A SERIOUS FAMILY.
Lord Kilrush posted to Tunbridge Wells the day after the Jacobite
dinner, and found a herd of fine people he knew parading the Pantiles,
or sauntering on the common, among Jews and Germans, pinmakers' wives
from Smock Alley, and rural squires with red-cheeked daughters. He
drank the waters, and nearly died of _ennui_. He would have liked the
place better if it had been a solitude. Wit no longer aroused him, not
even George Selwyn's; beauty had ceased to charm, except in one face,
and that was two and thirty miles away. That chronic weariness which he
knew for the worst symptom of advancing years increased with every hour
of fashionable rusticity. The air at the Wells was delicious, the inn
was comfortable, his physician swore that the treatment was improving
his health. He left the place at an hour's notice, to the disgust of
his body-servant, and posted back to town. He preferred the gloom of
his great silent house in St. James's Square, where he lived a hermit's
life in his library when London was empty. In years gone by he had
spent the summer and autumn in a round of country visits, diversified
with excursions to châteaux in the environs of Paris, and a winter at
Florence or Rome, everywhere admired and in request. Scarce a season
had passed without rumours of his impending marriage with some famous
beauty, or still more famous fortune. But for the last five or six
years he had wearied of society, and had restricted his company to a
few chosen friends, men of his own age, with whom he could rail at the
follies of the new generation--men who had known Bolingbroke in his day
of power, and had entertained Voltaire at their country seats in the
year '29.
Were Tonia's violet eyes the lodestars that drew him back to town? He
was singing softly to himself as he walked up Shooter's Hill, being
ever merciful to the brute creation, and loving horses and dogs better
than he loved men.
"Thine eyes are lodestars and thy breath sweet air," he sang, twirling
his clouded cane; and the thought that he would soon see those lovely
eyes made him gay. But his first visit was not to Rupert Buildings. He
knew that he had shocked and disgusted Antonia, and that he must give
her time to recover her old confidence. It had been but an impetuous
movement, a waft of passionate feeling, when he stretched out his arms
towards her, yearning to clasp her to his breast; but her fine instinct
had told her that this was the lover and not the friend. He must give
her time to think she had mistaken him. He must play the comedy of
indifference.
He ordered his favourite hack on the day after his return from the
Wells, and rode by Westminster Bridge, only opened in the previous
autumn, to Clapham, past Kennington Common, where poor Jemmy Dawson
had suffered for his share in the rebellion of '45, by pleasant rustic
roads where the perfume of roses exhaled from prosperous citizens'
gardens, surrounding honest, square-built brick houses, not to be
confounded with the villa, which then meant a demi-mansion on a classic
model, secluded in umbrageous grounds, and not a flimsy bay-windowed
packing-case in a row of similar packing-cases.
Clapham was then more rustic than Haslemere is now, and the common
was the Elysian Fields of wealthy city merchants and some persons of
higher quality. The shrubberied drive into which Kilrush rode was kept
with an exquisite propriety, and those few flowering shrubs that bloom
in September were unfolding their petals under an almost smokeless
sky. He dismounted before a handsome house more than half a century
old, built before the Revolution, a solid, red-brick house with long
narrow windows, and a handsome cornice, pediment, and cupola masking
the shining black tiles of the low roof. A shell-shaped canopy, richly
carved, and supported by cherubic brackets, sheltered the tall doorway.
The open door offered a vista of garden beyond the hall, and Kilrush
walked straight through to the lawn, while his groom led the horses
to the stable yard, a spacious quadrangle screened by intervening
shrubberies.
A middle-aged woman of commanding figure was seated at a table under
the spreading branches of a plane with a young man, who rose hurriedly,
and went to meet the visitor. The lady was Mrs. Stobart, the widow
of a Bristol ship-owner, and the young man was her only son, late of
a famous dragoon regiment. Both were dressed with a gloomy severity
that set his lordship's teeth on edge, but both had a certain air of
distinction not to be effaced by their plain attire.
"This is very kind of your lordship," said George Stobart, as they
shook hands. "My mother told me you were at Tunbridge Wells. She saw
your name in the _Gazette_."
"Your mother was right, George; but the inanity of the place wore me
out in a week, and I left before I had given the waters a chance of
killing or curing me!"
