Before I tell you about Mr. Gray, I think I ought to make you understand
something more of what we did all day long at Hanbury Court. There were
five of us at the time of which I am speaking, all young women of good
descent, and allied (however distantly) to people of rank. When we were
not with my lady, Mrs. Medlicott looked after us; a gentle little woman,
who had been companion to my lady for many years, and was indeed, I have
been told, some kind of relation to her. Mrs. Medlicott’s parents had
lived in Germany, and the consequence was, she spoke English with a very
foreign accent. Another consequence was, that she excelled in all manner
of needlework, such as is not known even by name in these days. She
could darn either lace, table-linen, India muslin, or stockings, so that
no one could tell where the hole or rent had been. Though a good
Protestant, and never missing Guy Faux day at church, she was as skilful
at fine work as any nun in a Papist convent. She would take a piece of
French cambric, and by drawing out some threads, and working in others,
it became delicate lace in a very few hours. She did the same by
Hollands cloth, and made coarse strong lace, with which all my lady’s
napkins and table-linen were trimmed. We worked under her during a great
part of the day, either in the still-room, or at our sewing in a chamber
that opened out of the great hall. My lady despised every kind of work
that would now be called Fancy-work. She considered that the use of
coloured threads or worsted was only fit to amuse children; but that
grown women ought not to be taken with mere blues and reds, but to
restrict their pleasure in sewing to making small and delicate stitches.
She would speak of the old tapestry in the hall as the work of her
ancestresses, who lived before the Reformation, and were consequently
unacquainted with pure and simple tastes in work, as well as in religion.
Nor would my lady sanction the fashion of the day, which, at the
beginning of this century, made all the fine ladies take to making shoes.
She said that such work was a consequence of the French Revolution, which
had done much to annihilate all distinctions of rank and class, and hence
it was, that she saw young ladies of birth and breeding handling lasts,
and awls, and dirty cobblers’-wax, like shoe-makers’ daughters.
Very frequently one of us would be summoned to my lady to read aloud to
her, as she sat in her small withdrawing-room, some improving book. It
was generally Mr. Addison’s “Spectator;” but one year, I remember, we had
to read “Sturm’s Reflections” translated from a German book Mrs.
Medlicott recommended. Mr. Sturm told us what to think about for every
day in the year; and very dull it was; but I believe Queen Charlotte had
liked the book very much, and the thought of her royal approbation kept
my lady awake during the reading. “Mrs. Chapone’s Letters” and “Dr.
Gregory’s Advice to Young Ladies” composed the rest of our library for
week-day reading. I, for one, was glad to leave my fine sewing, and even
my reading aloud (though this last did keep me with my dear lady) to go
to the still-room and potter about among the preserves and the medicated
waters. There was no doctor for many miles round, and with Mrs.
Medlicott to direct us, and Dr. Buchan to go by for recipes, we sent out
many a bottle of physic, which, I dare say, was as good as what comes out
of the druggist’s shop. At any rate, I do not think we did much harm;
for if any of our physics tasted stronger than usual, Mrs. Medlicott
would bid us let it down with cochineal and water, to make all safe, as
she said. So our bottles of medicine had very little real physic in them
at last; but we were careful in putting labels on them, which looked very
mysterious to those who could not read, and helped the medicine to do its
work. I have sent off many a bottle of salt and water coloured red; and
whenever we had nothing else to do in the still-room, Mrs. Medlicott
would set us to making bread-pills, by way of practice; and, as far as I
can say, they were very efficacious, as before we gave out a box Mrs.
Medlicott always told the patient what symptoms to expect; and I hardly
ever inquired without hearing that they had produced their effect. There
was one old man, who took six pills a-night, of any kind we liked to give
him, to make him sleep; and if, by any chance, his daughter had forgotten
to let us know that he was out of his medicine, he was so restless and
miserable that, as he said, he thought he was like to die. I think ours
was what would be called homoeopathic practice now-a-days. Then we
learnt to make all the cakes and dishes of the season in the still-room.
