A SIMPLE QUESTION
Now this account of what Jacob Rigg had seen and heard threw me into a
state of mind extremely unsatisfactory. To be in eager search of some
unknown person who had injured me inexpressibly, without any longing for
revenge on my part, but simply with a view to justice--this was a very
different thing from feeling that an unknown person was in quest of
me, with the horrible purpose of destroying me to insure his own wicked
safety.
At first I almost thought that he was welcome to do this; that such a
life as mine (if looked at from an outer point of view) was better to be
died than lived out. Also that there was nobody left to get any good out
of all that I could do; and even if I ever should succeed, truth would
come out of her tomb too late. And this began to make me cry, which I
had long given over doing, with no one to feel for the heart of it.
But a thing of this kind could not long endure; and as soon as the sun
of the morrow arose (or at least as soon as I was fit to see him), my
view of the world was quite different. Here was the merry brook, playing
with the morning, spread around with ample depth and rich retreat of
meadows, and often, after maze of leisure, hastening with a tinkle into
shadowy delight of trees. Here, as well, were happy lanes, and footpaths
of a soft content, unworn with any pressure of the price of time or
business. None of them knew (in spite, at flurried spots, of their own
direction posts) whence they were coming or whither going--only that
here they lay, between the fields or through them, like idle veins
of earth, with sometimes company of a man or boy, whistling to his
footfall, or a singing maid with a milking pail. And how ungrateful it
would be to forget the pleasant copses, in waves of deep green leafage
flowing down and up the channeled hills, waving at the wind to tints and
tones of new refreshment, and tempting idle folk to come and hear the
hush, and see the twinkled texture of pellucid gloom.
Much, however, as I loved to sit in places of this kind alone, for some
little time I feared to do so, after hearing the sexton's tale; for
Jacob's terror was so unfeigned (though his own life had not been
threatened) that, knowing as I did from Betsy's account, as well as his
own appearance, that he was not at all a nervous man, I could not help
sharing his vague alarm. It seemed so terrible that any one should come
to the graves of my sweet mother and her six harmless children, and,
instead of showing pity, as even a monster might have tried to do,
should stand, if not with threatening gestures, yet with a most hostile
mien, and thirst for the life of the only survivor--my poor self.
But terrible or not, the truth was so; and neither Betsy nor myself
could shake Mr. Rigg's conclusion. Indeed, he became more and more
emphatic, in reply to our doubts and mild suggestions, perhaps that his
eyes had deceived him, or perhaps that, taking a nap in the corner of
the buttress, he had dreamed at least a part of it. And Betsy, on the
score of ancient friendship and kind remembrance of his likings, put
it to him in a gentle way whether his knowledge of what Sally Mock had
been, and the calumnies she might have spoken of his beer (when herself,
in the work-house, deprived of it), might not have induced him to take
a little more than usual in going down so deep for her. But he answered,
“No; it was nothing of the sort. Deep he had gone, to the tiptoe of his
fling; not from any feeling of a wish to keep her down, but just because
the parish paid, and the parish would have measurement. And when that
was on, he never brought down more than the quart tin from the public;
and never had none down afterward. Otherwise the ground was so ticklish,
that a man, working too free, might stay down there. No, no! That
idea was like one of Sally's own. He just had his quart of Persfield
ale--short measure, of course, with a woman at the bar--and if that were
enough to make a man dream dreams, the sooner he dug his own grave, the
better for all connected with him.”
We saw that we had gone too far in thinking of such a possibility; and
if Mr. Rigg had not been large-minded, as well as notoriously sober,
Betsy might have lost me all the benefit of his evidence by her
London-bred clumsiness with him. For it takes quite a different
handling, and a different mode of outset, to get on with the London
working class and the laboring kind of the country; or at least it
seemed to me so.
Now my knowledge of Jacob Rigg was owing, as might be supposed, to Betsy
Strouss, who had taken the lead of me in almost every thing ever since
I brought her down from London. And now I was glad that, in one point
at least, her judgment had overruled mine--to wit, that my name and
parentage were as yet not generally known in the village. Indeed, only
Betsy herself and Jacob and a faithful old washer-woman, with no roof to
her mouth, were aware of me as Miss Castlewood. Not that I had taken any
other name--to that I would not stoop--but because the public, of its
own accord, paying attention to Betsy's style of addressing me, followed
her lead (with some little improvement), and was pleased to entitle me
“Miss Raumur.”