He kissed Mrs. Stobart's black mitten, and dropped into a chair at
her side, after vouchsafing a distant nod to a young woman who sat
at a pace or two from the table, sewing the seam of a coarse linen
shirt, with her head discreetly bent. She raised a pair of mild brown
eyes, and blushed rosy red as she acknowledged his lordship's haughty
greeting, and he noticed that Stobart went over to speak to her before
he resumed his seat.
There were some dishes of fruit on the table, Mrs. Stobart's
work-basket and several books--the kind of books Kilrush loathed,
pamphlets in grey paper covers, sermons in grey boards, the literature
of that Great Revival which had spread a wave of piety over the United
Kingdom, from John o' Groat's to the Land's End, and across the Irish
Channel from the Liffey to the Shannon.
Mrs. Stobart was his first cousin, the daughter of his father's elder
sister and of Sir Michael MacMahon, an Irish judge. Good looks ran in
the blood of the Delafields, and only two years ago Kilrush had been
proud of his cousin, who until that date was a distinguished figure
in the fashionable assemblies of London and Bath, and whose aquiline
features and fine person were set off by powder and diamonds, and the
floral brocades and flowing sacques which "that hateful woman," Madame
de Pompadour, whom everybody of _ton_ abused and imitated, had brought
into fashion. The existence of such women is, of course, a disgrace to
civilization; but while their wicked reign lasts, persons of quality
must copy their clothes.
Two years ago George Stobart had been one of the most promising
soldiers in His Majesty's army, a man who loved his profession, who
had distinguished himself as a subaltern at Fontenoy, and was marked
by his seniors for promotion. He had been also one of the best-dressed
and best-mannered young men in London society, and at the Bath and the
Wells a star of the first magnitude.
What was he now? Kilrush shuddered as he marked the change.
"A sanctimonious prig," thought his lordship; "a creature of moods and
hallucinations, who might be expected at any hour to turn lay preacher,
and jog from Surrey to Cornwall on one of his superannuated chargers,
bawling the blasphemous familiarities of the new school to the mob
on rural commons, escaping by the skin of his teeth from the savages
of the manufacturing districts, casting in his itinerant lot with
Whitefield and the Wesleys."
To Kilrush such a transformation meant little short of lunacy. He
was indignant at his kinsman's decadence; and when he gave a curt
and almost uncivil nod to the poor dependent, bending over her plain
needlework yonder betwixt sun and shade, it was because he suspected
that pretty piece of lowborn pink-and-white to have some part in the
change that had been wrought so suddenly.
Two years ago, at an evening service in John Wesley's chapel at the
Old Foundery, George Stobart had been "convinced of sin." Swift as
the descent of the dove over the waters of the Jordan had been the
awakening of his conscience from the long sleep of boyhood and youth.
In that awful moment the depth of his iniquity had been opened to
him, and he had discovered the hollowness of a life without God in
the world. He had looked along the backward path of years, and had
seen himself a child, drowsily enduring the familiar liturgy, sleeping
through the hated sermon; a lad at Eton, making a jest of holy things,
scorning any assumption of religion in his schoolfellows, insolent
to his masters, arrogant and uncharitable, shirking everything that
did not minister to his own pleasures or his own aims, studious only
in the pursuit of selfish ambitions, dreaming of future greatness to
be won amidst the carnage of battles as ruthless, as unnecessary, as
Malplaquet.
And following those early years of self-love and impiety there had
come a season of darker sins, of the sins which prosperous youth calls
pleasure, sins that had sat so lightly on the slumbering conscience,
but which filled the awakened soul with horror.
His first impulse after that spiritual regeneration was to sell out
of the army. This was the one tangible and irrevocable sacrifice that
lay in his power. The more he loved a soldier's career, the more
ardently he had aspired to military renown, the more obvious was the
duty of renunciation. The treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle had but just been
concluded, and the troubles in America had not begun, so there seemed
no chance of his regiment being sent on active service, but his conduct
seemed not the less extraordinary to his commanding officer.
"Do you do this to please your mother?" he asked.
"No, sir; I do it to please Christ."
The colonel rapped his forehead significantly as Stobart left the room.
"Another victim of the Oxford Methodists," he said. "If they
are allowed to go on, England will be peopled with hare-brained
enthusiasts, and we shall have neither soldiers nor sailors."