We had plum-porridge and mince-pies at Christmas, fritters and pancakes
on Shrove Tuesday, furmenty on Mothering Sunday, violet-cakes in Passion
Week, tansy-pudding on Easter Sunday, three-cornered cakes on Trinity
Sunday, and so on through the year: all made from good old Church
receipts, handed down from one of my lady’s earliest Protestant
ancestresses. Every one of us passed a portion of the day with Lady
Ludlow; and now and then we rode out with her in her coach and four. She
did not like to go out with a pair of horses, considering this rather
beneath her rank; and, indeed, four horses were very often needed to pull
her heavy coach through the stiff mud. But it was rather a cumbersome
equipage through the narrow Warwickshire lanes; and I used often to think
it was well that countesses were not plentiful, or else we might have met
another lady of quality in another coach and four, where there would have
been no possibility of turning, or passing each other, and very little
chance of backing. Once when the idea of this danger of meeting another
countess in a narrow, deep-rutted lane was very prominent in my mind I
ventured to ask Mrs. Medlicott what would have to be done on such an
occasion; and she told me that “de latest creation must back, for sure,”
which puzzled me a good deal at the time, although I understand it now. I
began to find out the use of the “Peerage,” a book which had seemed to me
rather dull before; but, as I was always a coward in a coach, I made
myself well acquainted with the dates of creation of our three
Warwickshire earls, and was happy to find that Earl Ludlow ranked second,
the oldest earl being a hunting widower, and not likely to drive out in a
carriage.
All this time I have wandered from Mr. Gray. Of course, we first saw
him in church when he read himself in. He was very red-faced, the kind
of redness which goes with light hair and a blushing complexion; he
looked slight and short, and his bright light frizzy hair had hardly a
dash of powder in it. I remember my lady making this observation, and
sighing over it; for, though since the famine in seventeen hundred and
ninety-nine and eighteen hundred there had been a tax on hair-powder,
yet it was reckoned very revolutionary and Jacobin not to wear a good
deal of it. My lady hardly liked the opinions of any man who wore his
own hair; but this she would say was rather a prejudice: only in her
youth none but the mob had gone wigless, and she could not get over
the association of wigs with birth and breeding; a man’s own hair with
that class of people who had formed the rioters in seventeen hundred
and eighty, when Lord George Gordon had been one of the bugbears of my
lady’s life. Her husband and his brothers, she told us, had been put
into breeches, and had their heads shaved on their seventh birthday,
each of them; a handsome little wig of the newest fashion forming the
old Lady Ludlow’s invariable birthday present to her sons as they each
arrived at that age; and afterwards, to the day of their death, they
never saw their own hair. To be without powder, as some underbred
people were talking of being now, was in fact to insult the proprieties
of life, by being undressed. It was English sans-culottism. But Mr.
Gray did wear a little powder, enough to save him in my lady’s good
opinion; but not enough to make her approve of him decidedly.
The next time I saw him was in the great hall. Mary Mason and I were
going to drive out with my lady in her coach, and when we went down
stairs with our best hats and cloaks on, we found Mr. Gray awaiting my
lady’s coming. I believe he had paid his respects to her before, but we
had never seen him; and he had declined her invitation to spend Sunday
evening at the Court (as Mr. Mountford used to do pretty regularly—and
play a game at picquet too—), which, Mrs. Medlicott told us, had caused
my lady to be not over well pleased with him.
He blushed redder than ever at the sight of us, as we entered the hall
and dropped him our curtsies. He coughed two or three times, as if he
would have liked to speak to us, if he could but have found something to
say; and every time he coughed he became hotter-looking than ever. I am
ashamed to say, we were nearly laughing at him; half because we, too,
were so shy that we understood what his awkwardness meant.
My lady came in, with her quick active step—she always walked quickly
when she did not bethink herself of her cane—as if she was sorry to have
us kept waiting—and, as she entered, she gave us all round one of those
graceful sweeping curtsies, of which I think the art must have died out
with her,—it implied so much courtesy;—this time it said, as well as
words could do, “I am sorry to have kept you all waiting,—forgive me.”
She went up to the mantelpiece, near which Mr. Gray had been standing
until her entrance, and curtseying afresh to him, and pretty deeply this
time, because of his cloth, and her being hostess, and he, a new guest.
She asked him if he would not prefer speaking to her in her own private
parlour, and looked as though she would have conducted him there. But he
burst out with his errand, of which he was full even to choking, and
which sent the glistening tears into his large blue eyes, which stood
farther and farther out with his excitement.