Some question had been raised as to spelling me aright, till a man of
advanced intelligence proved to many eyes, and even several pairs of
spectacles (assembled in front of the blacksmith's shop), that no other
way could be right except that. For there it was in print, as any one
able might see, on the side of an instrument whose name and qualities
were even more mysterious than those in debate. Therefore I became “Miss
Raumur;” and a protest would have gone for nothing unless printed also.
But it did not behoove me to go to that expense, while it suited me very
well to be considered and pitied as a harmless foreigner--a being who
on English land may find some cause to doubt whether, even in his own
country, a prophet could be less thought of. And this large pity for me,
as an outlandish person, in the very spot where I was born, endowed me
with tenfold the privilege of the proudest native. For the natives of
this valley are declared to be of a different stock from those around
them, not of the common Wessex strain, but of Jutish or Danish
origin. How that may be I do not know; at any rate, they think well of
themselves, and no doubt they have cause to do so.
Moreover, they all were very kind to me, and their primitive ways amused
me, as soon as they had settled that I was a foreigner, equally beyond
and below inquiry. They told me that I was kindly welcome to stay there
as long as it pleased me; and knowing how fond I was of making pictures,
after beholding my drawing-book, every farmer among them gave me leave
to come into his fields, though he never had heard there was any thing
there worth painting.
When once there has been a deposit of idea in the calm deep eocene of
British rural mind, the impression will outlast any shallow deluge of
the noblest education. Shoxford had settled two points forever, without
troubling reason to come out of her way--first, that I was a foreign
young lady of good birth, manners, and money; second, and far more
important, I was here to write and paint a book about Shoxford. Not
for the money, of that I had no need (according to the congress at the
“Silver-edged Holly”), but for the praise and the knowledge of it,
like, and to make a talk among high people. But the elders shook their
heads--as I heard from Mr. Rigg, who hugged his knowledge proudly, and
uttered dim sayings of wisdom let forth at large usury: he did not mind
telling me that the old men shook their heads, for fear of my being a
deal too young, and a long sight too well favored (as any man might tell
without his specs on), for to write any book upon any subject yet, leave
alone an old, ancient town like theirs. However, there might be no harm
in my trying, and perhaps the school-master would cross out the bad
language.
Thus for once fortune now was giving me good help, enabling me to go
about freely, and preventing (so far as I could see, at least) all
danger of discovery by my unknown foe. So here I resolved to keep my
head-quarters, dispensing, if it must be so, with Betsy's presence,
and not even having Mrs. Price to succeed her, unless my cousin should
insist upon it. And partly to dissuade him from that, and partly to
hear his opinion of the sexton's tale, I paid a flying visit to Lord
Castlewood; while “Madam Straw,” as Betsy now was called throughout the
village, remained behind at Shoxford. For I long had desired to know a
thing which I had not ventured to ask my cousin--though I did ask Mr.
Shovelin--whether my father had intrusted him with the key of his own
mysterious acts. I scarcely knew whether it was proper even now to put
this question to Lord Castlewood; but even without doing so, I might get
at the answer by watching him closely while I told my tale. Not a letter
had reached me since I came to Shoxford, neither had I written any,
except one to Uncle Sam; and keeping to this excellent rule, I arrived
at Castlewood without notice.
In doing this I took no liberty, because full permission had been given
me about it; and indeed I had been expected there, as Stixon told me,
some days before. He added that his master was about as usual, but had
shown some uneasiness on my account, though the butler was all in the
dark about it, and felt it very hard after all these years, “particular,
when he could hardly help thinking that Mrs. Price--a new hand compared
to himself, not to speak of being a female--knowed all about it, and
were very aggravating. But there, he would say no more; he knew his
place, and he always had been valued in it, long afore Mrs. Price come
up to the bottom of his waistcoat.”
