Chapter 1

GEORGE ELIOT

Scenes of Clerical Life

INTRODUCTION BY GRACE RHYS

DENT London

EVERYMAN’S LIBRARY

All rights reserved

Printed in Great Britain

This edition was first published in Everyman’s Library in 1910

INTRODUCTION

George Eliot, or Mary Ann Evans, was born at Arbury Farm, in the parish

of Chilvers Coton, Warwickshire, on the 22nd of November, 1819. She was

the fifth and last child of her father by his second wife--of that father

whose sound sense and integrity she so keenly appreciated, and who was to

a certain extent the original of her famous characters of Adam Bede and

Caleb Garth.

Both during and after her schooldays George Eliot’s history was that of a

mind continually out-growing its conditions. She became an excellent

housewife and a devoted daughter, but her nature was too large for so

cramped a life. ‘You may try,’ she writes in Daniel Deronda, ‘but you can

never imagine what it is to have a man’s force of genius in you, and to

suffer the slavery of being a girl.’

While her powers were growing she necessarily passed through many phases.

She became deeply religious, and wrote poetry, pious and sweet, fair of

its kind. Music was a passion with her; in a characteristic letter

written at the age of twenty to a friend she tries but fails to describe

her experience on hearing the ‘Messiah’ of Birmingham: ‘With a stupid,

drowsy sensation, produced by standing sentinel over damson cheese and a

warm stove, I cannot do better than ask you to read, if accessible,

Wordsworth’s short poem on the “Power of Sound.”’ There you have a

concise history of George Eliot’s life at this period, divided as it was

between music, literature, and damson cheese.

Sixteen years of mental work and effort then lay between her and her

first achievement; years during which she read industriously and thought

more than she read. The classics, French, German, and Italian literature,

she laid them all under contribution. She had besides the art of

fortunate friendship: her mind naturally chose out the greater

intelligences among those she encountered; it was through a warm and

enduring friendship with Herbert Spencer that she met at last with George

Henry Lewes whose wife she became.

In this way she served no trifling apprenticeship. Natural genius,

experience of life, culture, and great companionship had joined to make

her what she was, a philosopher both natural and developed; and, what is

more rare, a philosopher with a sense of humour and a perception of the

dramatic. Thus when her chance came she was fully equipped to meet it.

It came when, at the age of thirty-six she began to write ‘Amos Barton,’

her first attempt at fiction, and one that fixed her career. The story

appeared in ‘Blackwood’s Magazine,’ and was followed by ‘Mr. Gilfil’s

Love Story’ and ‘Janet’s Repentance.’ Of the three, ‘Mr. Gilfil’s Love

Story’ is perhaps the most finished and artistic; while ‘Amos Barton’ has

qualities of humour and tenderness that have not often been equalled.

‘Janet’s Repentance,’ strong though it is, and containing the remarkable

sketch of Mr. Tryan, is perhaps less surely attractive.

The stories, all three of them, have a particular value as records of an

English country life that is rapidly passing away. Moreover, it is

country life seen through the medium of a powerful and right-judging

personality. It is her intimate and thorough knowledge of big things and

small, of literature and damson cheese, enabling her and us to see all

round her characters, that provides these characters with their ample

background of light and shade.

It is well to realise that since George Eliot’s day the fashion of

writing, the temper of the modern mind, are quite changed; it is a

curious fact that the more sophisticated we become the simpler grows our

speech. Nowadays we talk as nearly as we may in words of one syllable.

Our style is stripped more and more of its Latinity. Our writers are more

and more in love with French methods--with the delicate clearness of

short phrases in which every word tells; with the rejection of all

intellectual ambulations round about a subject. To the fanatics of this

modern method the style of George Eliot appears strange, impossible. It

does not occur to them that her method has virtues which lack to theirs.

They may give us a little laboured masterpiece of art in which the vital

principle is wanting. George Eliot was great because she gave us passages

from life as it was lived in her day which will be vital so long as they

are sympathetically read.