“My lady, I want to speak to you, and to persuade you to exert your kind
interest with Mr. Lathom—Justice Lathom, of Hathaway Manor—”
“Harry Lathom?” inquired my lady,—as Mr. Gray stopped to take the breath
he had lost in his hurry,—“I did not know he was in the commission.”
“He is only just appointed; he took the oaths not a month ago,—more’s
the pity!”
“I do not understand why you should regret it. The Lathoms have held
Hathaway since Edward the First, and Mr. Lathom bears a good character,
although his temper is hasty—”
“My lady! he has committed Job Gregson for stealing—a fault of which he
is as innocent as I—and all the evidence goes to prove it, now that the
case is brought before the Bench; only the Squires hang so together that
they can’t be brought to see justice, and are all for sending Job to
gaol, out of compliment to Mr. Lathom, saying it his first committal, and
it won’t be civil to tell him there is no evidence against his man. For
God’s sake, my lady, speak to the gentlemen; they will attend to you,
while they only tell me to mind my own business.”
Now my lady was always inclined to stand by her order, and the Lathoms of
Hathaway Court were cousins to the Hanbury’s. Besides, it was rather a
point of honour in those days to encourage a young magistrate, by passing
a pretty sharp sentence on his first committals; and Job Gregson was the
father of a girl who had been lately turned away from her place as
scullery-maid for sauciness to Mrs. Adams, her ladyship’s own maid; and
Mr. Gray had not said a word of the reasons why he believed the man
innocent,—for he was in such a hurry, I believe he would have had my
lady drive off to the Henley Court-house then and there;—so there seemed
a good deal against the man, and nothing but Mr. Gray’s bare word for
him; and my lady drew herself a little up, and said—
“Mr. Gray! I do not see what reason either you or I have to interfere.
Mr. Harry Lathom is a sensible kind of young man, well capable of
ascertaining the truth without our help—”
“But more evidence has come out since,” broke in Mr. Gray. My lady went
a little stiffer, and spoke a little more coldly:—
“I suppose this additional evidence is before the justices: men of good
family, and of honour and credit, well known in the county. They
naturally feel that the opinion of one of themselves must have more
weight than the words of a man like Job Gregson, who bears a very
indifferent character,—has been strongly suspected of poaching, coming
from no one knows where, squatting on Hareman’s Common—which, by the
way, is extra-parochial, I believe; consequently you, as a clergyman, are
not responsible for what goes on there; and, although impolitic, there
might be some truth in what the magistrates said, in advising you to mind
your own business,”—said her ladyship, smiling,—“and they might be
tempted to bid me mind mine, if I interfered, Mr. Gray: might they not?”
He looked extremely uncomfortable; half angry. Once or twice he began to
speak, but checked himself, as if his words would not have been wise or
prudent. At last he said—“It may seem presumptuous in me,—a stranger
of only a few weeks’ standing—to set up my judgment as to men’s
character against that of residents—” Lady Ludlow gave a little bow of
acquiescence, which was, I think, involuntary on her part, and which I
don’t think he perceived,—“but I am convinced that the man is innocent
of this offence,—and besides, the justices themselves allege this
ridiculous custom of paying a compliment to a newly-appointed magistrate
as their only reason.”
That unlucky word “ridiculous!” It undid all the good his modest
beginning had done him with my lady. I knew as well as words could have
told me, that she was affronted at the expression being used by a man
inferior in rank to those whose actions he applied it to,—and truly, it
was a great want of tact, considering to whom he was speaking.
Lady Ludlow spoke very gently and slowly; she always did so when she was
annoyed; it was a certain sign, the meaning of which we had all learnt.
“I think, Mr. Gray, we will drop the subject. It is one on which we are
not likely to agree.”
Mr. Gray’s ruddy colour grew purple and then faded away, and his face
became pale. I think both my lady and he had forgotten our presence; and
we were beginning to feel too awkward to wish to remind them of it. And
yet we could not help watching and listening with the greatest interest.
Mr. Gray drew himself up to his full height, with an unconscious feeling
of dignity. Little as was his stature, and awkward and embarrassed as he
had been only a few minutes before, I remember thinking he looked almost
as grand as my lady when he spoke.
“Your ladyship must remember that it may be my duty to speak to my
parishioners on many subjects on which they do not agree with me. I am
not at liberty to be silent, because they differ in opinion from me.”