My cousin received me with kindly warmth, and kissed me gently on the
forehead. “My dear, how very well you look!” he said. “Your native air
has agreed with you. I was getting, in my quiet way, rather sedulous
and self-reproachful about you. But you would have your own way, like a
young American; and it seems that you were right.”
“It was quite right,” I answered, with a hearty kiss, for I never could
be cold-natured; and this was my only one of near kin, so far, at least,
as my knowledge went. “I was quite right in going; and I have done good.
At any rate, I have found out something--something that may not be of
any kind of use; but still it makes me hope things.”
With that, in as few words as ever I could use, I told Lord Castlewood
the whole of Jacob's tale, particularly looking at him all the while I
spoke, to settle in my own mind whether the idea of such a thing was new
to him. Concerning that, however, I could make out nothing. My cousin,
at his time of life, and after so much travelling, had much too large a
share of mind and long skill of experience for me to make any thing out
of his face beyond his own intention. And whether he had suspicion or
not of any thing at all like what I was describing, or any body having
to do with it, was more than I ever might have known, if I had not
gathered up my courage and put the question outright to him. I told
him that if I was wrong in asking, he was not to answer; but, right or
wrong, ask him I must.
“The question is natural, and not at all improper,” replied Lord
Castlewood, standing a moment for change of pain, which was all his
relief. “Indeed, I expected you to ask me that before. But, Erema, I
have also had to ask myself about it, whether I have any right to answer
you. And I have decided not to do so, unless you will pledge yourself to
one thing.”
“I will pledge myself to any thing,” I answered, rashly; “I do not care
what it is, if only to get at the bottom of this mystery.”
“I scarcely think you will hold good to your words when you hear what
you have to promise. The condition upon which I tell you what I believe
to be the cause of all is, that you let things remain as they are, and
keep silence forever about them.”
“Oh, you can not be so cruel, so atrocious!” I cried, in my bitter
disappointment. “What good would it be for me to know things thus, and
let the vile wrong continue? Surely you are not bound to lay on me a
condition so impossible?”
“After much consideration and strong wish to have it otherwise, I have
concluded that I am so bound.”
“In duty to my father, or the family, or what? Forgive me for asking,
but it does seem so hard.”
“It seems hard, my dear, and it is hard as well,” he answered, very
gently, yet showing in his eyes and lips no chance of any yielding. “But
remember that I do not know, I only guess, the secret; and if you give
the pledge I speak of, you merely follow in your father's steps.”
“Never,” I replied, with as firm a face as his. “It may have been my
father's duty, or no doubt he thought it so; but it can not be mine,
unless I make it so by laying it on my honor. And I will not do that.”
“Perhaps you are right; but, at any rate, remember that I have not tried
to persuade you. I wish to do what is for your happiness, Erema. And
I think that, on the whole, with your vigor and high spirit, you are
better as you are than if you had a knowledge which you could only brood
over and not use.”
“I will find out the whole of it myself,” I cried, for I could not
repress all excitement; “and then I need not brood over it, but may have
it out and get justice. In the wildest parts of America justice comes
with perseverance: am I to abjure it in the heart of England? Lord
Castlewood, which is first--justice or honor?”
“My cousin, you are fond of asking questions difficult to answer.
Justice and honor nearly always go together. When they do otherwise,
honor stands foremost, with people of good birth, at least.”
“Then I will be a person of very bad birth. If they come into conflict
in my life, as almost every thing seems to do, my first thought shall be
of justice; and honor shall come in as its ornament afterward.”
“Erema,” said my cousin, “your meaning is good, and at your time of life
you can scarcely be expected to take a dispassionate view of things.”
At first I felt almost as if I could hate a “dispassionate view of
things.” Things are made to arouse our passion, so long as meanness and
villainy prevail; and if old men, knowing the balance of the world,
can contemplate them all “dispassionately,” more clearly than any thing
else, to my mind, that proves the beauty of being young. I am sure that
I never was hot or violent--qualities which I especially dislike--but
still I would rather almost have those than be too philosophical. And
now, while I revered my father's cousin for his gentleness, wisdom, and
long-suffering, I almost longed to fly back to the Major, prejudiced,
peppery, and red-hot for justice, at any rate in all things that
concerned himself.