George Eliot can be simple enough when she goes straight forward with her

narrative, as, for instance, in the scene of Milly Barton’s death; then

her English is clear and sweet for she writes from the heart. But take

the opening chapter of the same story, and then you find her

philosophical Latinity in full swing: the curious and interesting thing

being that this otherwise ponderous work, which is quite of a sort to

alarm a Frenchman, is entirely suffused by humour, and enshrines moreover

the most charming character studies.

These lively and acute portraits drawn from English country life give its

abiding value to George Eliot’s work. Take the character of Mr. Pilgrim

the doctor who ‘is never so comfortable as when relaxing his professional

legs in one of those excellent farmhouses where the mice are sleek and

the mistress sickly;’ or of Mrs. Hackit, ‘a thin woman with a chronic

liver complaint which would have secured her Mr. Pilgrim’s entire regard

and unreserved good word, even if he had not been in awe of her tongue.’

Or take Mrs. Patten, ‘a pretty little old woman of eighty, with a close

cap and tiny flat white curls round her face,’ whose function is

‘quiescence in an easy-chair under the sense of compound interest

gradually accumulating,’ and who ‘does her malevolence gently;’ or Mr.

Hackit, a shrewd, substantial man, ‘who was fond of soothing the

acerbities of the feminine mind by a jocose compliment.’ Where but in

George Eliot would you get a tea-party described with such charming

acceptance of whim?

George Eliot wrote poems at various times which showed she never could

have won fame as a poet; but there are moments of her prose that prove

she shared at times the poet’s vision. Such a moment is that when the

half broken-hearted little Catarina looks out on a windy night landscape

lit by moonlight: ‘The trees are harassed by that tossing motion when

they would like to be at rest; the shivering grass makes her quake with

sympathetic cold; the willows by the pool, _bent low and white under that

invisible harshness_, seem agitated and helpless like herself.’ The

italicised sentence represents the high-water mark of George Eliot’s

prose; that passage alone should vindicate her imaginative power.

G. R.

CONTENTS

The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton

Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story

Janet’s Repentance

SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE

THE SAD FORTUNES OF THE REV. AMOS BARTON

Chapter 1

Shepperton Church was a very different-looking building five-and-twenty

years ago. To be sure, its substantial stone tower looks at you through

its intelligent eye, the clock, with the friendly expression of former

days; but in everything else what changes! Now there is a wide span of

slated roof flanking the old steeple; the windows are tall and

symmetrical; the outer doors are resplendent with oak-graining, the inner

doors reverentially noiseless with a garment of red baize; and the walls,

you are convinced, no lichen will ever again effect a settlement on--they

are smooth and innutrient as the summit of the Rev. Amos Barton’s head,

after ten years of baldness and supererogatory soap. Pass through the

baize doors and you will see the nave filled with well-shaped benches,

understood to be free seats; while in certain eligible corners, less

directly under the fire of the clergyman’s eye, there are pews reserved

for the Shepperton gentility. Ample galleries are supported on iron

pillars, and in one of them stands the crowning glory, the very clasp or

aigrette of Shepperton church-adornment--namely, an organ, not very much

out of repair, on which a collector of small rents, differentiated by the

force of circumstances into an organist, will accompany the alacrity of

your departure after the blessing, by a sacred minuet or an easy

‘Gloria’.

Immense improvement! says the well-regulated mind, which unintermittingly

rejoices in the New Police, the Tithe Commutation Act, the penny-post,

and all guarantees of human advancement, and has no moments when

conservative-reforming intellect takes a nap, while imagination does a

little Toryism by the sly, revelling in regret that dear, old, brown,

crumbling, picturesque inefficiency is everywhere giving place to

spick-and-span new-painted, new-varnished efficiency, which will yield

endless diagrams, plans, elevations, and sections, but alas! no picture.

Mine, I fear, is not a well-regulated mind: it has an occasional

tenderness for old abuses; it lingers with a certain fondness over the

days of nasal clerks and top-booted parsons, and has a sigh for the

departed shades of vulgar errors. So it is not surprising that I recall

with a fond sadness Shepperton Church as it was in the old days, with its

outer coat of rough stucco, its red-tiled roof, its heterogeneous windows

patched with desultory bits of painted glass, and its little flight of

steps with their wooden rail running up the outer wall, and leading to

the school-children’s gallery.

