_ANTIQUITIES_.
As Pitt went off, Mrs. Dallas came on the verandah. 'You would not go
to drive?' she said to Betty.
'It is so hot, dear Mrs. Dallas! I had what was much better than a
drive--a good long talk.'
'What do you think of my boy?' asked the mother, with an accent of
happy confidence in which there was also a vibration of pride.
'He puzzles me. Has he not some peculiar opinions?'
'Have you found that out already?' said Mrs. Dallas, with a change of
tone. 'That shows he must like you very much, Betty; my son is not
given to letting himself out on those subjects. Even to me he very
seldom speaks of them.'
'What subjects do you mean, dear Mrs. Dallas?' inquired the young lady
softly.
'I mean,' said Mrs. Dallas uneasily and hesitating, 'some sort of
religious questions. I told you he had had to do at one time with
dissenting people, and I think their influence has been bad for him. I
hoped in England he would forget all that, and become a true Churchman.
What did he say?'
'Nothing about the Church, or about religion. I do not believe it would
be easy for any one to influence him, Mrs. Dallas.'
'You can do it, Betty, if any one. I am hoping in you.'
The young lady, as I have intimated, was not averse to the task, all
the rather that it promised some difficulty. All the rather, too, that
she was stimulated by the idea of counter influence. She recalled more
than once what Pitt had said of that 'young girl,' and tried to make
out what had been in his tone at the time. No passion certainly; he had
spoken easily and frankly; too easily to favour the supposition of any
very deep feeling; and yet, not without a certain cadence of
tenderness, and undoubtedly with the confidence of intimate knowledge.
Undoubtedly, also, the influence of that young person, whatever its
nature, had not died out. Miss Betty had little question in her own
mind that she must have been one of the persons referred to and dreaded
by Mrs. Dallas as dissenters; and the young lady determined to do what
she could in the case. She had a definite point of resistance now, and
felt stronger for the fray.
The fray, however, could not be immediately entered upon. Pitt departed
to New York, avowedly to look up the Gainsboroughs. And there, as two
years before, he spent unwearied pains in pursuit of his object; also,
as then, in vain. He returned after more than a week of absence, a
baffled man. His arrival was just in time to allow him to sit down to
dinner with the family; so that Betty heard his report.
'Have you found the Gainsboroughs?' his father asked.
'No, sir.'
'Where did you look?'
'Everywhere.'
'What have you done?' his mother asked.
'Everything.'
'I told you, I thought they were gone back to England.'
'If they are, there is no sign of it, and I do not believe it. I have
spent hours and hours at the shipping offices, looking over the lists
of passengers; and of one thing I am certain, they have not sailed from
that port this year.'
'Not under the name by which you know them.'
'And not under any other. Colonel Gainsborough was not a man to hide
his head under an alias. But they know nothing of any Colonel
Gainsborough at the post office.'
'That is strange.'
'They never had many letters, you know, sir; and the colonel had given
up his English paper. I think I know all the people that take the
London _Times_ in New York; and he is not one of them.'
'He is gone home,' said Mr. Dallas comfortably.
'I can find that out when I go back to England; and I will.'
Miss Betty said nothing, and asked never a word, but she lost none of
all this. Pitt was becoming a problem to her. All this eagerness and
painstaking would seem to look towards some very close relations
between the young man and these missing people; yet Pitt showed no
annoyance nor signs of trouble at missing them. Was it that he did not
really care? was it that he had not accepted failure, and did not mean
to fail? In either case, he must be a peculiar character, and in either
case there was brought to light an uncommon strength of determination.
There is hardly anything which women like better in the other sex than
force of character. Not because it is a quality in which their own sex
is apt to be lacking; on the contrary; but because it gives a woman
what she wants in a man--something to lean upon, and somebody to look
up to. Miss Betty found herself getting more and more interested in
Pitt and in her charge concerning him; how it was to be executed she
did not yet see; she must leave that to chance. Nothing could be forced
here. Where liking begins to grow, there also begins fear.
