Religious subjects occupied us more than might have been held likely. A

spirit of reflection and revival was silently working in many a heart.

Evangelicalism had stirred old-fashioned orthodoxy, and we felt its

action. The _Christian Year_ was Ellen’s guiding star—as it was ours,

nay, doubly so in proportion to the ardour of her nature. Certain poems

are dearer and more eloquent to me still, because the verses recall to me

the thrill of her sweet tones as she repeated them. We were all very

ignorant alike of Church doctrine and history, but talking out and

comparing our discoveries and impressions was as useful as it was

pleasant to us.

What the _Christian Year_ was in religion to us Scott was in history. We

read to verify or illustrate him, and we had little raving fits over his

characters, and jokes founded on them. Indeed, Ellen saw life almost

through that medium; and the siege of Hillside, dispersed by the splendid

prowess of Griffith, the champion with silver helm and flashing sword,

was precious to her as a renewal of the days of Ivanhoe or Damian de

Lacy.

As may be believed, these quiet mornings were those when that true knight

was employed in field sports or yeomanry duties, such as the state of the

country called for. When he was at home, all was fun and merriment and

noise—walks and rides on fine days, battledore and shuttlecock on wet

ones, music, singing, paper games, giggling and making giggle, and

sometimes dancing in the hall—Mr. Frank Fordyce joining with all his

heart and drollery in many of these, like the boy he was.

I could play quadrilles and country dances, and now and then a

reel—nobody thought of waltzes—and the three couples changed and

counterchanged partners. Clarence had the sailor’s foot, and did his

part when needed; Emily generally fell to his share, and their silence

and gravity contrasted with the mirth of the other pairs. He knew very

well he was the _pis aller_ of the party, and only danced when Parson

Frank was not dragged out, nothing loth, by his little daughter. With

Miss Fordyce, Clarence never had the chance of dancing; she was always

claimed by Griff, or pounced upon by Martyn.

Miss Fordyce she always was to us in those days, and those pretty lips

scrupulously ‘Mistered’ and ‘Winslowed’ us. I don’t think she would have

been more to us, if we had called her Nell, and had been Griff, Bill, and

Ted to her, or if there had not been all the little formalities of

avoiding tête à têtes and the like. They were essentials of propriety

then—natural, and never viewed as prudish. Nor did it detract from the

sweet dignity of maidenhood that there was none of the familiarity which

breeds something one would rather not mention in conjunction with a lady.

Altogether there was a sunshine around Miss Fordyce by which we all

seemed illuminated, even the least favoured and least demonstrative; we

were all her willing slaves, and thought her smile and thanks full

reward.

One day, when Griff and Martyn were assisting at the turn out of an

isolated barn at Hillside, where Frank Fordyce declared, all the

burnt-out rats and mice had taken refuge, the young ladies went out to

cater for house decorations for Christmas under Clarence’s escort.

Nobody but the clerk ever thought of touching the church, where there

were holes in all the pews to receive the holly boughs.

The girls came back, telling in eager scared voices how, while gathering

butcher’s broom in Farmer Hodges’ home copse, a savage dog had flown out

at them, but had been kept at bay by Mr. Clarence Winslow with an

umbrella, while they escaped over the stile.

Clarence had not come into the drawing-room with them, and while my

mother, who had a great objection to people standing about in out-door

garments, sent them up to doff their bonnets and furs, I repaired to our

room, and was horrified to find him on my bed, white and faint.

‘Bitten?’ I cried in dismay.

‘Yes; but not much. Only I’m such a fool. I turned off when I began

taking off my boots. No, no—don’t! Don’t call any one. It is nothing!’

He was springing up to stop me, but was forced to drop back, and I made

my way to the drawing-room, where my mother happened to be alone. She

was much alarmed, but a glass of wine restored Clarence; and inspection

showed that the thick trowser and winter stocking had so protected him

that little blood had been drawn, and there was bruise rather than bite

in the calf of the leg, where the brute had caught him as he was getting

over the stile as the rear-guard. It was painful, though the faintness

was chiefly from tension of nerve, for he had kept behind all the way

home, and no one had guessed at the hurt. My mother doctored it

tenderly, and he begged that nothing should be said about it; he wanted

no fuss about such a trifle. My mother agreed, with the proud feeling of

not enhancing the obligations of the Fordyce family; but she absolutely

kissed Clarence’s forehead as she bade him lie quiet till dinner-time.

We kept silence at table while the girls described the horrors of the

monster. ‘A tawny creature, with a hideous black muzzle,’ said Emily.

‘Like a bad dream,’ said Miss Fordyce. The two fathers expressed their

intention of remonstrating with the farmer, and Griff declared that it

would be lucky if he did not shoot it. Miss Fordyce generously took its

part, saying the poor dog was doing its duty, and Griff ejaculated, ‘If I

had been there!’

‘It would not have dared to show its teeth, eh?’ said my father, when

there was a good deal of banter.

My father, however, came at night with mamma to inspect the hurt and ask

details, and he ended with, ‘Well done, Clarence, boy; I am gratified to

see you are acquiring presence of mind, and can act like a man.’

Clarence smiled when they were gone, saying, ‘That would have been an

insult to any one else.’

Emily perceived that he had not come off unscathed, and was much

aggrieved at being bound to silence. ‘Well,’ she broke out, ‘if the dog

goes mad, and Clarence has the hydrophobia, I suppose I may tell.’

‘In that pleasing contingency,’ said Clarence smiling. ‘Don’t you see,

Emily, it is the worst compliment you can pay me not to treat this as a

matter of course?’ Still, he was the happier for not having failed.

Whatever strengthened his self-respect and gave him trust in himself was

a stepping-stone.

As to rivalry or competition with Griff, the idea seemingly never crossed

his mind, and envy or jealousy were equally aloof from it. One subject

of thankfulness runs through these recollections—namely, that nothing

broke the tie of strong affection between us three brothers. Griffith

might figure as the ‘vary parfite knight,’ the St. George of the piece,

glittering in the halo shed round him by the bright eyes of the rescued

damsel; while Clarence might drag himself along as the poor recreant to

be contemned and tolerated, and he would accept the position meekly as

only his desert, without a thought of bitterness. Indeed, he himself

seemed to have imbibed Nurse Gooch’s original opinion, that his genuine

love for sacred things was a sort of impertinence and pretension in such

as he—a kind of hypocrisy even when they were the realities and helps to

which he clung with all his heart. Still, this depression was only shown

by reserve, and troubled no one save myself, who knew him best guessed

what was lost by his silence, and burned in spirit at seeing him merely

endured as one unworthy.

In one of our varieties of Waverley discussions the crystal hardness and

inexperienced intolerance of youth made Miss Fordyce declare that had she

been Edith Plantagenet, she would never, never have forgiven Sir Kenneth.

‘How could she, when he had forsaken the king’s banner? Unpardonable!’

Then came a sudden, awful silence, as she recollected her audience, and

blushed crimson with the misery of perceiving where her random shaft had

struck, nor did either of us know what to say; but to our surprise it was

Clarence who first spoke to relieve the desperate embarrassment. ‘Is

forgiven quite the right word, when the offence was not personal? I know

that such things can neither be repaired nor overlooked, and I think that

is what Miss Fordyce meant.’

‘Oh, Mr. Winslow,’ she exclaimed, ‘I am very sorry—I don’t think I quite

meant’—and then, as her eyes for one moment fell on his subdued face, she

added, ‘No, I said what I ought not. If there is sorrow’—her voice

trembled—‘and pardon above, no one below has any right to say

unpardonable.’

Clarence bowed his head, and his lips framed, but he did not utter,

‘Thank you.’ Emily nervously began reading aloud the page before her,

full of the jingling recurring rhymes about Sir Thomas of Kent; but I saw

Ellen surreptitiously wipe away a tear, and from that time she was more

kind and friendly with Clarence.

CHAPTER XX.

VENI, VIDI, VICI.

‘None but the brave,

None but the brave,

None but the brave deserve the fair.’—_Song_.

CHRISTMAS trees were not yet heard of beyond the Fatherland, and both the

mothers held that Christmas parties were not good for little children,

since Mrs. Winslow’s strong common sense had arrived at the same

conclusion as Mrs. Fordyce had derived from Hannah More and Richard

Lovell Edgeworth. Besides, rick-burning and mobs were far too recent for

our neighbours to venture out at night.

But as we were all resolved that little Anne should have a memorable

Christmas at Chantry House, we begged an innocent, though iced cake, from

the cook, painted a set of characters ourselves, including all the dolls,

and bespoke the presence of Frank Fordyce at a feast in the outer mullion

room—Griff’s apartment, of course. The locality was chosen as allowing

more opportunity for high jinks than the bookroom, and also because the

swords and pistols in trophy over the mantelpiece had a great fascination

for the two sisters, and to ‘drink tea with Mr. Griffith’ was always

known to be a great ambition of the little queen of the festival. As to

the mullion chamber legends, they had nearly gone out of our heads,

though Clarence did once observe, ‘You remember, it will be the 26th of

December;’ but we did not think this worthy of consideration, especially

as Anne’s entertainment, at its latest, could not last beyond nine

o’clock; and the ghostly performances—now entirely laid to the account of

the departed stable-boy—never began before eleven.

Nor did anything interfere with our merriment. The fun of fifty years

ago must be intrinsically exquisite to bear being handed down to another

generation, so I will attempt no repetition, though some of those Twelfth

Day characters still remain, pasted into my diary. We anticipated

Twelfth Day because our guests meant to go to visit some other friends

before the New Year, and we knew Anne would have no chance there of

fulfilling her great ambition of drawing for king and queen. These

home-made characters were really charming. Mrs. Fordyce had done several

of them, and she drew beautifully. A little manipulation contrived that

the exquisite Oberon and Titania should fall to Martyn and Anne, for whom

crowns and robes had been prepared, worn by her majesty with complacent

dignity, but barely tolerated by him! The others took their chance.

Parson Frank was Tom Thumb, and convulsed us all the evening by acting as

if no bigger than that worthy, keeping us so merry that even Clarence

laughed as I had never seen him laugh before.

Cock Robin and Jenny Wren—the best drawn of all—fell to Griff and Miss

Fordyce. There was a suspicion of a tint of real carnation on her cheek,

as, on his low, highly-delighted bow, she held up her impromptu fan of

folded paper; and drollery about currant wine and hopping upon twigs went

on more or less all the time, while somehow or other the beauteous glow

on her cheeks went on deepening, so that I never saw her look so pretty

as when thus playing at Jenny Wren’s coyness, though neither she nor

Griff had passed the bounds of her gracious precise discretion.

The joyous evening ended at last. With the stroke of nine, Jenny Wren

bore away Queen Titania to put her to bed, for the servants were having

an entertainment of their own downstairs for all the out-door retainers,

etc. Oberon departed, after an interval sufficient to prove his own

dignity and advanced age. Emily went down to report the success of the

evening to the elders in the drawing-room, but we lingered while Frank

Fordyce was telling good stories of Oxford life, and Griff capping them

with more recent ones.

We too broke up—I don’t remember how; but Clarence was to help me down

the stairs, and Mr. Fordyce, frowning with anxiety at the process, was

offering assistance, while we had much rather he had gone out of the way;

when suddenly, in the gallery round the hall giving access to the

bedrooms, there dawned upon us the startled but scarcely displeased

figure of Jenny Wren in her white dress, not turning aside that blushing

face, while Cock Robin was clasping her hand and pressing it to his lips.

The tap of my crutches warned them. She flew back within her door and

shut it; Griff strode rapidly on, caught hold of her father’s hand,

exclaiming, ‘Sir, sir, I must speak to you!’ and dragged him back into

the mullion room leaving Clarence and me to convey ourselves downstairs

as best we might.

‘Our sister, our sweet sister!’

We were immensely excited. All the three of us were so far in love with

Ellen Fordyce that her presence was an enchantment to us, and at any rate

none of us ever saw the woman we could compare to her; and as we both

felt ourselves disqualified in different ways from any nearer approach,

we were content to bask in the reflected rays of our brother’s happiness.

Not that he had gone that length as yet, as we knew before the night was

over, when he came down to us. Even with the dear maiden herself, he had

only made sure that she was not averse, and that merely by her eyes and

lips; and he had extracted nothing from her father but that they were

both very young, a great deal too young, and had no business to think of

such things yet. It must be talked over, etc. etc.