Then inside, what dear old quaintnesses! which I began to look at with

delight, even when I was so crude a member of the congregation, that my

nurse found it necessary to provide for the reinforcement of my

devotional patience by smuggling bread-and-butter into the sacred

edifice. There was the chancel, guarded by two little cherubims looking

uncomfortably squeezed between arch and wall, and adorned with the

escutcheons of the Oldinport family, which showed me inexhaustible

possibilities of meaning in their blood-red hands, their death’s-heads

and cross-bones, their leopards’ paws, and Maltese crosses. There were

inscriptions on the panels of the singing-gallery, telling of

benefactions to the poor of Shepperton, with an involuted elegance of

capitals and final flourishes, which my alphabetic erudition traced with

ever-new delight. No benches in those days; but huge roomy pews, round

which devout church-goers sat during ‘lessons’, trying to look anywhere

else than into each other’s eyes. No low partitions allowing you, with a

dreary absence of contrast and mystery, to see everything at all moments;

but tall dark panels, under whose shadow I sank with a sense of

retirement through the Litany, only to feel with more intensity my burst

into the conspicuousness of public life when I was made to stand up on

the seat during the psalms or the singing.

And the singing was no mechanical affair of official routine; it had

a drama. As the moment of psalmody approached, by some process to me

as mysterious and untraceable as the opening of the flowers or the

breaking-out of the stars, a slate appeared in front of the gallery,

advertising in bold characters the psalm about to be sung, lest the

sonorous announcement of the clerk should still leave the bucolic

mind in doubt on that head. Then followed the migration of the clerk

to the gallery, where, in company with a bassoon, two key-bugles, a

carpenter understood to have an amazing power of singing ‘counter’, and

two lesser musical stars, he formed the complement of a choir regarded

in Shepperton as one of distinguished attraction, occasionally known

to draw hearers from the next parish. The innovation of hymn-books

was as yet undreamed of; even the New Version was regarded with a

sort of melancholy tolerance, as part of the common degeneracy in a

time when prices had dwindled, and a cotton gown was no longer stout

enough to last a lifetime; for the lyrical taste of the best heads in

Shepperton had been formed on Sternhold and Hopkins. But the greatest

triumphs of the Shepperton choir were reserved for the Sundays when

the slate announced an ANTHEM, with a dignified abstinence from

particularization, both words and music lying far beyond the reach of

the most ambitious amateur in the congregation: an anthem in which the

key-bugles always ran away at a great pace, while the bassoon every now

and then boomed a flying shot after them.

As for the clergyman, Mr. Gilfil, an excellent old gentleman, who smoked

very long pipes and preached very short sermons, I must not speak of him,

or I might be tempted to tell the story of his life, which had its little

romance, as most lives have between the ages of teetotum and tobacco. And

at present I am concerned with quite another sort of clergyman--the Rev.

Amos Barton, who did not come to Shepperton until long after Mr. Gilfil

had departed this life--until after an interval in which Evangelicalism

and the Catholic Question had begun to agitate the rustic mind with

controversial debates. A Popish blacksmith had produced a strong

Protestant reaction by declaring that, as soon as the Emancipation Bill

was passed, he should do a great stroke of business in gridirons; and the

disinclination of the Shepperton parishioners generally to dim the unique

glory of St Lawrence, rendered the Church and Constitution an affair of

their business and bosoms. A zealous Evangelical preacher had made the

old sounding-board vibrate with quite a different sort of elocution from

Mr. Gilfil’s; the hymn-book had almost superseded the Old and New

Versions; and the great square pews were crowded with new faces from

distant corners of the parish--perhaps from Dissenting chapels.

