mr. Gilfil
was not unreasonable in hoping that Caterina might gradually shake off
the haunting vision of the past, and recover from the languor and
feebleness which were the physical sign of that vision's blighting
presence. The next thing to be done was to arrange an exchange of duties
with Mr. Heron's curate, that Maynard might be constantly near Caterina,
and watch over her progress. She seemed to like him to be with her, to
look uneasily for his return; and though she seldom spoke to him, she was
most contented when he sat by her, and held her tiny hand in his large
protecting grasp. But Oswald, _alias_ Ozzy, the broad-chested boy, was
perhaps her most beneficial companion. With something of his uncle's
person, he had inherited also his uncle's early taste for a domestic
menagerie, and was very imperative in demanding Tina's sympathy in the
welfare of his guinea-pigs, squirrels, and dormice. With him she seemed
now and then to have gleams of her childhood coming athwart the leaden
clouds, and many hours of winter went by the more easily for being spent
in Ozzy's nursery.
Mrs. Heron was not musical, and had no instrument; but one of Mr.
Gilfil's cares was to procure a harpsichord, and have it placed in the
drawing-room, always open, in the hope that some day the spirit of music
would be reawakened in Caterina, and she would be attracted towards the
instrument. But the winter was almost gone by, and he had waited in vain.
The utmost improvement in Tina had not gone beyond passiveness and
acquiescence--a quiet grateful smile, compliance with Oswald's whims, and
an increasing consciousness of what was being said and done around her.
Sometimes she would take up a bit of woman's work, but she seemed too
languid to persevere in it; her fingers soon dropped, and she relapsed
into motionless reverie.
At last--it was one of those bright days in the end of February, when the
sun is shining with a promise of approaching spring. Maynard had been
walking with her and Oswald round the garden to look at the snowdrops,
and she was resting on the sofa after the walk. Ozzy, roaming about the
room in quest of a forbidden pleasure, came to the harpsichord, and
struck the handle of his whip on a deep bass note.
The vibration rushed through Caterina like an electric shock: it seemed
as if at that instant a new soul were entering into her, and filling her
with a deeper, more significant life. She looked round, rose from the
sofa, and walked to the harpsichord. In a moment her fingers were
wandering with their old sweet method among the keys, and her soul was
floating in its true familiar element of delicious sound, as the
water-plant that lies withered and shrunken on the ground expands into
freedom and beauty when once more bathed in its native flood.
Maynard thanked God. An active power was re-awakened, and must make a new
epoch in Caterina's recovery.
Presently there were low liquid notes blending themselves with the harder
tones of the instrument, and gradually the pure voice swelled into
predominance. Little Ozzy stood in the middle of the room, with his mouth
open and his legs very wide apart, struck with something like awe at this
new power in 'Tin-Tin,' as he called her, whom he had been accustomed to
think of as a playfellow not at all clever, and very much in need of his
instruction on many subjects. A genie soaring with broad wings out of his
milkjug would not have been more astonishing.
Caterina was singing the very air from the _Orfeo_ which we heard her
singing so many months ago at the beginning of her sorrows. It was '_Ho
perduto_', Sir Christopher's favourite, and its notes seemed to carry on
their wings all the tenderest memories of her life, when Cheverel Manor
was still an untroubled home. The long happy days of childhood and
girlhood recovered all their rightful predominance over the short
interval of sin and sorrow.
She paused, and burst into tears--the first tears she had shed since she
had been at Foxholm. Maynard could not help hurrying towards her, putting
his arm round her, and leaning down to kiss her hair. She nestled to him,
and put up her little mouth to be kissed.
The delicate-tendrilled plant must have something to cling to. The soul
that was born anew to music was born anew to love.
Chapter 21
On the 30th of May 1790, a very pretty sight was seen by the villagers
assembled near the door of Foxholm Church. The sun was bright upon the
dewy grass, the air was alive with the murmur of bees and the trilling of
birds, the bushy blossoming chestnuts and the foamy flowering hedgerows
seemed to be crowding round to learn why the church-bells were ringing so
merrily, as Maynard Gilfil, his face bright with happiness, walked out of
the old Gothic doorway with Tina on his arm. The little face was still
pale, and there was a subdued melancholy in it, as of one who sups with
friends for the last time, and has his ear open for the signal that will
call him away. But the tiny hand rested with the pressure of contented
affection on Maynard's arm, and the dark eyes met his downward glance
with timid answering love.