Lady Ludlow’s great blue eyes dilated with surprise, and—I do
think—anger, at being thus spoken to. I am not sure whether it was very
wise in Mr. Gray. He himself looked afraid of the consequences but as if
he was determined to bear them without flinching. For a minute there was
silence. Then my lady replied—“Mr. Gray, I respect your plain-speaking,
although I may wonder whether a young man of your age and position has
any right to assume that he is a better judge than one with the
experience which I have naturally gained at my time of life, and in the
station I hold.”
“If I, madam, as the clergyman of this parish, am not to shrink from
telling what I believe to be the truth to the poor and lowly, no more am
I to hold my peace in the presence of the rich and titled.” Mr. Gray’s
face showed that he was in that state of excitement which in a child
would have ended in a good fit of crying. He looked as if he had nerved
himself up to doing and saying things, which he disliked above
everything, and which nothing short of serious duty could have compelled
him to do and say. And at such times every minute circumstance which
could add to pain comes vividly before one. I saw that he became aware
of our presence, and that it added to his discomfiture.
My lady flushed up. “Are you aware, sir,” asked she, “that you have gone
far astray from the original subject of conversation? But as you talk of
your parish, allow me to remind you that Hareman’s Common is beyond the
bounds, and that you are really not responsible for the characters and
lives of the squatters on that unlucky piece of ground.”
“Madam, I see I have only done harm in speaking to you about the affair
at all. I beg your pardon and take my leave.”
He bowed, and looked very sad. Lady Ludlow caught the expression of his
face.
“Good morning!” she cried, in rather a louder and quicker way than that
in which she had been speaking. “Remember, Job Gregson is a notorious
poacher and evildoer, and you really are not responsible for what goes on
at Hareman’s Common.”
He was near the hall door, and said something—half to himself, which we
heard (being nearer to him), but my lady did not; although she saw that
he spoke. “What did he say?” she asked in a somewhat hurried manner, as
soon as the door was closed—“I did not hear.” We looked at each other,
and then I spoke:
“He said, my lady, that ‘God help him! he was responsible for all the
evil he did not strive to overcome.’”
My lady turned sharp round away from us, and Mary Mason said afterwards
she thought her ladyship was much vexed with both of us, for having been
present, and with me for having repeated what Mr. Gray had said. But it
was not our fault that we were in the hall, and when my lady asked what
Mr. Gray had said, I thought it right to tell her.
In a few minutes she bade us accompany her in her ride in the coach.
Lady Ludlow always sat forwards by herself, and we girls backwards.
Somehow this was a rule, which we never thought of questioning. It was
true that riding backwards made some of us feel very uncomfortable and
faint; and to remedy this my lady always drove with both windows open,
which occasionally gave her the rheumatism; but we always went on in the
old way. This day she did not pay any great attention to the road by
which we were going, and Coachman took his own way. We were very silent,
as my lady did not speak, and looked very serious. Or else, in general,
she made these rides very pleasant (to those who were not qualmish with
riding backwards), by talking to us in a very agreeable manner, and
telling us of the different things which had happened to her at various
places,—at Paris and Versailles, where she had been in her youth,—at
Windsor and Kew and Weymouth, where she had been with the Queen, when
maid-of-honour—and so on. But this day she did not talk at all. All at
once she put her head out of the window.
“John Footman,” said she, “where are we? Surely this is Hareman’s
Common.”
“Yes, an’t please my lady,” said John Footman, and waited for further
speech or orders. My lady thought a while, and then said she would have
the steps put down and get out.
As soon as she was gone, we looked at each other, and then without a word
began to gaze after her. We saw her pick her dainty way in the little
high-heeled shoes she always wore (because they had been in fashion in
her youth), among the yellow pools of stagnant water that had gathered in
the clayey soil. John Footman followed, stately, after; afraid too, for
all his stateliness, of splashing his pure white stockings. Suddenly my
lady turned round and said something to him, and he returned to the
carriage with a half-pleased, half-puzzled air.