But just then, Griff told us, Frank Fordyce jumped up and turned round

with the sudden exclamation, ‘Ellen!’ looking towards the door behind him

with blank astonishment, as he found it had neither been opened nor shut.

He thought his daughter had recollected something left behind, and coming

in search of it, had retreated precipitately. He had seen her, he said,

in the mirror opposite. Griff told him there was no mirror, and had to

carry a candle across to convince him that he had only been looking at

the door into the inner room, which though of shining dark oak, could

hardly have made a reflection as vivid as he declared that his had been.

Indeed, he ascertained that Ellen had never left her own room at all.

‘It must have been thinking about the dear child,’ he said. ‘And after

all, it was not quite like her—somehow—she was paler, and had something

over her head.’ We had no doubt who it was. Griff had not seen her, but

he was certain that there had been none of the moaning nor crying, ‘In

fact, she has come to give her consent,’ he said with earnest in his

mocking tone.

‘Yes,’ said Clarence gravely, and with glistening eyes. ‘You are happy

Griff. It is given to you to right the wrong, and quiet that poor

spirit.’

‘Happy! The happiest fellow in the world,’ said Griff, ‘even without

that latter clause—if only Madam and the old man will have as much sense

as she has!’

The next day was a thoroughly uncomfortable one. Griff was not half so

near his goal as he had hoped last night when with kindly Parson Frank.

The commotion was as if a thunderbolt had descended among the elders.

What they had been thinking of, I cannot tell, not to have perceived how

matters were tending; but their minds were full of the Reform Bill and

the state of the country, and, besides, we were all looked on still as

mere children. Indeed, Griff was scarcely one-and-twenty, and Ellen

wanted a month of seventeen; and the crisis had really been a sudden

impulse, as he said, ‘She looked so sweet and lovely, he could not help

it.’

The first effect was a serious lecture upon maidenliness and propriety to

poor Ellen from her mother, who was sure that she must have transgressed

the bounds of discretion, or such ill-bred presumption would have been

spared her, and bitterly regretted the having trusted her to take care of

herself. There were sufficient grains of truth in this to make the poor

girl cry herself out of all condition for appearing at breakfast or

luncheon, and Emily’s report of her despair made us much more angry with

Mrs. Fordyce than was perhaps quite due to that good lady.

My parents were at first inclined to take the same line, and be vexed

with Griff for an act of impertinence towards a guest. He had a great

deal of difficulty in inducing the elders to believe him in earnest, or

treat him as a man capable of knowing his own mind; and even thus they

felt as if his addresses to Miss Fordyce were, under present

circumstances, taking almost an unfair advantage of the other family—at

which our youthful spirits felt indignant.

Yet, after all, such a match was as obvious and suitable as if it had

been a family compact, and the only objection was the youth of the

parties. Mrs. Fordyce would fain have believed her daughter’s heart to

be not yet awake, and was grieved to find childhood over, and the hero of

romance become the lover; and she was anxious that full time should be

given to perceive whether her daughter’s feelings were only the result of

the dazzling aureole which gratitude and excited fancy had cast around

the fine, handsome, winning youth. Her husband, however, who had himself

married very young, and was greatly taken with Griff, besides being

always tender-hearted, did not enter into her scruples; but, as we had

already found out, the grand-looking and clever man of thirty-eight was,

chiefly from his impulsiveness and good-nature, treated as the boy of the

family. His old father, too, was greatly pleased with Griff’s spirit,

affection, and purpose, as well as with my father’s conduct in the

matter; and so, after a succession of private interviews, very

tantalising to us poor outsiders, it was conceded that though an

engagement for the present was preposterous, it might possibly be

permitted when Ellen was eighteen if Griff had completed his university

life with full credit. He was fervently grateful to have such an object

set before him, and my father was warmly thankful for the stimulus.

That last evening was very odd and constrained. We could not help

looking on the lovers as new specimens over which some strange

transformation had passed, though for the present it had stiffened them

in public into the strictest good behaviour. They would have been

awkward if it had been possible to either of them, and, save for a

certain look in their eyes, comported themselves as perfect strangers.

The three elder gentlemen held discussions in the dining-room, but we

were not trusted in our playground adjoining. Mrs. Fordyce nailed Griff

down to an interminable game at chess, and my mother kept the two girls

playing duets, while Clarence turned over the leaves; and I read over

_The Lady of the Lake_, a study which I always felt, and still feel, as

an act of homage to Ellen Fordyce, though there was not much in common

between her and the maid of Douglas. Indeed, it was a joke of her

father’s to tease her by criticising the famous passage about the tears

that old Douglas shed over his duteous daughter’s head—‘What in the world

should the man go whining and crying for? He had much better have

laughed with her.’

Little did the elders know what was going on in the next room, where

there was a grand courtship among the dolls; the hero being a small

jointed Dutch one in Swiss costume, about an eighth part of the size of

the resuscitated Celestina Mary, but the only available male character in

doll-land! Anne was supposed to be completely ignorant of what passed

above her head; and her mother would have been aghast had she heard the

remarkable discoveries and speculations that she and Martyn communicated

to one another.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE OUTSIDE OF THE COURTSHIP.

‘Or framing, as a fair excuse,

The book, the pencil, or the muse;

Something to give, to sing, to say,

Some modern tale, some ancient lay.’

SCOTT.

IT seems to me on looking back that I have hardly done justice to Mrs.

Fordyce, and certainly we—as Griffith’s eager partisans—often regarded

her in the light of an enemy and opponent; but after this lapse of time,

I can see that she was no more than a prudent mother, unwilling to see

her fair young daughter suddenly launched into womanhood, and involved in

an attachment to a young and untried man.

The part of a drag is an invidious one; and this must have been her part

through most of her life. The Fordyces, father and son, were of good

family, gentlemen to their very backbones, and thoroughly good, religious

men; but she came of a more aristocratic strain, had been in London

society, and brought with her a high-bred air which, implanted on the

Fordyce good looks, made her daughter especially fascinating. But that

air did not recommend Mrs. Fordyce to all her neighbours, any more than

did those stronger, stricter, more thorough-going notions of religious

obligation which had led her husband to make the very real and painful

sacrifice of his sporting tastes, and attend to the parish in a manner

only too rare in those days. She was a very well-informed and highly

accomplished woman, and had made her daughter the same, keeping her

children up in a somewhat exclusive style, away from all gossip or

undesirable intimacies, as recommended by Miss Edgeworth and other more

religious authorities, and which gave great offence in houses where there

were girls of the same age. No one, however, could look at Ellen, and

doubt of the success of the system, or of the young girl’s entire content

and perfect affection for her mother, though her father was her beloved

playfellow—yet always with respect. She never took liberties with him,

nor called him Pap or any other ridiculous name inconsistent with the

fifth Commandment, though she certainly was more entirely at ease with

him than ever we had been with our elderly father. When once Mrs.

Fordyce found on what terms we were to be, she accepted them frankly and

fully. Already Emily had been the first girl, not a relation, whose

friendship she had fostered with Ellen; and she had also become

thoroughly affectionate and at home with my mother, who suited her

perfectly on the conscientious, and likewise on the prudent and sensible,

side of her nature.

To me she was always kindness itself, so kind that I never felt, as I did

on so many occasions, that she was very pitiful and attentive to the

deformed youth; but that she really enjoyed my companionship, and I could

help her in her pursuits. I have a whole packet of charming notes of

hers about books, botany, drawings, little bits of antiquarianism,

written with an arch grace and finish of expression peculiarly her own,

and in a very pointed hand, yet too definite to be illegible. I owe her

more than I can say for the windows of wholesome hope and ambition she

opened to me, giving a fresh motive and zest even to such a life as mine.

I can hardly tell which was the most delightful companion, she or her

husband. In spite of ill health, she knew every plant, and every bit of

fair scenery in the neighbourhood, and had fresh, amusing criticisms to

utter on each new book; while he, not neglecting the books, was equally

well acquainted with all beasts and birds, and shed his kindly light over

everything he approached. He was never melancholy about anything but

politics, and even there it was an immense consolation to him to have the

owner of Chantry House staunch on the same side, instead of in chronic

opposition.

The family party moved to a tall house at Bath, but there still was close

intercourse, for the younger clergyman rode over every week for the

Sunday duty, and almost always dined and slept at Chantry House. He

acted as bearer of long letters, which, in spite of a reticulation of

crossings, were too expensive by post for young ladies’ pocket-money,

often exceeding the regular quarto sheet. It was a favourite joke to ask

Emily what Ellen reported about Bath fashions, and to see her look of

scorn. For they were a curious mixture, those girlish letters, of

village interests, discussion of books, and thoughts beyond their age;

Tommy Toogood and Prometheus; or Du Guesclin in the closest juxtaposition

with reports of progress in Abercrombie on the _Intellectual Powers_. It

was the desire of Ellen to prove herself not unsettled but improved by

love, and to become worthy of her ideal Griffith, never guessing that he

would have been equally content with her if she had been as frivolous as

the idlest girl who lingered amid the waning glories of Bath.

We all made them a visit there when Martyn was taken to a preparatory

school in the place. Mrs. Fordyce took me out for drives on the

beautiful hills; and Emily and I had a very delightful time, undisturbed

by the engrossing claims of love-making. Very good, too, were our

friends, after our departure, in letting Martyn spend Sundays and

holidays with them, play with Anne as before, say his Catechism with her

to Mrs. Fordyce, and share her little Sunday lessons, which had, he has

since told, a force and attractiveness he had never known before, and

really did much, young as he was, in preparing the way towards the

fulfilment of my father’s design for him.

When the Rectory was ready, and the family returned, it was high summer,

and there were constant meetings between the households. No doubt there

were the usual amount of trivial disappointments and annoyances, but the

whole season seems to me to have been bathed in sunlight. The Reform

Bill agitations and the London mobs of which Clarence wrote to us were

like waves surging beyond an isle of peace. Clarence had some unpleasant

walks from the office. Once or twice the shutters had to be put up at

Frith and Castleford’s to prevent the windows from being broken; and once

Clarence actually saw our nation’s hero, ‘the Duke,’ riding quietly and

slowly through a yelling, furious mob, who seemed withheld from falling

on him by the perfect impassiveness of the eagle face and spare figure.

Moreover a pretty little boy, on his pony, suddenly pushed forward and

rode by the Duke’s side, as if proud and resolute to share his peril.

‘If Griffith had been there!’ said Ellen and Emily, though they did not

exactly know what they expected him to have done.

The chief storms that drifted across our sky were caused by Mrs.

Fordyce’s resolution that Griffith should enjoy none of the privileges of

an accepted suitor before the engagement was an actual fact. Ellen was

obedient and conscientious; and would neither transgress nor endure to

have her mother railed at by Griff’s hasty tongue, and this affronted

him, and led to little breezes.

When people overstay their usual time, tempers are apt to get rather

difficult. Griffith had kept all his terms at Oxford, and was not to

return thither after the long vacation, but was to read with a tutor

before taking his degree. Moreover bills began to come from Oxford, not

very serious, but vexing my father and raising annoyances and frets, for

Griff resented their being complained of, and thought himself ill-used,

going off to see his own friends whenever he was put out.

One morning at breakfast, late in October, he announced that Lady Peacock

was in lodgings at Clifton, and asked my mother to call on her. But

mamma said it was too far for the horse—she visited no one at that

distance, and had never thought much of Selina Clarkson before or after

her marriage.

‘But now that she is a widow, it would be such a kindness,’ pleaded

Griff.

‘Depend upon it, a gay young widow needs no kindness from me, and had

better not have it from you,’ said my mother, getting up from behind her

urn and walking off, followed by my father.

Griff drummed on the table. ‘I wonder what good ladies of a certain age

do with their charity,’ he said.

And while we were still crying out at him, Ellen Fordyce and her father

appeared, like mirth bidding good-morrow, at the window. All was well

for the time, but Griff wanted Ellen to set out alone with him, and take

their leisurely way through the wood-path, and she insisted on waiting

for her father, who had got into an endless discussion with mine on the

Reform Bill, thrown out in the last Session. Griff tried to wile her on

with him, but, though she consented to wander about the lawn before the

windows with him, she always resolutely turned at the great beech tree.

Emily and I watched them from the window, at first amused, then vexed, as

we could see, by his gestures, that he was getting out of temper, and her

straw bonnet drooped at one moment, and was raised the next in eager

remonstrance or defence. At last he flung angrily away from her, and

went off to the stables, leaving her leaning against the gate in tears.