Mrs. Stobart was furious with her son for his abandonment of a career
in which she had expected him to win distinction. For some months after
his "call" she had refused to speak to him, and had left him to his
solitary meditations in his own rooms at Stobart Lodge. In this gloomy
period they had met only at meals, and it had vexed her to see that
her son took no wine, and refused all the daintier dishes upon the
table, all those ragouts and salmis that adorned the board in sumptuous
covered dishes of Georgian silver, and which were the pride of cook and
dinner-giver.
"I give myself a useless trouble in looking at the bill of fare every
morning," Mrs. Stobart said angrily, as the side dishes were removed
untasted, breaking in upon a melancholy silence that had lasted from
the soup to the game. "God knows I need little for myself; but you used
to appreciate a good dinner."
"I have learnt to appreciate higher things, madam."
"I might as well order a leg of mutton and a suet pudding every day in
the week."
"Indeed, my dear mother, I desire nothing better."
"With a cook at forty guineas a year!"
"Dismiss her, and let the kitchen wench dress our simple meals."
"And make myself a laughing-stock to my friends."
"To your idle acquaintances only--friends esteem us for deeper reasons.
Ah, madam, if you would but hearken to the voices I hear, court the
friends I love, you would scorn the worldling's life as I scorn it. To
the heir of a boundless estate in the Kingdom of Heaven 'tis idle to
waste thought and toil upon a trumpery speck of earth."
"Oh, those Oxford Methodists! You have caught their jargon. I am a good
Churchwoman, George, and I hate cant."
"You are a good woman, madam. But what is it to be a good Churchwoman?
To attend a morning service once a week in a church where there is
neither charity nor enthusiasm, upon whose dull decorum the hungry
and the naked dare not intrude--a service that takes no cognizance of
sinners, save in a formula that the lips repeat while the heart remains
dead; to eat a cold dinner on the Sabbath in order that your servants
may join in the same heartless mockery of worship; to listen to the
barren dogma of a preacher whose life you know for evil, and whose
intellect you despise."
Mother and son had many such conversations--oases in a desert of
sullen silence--before Mrs. Stobart's conversion; but that conversion
came at last, partly by the preaching of John Wesley, whom her son
worshipped, and partly by the influence of Lady Huntingdon and other
ladies of birth and fortune, whose example appealed to the fashionable
Maria Stobart as no meaner example could have done. She began to
think less scornfully of the Great Revival when she found her equals
in rank among the most ardent followers of Whitefield and the Wesleys:
and within a year of her son's awakening she, too, became convinced of
sin, the firstfruits of which conversion were shown by the dismissal
of her forty-guinea cook, her second footman, the third stable
servant, and the sale of a fine pair of carriage-horses. She had even
contemplated dispensing with her own maid, but was prevented by a sense
of her patrician incapability of getting into her clothes or out of
them without help. She made, perhaps, a still greater sacrifice by
changing her dressmaker from a Parisienne in St. James's to a woman at
Kennington, who worked for the Quaker families on Denmark Hill.
After about ten minutes' conversation with this lady, of whose mental
capacity he had but a poor opinion, Lord Kilrush invited her son to
a turn in the fruit garden--a garden planned fifty years before, and
maintained in all the perfection of espaliered walks and herbacious
borders, masking the spacious area devoted to celery, asparagus,
and the homelier vegetables. High brick walls, heavily buttressed,
surmounted this garden on three sides, the fourth side being divided
from lawn and parterre by a ten-foot yew hedge. At the further end,
making a central point in the distance, there was a handsome red-brick
orangery, flanked on either side by a hothouse, while at one angle of
the wall an octagonal summer-house of two stories overlooked the whole,
and afforded an extensive view of the open country across the river,
from Notting Hill to Harrow. Established wealth and comfort could
hardly find a better indication than in this delightful garden.
"Upon my soul," cried Kilrush, "you have a little paradise in this _rus
in urbe!_ Come, George, I am glad to see you look so well in health,
and I hope soon to be gratified by seeing you make an end of your crazy
life, and return to a world you were created to serve and adorn. If the
army will not please you, there is the political arena open to every
young man of means and talent. I should like to see your name rank with
the Townsends and the Pelhams before I die."
"I have no taste for politics, sir; and for my crazy life, sure it
lasted seven and twenty years, and came to a happy ending two years
ago."