There was no train of bridesmaids; only pretty Mrs. Heron leaning on the
arm of a dark-haired young man hitherto unknown in Foxholm, and holding
by the other hand little Ozzy, who exulted less in his new velvet cap and
tunic, than in the notion that he was bridesman to Tin-Tin.
Last of all came a couple whom the villagers eyed yet more eagerly than
the bride and bridegroom: a fine old gentleman, who looked round with
keen glances that cowed the conscious scapegraces among them, and a
stately lady in blue-and-white silk robes, who must surely be like Queen
Charlotte.
'Well, that theer's whut I coal a pictur,' said old 'Mester' Ford, a true
Staffordshire patriarch, who leaned on a stick and held his head very
much on one side, with the air of a man who had little hope of the
present generation, but would at all events give it the benefit of his
criticism. 'Th' yoong men noo-a-deys, the're poor squashy things--the'
looke well anoof, but the' woon't wear, the' woon't wear. Theer's ne'er
un'll carry his 'ears like that Sir Cris'fer Chuvrell.'
'Ull bet ye two pots,' said another of the seniors, 'as that yoongster
a-walkin' wi' th' parson's wife 'll be Sir Cris'fer's son--he fevours
him.'
'Nay, yae'll bet that wi' as big a fule as yersen; hae's noo son at all.
As I oonderstan', hae's the nevey as is' t' heir th' esteate. The
coochman as puts oop at th' White Hoss tellt me as theer war another
nevey, a deal finer chap t' looke at nor this un, as died in a fit, all
on a soodden, an' soo this here yoong un's got upo' th' perch istid.'
At the church gate Mr. Bates was standing in a new suit, ready to speak
words of good omen as the bride and bridegroom approached. He had come
all the way from Cheverel Manor on purpose to see Miss Tina happy once
more, and would have been in a state of unmixed joy but for the
inferiority of the wedding nosegays to what he could have furnished from
the garden at the Manor.
'God A'maighty bless ye both, an' send ye long laife an' happiness,' were
the good gardener's rather tremulous words.
'Thank you, uncle Bates; always remember Tina,' said the sweet low voice,
which fell on Mr. Bates's ear for the last time.
The wedding journey was to be a circuitous route to Shepperton, where Mr.
Gilfil had been for several months inducted as vicar. This small living
had been given him through the interest of an old friend who had some
claim on the gratitude of the Oldinport family; and it was a satisfaction
both to Maynard and Sir Christopher that a home to which he might take
Caterina had thus readily presented itself at a distance from Cheverel
Manor. For it had never yet been thought safe that she should revisit the
scene of her sufferings, her health continuing too delicate to encourage
the slightest risk of painful excitement. In a year or two, perhaps, by
the time old Mr. Crichley, the rector of Cumbermoor, should have left a
world of gout, and when Caterina would very likely be a happy mother,
Maynard might safely take up his abode at Cumbermoor, and Tina would feel
nothing but content at seeing a new 'little black-eyed monkey' running up
and down the gallery and gardens of the Manor. A mother dreads no
memories--those shadows have all melted away in the dawn of baby's smile.
In these hopes, and in the enjoyment of Tina's nestling affection, Mr.
Gilfil tasted a few months of perfect happiness. She had come to lean
entirely on his love, and to find life sweet for his sake. Her continual
languor and want of active interest was a natural consequence of bodily
feebleness, and the prospect of her becoming a mother was a new ground
for hoping the best. But the delicate plant had been too deeply bruised,
and in the struggle to put forth a blossom it died.
Tina died, and Maynard Gilfil's love went with her into deep silence for
evermore.
EPILOGUE
This was Mr. Gilfil's love-story, which lay far back from the time when
he sat, worn and grey, by his lonely fireside in Shepperton Vicarage.
Rich brown locks, passionate love, and deep early sorrow, strangely
different as they seem from the scanty white hairs, the apathetic
content, and the unexpectant quiescence of old age, are but part of the
same life's journey; as the bright Italian plains, with the sweet _Addio_
of their beckoning maidens, are part of the same day's travel that brings
us to the other side of the mountain, between the sombre rocky walls and
among the guttural voices of the Valais.