You are not imagining, I hope, that Amos Barton was the incumbent of

Shepperton. He was no such thing. Those were days when a man could hold

three small livings, starve a curate a-piece on two of them, and live

badly himself on the third. It was so with the Vicar of Shepperton; a

vicar given to bricks and mortar, and thereby running into debt far away

in a northern county--who executed his vicarial functions towards

Shepperton by pocketing the sum of thirty-five pounds ten per annum, the

net surplus remaining to him from the proceeds of that living, after the

disbursement of eighty pounds as the annual stipend of his curate. And

now, pray, can you solve me the following problem? Given a man with a

wife and six children: let him be obliged always to exhibit himself when

outside his own door in a suit of black broadcloth, such as will not

undermine the foundations of the Establishment by a paltry plebeian

glossiness or an unseemly whiteness at the edges; in a snowy cravat,

which is a serious investment of labour in the hemming, starching, and

ironing departments; and in a hat which shows no symptom of taking to the

hideous doctrine of expediency, and shaping itself according to

circumstances; let him have a parish large enough to create an external

necessity for abundant shoe-leather, and an internal necessity for

abundant beef and mutton, as well as poor enough to require frequent

priestly consolation in the shape of shillings and sixpences; and,

lastly, let him be compelled, by his own pride and other people’s, to

dress his wife and children with gentility from bonnet-strings to

shoe-strings. By what process of division can the sum of eighty pounds

per annum be made to yield a quotient which will cover that man’s weekly

expenses? This was the problem presented by the position of the Rev. Amos

Barton, as curate of Shepperton, rather more than twenty years ago.

What was thought of this problem, and of the man who had to work it out,

by some of the well-to-do inhabitants of Shepperton, two years or more

after Mr. Barton’s arrival among them, you shall hear, if you will

accompany me to Cross Farm, and to the fireside of Mrs. Patten, a

childless old lady, who had got rich chiefly by the negative process of

spending nothing. Mrs. Patten’s passive accumulation of wealth, through

all sorts of ‘bad times’, on the farm of which she had been sole tenant

since her husband’s death, her epigrammatic neighbour, Mrs. Hackit,

sarcastically accounted for by supposing that ‘sixpences grew on the

bents of Cross Farm;’ while Mr. Hackit, expressing his views more

literally, reminded his wife that ‘money breeds money’. Mr. and Mrs.

Hackit, from the neighbouring farm, are Mrs. Patten’s guests this

evening; so is Mr. Pilgrim, the doctor from the nearest market-town, who,

though occasionally affecting aristocratic airs, and giving late dinners

with enigmatic side-dishes and poisonous port, is never so comfortable as

when he is relaxing his professional legs in one of those excellent

farmhouses where the mice are sleek and the mistress sickly. And he is at

this moment in clover.

For the flickering of Mrs. Patten’s bright fire is reflected in her

bright copper tea-kettle, the home-made muffins glisten with an inviting

succulence, and Mrs. Patten’s niece, a single lady of fifty, who has

refused the most ineligible offers out of devotion to her aged aunt, is

pouring the rich cream into the fragrant tea with a discreet liberality.

Reader! _did_ you ever taste such a cup of tea as Miss Gibbs is this

moment handing to Mr. Pilgrim? Do you know the dulcet strength, the

animating blandness of tea sufficiently blended with real farmhouse

cream? No--most likely you are a miserable town-bred reader, who think of

cream as a thinnish white fluid, delivered in infinitesimal pennyworths

down area steps; or perhaps, from a presentiment of calves’ brains, you

refrain from any lacteal addition, and rasp your tongue with unmitigated

bohea. You have a vague idea of a milch cow as probably a white-plaster

animal standing in a butterman’s window, and you know nothing of the

sweet history of genuine cream, such as Miss Gibbs’s: how it was this

morning in the udders of the large sleek beasts, as they stood lowing a

patient entreaty under the milking-shed; how it fell with a pleasant

rhythm into Betty’s pail, sending a delicious incense into the cool air;

how it was carried into that temple of moist cleanliness, the dairy,

where it quietly separated itself from the meaner elements of milk, and

lay in mellowed whiteness, ready for the skimming-dish which transferred

it to Miss Gibbs’s glass cream-jug. If I am right in my conjecture, you

are unacquainted with the highest possibilities of tea; and Mr. Pilgrim,

who is holding that cup in his hands, has an idea beyond you.