Emily, in an access of indignant sympathy, rushed out to her, and they

vanished together into the summer-house, until her father called her, and

they went home together.

Emily told me that Ellen had struggled hard to keep herself from crying

enough to show traces of tears which her father could observe, and that

she had excused Griff with all her might on the plea of her own

‘tiresomeness.’

We were all the more angry with him for his selfishness and want of

consideration, for Ellen, in her torrent of grief, had even disclosed

that he had said she did not care for him—no one really in love ever

scrupled about a mother’s nonsense, etc., etc.

We were resolved, like two sages, to give him a piece of our minds, and

convince him that such dutifulness was the pledge of future happiness,

and that it was absolute cruelty to the rare creature he had won, to try

to draw her in a direction contrary to her conscience.

However, we saw him no more that day; and only learnt that he had left a

message at the stables that dinner was not to be kept waiting for him.

Such a message from Clarence would have caused a great commotion; but it

was quite natural and a matter of course from him in the eyes of the

elders, who knew nothing of his parting with Ellen. However, there was

annoyance enough, when bedtime came, family prayers were over, and still

there was no sign of him. My father sat up till one o’clock, to let him

in, then gave it up, and I heard his step heavily mounting the stairs.

CHAPTER XXII.

BRISTOL DIAMONDS.

‘_Stafford_. And you that are the King’s friends, follow me.

_Cade_. And you that love the Commons, follow me;

We will not leave one lord, one gentleman,

Spare none but such as go in clouted shoon.’

Act I. _Henry VI_.

THE next day was Sunday, and no Griff appeared in the morning. Vexation,

perhaps, prevented us from attending as much as we otherwise might have

done to Mr. Henderson when he told us that there were rumours of a

serious disturbance at Bristol; until Emily recollected that Griff had

been talking for some days past of riding over to see his friend in the

cavalry regiment there stationed, and we all agreed that it was most

likely that he was there; and our wrath began to soften in the belief

that he might have been detained to give his aid in the cause of order,

though his single arm could not be expected to effect as much as at

Hillside.

Long after dark we heard a horse’s feet, and in another minute Griff,

singed, splashed, and battered, had hurried into the room—‘It has begun!’

he said. ‘The revolution! I have brought her—Lady Peacock. She was at

Clifton, dreadfully alarmed. She is almost at the door now, in her

carriage. I’ll just take the pony, and ride over to tell Eastwood in

case he will call out the Yeomanry.’

The wheels were to be heard, and everybody hastened out to receive Lady

Peacock, who was there with her maid, full of gratitude. I heard her

broken sentences as she came across the hall, about dreadful

scenes—frightful mob—she knew not what would have become of her but for

Griffith—the place was in flames when they left it—the military would not

act—Griffith had assured her that Mr. and Mrs. Winslow would be so

kind—as long as any place was a refuge—

We really did believe we were at the outbreak of a revolution or civil

war, and, all little frets forgotten, listened appalled to the tidings;

how the appearance of Sir Charles Wetherall, the Recorder of Bristol, a

strong opponent to the Reform Bill, seemed to have inspired the mob with

fury. Griff and his friend the dragoon, while walking in Broad Street,

were astonished by a violent rush of riotous men and boys, hooting and

throwing stones as the Recorder’s carriage tried to make its way to the

Guildhall. In the midst a piteous voice exclaimed—

‘Oh, Griffith! Mr. Griffith Winslow! Is it you?’ and Lady Peacock was

seen retreating upon the stone steps of a house either empty, or where

the inhabitants were too much alarmed to open the doors. She was

terribly frightened, and the two gentlemen stood in front of her till the

tumultuary procession had passed by. She was staying in lodgings at

Clifton, and had driven in to Bristol to shop, when she thus found

herself entangled in the mob. They then escorted her to the place where

she was to meet her carriage, and found it for her with some difficulty.

Then, while the officer returned to his quarters, Griff accompanied her

far enough on the way to Clifton to see that everything was quiet before

her, and then returned to seek out his friend. The court at the

Guildhall had had to be adjourned, but the rioters were hunting Sir

Charles to the Mansion-House. Griff was met by one of the Town Council,

a tradesman with whom we dealt, who, having perhaps heard of his prowess

at Hillside, entreated him to remain, offering him a bed, and saying that

all friends of order were needed in such a crisis as this. Griff wrote a

note to let us know what had become of him, but everything was

disorganised, and we did not get it till two days afterwards.

In the evening the mob became more violent, and in the midst of dinner a

summons came for Griff’s host to attend the Mayor in endeavouring to

disperse it. Getting into the Mansion-House by private back ways, they

were able to join the Mayor when he came out, amid a shower of brickbats,

sticks, and stones, and read the Riot Act three times over, after warning

them of the consequences of persisting in their defiance.

‘But they were far past caring for that,’ said Griff. ‘An iron rail from

the square was thrown in the midst of it, and if I had not caught it

there would have been an end of his Worship.’

The constables, with such help as Griff and a few others could give them,

defended the front of the Mansion-House, while the Recorder, for whom

they savagely roared, made his escape by the roof to another house. A

barricade was made with beds, tables, and chairs, behind which the

defenders sheltered themselves, while volleys of stones smashed in the

windows, and straw was thrown after them. But at last the tramp of

horses’ feet was heard, and the Dragoons came up.

‘We thought all over then,’ said Griff; ‘but Colonel Brereton would not

have a blow struck, far less a shot fired! He would have it that it was

a good-humoured mob! I heard him! When one of his own men was brought

up badly hurt with a brickbat, I heard Ludlow, the Town-Clerk, ask him

what he thought of their good humour, and he had nothing to say but that

it was an accident! And the rogues knew it! He took care they should;

he walked about among them and shook hands with them!’

Griff waited at the Mansion-House all night, and helped to board up the

smashed windows; but at daylight Colonel Brereton came and insisted on

withdrawing the piquet on guard—not, however, sending a relief for them,

on the plea that they only collected a crowd. The instant they were

withdrawn, down came the mob in fresh force, so desperate that all the

defences were torn down, and they swarmed in so that there was nothing

for it but to escape over the roofs.

Griffith was sent to rouse the inhabitants of College Green and St.

Augustine’s Back to come in the King’s name to assist the Magistrates,

and he had many good stories of the various responses he met with. But

the rioters, inflamed by the wine they had found in sacking the

Mansion-House, and encouraged by the passiveness of the troops, had

become entirely masters of the situation. And Colonel Brereton seems to

have imagined that the presence of the soldiers acted as an irritation;

for in this crisis he actually sent them out of the city to Keynsham,

then came and informed the mob, who cheered him, as well they might.

In the night the Recorder had left the city, and notices were posted to

that effect; also that the Riot Act had been read, and any further

disturbance would be capital felony. This escape of their victim only

had the effect of directing the rage of the populace against Bishop Grey,

who had likewise opposed the Reform Bill.

Messages had been sent to advise the Bishop, who was to preach that day

at the Cathedral, to stay away and sanction the omission of the service;

but his answer to one of his clergy was—‘These are times in which it is

necessary not to shrink from danger! Our duty is to be at our post.’

And he also said, ‘Where can I die better than in my own Cathedral?’

Since the bells were ringing, and it was understood that the Bishop was

actually going to dare the peril, Griff and others of the defenders

decided that it was better to attend the service and fill up the nave so

as to hinder outrage. He said it was a most strange and wonderful

service. Chants and Psalms and Lessons and prayers going on their course

as usual, but every now and then in the pauses of the organ, a howl or

yell of the voice of the multitude would break on the ear through the

thick walls. Griff listened and hoped for a volley of musketry. He was

not tender-hearted! But none came, and by the time the service was over,

the mob had been greatly reinforced and had broken into the prisons, set

them on fire, and released the prisoners. They were mustering on College

Green for an attack on the palace. Griff aided in guarding the entrance

to the cloisters till the Bishop and his family had had time to drive

away to Almondsbury, four miles off, and then the rush became so strong

that they had to give way. There was another great struggle at the door

of the palace, but it was forced open with a crowbar, while shouts rang

out ‘No King and no Bishops!’ A fire was made in the dining-room with

chairs and tables, and live coals were put into the beds, while the

plunder went on.

Griff meantime had made his way to the party headed by the magistrates,

and accompanied by the dragoons, and the mob began to flee; but Colonel

Brereton had given strict orders that the soldiers should not fire, and

the plunderers rallied, made a fire in the Chapter House, and burnt the

whole of the library, shouting with the maddest triumph.

They next attacked the Cathedral, intending to burn that likewise, but

two brave gentlemen, Mr. Ralph and Mr. Linne, succeeded in saving this

last outrage, at the head of the better affected.

Griff had fought hard. He was all over bruises which he really had never

felt at the time, scarcely even now, though one side of his face was

turning purple, and his clothes were singed. In a sort of council held

at the repulse of the attack on the Cathedral, it had been decided that

the best thing he could do would be to give notice to Sir George

Eastwood, in order that the Yeomanry might be called out, since the

troops were so strangely prevented from acting. As he rode through

Clifton, he had halted at Lady Peacock’s, and found her in extreme alarm.

Indeed, no one could guess what the temper of the mob might be the next

day, or whether they might not fall upon private houses. The

Mansion-House, the prisons, the palace were all burning and were an

astounding sight, which terrified her exceedingly, and she was sending

out right and left to endeavour to get horses to take her away. In

common humanity, and for old acquaintance sake, it was impossible not to

help her, and Griff had delayed, to offer any amount of reward in her

name for posthorses, which he had at last secured. Her own man-servant,

whom she had sent in quest of some, had never returned, and she had to

set off without him, Griff acting as outrider; but after the first there

was no more difficulty about horses, and she had been able to change them

at the next stage.

We all thought the days of civil war were really begun, as the heads of

this account were hastily gathered; but there was not much said, only Mr.

Frank Fordyce laid his hand on Griff’s shoulder and said, ‘Well done, my

boy; but you have had enough for to-day. If you’ll lend me a horse,

Winslow, I’ll ride over to Eastwood. That’s work for the clergy in these

times, eh? Griffith should rest. He may be wanted to-morrow. Only is

there any one to take a note home for me, to say where I’m gone;’ and

then he added with that sweet smile of his, ‘Some one will be more the

true knight than ever, eh, you Griffith you—’

Griffith coloured a little, and Lady Peacock’s eyes looked interrogative.

When the horse was announced, Griff followed Mr. Fordyce into the hall,

and came back announcing that, unless summoned elsewhere, he should go to

breakfast at Hillside, and so hear what was decided on. He longed to be

back at the scene of action, but was so tired out that he could not

dispense with another night’s rest; though he took all precautions for

being called up, in case of need.

However, nothing came, and he rode to the Rectory in Yeomanry equipment.

Nor could any one doubt that in the ecstasy of meeting such a hero, all

the little misunderstanding and grief of the night before was forgotten?

Ellen looked as if she trod on air, when she came down with her father to

report that Griffith had gone, according to the orders sent, to join the

rest of the Yeomanry, who were to advance upon Bristol. They had seen,

and tried to turn back, some of the villagers who were starting with

bludgeons to share in the spoil, and who looked sullen, as if they were

determined not to miss their share.

I do not think we were very much alarmed for Griff’s safety or for our

own, not even the ladies. My mother had the lion-heart of her naval

ancestors, and Ellen was in a state of exaltation. Would that I could

put her before other eyes, as she stood with hands clasped and glowing

cheek.

‘Oh!—think!—think of having one among us who is as real and true knight

as ever watched his armour—

‘“For king, for church, for lady fight!”

It has all come gloriously true!’

‘Should not you like to bind on his spurs?’ I asked somewhat

mischievously; but she was serious as she said, ‘I am sure he has won

them.’ All the rest of the Fordyces came down afterwards, too anxious to

stay at home. Our elders felt the matter more gravely, thinking of what

civil war might mean to us all, and what an awful thing it was for

Englishmen to be enrolled against each other. Nottingham Castle had just

been burnt, and things looked only too like revolution, especially

considering the inaction of the dragoons. After Griff had left Bristol,

there had been some terrible scenes at the Custom House, where the

ringleaders—unhappy men!—were caught in a trap of their own and perished

miserably.

