THE BAMPFYLDES.
The same day on which these incidents occurred the Stanton family were
in full conclave at Elfdale. It was the birthday of Laura, and there
were various merrymakings on hand, an afternoon party, designed to
include all her “young friends,” besides a more select company in the
evening. As Laura was the one whom the family intended to be Lady
Stanton, her affairs, with the willing consent, and indeed by the active
energy of her sister, were generally pushed into the foreground. And
Geoff and his mother were the chief of the guests specially invited, the
only visitors who were staying in the house.
To say that the family intended Laura to be Lady Stanton is perhaps too
wild a statement, though this settlement of conflicting claims had been
tacitly decided upon when they were children. It was chiefly Lydia who
actively intended it now, moved and backed up by some of the absent
brothers, who thought it “hard luck” that the young unnecessary Geoff
should have interfered between their father and the title, and vowed by
Jove that the only fit thing to do in the circumstances was to marry him
to one of the girls. Lydia, however, was the most active mind in the
establishment at Elfdale, and carried things her own way, so that though
Sir Henry disliked fuss, and disliked Geoff’s mother, who had done him
so much wrong, yet the party in the evening had been specially selected
to suit her, and Maria, Lady Stanton, was established in the house.
“It can’t last long, papa,” Lydia said; “but we can’t have Geoff without
her.”
“What do you want with Geoff?” growled Sir Henry.
“Papa! in the first place he is our cousin; and Laura likes him; and you
know we girls must marry somebody. You can’t get commissions and
nominations for us, more’s the pity; so we must marry. And Laura may as
well have Stanton as any one else, don’t you think? and of course in
that case she ought to be on good terms with her mother-in-law; and
people expect us----”
“Oh, that will do,” said Sir Henry, “ask whom you like, only free me
from all this clatter. But keep that woman off me with her sanctified
airs, confound her,” said the baronet. He had forgiven Geoff for being
born, but he could not forgive Geoff’s mother for bringing him so
unnecessarily into the world.
And thus it was that Geoff and his mother were at Elfdale. The elder
Lady Stanton was no more disposed to go than Sir Henry was to ask her.
Visits of this kind are not rare--the inviters unwilling to ask, the
invited indisposed to go; and with such cordial results as might be
anticipated. “I care for nobody in that house except Cousin Mary,” Lady
Stanton said, “and even she perhaps--though it is wrong to say so,
Geoff, my dear boy, for of course everybody means for the best.” With
these mutual objections the party had met all the same. The other Lady
Stanton was very mild and very religious. She could not prevent herself
from having an occasional opinion--that is to say, as she explained it
herself, for “caring for” one person more than another; but that was
because she had not seen enough of the others perhaps--had not quite
understood them. “Yes, Geoff, I do not doubt, my dear, that the girls
are very nice. So many things are changed since my time. Manners are
different. And we are all such prejudiced, unjust creatures, we
constantly take the outside for our standard as if that was everything.
There is but One that sees fully, and what a blessing, Geoff, that it
is Him whom we have most to deal with!” said his mother. For it was one
of her troubles in life that she had uneasy instincts about the people
she met with, and likings and dislikings such as she felt--the latter at
least--a true Christian ought not to indulge in. There was a constant
conflict of duty in her against such rebellious feelings. As for Cousin
Mary, Sir Henry Stanton’s wife, she was one of those whom Geoff’s mother
had no difficulty in liking, but a cold doubt had been breathed into her
mind as to the “influence” which this lady might exercise over her boy.
She could not quite get it out of her thoughts. Mary could mean no harm,
that was certain, but--and then Lady Stanton would upbraid herself for
the evil imagination that could thus believe in evil. So that altogether
she was not happy to go to Elfdale. When she was there, however, the
family paid her a sort of court, though the girls frankly considered her
a hypocrite. What did that matter? “All the people one meets with are
humbugs more or less,” Lydia said with superior philosophy. Lydia was
the one who saw through everybody, and was always unmasking false
pretensions. Laura only acquiesced in the discoveries her sister made,
and generally followed her in whatever was going on.