She retreated to the verandah after dinner, with her embroidery. By and
by Mrs. Dallas came there too. It was a pleasant place in the
afternoon, for the sun was on the other side of the house, and the sea
breeze swept this way, giving its saltness to the odours of rose and
honeysuckle and mignonette. Mrs. Dallas sat down and took her knitting;
then, before a word could be exchanged, they were joined by Pitt. That
is, he came on the verandah; but for some time there was no talking.
The ladies would not begin, and Pitt did not. His attention, wherever
it might be, was not given to his companions; he sat thoughtful, and
determinately silent. Mrs. Dallas's knitting needles clicked, Miss
Betty's embroidering thread went noiselessly in and out. Bees hummed
and flitted about the honeysuckle vines; there was a soft, sweet,
luxurious atmosphere to the senses and to the mind. This went on for a
while.
'Mr. Pitt,' said Miss Betty, 'you are giving me no help at all.'
He brought himself and his attention round to her at once, and asked
how he could be of service.
'Your mother,' began Miss Betty, stitching away, 'has given me a
commission concerning you. She desires me to see to it that _ennui_
does not creep upon you during your vacation in this unexciting place.
How do I know but it is creeping upon you already? and you give me no
chance to drive it away.'
Pitt laughed a little. 'I was never attacked by _ennui_ in my life,' he
said.
'So you do not want my services!'
'Not to fight an enemy that is nowhere in sight. Perhaps he is your
enemy, and I might be helpful in another way.'
It occurred to him that _he_ had been charged to make Miss Frere's
sojourn in Seaforth pleasant; and some vague sense of what this mutual
charge might mean dawned upon him, with a rising light of amusement.
'I don't know!' said the young lady. 'You did once propose a drive. If
you would propose it again, perhaps I would go. We cannot help its
being hot?'
So they went for a drive. The roads were capital, the evening was
lovely, the horses went well, and the phaeton was comfortable; if that
were not enough, it was all. Miss Frere bore it for a while patiently.
'Do you dislike talking?' she asked at length meekly, when a soft bit
of road and the slow movement of the horses gave her a good opportunity.
'I? Not at all!' said Pitt, rousing himself as out of a muse.
'Then I wish you would talk. Mrs. Dallas desires that I should
entertain you; and how am I to do that unless I know you better?'
'So you think people's characters come out in talking?'
'If not their characters, at least something of what is in their
heads--what they know--and don't know; what they can talk about, in
short.'
'I do not know anything--to talk about.'
'Oh, fie, Mr. Dallas! you who have been to Oxford and London. Tell me,
what is London like? An overgrown New York, I suppose.'
'No, neither. "Overgrown" means grown beyond strength or usefulness.
London is large, but not overgrown, in any sense.'
'Well, like New York, only larger?'
'No more than a mushroom is like a great old oak. London is like that;
an old oak, gnarled and twisted and weather-worn, with plenty of hale
life and young vigour springing out of its rugged old roots.'
'That sounds--poetical.'
'If you mean, not true, you are under a mistake.'
'Then it seems you know London?'
'I suppose I do; better than many of those who live in it. When I am
there, Miss Frere, I am with an old uncle, who is an antiquary and an
enthusiast on the subject of his native city. From the first it has
been his pleasure to go with me all over London, and tell me the
secrets of its old streets, and show me what was worth looking at.
London was my picture-book, my theatre, where I saw tragedy and comedy
together; my museum of antiquities. I never tire of it, and my Uncle
Strahan is never tired of showing it to me.'
'Why, what is it to see?' asked Miss Frere, with some real curiosity.
'For one thing, it is an epitome of English history, strikingly
illustrated.'
'Oh, you mean Westminster Abbey! Yes, I have heard of that, of course.
But I should think _that_ was not interminable.'
'I do not mean Westminster Abbey.'
'What then, please?'
'I cannot tell you here,' said Pitt smiling, as the horses, having
found firm ground, set off again at a gay trot. 'Wait till we get home,
and I will show you a map of London.'
The young lady, satisfied with having gained her object, waited very
patiently, and told Mrs. Dallas on reaching home that the drive had
been delightful.
Next day Pitt was as good as his word. He brought his map of London
into the cool matted room where the ladies were sitting, rolled up a
table, and spread the map out before Miss Frere. The young lady dropped
her embroidery and gave her attention.