However, by the morning, the order sent from Lord Hill, the arrival of

Major Beckwith from Gloucester, and the proceedings of the good-humoured

mob had put an end to poor Brereton’s hesitations; a determined front had

been shown; the mob had been fairly broken up; troops from all quarters

poured into the city, and by dinner-time Griff came back with the news

that all was quiet and there was nothing more to fear. Ellen and Emily

both flew out to meet him at the first sound of the horse’s feet, and

they all came into the drawing-room together—each young lady having hold

of one of his hands—and Ellen’s face in such a glow, that I rather

suspect that he had snatched a reward which certainly would not have been

granted save in such a moment of uplifted feeling, and when she was

thankful to her hero for forgetting how angry he had been with her two

days before.

Minor matters were forgotten in the details of his tidings, as he stood

before the fire, shining in his silver lace, and relating the tragedy and

the comedy of the scene.

It was curious, as the evening passed on, to see how Ellen and Lady

Peacock regarded each other, now that the tension of suspense was over.

To Ellen, the guest was primarily a distressed and widowed dame,

delivered by Griff, to whom she, as his lady love, was bound to be

gracious and kind; nor had they seen much of one another, the elder

ladies sitting in the drawing-room, and we in our own regions; but we

were all together at dinner and afterwards, and Lady Peacock, who had

been in a very limp, nervous, and terrified state all day, began to be

the Selina Clarkson we remembered, and ‘more too.’ She was still in

mourning, but she came down to dinner in gray satin sheen, and with her

hair in a most astonishing erection of bows and bands, on the very crown

of her head, raising her height at least four inches. Emily assures me

that it was the mode in use, and that she and Ellen wore their hair in

the same style, appealing to portraits to prove it. I can only say that

they never astonished my weak mind in the like manner; and that their

heads, however dressed, only appeared to me a portion of the general

woman, and part of the universal fitness of things. Ellen was likewise

amazed, most likely not at the hair, but at the transformation of the

disconsolate, frightened widow, into the handsome, fashionable, stylish

lady, talking over London acquaintance and London news with my father and

Griff whenever they left the endless subject of the Bristol adventures.

The widow had gained a good deal in beauty since her early girlhood,

having regular features, eyes of an uncommon deep blue, very black brows,

eye-lashes, and hair, and a form of the kind that is better after early

youth is over. ‘A fine figure of a woman,’ Parson Frank pronounced her,

and his wife, with the fine edge of her lips replied, ‘exactly what she

is!’

She looked upon us younger ones as mere children still—indeed she never

looked at me at all if she could help it—but she mortally offended Emily

by penning her up in a corner, and asking if Griff were engaged to that

sentimental little girl.

Emily coloured like a turkey cock between wrath and embarrassment, and

hotly protested against the word sentimental.

‘Ah yes, I see!’ she said in a patronising tone, ‘she is your bosom

friend, eh? That’s the way those things always begin. You need not

answer: I see it all. And no doubt it is a capital thing for him;

properties joining and all. And she will get a little air and style when

he takes her to London.’ It was a tremendous offence even to hint that

Ellen’s style was capable of improvement; perhaps an unprejudiced eye

would have said that the difference was between high-bred simplicity and

the air of fashion and society.

In our eyes Lady Peacock was the companion of the elders, and as such was

appreciated by the gentlemen; but neither of the two mothers was equally

delighted with her, nor was mine at all sorry when, on Tuesday, the boxes

were packed, posthorses sent for, and my Lady departed, with great

expressions of thankfulness to us all.

‘A tulip to a jessamine,’ muttered Griff as she drove off, and he looked

up at his Ellen’s sweet refined face.

The unfortunate Colonel Brereton put an end to himself when the

court-martial was half over. How Clarence was shocked and how ardent was

his pity! But Griffith received the thanks of the Corporation of Bristol

for his gallant conduct, when the special assize was held in January.

Mrs. Fordyce was almost as proud of him as we were, and there was much

less attempt at restraining the terms on which he stood with Ellen—though

still the formal engagement was not permitted.

CHAPTER XXIII.

QUICKSANDS.

‘Whither shall I go?

Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?’

TENNYSON.

IT was in the May of the ensuing year, 1832, that Clarence was sent down

to Bristol for a few weeks to take the place of one of the clerks in the

office where the cargoes of the incoming vessels of the firm were

received and overhauled.

This was a good-natured arrangement of Mr. Castleford’s in order to give

him change of work and a sight of home, where, by the help of the coach,

he could spend his Sundays. That first spring day on his way down was a

great delight and even surprise to him, who had never seen our profusion

of primroses, cowslips, and bluebells, nor our splendid blossom of

trees—apple, lilac, laburnum—all vieing in beauty with one another.

Emily conducted him about in great delight, taking him over to Hillside

to see Mrs. Fordyce’s American garden, blazing with azaleas, and glowing

with rhododendrons. He came back with a great bouquet given to him by

Ellen, who had been unusually friendly with him, and he was more animated

and full of life than for years before.

Next time he came he looked less happy. There was plenty of room in our

house, but he used, by preference, the little chamber within mine, and

there at night he asked me to lend him a few pounds, since Griffith had

written one of his off-hand letters asking him to discharge a little bill

or two at Bristol, giving the addresses, but not sending the accounts.

This was no wonder, since any enclosure doubled the already heavy

postage. One of these bills was for some sporting equipments from the

gunsmith’s; another, much heavier, from a tavern for breakfasts, or

rather luncheons, to parties of gentlemen, mostly bearing date in the

summer and autumn of 1830, before the friendship with the Fordyces had

begun. On Clarence’s defraying the first and applying for the second,

two more had come in, one from a jeweller for a pair of drop-earrings,

the other from a nurseryman for a bouquet of exotics. Doubting of these

two last, Clarence had written to Griff, but had not yet received an

answer. The whole amount was so much beyond what he had been led to

expect that he had not brought enough money to meet it, and wanted an

advance from me, promising repayment, to which latter point I could not

assent, as both of us knew, but did not say, we should never see the sum

again, and to me it only meant stinting in new books and curiosities. We

were anxious to get the matter settled at once, as Griffith spoke of

being dunned; and it might be serious, if the tradesmen applied to my

father when he was still groaning over revelations of college expenses.

On the ensuing Saturday, Clarence showed me Griff’s answer—‘I had

forgotten these items. The earrings were a wedding present to the pretty

little barmaid, who had been very civil. The bouquet was for Lady

Peacock; I felt bound to do something to atone for mamma’s severe virtue.

It is all right, you best of brothers.’

It was consolatory that all the dates were prior to the Hillside fire,

except that of the bouquet. As to the earrings, we all knew that Griff

could not see a pretty girl without talking nonsense to her. Anyway, if

they were a wedding present, there was an end of it; and we were only

glad to prevent any hint of them from reaching the ears of the

authorities.

Clarence had another trouble to confide to me. He had strong reason to

believe that Tooke, the managing clerk at Bristol, was carrying on a

course of peculation, and feathering his nest at the expense of the firm.

What a grand discovery, thought I, for such a youth to have made. The

firm would be infinitely obliged to him, and his fortune would be

secured. He shook his head, and said that was all my ignorance; the man,

Tooke, was greatly trusted, especially by Mr. Frith the senior partner,

and was so clever and experienced that it would be almost impossible to

establish anything against him. Indeed he had browbeaten Clarence, and

convinced him at the moment that his suspicions and perplexities were

only due to the ignorance of a foolish, scrupulous youth, who did not

understand the customs and perquisites of an agency. It was only when

Clarence was alone, and reflected on the matter by the light of

experience gained on a similar expedition to Liverpool, that he had

perceived that Mr. Tooke had been throwing dust in his eyes.

‘I shall only get into a scrape myself,’ said Clarence despondently. ‘I

have felt it coming ever since I have been at Bristol;’ and he pushed his

hair back with a weary hopeless gesture.

‘But you don’t mean to let it alone?’ I cried indignantly.

He hesitated in a manner that painfully recalled his failing, and said at

last, ‘I don’t know; I suppose I ought not.’

‘Suppose?’ I cried.

‘It is not so easy as you think,’ he answered, ‘especially for one who

has forfeited the right to be believed. I must wait till I have an

opportunity of speaking to Mr. Castleford, and then I can hardly do more

than privately give him a hint to be watchful. You don’t know how things

are in such houses as ours. One may only ruin oneself without doing any

good.’

‘You cannot write to him?’

‘Certainly not. He has taken his family to Mrs. Castleford’s home in the

north of Ireland for a month or six weeks. I don’t know the address, and

I cannot run the risk of the letter being opened at the office.’

‘Can’t you speak to my father?’

‘Impossible! it would be a betrayal. He would do things for which I

should never be forgiven. And, after all, remember, it is no business of

mine. I know of agents at the docks who do such things as a matter of

course. It is only that I happen to know that Harris at Liverpool does

not. Very possibly old Frith knows all about it. I should only get

scored down as a meddlesome prig, worse hypocrite than they think me

already.’

He said a good deal more to this effect, and I remember exclaiming, ‘Oh,

Clarence, the old story!’ and then being frightened at the whiteness that

came over his face.

Little did I know the suffering to which those words of mine condemned

him. For not only had he to make up his mind to resistance, which to his

nature was infinitely worse than it was to Griffith to face a raging mob,

but he knew very well that it would almost inevitably produce his own

ruin, and renew the disgrace out of which he was beginning to emerge. I

did not—even while I prayed that he might do the right—guess at his own

agony of supplication, carried on incessantly, day and night, sleeping

and waking, that the Holy Spirit of might should brace his will and

govern his tongue, and make him say the right thing at the right time, be

the consequences what they might. No one, not constituted as he was, can

guess at the anguish he endured. I knew no more. Clarence did not come

home the next Saturday, to my mother’s great vexation; but on Tuesday a

small parcel was given to me, brought from our point of contact with the

Bristol coach. It contained some pencils I had asked him to get, and a

note marked _private_. Here it is—

‘DEAR EDWARD—I am summoned to town. Tooke has no doubt forestalled

me. We have had some curious interviews, in which he first, as I

told you, persuaded me out of my senses that it was all right, and

then, finding me still dissatisfied, tried in a delicate fashion to

apprise me that I had a claim to a share of the plunder. When I

refused to appropriate anything without sanction from headquarters,

he threatened me with the consequences of presumptuous interference.

It came to bullying at last. I hardly know what I answered, but I

don’t think I gave in. Now, a sharp letter from old Frith recalls

me. Say nothing at home; and whatever you do, do not betray Griff.

He has more to lose than I. Help me in the true way, as you know

how.—Ever yours, W. C. W.

I need not dwell on the misery of those days. It was well that my father

had ruled that our letters should not be family property. Here were all

the others discussing a proposed tour in the north of Devon, to be taken

conjointly with the Fordyces, as soon as Griff should come home. My

mother said it would do me good; she saw I was flagging, but she little

guessed at the continual torment of anxiety, and my wonder at the warning

about Griff.

At the end of the week came another letter.

‘You need not speak yet. Papa and mamma will know soon enough. I

brought down £150 in specie, to be paid over to Tooke. He avers that

only £130 was received. What is my word worth against his? I am

told that if I am not prosecuted it will only be out of respect to my

father. I am not dismissed yet, but shall get notice as soon as

letters come from Ireland. I have written, but it is not in the

nature of things that Mr. Castleford should not accept such proofs as

have been sent him. I have no hope, and shall be glad when it is

over. The part of black sheep is not a pleasant one. Say not a

word, and do not let my father come up. He could do no good, and to

see him believing it all would be the last drop in the bucket.

_N.B._—In this pass, nothing would be saved by bringing Griff into

it, so be silent on your life. Innocence does not seem to be much

comfort at present. Maybe it will come in time. I know you will not

drop me, dear Ted, wherever I may be.’

Need I tell the distress of those days of suspense and silence, when my

only solace was in being left alone, and in writing letters to Clarence

which were mostly torn up again.

My horror was lest he should be driven to go off to the sea, which he

loved so well, knowing, as nobody else did, the longing that sometimes

seized him for it, a hereditary craving that curiously conflicted with

the rest of his disposition; and, indeed, his lack was more of moral than

of physical courage. It haunted me constantly that his entreaty that my

father should not come to London was a bad sign, and that he would never

face such another return home. And was I justified in keeping all this

to myself, when my father’s presence might save him from the flight that

would indeed be the surrender of his character, and to the life of a

common sailor? Never have I known such leaden days as these, yet the

misery was not a tithe of what Clarence was undergoing.