To those who were familiar only with the grey-haired Vicar, jogging
leisurely along on his old chestnut cob, it would perhaps have been hard
to believe that he had ever been the Maynard Gilfil who, with a heart
full of passion and tenderness, had urged his black Kitty to her swiftest
gallop on the way to Callam, or that the old gentleman of caustic tongue,
and bucolic tastes, and sparing habits, had known all the deep secrets of
devoted love, had struggled through its days and nights of anguish, and
trembled under its unspeakable joys.
And indeed the Mr. Gilfil of those late Shepperton days had more of the
knots and ruggedness of poor human nature than there lay any clear hint
of in the open-eyed loving Maynard. But it is with men as with trees: if
you lop off their finest branches, into which they were pouring their
young life-juice, the wounds will be healed over with some rough boss,
some odd excrescence; and what might have been a grand tree expanding
into liberal shade, is but a whimsical misshapen trunk. Many an
irritating fault, many an unlovely oddity, has come of a hard sorrow,
which has crushed and maimed the nature just when it was expanding into
plenteous beauty; and the trivial erring life which we visit with our
harsh blame, may be but as the unsteady motion of a man whose best limb
is withered.
And so the dear old Vicar, though he had something of the knotted
whimsical character of the poor lopped oak, had yet been sketched out by
nature as a noble tree. The heart of him was sound, the grain was of the
finest; and in the grey-haired man who filled his pocket with sugar-plums
for the little children, whose most biting words were directed against
the evil doing of the rich man, and who, with all his social pipes and
slipshod talk, never sank below the highest level of his parishioners'
respect, there was the main trunk of the same brave, faithful, tender
nature that had poured out the finest, freshest forces of its
life-current in a first and only love--the love of Tina.
JANET'S REPENTANCE
Chapter 1
'No!' said lawyer Dempster, in a loud, rasping, oratorical tone,
struggling against chronic huskiness, 'as long as my Maker grants me
power of voice and power of intellect, I will take every legal means to
resist the introduction of demoralizing, methodistical doctrine into this
parish; I will not supinely suffer an insult to be inflicted on our
venerable pastor, who has given us sound instruction for half a century.'
It was very warm everywhere that evening, but especially in the bar of
the Red Lion at Milby, where Mr. Dempster was seated mixing his third
glass of brandy-and-water. He was a tall and rather massive man, and the
front half of his large surface was so well dredged' with snuff, that the
cat, having inadvertently come near him, had been seized with a severe
fit of sneezing--an accident which, being cruelly misunderstood, had
caused her to be driven contumeliously from the bar. Mr. Dempster
habitually held his chin tucked in, and his head hanging forward, weighed
down, perhaps, by a preponderant occiput and a bulging forehead, between
which his closely-clipped coronal surface lay like a flat and new-mown
table-land. The only other observable features were puffy cheeks and a
protruding yet lipless mouth. Of his nose I can only say that it was
snuffy; and as Mr. Dempster was never caught in the act of looking at
anything in particular, it would have been difficult to swear to the
colour of his eyes.
'Well! I'll not stick at giving myself trouble to put down such
hypocritical cant,' said Mr. Tomlinson, the rich miller. 'I know well
enough what your Sunday evening lectures are good for--for wenches to
meet their sweethearts, and brew mischief. There's work enough with the
servant-maids as it is--such as I never heard the like of in my mother's
time, and it's all along o' your schooling and newfangled plans. Give me
a servant as can nayther read nor write, I say, and doesn't know the year
o' the Lord as she was born in. I should like to know what good those
Sunday schools have done, now. Why, the boys used to go a birds-nesting
of a Sunday morning; and a capital thing too--ask any farmer; and very
pretty it was to see the strings o' heggs hanging up in poor people's
houses. You'll not see 'em nowhere now.'
'Pooh!' said Mr. Luke Byles, who piqued himself on his reading, and was
in the habit of asking casual acquaintances if they knew anything of
Hobbes; 'it is right enough that the lower orders should be instructed.
But this sectarianism within the Church ought to be put down. In point of
fact, these Evangelicals are not Churchmen at all; they're no better than
Presbyterians.'
