Isola happened that day to leave me before the usual time, being afraid
that her father, who was not in his sweetest mood, would be angry with
her. She was grieved of course at the new dissension, and thought me
(her ideas were of loose texture) somewhat to blame somehow.
Nevertheless she soon forgave me the crime I had not committed.
That day I could paint no more, but sat me down to meditate. Suddenly a
loud ring and a louder knock echoed through the house. Quickly Mrs.
Shelfer's little feet came pattering up the stairs, and her grey eyes
actually seemed to come in first at the door. On the crown of her head
her black cap hung, like the top of a chaise doubled back.
"Oh my good friend, look here! I was never so frightened in all my
life."
She held as far from her as she could reach a closed envelope, addressed
"Miss Clara Vaughan." I tore it open and read--"Mr. Vaughan is dying,
come instantly. Sent by Mrs. Fletcher."
"Telegraph, my good soul," cried Mrs. Shelfer, "Electric Telegraph
Company, all screams the wires red hot, and you must sign the message he
says. And is there any answer? And they give him eighteen pence. Oh
dear, I shall never get over it. Never had such a turn since my brother
John went, and they tucked him up so bootiful, and I said to the clerk
at Barbican--"
"Out of my way if you please. Let me sign the form, and leave me alone
a minute. There is no answer."
Should I go or not? Bitterly as I disliked him, could I let him die
among hirelings and strangers--I, his brother's daughter! A year ago I
would have done so and thought it the judgment of God. Now I remembered
my dear mother's death, and doubted about going only because I knew not
how he would take it. My hesitation was very brief. A cab was ordered,
Giudice entrusted to Mrs. Shelfer's care, a short note left for Isola, a
few things put together anyhow, and I was ready to start.
Even in this hurry a selfish terror smote me, and I cautioned Mrs.
Shelfer strictly to conceal both name and destination. She had only to
say that some relative was suddenly taken ill, somewhere down in the
country; the country being to her mind a desert marked with milestones,
my description did not seem unreasonably vague.
As I stood in the passage waiting for the cab, the poor dog, who had
been quite flurried, and scented indefinite evil, commenced, prolonged,
and would not conclude a howl of passing sadness.
"Oh, my good friend," cried Mrs. Shelfer, "let me stop the cab. All
waste of money to go. The good gentleman, whoever he is, is as dead as
a crabshell now. There was a terrier with a split ear, next door but
one, when my poor brother John was ill; his name was Jack, I think, no,
Tom; bless me, no, what am I thinking of, Bob--Charley knows, I dare
say--"
"Well, send me his name by telegraph. Here's the cab, Mrs. Shelfer."
Heavy thumps of weary wambling feet, grating of wheels, a needless
"whoa," and we open the door.
Giudice bolts first into the cab, and sitting upright with his tongue
out and a sprightly pant, occupies the whole. It takes the united
strength, address, and authority of cabman, landlady, and myself to get
him out again. Then he coils his tail to his stomach, droops his ears
and eyes, and receiving two hot tears and a kiss is sidled and deluded
into the narrow passage. The last thing I hear is a howl that winds far
round the corner and beyond the square.
In an hour and a half from the delivery of the message, I was in a
second-class carriage, and we shrieked away from Paddington. The hurry
and rush overcame me for a while. Soon the April evening was spread
with shadowy gray, and we were rushing past the wooded waves of
Pangbourne, and casting silver rings of steam on the many-fingered
spruce, before I could collect and feel my thoughts again. As we glided
through plantations and between the winding hills, with the partridge
beginning his twilight call, the pheasants come out of the coppice to
feed, and the late rook plying his dusky wings, at length the dust and
city turmoil lagged round the corner miles away, and we sparkled in the
dewy freshness of the silent moon. Though all alone in the carriage, I
vainly tried for prudence' sake to creep into the cloak of sleep. Every
vein and every pore was full of gushing thrilling electric life. The
country, the country! the heavenly country's glory! how had I breathed
and groped in the city grave so long? For every thought that dribbled
there and guttered in my brain, a hundred thousand now flow through me,
not of brain, but soul. Thoughts I cannot call them, for there is no
volition, neither have they sequence, impress, or seen image: only a
broad stream gliding, whence and whither I know not. How can I describe
to others what I cannot tell myself?
"Glost'! Glost'! change here for Chelt'm!" &c. broke my dreaming
suddenly. It was eleven at night. I had come unwrapped; the heavenly
country and nature's tide forgot to keep me warm. Out I came upon the
platform, and dreamily began to seek my carpet-bag, for I had no heavy
luggage. The moon was struggling with the gas-lights, as nature in me
fought with modern life.