I was right in my forebodings. Prosecution and a second return home in

shame and disgrace were alike hideous to Clarence, and the present was

almost equally terrible, for nobody at the office had any doubt of his

guilt, and the young men who had sneered at his strictness and religious

habits regarded him as an unmasked hypocrite, only waiting on sufferance

till his greatly deceived patron should write to decide on the steps to

be taken with him, while he knew he was thought to be brazening it out in

hopes of again deceiving Mr. Castleford.

The sea began to exert its power over him, and he thought with longing of

its freedom, as if the sails of the vessels were the wings of a dove to

flee away and be at rest. He had no illusions as to the roughness of the

life and companionship; but in his present mood, the frank rudeness and

profanity of the sailors seemed preferable to his cramped life, and the

scowls of his fellows; and he knew himself to have seamanship enough to

rise quickly, even if he could not secure a mate’s berth at first.

Mr. Castleford could not be heard from till the end of the week. Friday,

Saturday came and not a word. That was the climax! When the consignment

of cash, hitherto carried by Clarence to the Bank of England, was

committed to another clerk, the very office boy sniggered, and the

manager demonstratively waited to see him depart.

Unable to bear it any longer, he walked towards Wapping, bought a

Southwester, examined the lists of shipping, and entered into

conversation with one or two sailors about the vessels making up their

crews; intending to go down after dark, to meet the skipper of a craft

bound for Lisbon, who, he heard, was so much in want of a mate as perhaps

to overlook the lack of testimonials, and at any rate take him on board

on Sunday.

Going home to pick up a few necessaries, a book lent to him by Miss

Newton came in his way, and he felt drawn to carry it home, and see her

face for the last time.

All unconscious of his trouble and of his intentions, the good lady told

him of her strong desire to hear a celebrated preacher at a neighbouring

church on the Sunday evening, but said that in her partial blindness and

weakness, she was afraid to venture, unless he would have the extreme

goodness, as she said, to take care of her. He saw that she wished it so

much that he had not the heart to refuse, and he recollected likewise

that very early on Monday morning would answer his purpose equally well.

It was the 7th of June. The Psalm was the 37th—the supreme lesson of

patience. ‘Hold thee still in the Lord; and abide patiently on Him; and

He shall bring it to pass. He shall make thy righteousness as clear as

the light, and thy just dealing as the noonday.’

The awful sense of desolation seemed to pass away under those words, with

that gentle woman beside him. And the sermon was on ‘Oh tarry thou the

Lord’s leisure; be strong, and He shall comfort thine heart; and put thou

thy trust in the Lord.’

Clarence remembered nothing but the text. But it was borne in upon him

that his purpose of flight was ‘the old story,’—cowardice and virtual

distrust of the Lord, as well as absolute cruelty to us who loved him.

When he had deposited Miss Newton at her own door, he whispered thanks,

and an entreaty for her prayers.

And then he went home, and fought the battle of his life, with his own

horrible dread of Mr. Castleford’s disappointment; of possible

prosecution; of the shame at home; the misery of a life a second time

blighted. He fought it out on his knees, many a time persuading himself

that flight would not be a sin, then returning to the sense that it was a

temptation of his worse self to be overcome. And by morning he knew that

it would be a surrender of himself to his lower nature, and the evil

spirit behind it; while, by facing the worst that could befall him, he

would be falling into the hand of the Lord.

CHAPTER XXIV.

AFTER THE TEMPEST.

‘Nor deem the irrevocable past

As wholly wasted, wholly vain,

If rising on its wrecks at last

To something nobler we attain.’

LONGFELLOW.

ALL the rest of the family were out, and I was relieved by being alone

with my distress, not forced to hide it, when the door opened and ‘Mr.

Castleford’ was announced. After one moment’s look at me, one touch of

my hand, he must have seen that I was faint with anxiety, and said, ‘It

is all right, Edward; I see you know all. I am come from Bristol to tell

your father that he may be proud of his son Clarence.’

I don’t know what I did. Perhaps I sobbed and cried, but the first words

I could get out were, ‘Does he know? Oh! it may be too late. He may be

gone off to sea!’ I cried, breaking out with my chief fear. Mr.

Castleford looked astounded, then said, ‘I trust not. I sent off a

special messenger last night, as soon as I saw my way—’

Then I breathed a little more freely, and could understand what he was

telling me, namely, that Tooke had accused Clarence of abstracting £20

from the sum in his charge. The fellow accounted for it by explaining

that young Winslow had been paying extravagant bills at a tavern, where

the barmaid showed his presents, and boasted of her conquest. All this

had been written to Mr. Castleford by his partner, and he was told that

it was out of deference to himself that his _protégé_ was not in custody,

nor had received notice of dismissal; but, no doubt, he would give his

sanction to immediate measures, and communicate with the family.

The effect had been to make the good man hurry at once from the Giant’s

Causeway to Bristol, where he had arrived on Sunday, to investigate the

books and examine the underlings. In the midst Tooke attempted to

abscond, but he was brought back as he was embarking in an American

vessel; and he then confessed the whole,—how speculation had led to

dishonesty, and following evil customs not uncommon in other firms.

Then, when the fugitive found that young Winslow was too acute to be

blinded, and that it had been a still greater mistake to try to overcome

his integrity, self-defence required his ruin, or at any rate his

expulsion, before he could gain Mr. Castleford’s ear.

Tooke really believed that the discreditable bills were the young man’s

own, and proofs of concealed habits of dissipation; but this excellent

man had gone into the matter, repaired to the tradesfolk, learnt the

date, and whose the accounts really were, and had even hunted up the

barmaid, who was not married after all, and had no hesitation in avowing

that her beau had been the handsome young Yeomanry lieutenant. Mr.

Castleford had spent the greater part of Monday in this painful task, but

had not been clear enough till quite late in the evening to despatch an

express to his partner, and to Clarence, whom he desired to meet him

here.

‘He has acted nobly,’ said our kind friend. ‘His only error seems to

have been in being too good a brother.’

This made me implore that nothing should be said about Griffith’s bills,

showing those injunctions of Clarence’s which had so puzzled me, and

explaining the circumstances.

Mr. Castleford hummed and hawed, and perhaps wished he had seen my father

before me; but I prevailed at last, and when the others came in from

their drive, there was nothing to alloy the intelligence that Clarence

had shown rare discernment, as well as great uprightness, steadfastness,

and moral courage.

My mother, when she had taken in the fact, actually shed tears of joy.

Emily stood by me, holding my hand. My father said, ‘It is all owing to

you, Castleford, and the helping hand you gave the poor boy.’

‘Nay,’ was the answer, ‘it seems to me that it was owing to his having

the root of the matter in him to overcome his natural failings.’

Still, in all the rejoicing, my heart failed me lest the express should

have come too late, and Clarence should be already on the high seas, for

there had been no letter from him on Sunday morning. It was doubtful

whether Mr. Castleford’s messenger could reach London in time for tidings

to come down by the coach—far less did we expect Clarence—and we had

nearly finished the first course at dinner, when we heard the front door

open, and a voice speaking to the butler. Emily screamed ‘It’s he! Oh

mamma, may I?’ and flew out into the hall, dragging in a pale, worn and

weary wight, all dust and heat, having travelled down outside the coach

on a broiling day, and walked the rest of the way. He looked quite

bewildered at the rush at him; my father’s ‘Well done, Clarence,’ and

strong clasp; and my mother’s fervent kiss, and muttered something about

washing his hands.

Formal folks, such as we were, had to sit in our chairs; and when he came

back apologising for not dressing, as he had left his portmanteau for the

carrier, he looked so white and ill that we were quite shocked, and began

to realise what he had suffered. He could not eat the food that was

brought back for him, and allowed that his head was aching dreadfully;

but, after a glass of wine had been administered, it was extracted that

he had met Mr. Frith at the office door, and been gruffly told that Mr.

Castleford was satisfied, and he might consider himself acquitted.

‘And then I had your letter, sir, thank you,’ said Clarence, scarcely

restraining his tears.

‘The thanks are on our side, my dear boy,’ said Mr. Castleford. ‘I must

talk it over with you, but not till you have had a night’s rest. You

look as if you had not known one for a good while.’

Clarence gave a sort of trembling smile, not trusting himself to speak.

Approbation at home was so new and strange to him that he could scarcely

bear it, worn out as he was by nearly a month of doubt, distress,

apprehension, and self-debate.

My mother went herself to hasten the preparation of his room, and after

she had sent him to bed went again to satisfy herself that he was

comfortable and not feverish. She came back wiping away a tear, and

saying he had looked up at her just as when she had the three of us in

our nursery cribs. In truth these two had seldom been so happy together

since those days, though the dear mother, while thankful that he had not

failed, was little aware of the conflict his resolution had cost him, and

the hot journey and long walk came in for more blame for his exhaustion

than they entirely deserved.

My father perhaps understood more of the trial; for when she came back,

declaring that all that was needed was sleep, and forbidding me to go to

my room before bedtime, he said he must bid the boy good-night.

And he spoke as his reserve would have never let him speak at any other

time, telling Clarence how deeply thankful he felt for the manifestation

of such truthfulness and moral courage as he said showed that the man had

conquered the failings of the boy.

Nevertheless, when I retired for the night, it was to find Clarence

asleep indeed, but most uneasily, tossing, moaning, and muttering broken

sentences about ‘disgracing his pennant,’ ‘never bearing to see mamma’s

face’—and the like. I thought it a kindness to wake him, and he started

up. ‘Ted, is it you? I thought I should never hear your dear old crutch

again! Is it really all right’—then, sitting up and passing his hand

over his face, ‘I always mix it up with the old affair, and think the

court-martial is coming again.’

‘There’s all the difference now.’

‘Thank God! yes—He has dragged me through! But it did not seem so in

one’s sleep, nor waking neither—though sleep is worst, and happily there

was not much of that! Sit down, Ted; I want to look at you. I can’t

believe it is not three weeks since I saw you last.’

We talked it all out, and I came to some perception of the fearful ordeal

it had been—first, in the decision neither to shut his eyes, nor to

conceal that they were open; and then in the lack of presence of mind and

the sense of confusion that always beset him when browbeaten and talked

down, so that, in the critical contest with Tooke, he felt as if his feet

were slipping from under him, and what had once been clear to him was

becoming dim, so that he had only been assured that he had held his

ground by Tooke’s redoubled persuasions and increased anger. And for a

clerk, whose years were only twenty-one, to oppose a manager, who had

been in the service more than the whole of that space, was preposterous

insolence, and likely to result in the utter ruin of his own prospects,

and the character he had begun to retrieve. It was just after this, the

real crisis, that he had the only dream which had not been misery and

distress. In it she—she yonder—yes, the lady with the lamp, came and

stood by him, and said, ‘Be steadfast.’

‘It was a dream,’ said Clarence. ‘She was not as she is in the mullion

room, not crying, but with a sweet, sad look, almost like Miss Fordyce—if

Miss Fordyce ever looked sad. It was only a dream.’

Yet it had so refreshed and comforted him that we have often since

discussed whether the spirit really visited him, or whether this was the

manner in which conscience and imagination acted on his brain. Indeed,

he always believed that the dream had been either heaven-sent or

heaven-permitted.

The die had been cast in that interview when he had let it be seen that

he was dangerous, and could not be bought over. The after consequences

had been the terrible distress and temptation I have before described,

only most inadequately. ‘But that,’ said Clarence, half smiling, ‘only

came of my being such a wretched creature as I am. There, dear old Miss

Newton saved me—yes, she did—most unconsciously, dear old soul. Don’t

you remember how Griff used to say she maundered over the text. Well,

she did it all the way home in my ear, as she clung to my arm—“Be strong,

and He shall comfort thine heart.” And then I knew my despair and

determination to leave it all behind were a temptation—“the old story,”

as you told me, and I prayed God to help me, and just managed to fight it

out. Thank God for her!’

If it had not been for that good woman, he would have been out of

reach—already out in the river—before Mr. Castleford’s messenger had

reached London! He might call himself a poor creature—and certainly a

man of harder, bolder stuff would not have fared so badly in the strife;

but it always seemed to me in after years that much of what he called the

poor creature—the old, nervous, timid, diffident self—had been shaken off

in that desperate struggle, perhaps because it had really given him more

self-reliance, and certainly inspired others with confidence in him.