The morning of the birthday dawned brightly and promised to be all that
could be desired, and the presents were pretty enough to please any
_débutante_. Laura was nineteen, and so far as the county gaieties went
she had been already “out” for nearly a year. Any more splendid
introduction into society had been denied to the girls. They had
entertained dreams of London, and had practised curtseys for a
problematical drawing-room during one whole year, but it had come to
nothing, Sir Henry being economical and Lady Stanton shy. It was to
their stepmother’s account that Laura and Lydia set down this wrong,
feeling convinced that if she had been their _real_ mother she would
have managed it somehow. “You’ll see she’ll find some way of doing it
when these little things grow up,” the elder sisters said to each other,
and they bore her a grudge in consequence, and looked at her with
glances of reproaches whenever London was spoken of--though that she was
not their real mother could not be held to be poor Mary’s fault.
However, all this was forgotten on the merry morning, when with the
delights of the garden party and a dance before them they came to
breakfast and found Laura’s place at table blocked up with presents.
Many of them it is true were not of very much value, but there was a
pretty bracelet from Geoff and a locket from his mother, which amply
rewarded the young ladies for their determination to have their cousin
and his mother invited. The opening of the presents made a little
pleasant commotion. The donors were all moved by an agreeable curiosity
to see how their gifts were received, and as Laura was lavish in her
expressions of delight and Lydia in generous admiration, and the little
girls hovered behind in fluttering awe, curiosity, and excitement, a
general air of family concord, sympathy, and happiness was diffused over
the scene. There was not very much love perhaps in the ill-compacted
household. But Sir Henry could not help sharing the infection of the
half-real amiability of the moment, and his wife could not but brighten
under any semblance of kindness. They sat down quite happily to
breakfast and began to chatter about the amusements of the afternoon.
Even little Fanny and Annie were allowed to have their say. To them was
allotted a share in the croquet, even in the delightful responsibility
of arranging the players. All the old fogies, the old-fashioned people,
the curate and his sister, the doctor and his niece, the humbler
neighbours, were reserved for that pastime which is out of fashion--the
girls kept the gayer circle and the more novel amusements for Geoff and
their own set. And moved by the general good-nature of the moment Sir
Henry made apologies to his guests for the occupations which would
occupy his morning. He was an active magistrate, and found in this
version of public duty a relief from the idleness of his retired life.
“I have that scamp Bampfylde in hand again,” he said; “he is never out
of mischief. Have you ever seen that fellow, Geoff? Wild Bampfylde they
call him. I think the keepers have a sneaking kindness for him. There is
not a poaching trick he is not up to. I am tired of hearing his name.”
“What did you say was his name?” said Geoff’s mother.
The other Lady Stanton had looked up too with a little start, which
attracted Geoff’s attention. He stopped short in the middle of an
animated discussion with the girls on the arrangements of the afternoon,
to hear what was being said.
“Ah! to be sure--Bampfylde; for the moment I had forgotten,” Sir Henry
said. “Yes--that family of course, and a handsome fellow; as fine a man
as you could see in the north country. Certainly they are a good-looking
race.”
“I suppose it is gipsy blood,” said the elder Lady Stanton, with a sigh.
“Poor people! Yes, I say poor people, Sir Henry, for there is no one to
care what evil ways they take. So far out of the way among the hills, no
teaching, no clergyman; oh, I make every excuse for them! They will not
be judged as we are, with our advantages.”
“I don’t know about our advantages,” said Sir Henry, somewhat grimly;
“but I sha’n’t make excuses for them. A pest to the country; not to
speak of the tragedy they were involved in----”
“Oh, don’t let us speak of that,” said Mary, under her breath.
Sir Henry gave her a look which irritated young Geoff. The young man
felt himself his beautiful cousin’s champion, and he would have liked to
call even her husband to account for such a glance under frowning
eyebrows at so gentle a creature. Sir Henry for his part did not like
his wife to show any signs of recollecting her own past history. He did
not do very much to make her forget it, and was a cold and indifferent
husband, but still he was affronted that she should be able to remember
that she had not always been his wife.