'Presbyterians? what are they?' inquired Mr. Tomlinson, who often said
his father had given him 'no eddication, and he didn't care who knowed
it; he could buy up most o' th' eddicated men he'd ever come across.'
'The Presbyterians,' said Mr. Dempster, in rather a louder tone than
before, holding that every appeal for information must naturally be
addressed to him, 'are a sect founded in the reign of Charles I., by a
man named John Presbyter, who hatched all the brood of Dissenting vermin
that crawl about in dirty alleys, and circumvent the lord of the manor in
order to get a few yards of ground for their pigeon-house conventicles.'
'No, no, Dempster,' said Mr. Luke Byles, 'you're out there.
Presbyterianism is derived from the word presbyter, meaning an elder.'
'Don't contradict _me_, sir!' stormed Dempster. 'I say the word
presbyterian is derived from John Presbyter, a miserable fanatic who wore
a suit of leather, and went about from town to village, and from village
to hamlet, inoculating the vulgar with the asinine virus of dissent.'
'Come, Byles, that seems a deal more likely,' said Mr. Tomlinson, in a
conciliatory tone, apparently of opinion that history was a process of
ingenious guessing.
'It's not a question of likelihood; it's a known fact. I could fetch you
my Encyclopaedia, and show it you this moment.'
'I don't care a straw, sir, either for you or your Encyclopaedia,' said
Mr. Dempster; 'a farrago of false information, of which you picked up an
imperfect copy in a cargo of waste paper. Will you tell _me_, sir, that I
don't know the origin of Presbyterianism? I, sir, a man known through the
county, intrusted with the affairs of half a score parishes; while you,
sir, are ignored by the very fleas that infest the miserable alley in
which you were bred.'
A loud and general laugh, with 'You'd better let him alone Byles';
'You'll not get the better of Dempster in a hurry', drowned the retort of
the too well-informed Mr. Byles, who, white with rage, rose and walked
out of the bar.
'A meddlesome, upstart, Jacobinical fellow, gentlemen', continued Mr.
Dempster. 'I was determined to be rid of him. What does he mean by
thrusting himself into our company? A man with about as much principle as
he has property, which, to my knowledge, is considerably less than none.
An insolvent atheist, gentlemen. A deistical prater, fit to sit in the
chimney-corner of a pot-house, and make blasphemous comments on the one
greasy newspaper fingered by beer-swilling tinkers. I will not suffer in
my company a man who speaks lightly of religion. The signature of a
fellow like Byles would be a blot on our protest.'
'And how do you get on with your signatures?' said Mr. Pilgrim, the
doctor, who had presented his large top-booted person within the bar
while Mr. Dempster was speaking. Mr. Pilgrim had just returned from one
of his long day's rounds among the farm-houses, in the course of which he
had sat down to two hearty meals that might have been mistaken for
dinners if he had not declared them to be 'snaps'; and as each snap had
been followed by a few glasses of 'mixture'; containing a less liberal
proportion of water than the articles he himself labelled with that
broadly generic name, he was in that condition which his groom indicated
with poetic ambiguity by saying that 'master had been in the sunshine'.
Under these circumstances, after a hard day, in which he had really had
no regular meal, it seemed a natural relaxation to step into the bar of
the Red Lion, where, as it was Saturday evening, he should be sure to
find Dempster, and hear the latest news about the protest against the
evening lecture.
'Have you hooked Ben Landor yet?' he continued, as he took two chairs,
one for his body, and the other for his right leg.
'No,' said Mr. Budd, the churchwarden, shaking his head; 'Ben Landor has
a way of keeping himself neutral in everything, and he doesn't like to
oppose his father. Old Landor is a regular Tryanite. But we haven't got
your name yet, Pilgrim.'
'Tut tut, Budd,' said Mr. Dempster, sarcastically, 'you don't expect
Pilgrim to sign? He's got a dozen Tryanite livers under his treatment.
Nothing like cant and methodism for producing a superfluity of bile.'
'O, I thought, as Pratt had declared himself a Tryanite, we should be
sure to get Pilgrim on our side.'
Mr. Pilgrim was not a man to sit quiet under a sarcasm, nature having
endowed him with a considerable share of self-defensive wit. In his most
sober moments he had an impediment in his speech, and as copious
gin-and-water stimulated not the speech but the impediment, he had time
to make his retort sufficiently bitter.