We talked late enough to have horrified my mother, but I did not leave

him till he was sleeping like a child, nor did he wake till I was leaving

the room at the sound of the bell. It was alleged that it was the first

time in his life that he had been late for prayers. Mr. Castleford said

he was very glad, and my mother, looking severely at me, said she knew we

had been talking all night, and then went off to satisfy herself whether

he ought to be getting up.

There was no doubt on that score, for he was quite himself again, though

he was, in looks and in weariness, just as if he had recovered from a bad

illness, or, as he put it himself, he felt as tired and bruised as if he

had been in a stiff gale. Mr. Castleford was sorry to be obliged to ask

him to go through the whole matter with him in the study, and the result

was that he was pronounced to have an admirable head for business, as

well as the higher qualities that had been put to the test. After that

his good friend insisted that he should have a long and complete holiday,

at first proposing to take him to Ireland, but giving the notion up on

hearing of our projected excursion to the north of Devon. Pending this,

Clarence was, for nearly a week, fit for nothing but lying on the grass

in the shade, playing with the cats and dogs, or with little Anne,

looking over our drawings, listening to Wordsworth, our reigning

idol,—and enjoying, with almost touching gratitude, the first approach to

petting that had ever fallen to his share.

The only trouble on his mind was the Quarter-Session. Mr. Castleford

would hardly have prosecuted an old employé, but Mr. Frith was furious,

and resolved to make an example. Tooke had, however, so carefully

entrenched himself that nothing could be actually made a subject of

prosecution but the abstraction of the £20 of which he had accused

Clarence, who had to prove the having received and delivered it.

It was a very painful affair, and Tooke was sentenced to seven years’

transportation. I believe he became a very rich and prosperous man in

New South Wales, and founded a family. My father received warm

compliments upon his sons, and Clarence had the new sensation of being

honourably coupled with Griffith, though he laughed at the idea of mere

honesty with fierce struggles being placed beside heroism with no

struggle at all.

CHAPTER XXV.

HOLIDAY-MAKING.

‘The child upon the mountain side

Plays fearless and at ease,

While the hush of purple evening

Spreads over earth and seas.

The valley lies in shadow,

But the valley lies afar;

And the mountain is a slope of light

Upreaching to a star.’

MENELLA SMEDLEY.

HOW pleasant it was to hear Griffith’s cheery voice, as he swung himself

down, out of a cloud of dust, from the top of the coach at the wayside

stage-house, whither Clarence and I had driven in the new britshka to

meet him. While the four fine coach-horses were led off, and their

successors harnessed in almost the twinkling of an eye, Griff was with

us; and we did nothing but laugh and poke fun at each other all the way

home, without a word of graver matters.

I was resolved, however, that Griff should know how terribly his

commission had added to Clarence’s danger, and how carefully the secret

had been guarded; and the first time I could get him alone, I told him

the whole.

The effect was one of his most overwhelming fits of laughter. ‘Poor old

Bill! To think of his being accused of gallanting about with barmaids!’

(an explosion at every pause) ‘and revelling with officers! Poor old

Bill! it was as bad as Malvolio himself.’

When, indignant at the mirth excited by what had nearly cost us so dear,

I observed that these items had nearly turned the scale against our

brother, Griff demanded how we could have been such idiots as not to have

written to him; I might at least have had the sense to do so. As to its

doing him harm at Hillside, Parson Frank was no fool, and knew what men

were made of! Griff would have taken the risk, come at once, and thrust

the story down the fellow’s throat (as indeed he would have done). The

idea of Betsy putting up with a pious young man like Bill, whose only

flame had ever been old Miss Newton! And he roared again at the

incongruous pair. ‘Oh, wasn’t she married after all, the hussy? She

always had a dozen beaux, and professed to be on the point of putting up

her banns; so if the earrings were not a wedding present, they might have

been, ought to have been, and would be some time or other.’

Then he patted me, and declared there was no occasion for my disgusted

looks, for no one knew better than himself that he had the best brace of

brothers in existence, wanting in nothing but common sense and knowledge

of the world. As to Betsy—faugh! I need not make myself uneasy about

her; she knew what a civil word was worth much better than I did.

He showed considerable affection for Clarence after a fashion of his own,

which we three perfectly understood, and preferred to anything more

conventional. Griff was always delightful, and he was especially so on

that vacation, when every one was in high spirits; so that the journey

is, as I look back on it, like a spot of brilliant sunshine in the

distant landscape.

Mrs. Fordyce kept house with her father-in-law, little Anne, and Martyn,

whose holidays began a week after we had started. The two children were

allowed to make a desert island and a robbers’ cave in the beech wood;

and the adventures which their imaginations underwent there completely

threw ours into the shade.

The three ladies and I started in the big Hillside open carriage, with my

brothers on the box and the two fathers on horseback. Frank Fordyce was

a splendid rider, as indeed was the old rector, who had followed the

hounds, made a leap over a fearful chasm, still known as the Parson’s

Stride, and had been an excellent shot. The renunciation of field sports

had been a severe sacrifice to Frank Fordyce, and showed of what

excellent stuff he was made. He used to say that it was his own fault

that he had to give them up; another man would have been less engrossed

by them. Though he only read by fits and starts when his enthusiasm was

excited, he was thorough, able, and acute, and his intelligence and

sympathy were my father’s best compensation for the loss of London

society.

The two riders were a great contrast. Mr. Winslow had the thoroughly

well-appointed, somewhat precise, and highly-polished air of a barrister,

and a thin, somewhat worn and colourless face, with grizzled hair and

white whiskers; and though he rode well, with full command of his horse,

he was old enough to have chosen Chancery for her sterling qualities.

Parson Frank, on the other hand, though a thorough gentleman, was as

ruddy and weather-browned as any farmer, and—albeit his features were

handsome and refined, and his figure well poised and athletic—he lost

something of dignity by easiness of gesture and carelessness of dress,

except on state occasions, when he discarded his beloved rusty old coat

and Oxford mixture trousers, and came out magnificent enough for an

archdeacon, if not an archbishop; while his magnificent horse, Cossack,

was an animal that a sporting duke might have envied.

Nothing ever tired that couple, but my father had stipulated for

exchanges with Griffith. On these occasions it almost invariably

happened that there was a fine view for Ellen to see, so that she was

exalted to the box with Griffith to show it to her, and Chancery was

consigned to Clarence. Griff was wont to say that Chancery deserved her

name, and that he would defy the ninety-ninth part of a tailor to come to

harm with her; but Clarence was utterly unpractised in riding, did not

like it, was tormented lest Cossack’s antics should corrupt Chancery, and

was mortally afraid of breaking the knees of the precious mare. Not all

Parson Frank’s good advice and kindly raillery would induce him to risk

riding her on a descent; and as our travels were entirely up and down

hill, he was often left leading her far behind, in hot sun or misty rain,

and then would come cantering hastily up, reckless of parallels with John

Gilpin, and only anxious to be in time to help me out at the

halting-place; but more than once only coming in when the beefsteaks were

losing their first charm, and then good-humouredly serving as the general

butt for his noble horsemanship. Did any one fully comprehend how much

pleasanter our journey was through the presence of one person entirely at

the service of the others? For my own part, it made an immense

difference to have one pair of strong arms and dextrous well-accustomed

hands always at my service, enabling me to accomplish what no one else,

kind as all were, would have ventured on letting me attempt. Primarily,

he was my devoted slave; but he was at the beck and call of every one,

making the inquiries, managing the bargains, going off in search of

whatever was wanting—taking in fact all the ‘must be dones’ of the

journal. The contemplation of Cossack and Chancery being rubbed down,

and devouring their oats was so delightful to Frank Fordyce and Griffith

that they seldom wished to shirk it; but if there were any more pleasing

occupation, it was a matter of course that Clarence should watch to see

that the ostlers did their duty by the animals—an obsolete ceremony, by

the bye. He even succeeded in hunting up and hiring a side saddle when

the lovers, with the masterfulness of their nature, devised appropriating

the horses at all the most beautiful places, in spite of Frank’s murmur,

‘What will mamma say?’ But, as Griff said, it was a real mercy, for

Ellen was infinitely more at her ease with Chancery than was Clarence.

Then Emily had Clarence to walk up the hills with her, and help her in

botany—her special department in our tour. Mine was sketching, Ellen’s,

keeping the journal, though we all shared in each other’s work at times;

and Griff, whose line was decidedly love-making, interfered considerably

with us all, especially with our chronicler. I spare you the tour, young

people; it lies before me on the table, profusely illustrated and written

in many hands. As I turn it over, I see noble Dunster on its rock;

Clarence leading Chancery down Porlock Hill; Parson Frank in vain pursuit

of his favourite ancient hat over that wild and windy waste, the sheep

running away from him; a boat tossing at lovely Minehead; a ‘native’

bargaining over a crab with my mother; the wonderful Valley of Rocks, and

many another scene, ludicrous or grand; for, indeed, we were for ever

taking the one step between the sublime and the ridiculous! I am

inclined to believe it is as well worth reading as many that have rushed

into print, and it is full of precious reminiscences to Emily and me; but

the younger generation may judge for itself, and it would be an

interruption here. The country we saw was of utterly unimagined beauty

to the untravelled eyes of most of us. I remember Ellen standing on

Hartland Point, with her face to the infinite expanse of the Atlantic,

and waving back Griff with ‘Oh, don’t speak to me.’ Yet the sea was a

delight above all to my mother and Clarence. To them it was a beloved

friend; and magnificent as was Lynmouth, wonderful as was Clovelly, and

glorious as was Hartland, I believe they would equally have welcomed the

waves if they had been on the flattest of muddy shores! The ripple,

plash, and roar were as familiar voices, the salt smell as native air;

and my mother never had thawed so entirely towards Clarence as when she

found him the only person who could thoroughly participate her feeling.

At Minehead they stayed out, walking up and down together in the summer

twilight till long after every one else was tired out, and had gone in;

and when at last they appeared she was leaning on Clarence’s arm, an

unprecedented spectacle!

At Appledore, the only place on that rugged coast where boating tempted

them, there was what they called a pretty little breeze, but quite enough

to make all the rest of us decline venturing out into Bideford bay.

They, however, found a boatman and made a trip, which was evidently such

enjoyment to them, that my father, who had been a little restless and

uneasy all the time, declared on their return that he felt quite jealous

of Neptune, and had never known what a cruelty he was committing in

asking a sea-nymph to marry a London lawyer.

Mr. Fordyce told him he was afraid of being like the fisherman who wedded

a mermaid, and made Ellen tell the story in her own pretty way; but while

we were laughing over it, I saw my mother steal her hand into my father’s

and give it a strong grasp. Such gestures, which she denominated pawing,

when she witnessed them in Emily, were so alien to her in general that no

doubt this little action was infinitely expressive to her husband. She

was wonderfully softened, and Clarence implied to me that it was the

first time she had ever seemed to grieve for him more than she despised

him, or to recognise his deprivation more than his disgrace,—implied, I

say, for the words he used were little more than—‘You can’t think how

nice she was to me.’

The regaining of esteem and self-respect was lessening Clarence’s

bashfulness, and bringing out his powers of conversation, so that he

began to be appreciated as a pleasant companion, answering Griff’s

raillery in like fashion, and holding his own in good-natured repartee.

Mr. Fordyce got on excellently with him in their tête-à-têtes (who would

not with Parson Frank?), and held him in higher estimation than did

Ellen. To her, honesty was common, tame, and uninteresting in comparison

with heroism; and Griff’s vague statement that Clarence was the best

brother in the world did not go for much. Emily and I longed to get the

two better acquainted, but it did not become possible while Griff

absorbed the maiden as his exclusive property.

The engagement was treated as an avowed and settled thing, though I do

not know that there had been a formal ratification by the parents; but in

truth Mrs. Fordyce must have tacitly yielded her consent when she

permitted her daughter to make the journey under the guardianship of

Parson Frank. After a walk in the ravine of Lynton, we became aware of a

ring upon Ellen’s finger; and Emily was allowed at night to hear how and

when it had been put on.

Ellen only slightly deepened her lovely carnation tints when her father

indulged in a little tender teasing and lamentation over himself. She

was thoroughly happy and proud of her hero, and not ashamed of owning it.