“I wish it did not hurt you, Cousin Mary,” said Geoff, interposing, “for
I should like to speak of it, to have it all gone into. I am sure there
is wrong somewhere. You said yourself about that young Musgrave----”
“Oh hush, hush, Geoff!” she said under her breath.
“He cannot be young now,” said the elder lady. “I am very sorry for him
too, my dear. It is not given to us to see into men’s hearts, but I
never believed that John Musgrave---- I beg your pardon, Mary, for
naming him before you, of course it must be painful. And to me too. But
it is such a long time ago, and I think if it were all to do over
again----”
“It would have been done over again and the whole case sifted if John
Musgrave had not behaved like a fool, or a guilty man,” said Sir Henry.
“It is not a pleasant subject for discussion, is it? I was an idiot to
bring up the fellow’s name. I forgot what good memories you ladies
have,” he said, getting up and breaking up the party. And there was
still a frown upon his face as he looked at his wife.
“What is the matter with papa?” cried the girls in a breath. “You have
been upsetting him. You have worried him somehow!” exclaimed Lydia,
turning upon her stepmother. “And everything was going so well, and he
was in such a good humour. But it is always the way just when we want a
little peace and comfort. I never saw such a house as ours! And he is
not very unreasonable, not when you know how to manage him--papa.”
As for Mary, she broke down and cried, but smiled again, trying to keep
up appearances. “It is nothing,” she said; “your father is not angry. It
will all be right in a moment. I suppose I am very silly. Run, little
ones, and bring me some eau-de-cologne, quick! You must not think Sir
Henry was really annoyed,” she said, turning to Lady Stanton. “He is
just a little impatient; you know he has all his old Indian ways; and I
am so silly.”
“I don’t think you are silly,” said Lady Stanton, who herself was
flushed and excited. “It was natural you should be disturbed, and I too.
Sir Henry need not have been so impatient; but we don’t know his
motives,” she added hastily, with the habitual apology she made for
everybody who was or seemed in the wrong.
“Oh, how tiresome it all is,” cried Lydia, stamping her foot, “when
people will make scenes! Come along, Geoff; come with us and let us see
what is to be done. Everything has to be done still. I meant to ask papa
to give the orders; but when he is put out, it is all over. Do come;
there are the hoops to put up, and everything to do. Laura, never mind
your tiresome presents. Come along! or the people will be here, and
nothing will be done.”
“That is how they always go on,” said Laura, following her sister with
her lap full of her treasures, “Come, Geoff. It is so easy to put papa
out; and when he is put out he is no good for anything. Do come. I do
not think this time, Lydia, it was _her_ fault.”
“Oh, it is always her fault,” said the harsher sister: “and sending
these two tiresome children for the eau-de-cologne! She always sends
them for the eau-de-cologne. As if that could do any good! like putting
out a fire with rose-water. There now, Laura, put your rubbish away, and
I will begin settling everything with Geoff.”
The young man obeyed the call unwillingly; but he went with his cousins,
having no excuse to stay, and did their work obediently, though his mind
was full of very different things. He had put aside the Musgrave
business since his visit to Penninghame, not knowing how to act, and he
had not spoken of it to his mother; but now it returned upon him with
greater interest than ever. Bampfylde he knew was the name of the girl
whom John Musgrave had married, whom his brother Walter had loved, and
whom the quarrel was about; and she it was who, with her mother, had
been accused of helping young Musgrave’s escape. All the story seemed to
reopen even upon him with the name; and how much more upon those two
ladies who were so much more deeply interested. The two girls and their
games had but a slight hold of Geoff’s mind in comparison with this
deeper question. He did what they wanted him, but he was _distrait_ and
preoccupied; and as soon as he was free went anxiously in search of his
mother, who, he hoped, would tell him more about it. He knew all about
it, but not as people must do who had been involved in the
circumstances, and helped to enact that sad drama of real life. He found
his mother very thoughtful and preoccupied too, seated alone in a little
sitting-room up-stairs, which was Lady Stanton’s special sanctum. The
elder Lady Stanton was very serious. She welcomed her son with a
momentary smile and no more. “I have been thinking over that dreadful
story,” she said; “it has all come back upon me, Geoff. Sometimes a name
is enough to bring back years of one’s life. I was then as Mary is now.