'Why, to tell you the truth, Budd,' he spluttered, 'there's a report all
over the town that Deb Traunter swears you shall take her with you as one
of the delegates, and they say there's to be a fine crowd at your door
the morning you start, to see the row. Knowing your tenderness for that
member of the fair sex, I thought you might find it impossible to deny
her. I hang back a little from signing on that account, as Prendergast
might not take the protest well if Deb Traunter went with you.'
Mr. Budd was a small, sleek-headed bachelor of five-and-forty, whose
scandalous life had long furnished his more moral neighbours with an
after-dinner joke. He had no other striking characteristic, except that
he was a currier of choleric temperament, so that you might wonder why he
had been chosen as clergyman's churchwarden, if I did not tell you that
he had recently been elected through Mr. Dempster's exertions, in order
that his zeal against the threatened evening lecture might be backed by
the dignity of office.
'Come, come, Pilgrim,' said Mr. Tomlinson, covering Mr. Budd's retreat,
'you know you like to wear the crier's coat,' green o' one side and red
o' the other. You've been to hear Tryan preach at Paddiford Common--you
know you have.'
'To be sure I have; and a capital sermon too. It's a pity you were not
there. It was addressed to those "void of understanding."'
'No, no, you'll never catch me there,' returned Mr. Tomlinson, not in the
least stung: 'he preaches without book, they say, just like a Dissenter.
It must be a rambling sort of a concern.'
'That's not the worst,' said Mr. Dempster; 'he preaches against good
works; says good works are not necessary to salvation--a sectarian,
antinomian, anabaptist doctrine. Tell a man he is not to be saved by his
works, and you open the flood-gates of all immorality. You see it in all
these canting innovators; they're all bad ones by the sly; smooth-faced,
drawling, hypocritical fellows, who pretend ginger isn't hot in their
mouths, and cry down all innocent pleasures; their hearts are all the
blacker for their sanctimonious outsides. Haven't we been warned against
those who make clean the outside of the cup and the platter? There's this
Tryan, now, he goes about praying with old women, and singing with
charity children; but what has he really got his eye on all the while? A
domineering ambitious Jesuit, gentlemen; all he wants is to get his foot
far enough into the parish to step into Crewe's shoes when the old
gentleman dies. Depend upon it, whenever you see a man pretending to be
better than his neighbours, that man has either some cunning end to
serve, or his heart is rotten with spiritual pride.'
As if to guarantee himself against this awful sin, Mr. Dempster seized
his glass of brandy-and-water, and tossed off the contents with even
greater rapidity than usual.
'Have you fixed on your third delegate yet?' said Mr. Pilgrim, whose
taste was for detail rather than for dissertation.
'That's the man,' answered Dempster, pointing to Mr. Tomlinson. 'We start
for Elmstoke Rectory on Tuesday morning; so, if you mean to give us your
signature, you must make up your mind pretty quickly, Pilgrim.'
Mr. Pilgrim did not in the least mean it, so he only said, 'I shouldn't
wonder if Tryan turns out too many for you, after all. He's got a
well-oiled tongue of his own, and has perhaps talked over Prendergast
into a determination to stand by him.'
'Ve-ry little fear of that,' said Dempster, in a confident tone.
'I'll soon bring him round. Tryan has got his match. I've plenty of rods
in pickle for Tryan.'
At this moment Boots entered the bar, and put a letter into the lawyer's
hands, saying, 'There's Trower's man just come into the yard wi' a gig,
sir, an' he's brought this here letter.'
Mr. Dempster read the letter and said, 'Tell him to turn the gig--I'll be
with him in a minute. Here, run to Gruby's and get this snuff-box filled
--quick!'
'Trower's worse, I suppose; eh, Dempster? Wants you to alter his will,
eh?' said Mr. Pilgrim.
'Business--business--business--I don't know exactly what,' answered the
cautious Dempster, rising deliberately from his chair, thrusting on his
low-crowned hat, and walking with a slow but not unsteady step out of the
bar.
'I never see Dempster's equal; if I did I'll be shot,' said Mr.
Tomlinson, looking after the lawyer admiringly. 'Why, he's drunk the best
part of a bottle o' brandy since here we've been sitting, and I'll bet a
guinea, when he's got to Trower's his head'll be as clear as mine. He
knows more about law when he's drunk than all the rest on 'em when
they're sober.'