My lady went on to a cluster of rude mud houses at the higher end of the
Common; cottages built, as they were occasionally at that day, of wattles
and clay, and thatched with sods. As far as we could make out from dumb
show, Lady Ludlow saw enough of the interiors of these places to make her
hesitate before entering, or even speaking to any of the children who
were playing about in the puddles. After a pause, she disappeared into
one of the cottages. It seemed to us a long time before she came out;
but I dare say it was not more than eight or ten minutes. She came back
with her head hanging down, as if to choose her way,—but we saw it was
more in thought and bewilderment than for any such purpose.
She had not made up her mind where we should drive to when she got into
the carriage again. John Footman stood, bare-headed, waiting for orders.
“To Hathaway. My dears, if you are tired, or if you have anything to do
for Mrs. Medlicott, I can drop you at Barford Corner, and it is but a
quarter of an hour’s brisk walk home.”
But luckily we could safely say that Mrs. Medlicott did not want us;
and as we had whispered to each other, as we sat alone in the coach,
that surely my lady must have gone to Job Gregson’s, we were far too
anxious to know the end of it all to say that we were tired. So we all
set off to Hathaway. Mr. Harry Lathom was a bachelor squire, thirty
or thirty-five years of age, more at home in the field than in the
drawing-room, and with sporting men than with ladies.
My lady did not alight, of course; it was Mr. Lathom’s place to wait upon
her, and she bade the butler,—who had a smack of the gamekeeper in him,
very unlike our own powdered venerable fine gentleman at Hanbury,—tell
his master, with her compliments, that she wished to speak to him. You
may think how pleased we were to find that we should hear all that was
said; though, I think, afterwards we were half sorry when we saw how our
presence confused the squire, who would have found it bad enough to
answer my lady’s questions, even without two eager girls for audience.
“Pray, Mr. Lathom,” began my lady, something abruptly for her,—but she
was very full of her subject,—“what is this I hear about Job Gregson?”
Mr. Lathom looked annoyed and vexed, but dared not show it in his words.
“I gave out a warrant against him, my lady, for theft,—that is all. You
are doubtless aware of his character; a man who sets nets and springes in
long cover, and fishes wherever he takes a fancy. It is but a short step
from poaching to thieving.”
“That is quite true,” replied Lady Ludlow (who had a horror of poaching
for this very reason): “but I imagine you do not send a man to gaol on
account of his bad character.”
“Rogues and vagabonds,” said Mr. Lathom. “A man may be sent to prison
for being a vagabond; for no specific act, but for his general mode of
life.”
He had the better of her ladyship for one moment; but then she answered—
“But in this case, the charge on which you committed him is for theft;
now his wife tells me he can prove he was some miles distant from
Holmwood, where the robbery took place, all that afternoon; she says you
had the evidence before you.”
Mr. Lathom here interrupted my lady, by saying, in a somewhat sulky
manner—“No such evidence was brought before me when I gave the warrant.
I am not answerable for the other magistrates’ decision, when they had
more evidence before them. It was they who committed him to gaol. I am
not responsible for that.”
My lady did not often show signs of impatience; but we knew she was
feeling irritated, by the little perpetual tapping of her high-heeled
shoe against the bottom of the carriage. About the same time we, sitting
backwards, caught a glimpse of Mr. Gray through the open door, standing
in the shadow of the hall. Doubtless Lady Ludlow’s arrival had
interrupted a conversation between Mr. Lathom and Mr. Gray. The latter
must have heard every word of what she was saying; but of this she was
not aware, and caught at Mr. Lathom’s disclaimer of responsibility with
pretty much the same argument which she had heard (through our
repetition) that Mr. Gray had used not two hours before.
“And do you mean to say, Mr. Lathom, that you don’t consider yourself
responsible for all injustice or wrong-doing that you might have
prevented, and have not? Nay, in this case the first germ of injustice
was your own mistake. I wish you had been with me a little while ago,
and seen the misery in that poor fellow’s cottage.” She spoke lower, and
Mr. Gray drew near, in a sort of involuntary manner; as if to hear all
she was saying. We saw him, and doubtless Mr. Lathom heard his footstep,
and knew who it was that was listening behind him, and approving of every
word that was said. He grew yet more sullen in manner; but still my lady
was my lady, and he dared not speak out before her, as he would have done
to Mr. Gray. Lady Ludlow, however, caught the look of stubborness in his
face, and it roused her as I had never seen her roused.
“I am sure you will not refuse, sir, to accept my bail. I offer to bail
the fellow out, and to be responsible for his appearance at the sessions.