There was one evening when she and I were sitting with our sketchbooks in

the shade on the beech at Ilfracombe, while the rest had gone, some to

bathe, the others to make purchases in the town. We had been condoling

with one another over the impossibility of finding anything among our

water-colours that would express the wondrous tints before our eyes.

‘No, nothing can do it,’ I said at last; ‘we can only make a sort of blot

to assist our memories.’

‘Sunshine outside and in!’ said Ellen. ‘The memory of such days as these

can never fade away,—no, nor thankfulness for them, I hope.’

Something then passed about the fact that it was quite possible to go on

in complete content in a quiet monotonous life, in an oyster-like way,

till suddenly there was an unveiling and opening of unimagined capacities

of enjoyment—as by a scene like this before us, by a great poem, an

oratorio, or, as I supposed, by Niagara or the Alps. Ellen put it—‘Oh!

and by feelings for the great and good!’ Dear girl, her colour deepened,

and I am sure she meant her bliss in her connection with her hero.

Presently, however, she passed on to saying how such revelations of

unsuspected powers of enjoyment helped one to enter into what was meant

by ‘Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the

heart of man to conceive, the things that God hath prepared for them that

love him.’ Then there was a silence, and an inevitable quoting of the

_Christian Year_, the guide to all our best thoughts—

‘But patience, there may come a time.’

And then a turning to the ‘Ode to Immortality,’ for Wordsworth was our

second leader, and we carried him on our tour as our one secular book, as

Keble was our one religious book. We felt that the principal joy of all

this beauty and delight was because there was something beyond.

Presently Ellen said, prettily and shyly, ‘I am sure all this has opened

much more to me than I ever thought of. I always used to be glad that we

had no brothers, because our cousins were not always pleasant with us;

but now I have learnt what valuable possessions they are,’ she added,

with the sweetest, prettiest glance of her bright eyes.

I ventured to say that I was glad she said they, and hoped it was a sign

that she was finding out Clarence.

‘I have found out that I behaved so ill to him that I have been ashamed

ever since to look at him or speak to him,’ said Ellen; ‘I long to ask

his pardon, but I believe that would distress him more than anything.’

In which she was right; and I was able to tell her of the excuses there

had been for the poor boy, how he had suffered, and how he had striven to

conquer his failings; and she replied that the words ‘Judge not, that ye

be not judged,’ always smote her with the remembrance of her disdainfully

cantering past him. There was a tear on her eye-lashes, and it drew from

me an apology for having brought a painful recollection into our bright

day.

‘There must be shade to throw up the lights,’ she said, with her

sparkling look.

Was it shade that we never fell into one of these grave talks when

Griffith was present, and that the slightest approach to them was sure to

be turned by him into jest?

We made our journey a little longer than we intended, crossing the moors

so as to spend a Sunday at Exeter; but Frank Fordyce left us, not liking

to give his father the entire duty of a third Sunday.

Emily says she has come to have a superstition that extensions of

original plans never turn out well, and certainly some of the charm of

our journey departed with the merry, genial Parson Frank. Our mother was

more anxious about Ellen, and put more restrictions on the lovers than

when the father was present to sanction their doings. Griffith

absolutely broke out against her in a way he had never ventured before,

when she forbade Ellen’s riding with him when he wanted to hire a horse

at Lydford and take an excursion on the moor before joining us at

Okehampton.

My father looked up, and said, ‘Griffith, I am surprised at you.’ He was

constrained to mutter some apology, and I believe Ellen privately begged

my mother’s pardon, owning her to have been quite right; but, by the dear

girl, the wonderful cascade and narrow gorge were seen through swollen

eyes. And poor Clarence must have had a fine time of it when Griffith

had to ride off with him _faute de mieux_.

All was cleared off, however, when we met again, for Griff’s storms were

very fleeting, and Ellen treated him as if she had to make her own peace

with him. She sacrificed her own enjoyment of Exeter Cathedral to go

about with him when he had had enough of it, but on Sunday afternoon she

altogether declined to walk with him till after the second service. He

laughed at her supposed passion for sacred music, and offered to wait

with her to hear the anthem from the nave. ‘No,’ she said, ‘that would

be amusing ourselves instead of worshipping.’

‘We’ve done our devoir in that way already,’ said Griff. ‘Paid our

dues.’

‘One can’t,’ cried Ellen, with an eager look. ‘One longs to do all the

more when He has just let us have such a taste of His beautiful things.’

‘_One_, perhaps, when one is a little saint,’ returned Griff.

‘Oh don’t, Griff! I’m not _that_; but you know every one wants all the

help and blessing that can be got. And then it is so delightful!’

He gave a long whistle. ‘Every one to his taste,’ he said; ‘especially

you ladies.’

He did come to the Cathedral with us, but he had more than half spoilt

this last Sunday. Did he value her for what was best in her, or was her

influence raising him?

CHAPTER XXVI.

C. MORBUS, ESQ.

‘Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears,

The plaintive voice alone she hears,

Sees but the dying man.’

SCOTT.

C. MORBUS, Esq. Such was the card that some wicked wag, one of

Clarence’s fellow-clerks probably, left at his lodgings in the course of

the epidemic which was beginning its ravages even while we were upon our

pleasant journey—a shade indeed to throw out the light.

In these days, the tidings of a visitation of cholera are heard with

compassion for crowded towns, but without special alarm for ourselves or

our friends, since its conditions and the mode of combating it have come

to be fairly understood.

In 1832, however, it was a disease almost unknown and unprecedented

except in its Indian abode, whence it had advanced city by city, seaport

by seaport, sweeping down multitudes before it; nor had science yet

discovered how to encounter or forestall it. We heard of it in a

helpless sort of way, as if it had been the plague or the Black Death,

and thought of its victims as doomed.

That terrible German engraving, ‘Death as a Foe,’ which represents the

grisly form as invading a ballroom in Paris, is an expression of the

feeling with which the scourge was regarded on that first occasion. _Two

Years Ago_ gives some notion of the condition of things in 1849, but by

that time there had been some experience, and means of prevention were

better understood. On the alarm in that year there was a great

inspection of cottages throughout Earlscombe and Hillside, but in 1832

there was no notion of such precautions. Nevertheless, on neither

visitation, nor any subsequent one, has the disease come nearer to us

than Bristol.

As far as memory serves me, the idea was that wholesome food, regular

habits, and cleanliness were some protection, but one locality might be

as dangerous as another. There had been cases in London all the spring,

but no special anxiety was felt when Clarence returned to his work in the

end of July, much refreshed and invigorated by his holiday, and with the

understanding that he was to have a rise in position and salary on Mr.

Castleford’s return from Ireland, where he was still staying with his

wife’s relations. Clarence was received at the office with a kind of

shamefaced cordiality, as if every one would fain forget the way in which

he had been treated; and he was struck by finding that all the talk was

of the advances of the cholera, chiefly at Rotherhithe. And a great

shock awaited him. He went, as soon as business hours were over, to

thank good old Miss Newton for the comfort and aid she had unwittingly

given him, and to tell her from what she had saved him. Alas! it was the

last benefit she was ever to confer on her old pupil. At the door he was

told by a weeping, terrified maid that she was very ill with cholera, and

that no hope was given. He tried to send up a message, but she was in a

state of collapse and insensible; and when he inquired the next morning,

the gentle spirit had passed away.

He attended her funeral that same evening. Griff said it was a proof how

your timid people will do the most foolhardy things; but Clarence always

held that the good woman had really done more for him than any one in

actually establishing a contact, so to say, between his spirit and

external truth, and he thought no mark of respect beyond her deserts.

She was a heavy loss to him, for no one else in town gave him the sense

of home kindness; and there was much more to depress him, for several of

his Sunday class were dead, and the school had been broken up for the

time, while the heats and the fruits of August contributed to raise the

mortality.

His return had released a couple more clerks for their holiday; it was a

slack time of year, with less business in hand than usual, and the place

looked empty. Mr. Frith worked on as usual, but preserved an ungracious

attitude, as though he were either still incredulous or, if convinced

against his will, resolved that ‘that prig of a Winslow’ should not

presume upon his services. Altogether the poor fellow was quite

unhinged, and wrote such dismal bills of mortality, and meek, resigned

forebodings that my father was almost angry, declaring that he would

frighten himself into the sickness; yet I suppressed a good deal, and

never told them of the last will and testament in which he distributed

his possessions amongst us. Griff said he had a great mind to go and

shake old Bill up and row him well, but he never did.

More than a week passed by, two of Clarence’s regular days for writing,

but no letter came. My mother grew uneasy, and talked of writing to Mrs.

Robson, or, as we still called her, Gooch; but it was doubtful whether

the answer would contain much information, and it was quite certain that

any ill tidings would be sent to us.

At last we did hear, and found, as we had foreboded, that the letter had

not been written for fear of alarming us, or carrying infection, though

Clarence underlined the words ‘I am perfectly well.’

Having to take a message into the senior partner’s room, Clarence had

found the old man crouched over the table, writhing in the unmistakable

grip of the deadly enemy. No one else was available; Clarence had to

collect himself, send for the doctor, and manage the conveyance of the

patient to his rooms, which fortunately adjoined the office; for, through

all his influx of wealth, Mr. Frith had retained the habits and

expenditure of his early struggling days. His old housekeeper and her

drudge showed themselves terrified out of their senses, and as incapable

as unwilling. Naval experience, and waiting on me, had taught Clarence

helpfulness and handiness; and though this was the very thing that had

appalled his imagination, he seemed, as he said afterwards, ‘to have got

beyond his fright’ to the use of his commonsense. And when at last the

doctor came, and talked of finding a nurse, if possible, for they were

scarce articles, the sufferer only entreated between his paroxysms,

‘Stay, Winslow! Is Winslow there? Don’t go! Don’t leave me!’

No nurse was to be found, but to Clarence’s amazement Gooch arrived. He

had sent by the office boy to explain his absence; and before night the

faithful woman descended on him, intending, as in her old days of

authority, simply to put Master Clarry out of harm’s way, and take the

charge upon herself. Then, as he proved unmanageable and would not leave

his patient, neither would she leave him, and through the frightful night

that ensued, there was quite employment enough for them both. Gooch

fully thought the end would come before morning, and was murmuring

something about a clergyman, but was cut short by a sharp prohibition.

However, detecting Clarence’s lips moving, the old man said, ‘Eh! speak

it out!’ ‘And with difficulty, feeling as if I were somebody else,’ said

Clarence, ‘I did get out some short words of prayer. It seemed so awful

for him to die without any.’

When the doctor came in early morning, the watchers were astonished to

hear that their charge had taken a turn for the better, and might recover

if their admirable care were continued. The doctor had brought a nurse;

but Mr. Frith would not let her come into the room, and there was plenty

of need for her elsewhere.

Several days of unremitting care followed, during which Clarence durst

not write to us, so little were the laws of infection understood. Good

Mrs. Robson stayed all the time, and probably saved Clarence from falling

a victim to his zeal, for she looked after him as anxiously as after the

sick man; and with a wondering and thankful heart, he found himself in

full health, when both were set free to return home. Clarence had

written at the beginning of the illness to the only relations of whose

existence or address he was aware, an old sister, Mrs. Stevens, and a

young great-nephew in the office at Liverpool; and the consequence was

the arrival of a sour-looking, old widow sister, who came to take charge

of the convalescence, and, as the indignant Gooch overheard her say, ‘to

prevent that young Winslow from getting round him.’

There were no signs of such a feat having been performed, when, the panic

being past, my father went up to London with Griffith, who was to begin

eating his terms at the Temple. He was to share Clarence’s lodgings, for

the Robsons had plenty of room, and Gooch was delighted to extend her

cares to her special favourite, as she already reigned over Clarence’s

wardrobe and table as entirely as in nursery days; and, to my great

exultation, my father said it would be good for Griffith to be with his

brother; and, moreover, we should hear of the latter. Nothing could be a

greater contrast than his rare notifications or requests, scrawled on a

single side of the quarto sheet, with Clarence’s regular weekly lines of

clerkly manuscript, telling all that could interest any of us, and

covering every available flap up to the blank circle left for the trim

red seal.

Promotion had come to Clarence in the natural course of seniority, and a

small sum, due to him on his coming of age, was invested in the house of

business, so that the two brothers could take between them all the

Robsons’ available rooms. Clarence’s post was one of considerable trust;

but there were no tokens of special favour, except that Mr. Frith was

more civil to my father than usual, and when he heard of the arrangement

about the lodgings, he snarled out, ‘Hm! Law student indeed! Don’t let

him spoil his brother!’