'Ay, and other things too, besides law,' said Mr. Budd. 'Did you notice
how he took up Byles about the Presbyterians? Bless your heart, he knows
everything, Dempster does. He studied very hard when he was a young man.'
Chapter 2
The conversation just recorded is not, I am aware, remarkably refined or
witty; but if it had been, it could hardly have taken place in Milby when
Mr. Dempster flourished there, and old Mr. Crewe, the curate, was yet
alive.
More than a quarter of a century has slipped by since then, and in the
interval Milby has advanced at as rapid a pace as other market-towns in
her Majesty's dominions. By this time it has a handsome railway station,
where the drowsy London traveller may look out by the brilliant gas-light
and see perfectly sober papas and husbands alighting with their
leatherbags after transacting their day's business at the county town.
There is a resident rector, who appeals to the consciences of his hearers
with all the immense advantages of a divine who keeps his own carriage;
the church is enlarged by at least five hundred sittings; and the grammar
school, conducted on reformed principles, has its upper forms crowded
with the genteel youth of Milby. The gentlemen there fall into no other
excess at dinner-parties than the perfectly well-bred and virtuous excess
of stupidity; and though the ladies are still said sometimes to take too
much upon themselves, they are never known to take too much in any other
way. The conversation is sometimes quite literary, for there is a
flourishing book-club, and many of the younger ladies have carried their
studies so far as to have forgotten a little German. In short, Milby is
now a refined, moral, and enlightened town; no more resembling the Milby
of former days than the huge, long-skirted, drab great-coat that
embarrassed the ankles of our grandfathers resembled the light paletot in
which we tread jauntily through the muddiest streets, or than the
bottle-nosed Britons, rejoicing over a tankard, in the old sign of the
Two Travellers at Milby, resembled the severe-looking gentleman in straps
and high collars whom a modern artist has represented as sipping the
imaginary port of that well-known commercial house.
But pray, reader, dismiss from your mind all the refined and fashionable
ideas associated with this advanced state of things, and transport your
imagination to a time when Milby had no gas-lights; when the mail drove
up dusty or bespattered to the door of the Red Lion; when old Mr. Crewe,
the curate, in a brown Brutus wig, delivered inaudible sermons on a
Sunday, and on a week-day imparted the education of a gentleman--that is
to say, an arduous inacquaintance with Latin through the medium of the
Eton Grammar--to three pupils in the upper grammar-school.
If you had passed through Milby on the coach at that time, you would have
had no idea what important people lived there, and how very high a sense
of rank was prevalent among them. It was a dingy-looking town, with a
strong smell of tanning up one street and a great shaking of hand-looms
up another; and even in that focus of aristocracy, Friar's Gate, the
houses would not have seemed very imposing to the hasty and superficial
glance of a passenger. You might still less have suspected that the
figure in light fustian and large grey whiskers, leaning against the
grocer's door-post in High Street, was no less a person than Mr. Lowme,
one of the most aristocratic men in Milby, said to have been 'brought up
a gentleman', and to have had the gay habits accordant with that station,
keeping his harriers and other expensive animals. He was now quite an
elderly Lothario, reduced to the most economical sins; the prominent form
of his gaiety being this of lounging at Mr. Gruby's door, embarrassing
the servant-maids who came for grocery, and talking scandal with the rare
passers-by. Still, it was generally understood that Mr. Lowme belonged to
the highest circle of Milby society; his sons and daughters held up their
heads very high indeed; and in spite of his condescending way of chatting
and drinking with inferior people, he would himself have scorned any
closer identification with them. It must be admitted that he was of some
service to the town in this station at Mr. Gruby's door, for he and Mr.
Landor's Newfoundland dog, who stretched himself and gaped on the
opposite causeway, took something from the lifeless air that belonged to
the High Street on every day except Saturday.
Certainly, in spite of three assemblies and a charity ball in the winter,
the occasional advent of a ventriloquist, or a company of itinerant
players, some of whom were very highly thought of in London, and the
annual three-days' fair in June, Milby might be considered dull by people
of a hypochondriacal temperament; and perhaps this was one reason why
many of the middle-aged inhabitants, male and femal |