"Nine and twenty! Faith, George, that's too old for foolery. John
Wesley was a lad at college, and Whitefield was scarce out of his teens
when he gave himself up to these pious hallucinations; and they were
both penniless youths who must needs begin their journey without scrip
or sack. But you, a man of fortune, a soldier, one of the young heroes
of Fontenoy, that you could be caught by the rhapsodies that carry
away a London mob of shop-boys and servant-wenches, or a throng of
semi-savage coal-miners at Kingswood, in that contagion of enthusiasm
to which crowds are subject--that _you_ could turn Methodist! Pah, it
makes me sick to think of your folly!"
"Perhaps some day your lordship will come over and help us. After my
mother's conversion there is no heart so stubborn that I should despair
of its being changed."
"Your mother is a fool! Well, I don't want to quarrel with you, so
we'll argue no further. After all, in a young man these follies are but
passing clouds. Had you not taken so serious a step as to leave the
army I should scarcely have vexed myself on your account. By the way,
who is that seamstress person I saw sitting on the lawn, and whom I
have seen here before to-day?"
His eyes were on George's face, and the conscious flush he expected to
see passed over the young man's cheek and brow as he spoke.
"She is a girl whose conscience was awakened in the same hour that saw
my redemption; she is my twin-sister in Christ."
"That I can understand," said Kilrush, with the air of humouring a
madman, "but why the devil do I find her established here?"
"She is the daughter of a journeyman printer, her mother a drunkard
and her father an atheist. Her home was a hell upon earth. Her case
had been brought before Mr. Wesley, who was touched by her unaffected
piety. I heard her history from his lips, and made it my duty to rescue
her from her vile associations."
"How came you by the knowledge of your spiritual twinship?"
"She was seated near me in the meeting-house, and I was the witness of
her agitation, of the Pentecostal flame that set her spirit on fire; I
saw her fall from the bench, with her forehead bent almost to the floor
on which she knelt. Her whole frame was convulsed with sobs which she
strove with all her might to restrain. I tried to raise her from the
ground, but her ice-cold hand repulsed mine, and the kneeling figure
was as rigid as if it had been marble."
"A cataleptic seizure, perhaps. Your Brotherhood of the Foundery has
much to answer for."
"It has many to answer for," George retorted indignantly--"thousands of
souls rescued from Satan."
"Had that meek-looking young woman been one of his votaries? If so,
I wonder your mother consented to harbour her. It is one thing to
entertain angels unawares, but knowingly to receive devils----"
"Scoff as you will, sir, but do not slander a virtuous girl because she
happens to be of low birth."
"If she was not a sinner, why this convulsion of remorse for sin? I
cannot conceive the need of self-humiliation in youth that has never
gone astray."
"Does your lordship think it is enough to have lived what the world
calls a moral life, never to have been caught in the toils of vice?
The fall from virtue is a terrible thing; but there is a state of sin
more deadly than Mary Magdalen's. There is the sin of the infidel who
denies Christ; there is the sin of the ignorant and the unthinking, who
has lived aloof from God. It was to the conviction of such a state that
Lucy Foreman was awakened that night."
"Did you enter into conversation with her after the--the remarkable
experience?" asked Kilrush, with a cynical devilry lighting his dark
grey eyes as he watched his young kinsman's face.
It was a fine frank face, with well-cut features and eyes of the same
dark grey as his lordship's, a face that had well become the dragoon's
Roman headgear, and which had a certain poetical air to-day with the
unpowdered brown hair thrown carelessly back from the broad forehead.
"No, it was not till long after that night that I introduced myself to
her. It was not till after my mother's conversion that I could hope
to win her friendship for this recruit of Christ. I had heard Lucy's
story in the mean-time, and I knew that she was worthy of all that our
friendship could do for her."
"And you persuaded your mother to take her into her service?"
"She is not a servant," George said quickly.
"What else?"
"She is useful to my mother--works with her needle, attends to the
aviary, and to the flowers in the drawing-room----"
"All that sounds like a servant."
"We do not treat her as a servant."
"Does she sit at table with you?"
"No. She has her meals in the housekeeper's room. It is my mother's
arrangement, not mine."
"You would have her at the same table with the granddaughter of the
seventeenth Baron Kilrush?"
"I have ceased to consider petty distinctions. To me the premier duke
is of no more importance than Lucy Foreman's infidel father--a soul to
be saved or lost."
"George," said Kilrush, gravely, "let me tell you, as your kinsman and
friend, that you are in danger of making a confounded mess of your
life."
"I don't follow you."
"Oh yes, you do. You know very well what I mean. You have played the
fool badly enough already, by selling your commission. But there are
lower depths of folly. When a man begins to talk as you do, and to
hanker after some pretty bit of plebeian pink-and-white, one knows
which way he is drifting."