'What have you there, Pitt?' his mother inquired.
'London, mamma.'
'London?' Mrs. Dallas drew up her chair too, where she could look on;
while Pitt briefly gave an explanation of the map; showed where was the
'City' and where the fashionable quarter.
'I suppose,' said Miss Frere, studying the map, 'the parts of London
that delight you are over here?' indicating the West End.
'No,' returned Pitt, 'by no means. The City and the Strand are
infinitely more interesting.'
'My dear,' said his mother, 'I do not see how that can be.'
'It is true, though, mother. All this,' drawing his finger round a
certain portion of the map, 'is crowded with the witnesses of human
life and history; full of remains that tell of the men of the past, and
their doings, and their sufferings.'
Miss Frere's fine eyes were lifted to him in inquiry; meeting them, he
smiled, and went on.
'I must explain. Where shall I begin? Suppose, for instance, we take
our stand here at Whitehall. We are looking at the Banqueting House of
the Palace, built by Inigo Jones for James I. The other buildings of
the palace, wide and splendid as they were, have mostly perished. This
stands yet. I need not tell you the thoughts that come up as we look at
it.'
'Charles I was executed there, I know. What else?'
'There is a whole swarm of memories, and a whole crowd of images,
belonging to the palace of which this was a part. Before the time you
speak of, there was Cardinal Wolsey'--
'Oh, Wolsey! I remember.'
'His outrageous luxury and pomp of living, and his disgrace. Then comes
Henry VIII., and Anne Boleyn, and their marriage; Henry's splendours,
and his death. All that was here. In those days the buildings of
Whitehall were very extensive, and they were further enlarged
afterwards. Here Elizabeth held her court, and here she lay in state
after death. James I comes next; he built the Banqueting House. And in
his son's time, the royal magnificence displayed at Whitehall was
incomparable. All the gaieties and splendours and luxury of living that
then were possible, were known here. And here was the scaffold where he
died. The next figure is Cromwell's.'
'Leave him out!' said Mrs. Dallas, with a sort of groan of impatience.
'What shall I do with the next following, mamma? That is Charles II.'
'He had a right there at least.'
'He abused it.'
'At least he was a king, and a gentleman.'
'If I could show you Whitehall as it was in his day, mother, I think
you would not want to look long. But I shall not try. We will go on to
Charing Cross. The old palace extended once nearly so far. Here is the
place.' He pointed to a certain spot on the map.
'What is there now?' asked Betty.
'Not the old Cross. That is gone; but, of course, I cannot stand there
without in thought going back to Edward I. and his queen. In its place
is a brazen statue of Charles I. And in fact, when I stand there the
winds seem to sweep down upon me from many a mountain peak of history.
Edward and his rugged greatness, and Charles and his weak folly; and
the Protectorate, and the Restoration. For here, where the statue
stands, stood once the gallows where Harrison and his companions were
executed, when "the king had his own again." Sometimes I can hardly see
the present, when I am there, for looking at the past.'
'You are enthusiastic,' said Miss Frere. 'But I understand it. Yes,
that is not like New York; not much!'
'What became of the Cross, Pitt?'
'Pulled down, mother--like everything else in its day.'
'Who pulled it down?'
'The Republicans.'
'The Republicans! Yes, it was like them!' said Mrs. Dallas. 'Rebellion,
dissent, and a want of feeling for whatever is noble and refined, all
go together. That was the Puritans!'
'Pretty strong!' said Pitt. 'And not quite fair either, is it? How much
feeling for what is noble and refined was there in the court of the
second Charles?--and how much of either, if you look below the surface,
was in the policy or the character of the first Charles?'
'He did not destroy pictures and pull down statues,' said Mrs. Dallas.
'He was at least a gentleman. But the Puritans were a low set, always.
I cannot forgive them for the work they did in England.'
'You may thank heaven for some of the work they did. But for them, you
would not be here to-day in a land of freedom.'
'Too much freedom,' said Mrs. Dallas. 'I believe it is good to have a
king over a country.'
'Well, go on from Charing Cross, won't you,' said Miss Frere. 'I am
interested. I never studied a map of London before. I am not sure I
ever saw one.'