"Fly, Miss, fly?" the lonely porter asked.
"Yes, please," said I.
"Where for, Miss?"
"Vaughan St. Mary."--At this part of my life, I dropped the grand
"Vaughan Park;" it seemed too fine for me, and I was well content to be
of Conrad's class in the world.
"Oh, there's a carriage waiting at every train, if you please, Miss."
And with tenfold politeness the porter showed me across the square to
one of the family hearses, which my father and I so detested. It so
happened that the driver and footman were taking some light refreshment
at the bar of a neighbouring edifice, while the horses champed their
bits and whinnied. The men came out against their will, and stared at
me in the broad moonshine. I was very simply, plainly, and cheaply
dressed, in deep mourning still for my darling mother; but no servant of
even slight experience could take me, I think, for anything but a lady;
little as it matters. The men were half-drunk, very surly at being
disturbed, and inclined to form a low estimate of my dress and
carpet-bag.
"You mean to say you be Miss Vaughan, young 'ooman?" stuttered the
reeling coachman, with his hands beneath his flaps and a short pipe in
his mouth, "Now I tell you plainly, there's no mistake about me mind, I
can't noway credit it. It don't seem likely, do it, Bob?"
"Likely, Jacob? Yes, like enough to a fool; but nohow creditable to the
like of us. Think I don't know now? Perhaps the young 'ooman will
answer a few questions, Jacob."
"Ah, let you alone; let you alone, Bob! Specially for young women!"
"Porter, a cab at once, if you please; or a fly I think you call it
here." Oh my London impudence!
"To be sure, Miss; the best in Gloucester directly. And,
Miss"--confidentially, "if I was in your shoes, I'd walk them chaps
about their business to-morrow. How they have been carrying on here, to
be sure, ever since the six o'clock train come in. Why, in the time of
the old Squire Vaughan--"
"Thank you, the fly, if you please."
In two minutes I was off for my father's home with mighty rattle of
glass, and many jerking noises. About three miles from Gloucester we
were passed by Jacob and Robert, who were sitting side by side and
driving furiously. Convinced at last by the porter of my genuine
Vaughanship, they had set off full speed to secure first audience.
At length we passed the lodge, where the gates creaked as of yore, and
dear old Whitehead trembled at my voice, and so along the great avenue
where I had studied the manners and ways of every tree, and where Tulip
(Nestor among deer) came to stare at us with his grey face silver in the
moonlight. Poor old friend, he knew me as well as Giudice did, but I
could not stop to talk to him. Soon as the bell was rung the broad bolt
of the great lock, which I was once so proud to draw, flew back with
suspicious promptitude.
Albeit he had changed the cloth too ochrously described by Sally, for a
suit of gentle gray, and had drawn out his face to a most unjovial
length, and assumed an attitude of very profound respect, there he was,
quite unmistakeable to observant eyes, the Bacchanalian Bob.
"And please, Miss"--after he had fussed awhile--"what train did you
please to come by? I understand that the carriage has been waiting
there all day; indeed, I saw it come back from the pantry window myself,
and they said in the yard the last train was in afore they come away."
"I came by the train that ought to be there at half-past ten o'clock."
"Well to be sure! That must be the very train as Samuel and Humphry
said they waited for; but they never has much judgment, them two men.
And to let you come in a common fly, Miss!"
"I saw my father's carriage at the station, and two low-looking servants
quite tipsy. Their names, however, were not Samuel and Humphry, but
Jacob and Robert."
Strange servants now came thronging round, with an obsequiousness so
long unknown that it quite disgusted me. No familiar face among them,
none whom I could bring myself to ask how my guardian was. But from
their servility to me I concluded that his time was short.
"Will you step into the small drawing-room, if you be so kind, Miss?
There is a good fire there, Miss, and a lady waiting for you."
"Thank you. Take my things to my own little room, if you please; that
is, if you know which room was called mine."
"Tilly knows, Miss. I'll run and fetch Tilly," cried the officious Bob.
"If Matilda Jenkins is still here, let her answer my bell as long as I
remain."
And therewith I was shown into the room where the lady was expecting me.
She sat with her back to the door, and I could only see that she was
richly attired in full evening dress. There was a powerful smell of
vinegar in the room, and two pastiles were burning. As I walked round
the table she rose with some reluctance, and I confronted Mrs. Daldy.