He paused, expecting an answer, but George walked beside him in a moody
silence.
"There is one mistake which neither fate nor the world ever forgives
in a man," pursued Kilrush, "and that is an ignoble marriage; it is an
error whose consequences stick to him for the whole course of his life,
and he can no more shake off the indirect disadvantages of the act
than he can shake off his lowborn wife and her lowborn kin. I will go
further, George, and say that if you make such a marriage I will never
forgive you, never see your face again."
"Your lordship's threats are premature. I have not asked your
permission to marry, and I have not given you the slightest ground for
supposing that I contemplate marriage."
"Oh yes, you have. That young woman yonder is ground enough for my
apprehension. You would not have intruded her upon your home if you
were not _épris_. Take a friendly counsel from a man of the world,
George, and remember that although my title dies with me, my fortune is
at my disposal, and that you are my natural heir."
"Oh, sir, that would be the very last consideration to influence me."
"Sure I know you are stubborn and hot-headed, or you would not have
abandoned a soldier's career without affording me the chance to
dissuade you. I came here to-day on purpose to give you this warning.
'Twas my duty, and I have done it."
He gave a sigh of relief, as if he had flung off a troublesome burden.
As they turned to go back to the lawn, Lucy Foreman came to meet
them--a slim figure of medium height, a pretty mouth and a _nez
retroussé_, reddish brown hair with a ripple in it, the pink and white
of youth in her complexion; but her feet and ankles, her hands and
her ears, the "points," to which the connoisseur's eye looked, had a
certain coarseness.
"Not even a casual strain of blue blood here," thought Kilrush; "but
'tis true I have seen duchesses as coarsely moulded."
She had come at her mistress's order to invite them to a dish of tea
on the lawn. Kilrush assented, though it was but five o'clock, and he
had not dined. They walked by the damsel's side to the table under
the plane, where the tea-board was set ready. Having given expression
to his opinion, his lordship was not disinclined to become better
acquainted with this Helen of the slums, so that he might better
estimate his cousin's peril. She resumed her distant chair and her
needlework, as Kilrush and George sat down to tea, and was not invited
to share that elegant refreshment. The young man's vexed glance in
her direction would have been enough to betray his _penchant_ for the
humble companion.
Mrs. Stobart forgot herself so far as to question her cousin about
some of the fine people whose society she had renounced.
"Though I no longer go to their houses I have not ceased to see them,"
she said. "We meet at Lady Huntingdon's. Lady Chesterfield and Lady
Coventry are really converts; but I fear most of my former friends
resort to that admirable woman's assemblies out of curiosity rather
than from a searching for the truth."
"Her _protégé_, Whitefield, has had as rapid a success as Garrick or
Barry," said Kilrush. "He is a powerful orator of a theatrical type,
and not to have heard him preach is to be out of the fashion. I myself
stood in the blazing sun at Moorfields to hear him, when he first began
to be cried up; but having heard him I am satisfied. The show was a
fine show, but once is enough."
"There are but too many of your stamp, Kilrush. Some good seed must
ever fall on stony places; yet the harvest has been rich enough to
reward those who toil in the vineyard--rich in promise of a day when
there shall be no more railing and no more doubt."
"And when the lion shall lie down with the lamb, and Frederick and
Maria Theresa shall love each other like brother and sister, and France
shall be satisfied with less than half the earth," said Kilrush,
lightly. "You have a pretty little maid yonder," he added in a lower
voice, when George had withdrawn from the tea-table, and seemed
absorbed in a book.
"She is not my maid, she is a brand snatched from the burning. I am
keeping her till I can place her in some household where she will be
safe herself, and a well-spring of refreshing grace for those with whom
she lives."
"And in the mean time, don't you think there may be a certain danger
for your son in such close proximity with a pretty girl--of that tender
age?"
"My son! Danger for my son in the society of a journeyman's daughter--a
girl who can but just read and write? My good Kilrush, I am astounded
that you could entertain such a thought."
"I'm glad you consider my apprehensions groundless," said his lordship,
stifling a yawn as he rose to take leave. "Poor silly woman," he
thought. "Well, I have done my duty. But it would have been wiser to
omit that hint to the mother. If she should plague her son about his
_penchant_, ten to one 'twill make matters worse. An affair of that
kind thrives on opposition."