What say you to that, Mr. Lathom?”
“The offence of theft is not bailable, my lady.”
“Not in ordinary cases, I dare say. But I imagine this is an
extraordinary case. The man is sent to prison out of compliment to you,
and against all evidence, as far as I can learn. He will have to rot in
gaol for two months, and his wife and children to starve. I, Lady
Ludlow, offer to bail him out, and pledge myself for his appearance at
next quarter-sessions.”
“It is against the law, my lady.”
“Bah! Bah! Bah! Who makes laws? Such as I, in the House of Lords—such
as you, in the House of Commons. We, who make the laws in St. Stephen’s,
may break the mere forms of them, when we have right on our sides, on our
own land, and amongst our own people.”
“The lord-lieutenant may take away my commission, if he heard of it.”
“And a very good thing for the county, Harry Lathom; and for you too, if
he did,—if you don’t go on more wisely than you have begun. A pretty
set you and your brother magistrates are to administer justice through
the land! I always said a good despotism was the best form of
government; and I am twice as much in favour of it now I see what a
quorum is! My dears!” suddenly turning round to us, “if it would not
tire you to walk home, I would beg Mr. Lathom to take a seat in my coach,
and we would drive to Henley Gaol, and have the poor man out at once.”
“A walk over the fields at this time of day is hardly fitting for young
ladies to take alone,” said Mr. Lathom, anxious no doubt to escape from
his tete-a-tete drive with my lady, and possibly not quite prepared to go
to the illegal length of prompt measures, which she had in contemplation.
But Mr. Gray now stepped forward, too anxious for the release of the
prisoner to allow any obstacle to intervene which he could do away with.
To see Lady Ludlow’s face when she first perceived whom she had had for
auditor and spectator of her interview with Mr. Lathom, was as good as a
play. She had been doing and saying the very things she had been so much
annoyed at Mr. Gray’s saying and proposing only an hour or two ago. She
had been setting down Mr. Lathom pretty smartly, in the presence of the
very man to whom she had spoken of that gentleman as so sensible, and of
such a standing in the county, that it was presumption to question his
doings. But before Mr. Gray had finished his offer of escorting us back
to Hanbury Court, my lady had recovered herself. There was neither
surprise nor displeasure in her manner, as she answered—“I thank you,
Mr. Gray. I was not aware that you were here, but I think I can
understand on what errand you came. And seeing you here, recalls me to a
duty I owe Mr. Lathom. Mr. Lathom, I have spoken to you pretty
plainly,—forgetting, until I saw Mr. Gray, that only this very afternoon
I differed from him on this very question; taking completely, at that
time, the same view of the whole subject which you have done; thinking
that the county would be well rid of such a man as Job Gregson, whether
he had committed this theft or not. Mr. Gray and I did not part quite
friends,” she continued, bowing towards him; “but it so happened that I
saw Job Gregson’s wife and home,—I felt that Mr. Gray had been right and
I had been wrong, so, with the famous inconsistency of my sex, I came
hither to scold you,” smiling towards Mr. Lathom, who looked half-sulky
yet, and did not relax a bit of his gravity at her smile, “for holding
the same opinions that I had done an hour before. Mr. Gray,” (again
bowing towards him) “these young ladies will be very much obliged to you
for your escort, and so shall I. Mr. Lathom, may I beg of you to
accompany me to Henley?”
Mr. Gray bowed very low, and went very red; Mr. Lathom said something
which we none of us heard, but which was, I think, some remonstrance
against the course he was, as it were, compelled to take. Lady Ludlow,
however, took no notice of his murmur, but sat in an attitude of polite
expectancy; and as we turned off on our walk, I saw Mr. Lathom getting
into the coach with the air of a whipped hound. I must say, considering
my lady’s feeling, I did not envy him his ride—though, I believe, he was
quite in the right as to the object of the ride being illegal.
Our walk home was very dull. We had no fears; and would far rather have
been without the awkward, blushing young man, into which Mr. Gray had
sunk. At every stile he hesitated,—sometimes he half got over it,
thinking that he could assist us better in that way; then he would turn
back unwilling to go before ladies. He had no ease of manner, as my lady
once said of him, though on any occasion of duty, he had an immense deal
of dignity.