No, no, my dear, your good father was very different from Sir Henry; but
a stepmother is often not very happy. It used to be the other way, the
story-books say. Oh, Geoff, young people don’t mean it--they don’t
think; but they can make a poor woman’s life very wretched. It has
brought everything back to me. That--and the name of this man.”
“You have never told me much about it, mother.”
“What was the use, my dear? You were too young to do anything; and then,
what was there to do? Poor Mr. Musgrave fled, you know. Everybody said
that was such a pity. It would have been brought in only manslaughter if
he had not escaped and gone away.”
“Then it was madness and cowardice,” said Geoff.
“It was the girl,” said his mother. “No, I am not blaming her; perhaps
she knew no better. And his father and all his family were so opposed.
Perhaps they thought, to fly away out of everybody’s reach, the two
together, was the best way out of it. When young people are so much
attached to each other,” said the anxious mother, faltering, half afraid
even to speak of such mysteries to her son, “they are tempted to think
that being together is everything. But it is not everything, Geoff. Many
others, as well as John Musgrave, have lost themselves for such a
delusion as that.”
“Is it a delusion?” Geoff asked, making his mother tremble. Of whom
could the boy be thinking? He was thinking of nobody--till it suddenly
occurred to him how the eyes of that little girl at Penninghame might
look if they were older; and that most likely it was the same eyes which
had made up to John Musgrave for the loss of everything. After all,
perhaps this unfortunate one, whom everybody pitied, might have had some
compensation. As he was thinking thus, and his mother was watching him,
very anxious to know what he was thinking, Lady Stanton came in suddenly
by a private door, which opened from her own room. She had a little
additional colour on her cheeks, and was breathless with haste.
“Oh, where is Geoff, I wonder?” she said; then seeing him, ran up to
him. “Geoff, there is some one down-stairs you will like to see. If you
are really so interested in all that sad story--really so anxious to
help poor John----”
“Yes, who is it? Tell me who it is, and I will go.”
“Elizabeth Bampfylde is down-stairs,” she said, breathless, putting her
hand to her heart. “The mother of the man Sir Henry was speaking of--the
mother of--the girl. There is no one knows so much as that woman. She is
sitting there all alone, and there is nobody in the way.”
“Mary!” cried the elder lady, “is it right to plunge my boy into it? We
have suffered enough already. Is it right to make Geoff a victim--Geoff,
who knows nothing about it? Oh, my dear, I know you mean it for the
best!”
Mary fell back abashed and troubled.
“I did not mean to harm him, Lady Stanton. I did not think it would harm
him. Never mind; never mind, if your mother does not approve. After all,
perhaps, she knows no more than we do,” she said, with an attempt at a
smile. “The sight of her made me forget myself.”
“Where is she?” said the young man.
“Ah! that is just what overcame me,” said Mary, with a sob, and a
strange smile at the irony of fate--“down-stairs in _my_ husband’s room.
I have seen her often in the road and in the village--but here, in my
house! Never mind, Geoff; it was she that helped him to get out of
prison. They were bold, they had no fear of anything; not like us, who
are ladies, who cannot stir a step without being watched. Never mind,
never mind! it is not really of any consequence. She is sitting there
in--in my husband’s room!” Mary said, with a sob and a little hysterical
laugh. It was not strange to the others, but simple enough and natural.
She alone knew how strange it was. “But stop, stop--oh, don’t pay any
attention. Don’t go now, Geoff!”