Which was so far an expression of gratitude that it showed that he

considered that there was something to be spoilt. Mr. Castleford,

however, showed real satisfaction in the purchase of a share in the

concern for Clarence. His own eldest son inherited a good deal of his

mother’s Irish nature, and was evidently unfit to be anything but a

soldier, and the next was so young that he was glad to have a promising

and trustworthy young man, from whom a possible joint head of the firm

might be manufactured.

CHAPTER XXVII.

PETER’S THUNDERBOLT.

If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanours you are welcome

to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her,

she is very willing to bid you farewell.’—_Twelfth Night_.

IN the early summer of 1833, we had the opportunity of borrowing a

friend’s house in Portman Square for six weeks, and we were allowed to

take Ellen with us for introduction to the Admiral and other old friends,

while we were to make acquaintance with her connections—the family of Sir

Horace Lester, M.P.

We were very civil; but there were a good many polite struggles for the

exclusive possession of Ellen, whom both parties viewed as their

individual right; and her unselfish good-humour and brightness must have

carried her over more worries than we guessed at the time.

She had stayed with the Lesters before, but in schoolroom days. They

were indolent and uninterested, and had never shown her any of the

permanent wonders of London, despising these as only fit for country

cousins, whereas we had grown up to think of them with intelligent

affection. To me, however, much was as new as to Ellen. Country life

had done so much for me that I could venture on what I had never

attempted before. The Admiral said it was getting away from doctors and

their experiments, but I had also done with the afflictions of attempts

at growth in wrong directions. Old friends did not know me, and more

than once, as I sat in the carriage, addressed me for one of my

brothers—a compliment which, Griff said, turned my head. Happily I was

too much accustomed to my own appearance, and people were too kind, for

me to have much shyness on that score. Our small dinner parties were

great enjoyment to me, and the two girls were very happy in their little

gaieties.

Braham and Catalani, Fanny Kemble, and Turner’s landscapes at his best,

rise in my memory as supreme delights and revelations in their different

lines, and awakening trains of thought; and then there was that

entertainment which Griffith and Clarence gave us in their rooms, when

they regaled us with all the delicacies of the season, and Peter and

Gooch looked all pride and hospitality! The dining-parlour, or what

served as such, was Griff’s property, as any one could see by the

pictures of horses, dogs, and ladies, the cups, whips, and boxing-gloves

that adorned it; the sitting-room had tokens of other occupation, in

Clarence’s piano, window-box of flowers, and his one extravagance in

engravings from Raffaelle, and a marine water-colour or two, besides all

my own attempts at family portraits, with a case of well-bound books.

Those two rooms were perfectly redolent of their masters—I say it

literally—for the scent of flowers was in Clarence’s room, and in

Griff’s, the odour of cigars had not wholly been destroyed even by much

airing. For in those days it was regarded by parents and guardians as an

objectionable thing.

Peter was radiant on that occasion; but a few evenings later, when all

were gone to an evening party except my father and myself, Mr. Robson was

announced as wishing to speak to Mr. Winslow. After the civilities

proper to the visit of an old servant had passed, he entered with obvious

reluctance on the purpose of his visit, namely, his dissatisfaction with

Griff as a lodger. His wife, he said, would not have had him speak, she

was _that_ attached to Mr. Griffith, it couldn’t be more if he was her

own son; nor was it for want of liking for the young gentleman on his

part, as had known him from a boy, ‘but the wife of one’s bosom must come

first, sir, as stands to reason, and it’s for the good of the young

gentleman himself, and his family, as some one should speak. I never

said one word against it when she would not be satisfied without running

the risk of her life after Mr. Clarence; hattending of Mr. Frith in the

cholery. That was only her dooty, sir, and I have never a word to say

against dooty: but I cannot see her nearly wore out, and for no good to

nobody.’

It appeared that Mrs. Robson was ‘pretty nigh wore out, a setting up for

Mr. Griffith’s untimely hours.’ ‘He laughed and coaxed—what I calls

cajoling—did Mr. Griff, to get a latch-key; but we knows our dooty too

well for that, and Mrs. Winslow had made us faithfully promise, when

Master Clarence first came to us, that he should never have a

latch-key,—Mr. Clarence, as had only been five times later than eleven

o’clock, and then he was going to dine with Mr. Castleford, or to the

theayter, and spoke about it beforehand. If he was not reading to poor

Miss Newton, as was gone, or with some of his language-masters, he was

setting at home with his books and papers, not giving no trouble to

nobody, after he had had his bit of bread and cheese and glass of beer to

his supper.’

Ay, Peter knew what young gentlemen was. He did not expect to see them

all like poor Master Clarence, as had had his troubles; the very life

knocked out of him in his youth, as one might say. Indeed Peter would be

pleased to see him a bit more sprightly, and taking more to society and

hamusements of his hage. Nor would there be any objection if the late

’ours was only once a week or so, and things was done in a style fitting

the family; but when it came to mostly every night, often to two or three

o’clock, it was too much for Mrs. Robson, for she would never go to bed,

being mortal afraid of fire, and not always certain that Mr. Griffith

was—to say—fit to put out his candle. ‘What do you mean, Peter?’

thundered my father, whose brow had been getting more and more furrowed

every moment. ‘Say it out!—Drunk?’

‘Well sir, no, no, not to say that exactly, but a little excited, sir,

and women is timid. No sir, not to call intoxicated.’

‘No, that’s to come,’ muttered my father. ‘Has this often happened?’

Peter did not think that it had been noticed more than three times at the

most; but he went on to offer his candid and sensible advice that Mr.

Griffith should be placed in a family where there was a gentleman or lady

who would have some hauthority, and could not be put aside with his

good-’umoured haffability—‘You’re an old fogy, Peter.’ ‘Never mind,

Nursey, I’ll be a good boy next time,’ and the like. ‘It is a

disadvantage you see, sir, to have been in his service, and ’tis for the

young gentleman’s own good as I speaks; but it would be better if he were

somewheres else—unless you would speak to him, sir.’

To the almost needless question whether Clarence had been with his

brother on these occasions, there was a most decided negative. He had

never gone out with Griffith except once to the theatre, and to dine at

the Castlefords, and at first he had sat up for his return, ‘but it led

to words between the young gentlemen,’ said Peter, whose confidences were

becoming reckless; and it appeared that when Clarence had found that

Gooch would not let him spare her vigil, he had obeyed her orders and

ceased to share it.

Peter was thanked for the revelations, which had been a grievous effort

to him, and dismissed. My father sat still in great distress and

perplexity, asking me whether Clarence had ever told me anything of this,

and I had barely time to answer ‘No’ before Clarence himself came in,

from what Peter called his language-master. He was taking lessons in

French and Spanish, finding a knowledge of these useful in business. To

his extreme distress, my father fell on him at once, demanding what he

knew of the way Griffith was spending his time, ‘coming home at all sorts

of hours in a disreputable condition. No prevarication, sir,’ he added,

as the only too familiar look of consternation and bewilderment came over

Clarence’s face. ‘You are doing your brother no good by conniving at his

conduct. Speak truth, if you can,’ he added, with more cruelty than he

knew, in his own suffering.

‘Sir,’ gasped Clarence, ‘I know Griff often comes home after I am in bed,

but I do not know the exact time, nor anything more.’

‘Is this all you can tell me? Really all?’

‘All I know—that is—of my own knowledge,’ said Clarence, recovering a

little, but still unable to answer without hesitation, which vexed my

father.

‘What do you mean by that? Do you hear nothing?’

‘I am afraid,’ said Clarence, ‘that I do not see as much of him as I had

hoped. He is not up till after I have to be at our place, and he does

not often spend an evening at home. He is such a popular fellow, and has

so many friends and engagements.’

‘Ay, and of what sort? Can’t you tell? or will you not? I sent him up

to you, thinking you a steady fellow who might influence him for good.’

The colour rushed into Clarence’s face, as he answered, looking up and

speaking low, ‘Have I not forfeited all such hopes?’

‘Nonsense! You’ve lived down that old story long ago. You would make

your mark, if you only showed a little manliness and force of character.

Griffith was always fond of you. Can’t you do anything to hinder him

from ruining his own life and that sweet girl’s happiness?’

‘I would—I would give my life to do so!’ exclaimed Clarence, in warm,

eager tones. ‘I have tried, but he says I know nothing about it, and it

is very dull at our rooms for him. I have got used to it, but you can’t

expect a fellow like Griff to stay at home, with no better company than

me, and do nothing but read law.’

‘Then you _do_ know,’ began my father; but Clarence, with full

self-possession, said, ‘I think you had better ask me no more questions,

papa. I really know nothing, or hardly anything, personally of his

proceedings. I went to one supper with him, after going to the play, and

did not fancy it; besides, it almost unfitted me for my morning’s work;

nor does it answer for me to sit up for him—it only vexes him, as if I

were watching him.’

‘Did you ever see him come home showing traces of excess?’

‘No!’ said Clarence, ‘I never saw!’ and, under a stern, distressed look,

‘Once I heard tones that—that startled me, and Mrs. Robson has grumbled a

good deal—but I think Peter takes it for more than it is worth.’

‘I see,’ said my father more gently; ‘I will not press you farther. I

believe I ought to be glad that these habits are only hearsay to you.’

‘As far as I can see,’ said Clarence diffidently, but quite restored to

himself, ‘Griff is only like most of his set, young men who go into

society.’

‘Oh!’ said my father, in a ‘that’s your opinion’ kind of tone; and as at

that moment the yell of a newsboy was heard in the street, he exclaimed

that he must go and get an evening paper. Clarence made a step to go

instead, but was thrust back, as apparently my father merely wanted an

excuse for rushing into the open air to recover the shock or to think it

over.

Clarence gave a kind of groan, and presently exclaimed, ‘If only untruth

were not such a sin!’ and, on my exclamation of dismay, he added, ‘I

don’t think a blowing up ever does good!’

‘But this state of things should not last.’

‘It will not. It would have come to an end without Peter’s springing

this mine. Griff says he can’t stand Gooch any longer! And really she

does worry him intolerably.’

‘Peter professed to come without her knowledge or consent.’

‘Exactly so. It will almost break the good old soul’s heart for Griff to

leave her; but she expects to have him in hand as if he was in the

nursery. She is ever so much worse than she was with me, and he is

really good-nature itself to laugh off her nagging as he does—about what

he chooses to put on, or eating, or smoking, or leaving his room untidy,

as well as other things.’

‘And those other things? Do you suspect more than you told papa?’

‘It amounts to no more. Griff likes amusement, and everybody likes

him—that’s all. Yes, I know my father read law ten hours a day, but his

whole nature and circumstances were different. I don’t believe Griff

could go on in that way.’

‘Not with such a hope before him? You would, Clarence.’

His face and not his tongue answered me, but he added, ‘Griff is sure of

_that_ without so much labour and trouble.’

‘And do you see so little of him?’

‘I can’t help it. I can’t keep his hours and do my work. Yes, I know we

are drifting apart; I wish I could help it, but being coupled up together

makes it rather worse than better. It aggravates him, and he will really

get on better without Gooch to worry him, and thrust my droning old ways

down his throat,—as if Prince Hal could bear to be twitted with “that

sober boy, Lord John of Lancaster.” Not,’ he added, catching himself up,

‘that I meant to compare him to the madcap Prince. He is the finest of

fellows, if they only would let him alone.’

And that was all I could get from Clarence.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

A SQUIRE OF DAMES.

‘Spited with a fool—

Spited and angered both.’

_Cymbeline_.

THIS long stay of Ellen’s in our family had made our fraternal relations

with her nearer and closer. Familiarity had been far from lessening our

strong feeling for her goodness and sweetness. Emily, who knew her best,

used to confide to me little instances of the spirit of devotion and

self-discipline that underlay all her sunny gaiety—how she never failed

in her morning’s devout readings; how she learnt a verse or two of

Scripture every day, and persuaded Emily to join with her in repeating it

ere they went downstairs for their evening’s pleasure; how she had set

herself a little task of plain work for the poor, which she did every day

in her own room; and the like dutiful habits, which seemed, as it were,

to help her to keep herself in hand, and not be carried away by what was

a whirl of pleasure to her, though a fashionable young lady would have

despised its mildness.