'I do not know which way to go,' said Pitt. 'Every step brings us to
new associations; every street opens up a chapter of history. Here is
Northumberland House; a grand old building, full of its records.
Howards and Percys and Seymours have owned it and built it; and there
General Monk planned the bringing back of the Stuarts. Going along the
Strand, every step is full of interest. Just _here_ used to be the
palace of Sir Nicholas Baron and his son; then James the First's
favourite, the Duke of Buckingham, lived in it; and the beautiful
water-gate is yet standing which Inigo Jones built for him. All the
Strand was full of palaces which have passed away, leaving behind the
names of their owners in the streets which remain or have been built
since. Here Sir Walter Raleigh lived; _here_ the Dudleys had their
abode, and Lady Jane Grey was married; here was the house of Lord
Burleigh. But let us go on to the church of St. Mary-le-Strand. Here
once stood a great Maypole, round which there used to be merry doings.
The Puritans took that down too, mother.'
'What for?'
'They held it to be in some sort a relic of heathen manners. Then under
Charles II. it was set up again. And here, once, four thousand children
were gathered and sang a hymn, on some public occasion of triumph in
Queen Anne's reign.'
'It is not there now?'
'Oh, no! It was given to Sir Isaac Newton, and made to subserve the
uses of a telescope.'
'How do you know all these things, Mr. Pitt.'
'Every London antiquary knows them, I suppose. And I told you, I have
an old uncle who is a great antiquary; London is his particular hobby.'
'He must have had an apt scholar, though.'
'Much liking makes good learning, I suppose,' said the young man. 'A
little further on is the church of St. Clement Danes, where Dr. Johnson
used to attend divine service. About _here_ stands Temple Bar.'
'Temple Bar!' said Miss Frere. 'I have heard of Temple Bar all my life,
and never connected any clear idea with the name. What _is_ Temple Bar?'
'It is not very much of a building. It is the barrier which marks the
bound of the city of London.'
'Isn't it London on both sides of Temple Bar?'
'London, but not the City. The City proper begins here. On the west of
this limit is Westminster.'
'There are ugly associations with Temple Bar, I know,' said Miss Frere.
'There are ugly associations with everything. Down here stood Essex
House, where Essex defended himself, and from which he was carried off
to the Tower. _There_, in Lincoln's Inn fields, Thomas Babington and
his party died for high treason, and there Russell died. And just up
here is Smithfield. It is all over, the record of violence,
intolerance, and brutality. It meets you at every turn.'
'It is only what would be in any other place as old as London,' said
Mrs. Dallas. 'In old times people were rough, of course, but they were
rough everywhere.'
'I was thinking'-- said Miss Frere. 'Mr. Dallas gives a somewhat
singular justification of his liking for London.'
'Is it?' said Pitt. 'It would be singular if the violence were there
now; but to read the record and look on the scene is interesting, and
for me fascinating. The record is of other things too. See,--in this
place Milton lived and wrote; here Franklin abode; here Charles Lamb;
from an inn in this street Bishop Hooper went away to die. And so I
might go on and on. At every step there is the memorial of some great
man's life, or some noted man's death. And with all that, there are
also the most exquisite bits of material antiquity. Old picturesque
houses; old crypts of former churches, over which stands now a modern
representative of the name; old monuments many; old doorways, and
courts, and corners, and gateways. Come over to London, and I will take
you down into the crypt of St. Paul's, and show you how history is
presented to you there.'
'The crypt?' said Miss Frere, doubting somewhat of this invitation.
'Yes, the old monuments are in the crypt.'
'My dear,' said Mrs. Dallas, 'I do not understand how all these things
you have been talking about should have so much charm for you. I should
think the newer and handsomer parts of the city, the parks and the
gardens, and the fine squares, would be a great deal more agreeable.'
'To live in, mother.'
'And don't you go to the British Museum, and to the Tower, and to Hyde
Park?'
'I have been there hundreds of times.'
'And like these old corners still?'
'I am very fond of the Museum.'
'There is nothing like that is this country,' said Mrs. Dallas, with an
accent of satisfaction.