“Geoff! my dear Geoff!” cried his mother running to the door after him,
but for once Geoff paid no attention. He hurried down-stairs, clearing
them four or five steps at a time. The ladies could not have followed
him if they would. The door of Sir Henry’s business room stood open, and
he could see an old woman seated like a statue, in perfect stillness, on
a bench against the wall. She wore a large grey cloak with a hood
falling back upon her shoulders, and a white cap, and sat with her hands
crossed in her lap, waiting. She raised her eyes quickly when he came in
with a look of anxiety and expectation, but when she found it was not
the person she expected, bowed her fine head resignedly and relapsed
into quiet. The delay which is always so irksome did not seem to affect
her. There was something in the pose of the figure which showed that to
be seated there quite still and undisturbed was not disagreeable to her.
She was not impatient. She was an old woman and glad to rest; she could
wait.
“You are waiting for Sir Henry?” Geoff said, in his eagerness. “Have you
seen him? Can I do anything for you?”
“No, sir. I hope you’ll forgive me rising. I have walked far and I’m
tired. Time is not of so much consequence now as it used to be. I can
bide.” She gave him a faint smile as she spoke, and looked at him with
eyes undimmed, eyes that reminded him of the child at Penninghame. Her
voice was fine too, large and melodious, and there was nothing fretful
or fidgety about her. Except for one line in her forehead everything
about her was calm. She could bide.
And this is a power which gives its possessor unbounded superiority over
the impatient and restless. Geoff was all curiosity, excitement, and
eagerness. “I don’t think Sir Henry will have any time for you to-day,”
he said; “tell me what it is. I will do all I can for you. I should like
to be of use to you. Sir Henry is going to his luncheon presently. I
don’t think you will see him to-day.”
Just at this moment a servant came in with the same information, but it
was given in a somewhat different tone. “Look here, old lady,” said the
man, “you’ll have to clear out of this. There’s a party this afternoon,
and Sir Henry he hasn’t got any time for the likes of you. So march is
the word.--I beg your lordship ten thousand pardons. I didn’t see as
your lordship was there.”
“You had better learn to be civil to every one,” said Geoff,
indignantly; “beg _her_ pardon, not mine. You are--Mrs. Bampfylde, I
think? May I speak to you, since Sir Henry cannot see you? I have very
urgent business----”
She rose slowly, paying no attention to the man--looking only at Geoff.
“And you are the young lord?” she said with an intent look. There was a
certain dignity about her movements, though she seemed to set herself in
motion with difficulty, stiffly, as if the exertion cost her something.
“I’ve had a long walk,” she added, with a faint smile and half apology
for the effort, “there’s where age tells. And all my trouble for
nothing!”
“If I can be of any use to you I will,” said Geoff. Then he paused and
added, “I want you to do something for me.”
“What is it that old ’Lizabeth Bampfylde could do for a fine young
gentleman? Your fortune?--ay, I’ll give you your fortune easy; a kind
tongue and a bright eye carries that all over the world. And you look as
if you had a kind heart.”
“It is not my fortune,” he said with an involuntary smile.
“You’re no believer in the likes of that? May be you have never met with
one that had the power. It runs in families; it runs in the blood. There
was one of your house, my young lord, that I could have warned of what
was coming. I saw it in his face. And, oh that I had done it! But he
would not have been warned. Oh! what that would have saved me and mine,
as well as you and yours!”
“You think of my brother then when you see me?” he said, eager at once
to follow out this beginning. She looked at him again with a
scrutinizing gaze.
“What had I to do with your brother, young gentleman? He never asked me
for his fortune any more than you; he did not believe in the likes of
me. It is only the silly folk and the simple folk that believe in us. I
wish they would be guided by us that are our own flesh and blood--and
then they would never get into trouble like my boy.”
“What has he done?” asked Geoff, thinking to conciliate. He had followed
her out of the house, and was walking by her side through the
shrubberies by the back way.
“What has he done? Something, nothing. He’s taken a fish in the river,
or a bird out of the wood. They’re God’s creatures, not yours, or Sir
Henry’s. But the rich and the great, that have every dainty they can set
their face to, make it a crime for a poor lad when he does that.”
Geoff did not make any answer, for he had a respect for game, and would
not commit himself; but he said, “I will do anything I can for your son,
if you will help me. Yes, you can help me, and I think you know you can,
Mrs. Bampfylde.”
“I am called ’Lizabeth,” said the old woman, with dignity, as if she had
said, I am called Princess. Her tone had so much effect upon Geoff that
he cried, “I beg your pardon,” instinctively, and faltered and coloured
as he went on--
“I want to know about what happened when I was a child--about my
brother’s death--about--the man who caused it. They tell me you know
more than any one else. I am not asking for idle curiosity. You know a
great deal, or so I have heard, about John Musgrave.”
“Hus--sh!” she cried, “it is not safe to say names--you never know who
may hear.”
“But all the world may hear,” said Geoff. “I am not afraid. I want him
to come home. I want him to be cleared. If you know anything that can
help him, tell me. I will never rest now till I have got that sentence
changed and he is cleared.”
The old woman looked at him, growing pale, with a sort of alarmed
admiration. “You’re a bold boy,” she said, “very bold! It’s because
you’re so young--how should you know? When a man has enemies we should
be careful how we name him. It might bring ill-luck or more harm.”
“I don’t believe much in ill-luck, and I don’t believe in enemies at
all,” said Geoff, with the confidence of his years.
“Oh!” she cried, with a long moan, wringing her hands. “Oh, God help
you, innocent boy!”
“No,” Geoff repeated, more boldly still, “neither in enemies nor in
ill-luck, if the man himself is innocent. But I believe in friends. I am
one; and if you are one--if you are his friend, his true friend, why,
there is nothing we may not do for him,” the young man cried, standing
still to secure her attention. She paused too for a moment, gazing at
him, with a low cry now and then of wonder and distress; her mind was
travelling over regions to which young Geoff had no clue, but his
courage and confidence had compelled her attention at least. She
listened while he went on repeating his appeal; only to tell him what
she knew, what she remembered--to tell him everything. It seemed all so
simple to Geoff; he went on with his pleadings, following through the
winding walk. It was all he could do to keep up with her large and
steady stride as she went on quickening her pace. The stiffness had
disappeared, and she walked like one accustomed to long tramping over
moor and hill.
“My young lord,” she exclaimed abruptly, stopping him in the midst of a
sentence, “you’ve talked long enough; I know all you can say now; and
here’s the bargain I’ll make. If my lad gets free, I’ll take his
advice--and if he consents, and you have a mind to come up to the fells
and see me where I bide----”
“Certainly I will come,” cried Geoff, feeling a delightful gleam of
adventure suddenly light up his more serious purpose. “Certainly I will
come; only tell me where I shall find you----”
“You’re going too fast, my young gentleman. I said if my lad gets free.
Till I have talked to him I’ll tell you nothing. And my bit of a place
is a lonely place where few folk ever come near.”
“I can find it,” said Geoff. “I do not mind how lonely it is. I will
come--to-morrow, whenever you please.”
“Not till my lad comes to fetch you,” said ’Lizabeth, with a gleam of
shrewd humour crossing her face for a moment. “I must see my lad first,
and hear what he says, and then I’ll send him to show you the way.”
“It would be better not to make it dependent on that chance,” said Geoff
prudently. “He might not care to come; I don’t know your son; why should
he take so much trouble for me? He may decline to do it, or he may
dislike my interference, or----”
“Or he may not get free,” said ’Lizabeth, stopping short, and dismissing
her young attendant almost imperiously. “Here you and me part paths, my
young lord. It will be soon enough to say more when my lad is free.”
Geoff was left standing at the outer gate, startled by the abruptness of
his dismissal, but incapable he felt of resisting. He gazed after her as
she sped along the road with long swift steps, half-appalled, greatly
excited, and with a touch of amusement too. “I am to cheat justice for
her in the first place, and elude the law,” he said to himself as he
watched her disappearing along the dusty road.