Mrs. Hackit declines cream; she has so long abstained from it with an eye

to the weekly butter-money, that abstinence, wedded to habit, has

begotten aversion. She is a thin woman with a chronic liver-complaint,

which would have secured her Mr. Pilgrim’s entire regard and unreserved

good word, even if he had not been in awe of her tongue, which was as

sharp as his own lancet. She has brought her knitting--no frivolous fancy

knitting, but a substantial woollen stocking; the click-click of her

knitting-needles is the running accompaniment to all her conversation,

and in her utmost enjoyment of spoiling a friend’s self-satisfaction, she

was never known to spoil a stocking. Mrs. Patten does not admire this

excessive click-clicking activity. Quiescence in an easy-chair, under the

sense of compound interest perpetually accumulating, has long seemed an

ample function to her, and she does her malevolence gently. She is a

pretty little old woman of eighty, with a close cap and tiny flat white

curls round her face, as natty and unsoiled and invariable as the waxen

image of a little old lady under a glass-case; once a lady’s-maid, and

married for her beauty. She used to adore her husband, and now she adores

her money, cherishing a quiet blood-relation’s hatred for her niece,

Janet Gibbs, who, she knows, expects a large legacy, and whom she is

determined to disappoint. Her money shall all go in a lump to a distant

relation of her husband’s, and Janet shall be saved the trouble of

pretending to cry, by finding that she is left with a miserable pittance.

Mrs. Patten has more respect for her neighbour Mr. Hackit than for most

people. Mr. Hackit is a shrewd substantial man, whose advice about crops

is always worth listening to, and who is too well off to want to borrow

money.

And now that we are snug and warm with this little tea-party, while it is

freezing with February bitterness outside, we will listen to what they

are talking about.

‘So,’ said Mr. Pilgrim, with his mouth only half empty of muffin, ‘you

had a row in Shepperton Church last Sunday. I was at Jim Hood’s, the

bassoon-man’s, this morning, attending his wife, and he swears he’ll be

revenged on the parson--a confounded, methodistical, meddlesome chap, who

must be putting his finger in every pie. What was it all about?’

‘O, a passill o’ nonsense,’ said Mr. Hackit, sticking one thumb between

the buttons of his capacious waistcoat, and retaining a pinch of snuff

with the other--for he was but moderately given to ‘the cups that cheer

but not inebriate’, and had already finished his tea; ‘they began to sing

the wedding psalm for a new-married couple, as pretty a psalm an’ as

pretty a tune as any in the prayer-book. It’s been sung for every

new-married couple since I was a boy. And what can be better?’ Here Mr.

Hackit stretched out his left arm, threw back his head, and broke into

melody--

‘O what a happy thing it is,

And joyful for to see,

Brethren to dwell together in

Friendship and unity.

But Mr. Barton is all for th’ hymns, and a sort o’ music as I can’t join

in at all.’

‘And so,’ said Mr. Pilgrim, recalling Mr. Hackit from lyrical

reminiscences to narrative, ‘he called out Silence! did he? when he got

into the pulpit; and gave a hymn out himself to some meeting-house tune?’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Hackit, stooping towards the candle to pick up a stitch,

‘and turned as red as a turkey-cock. I often say, when he preaches about

meekness, he gives himself a slap in the face. He’s like me--he’s got a

temper of his own.’

‘Rather a low-bred fellow, I think, Barton,’ said Mr. Pilgrim, who hated

the Reverend Amos for two reasons--because he had called in a new doctor,

recently settled in Shepperton; and because, being himself a dabbler in

drugs, he had the credit of having cured a patient of Mr. Pilgrim’s.

‘They say his father was a Dissenting shoemaker; and he’s half a

Dissenter himself. Why, doesn’t he preach extempore in that cottage up

here, of a Sunday evening?’

‘Tchuh!’--this was Mr. Hackit’s favourite interjection--‘that preaching

without book’s no good, only when a man has a gift, and has the Bible at

his fingers’ ends. It was all very well for Parry--he’d a gift; and in my

youth I’ve heard the Ranters out o’ doors in Yorkshire go on for an hour

or two on end, without ever sticking fast a minute. There was one clever

chap, I remember, as used to say, “You’re like the woodpigeon; it says

do, do, do all day, and never sets about any work itself.” That’s

bringing it home to people. But our parson’s no gift at all that way; he

can preach as good a sermon as need be heard when he writes it down. But

when he tries to preach wi’out book, he rambles about, and doesn’t stick

to his text; and every now and then he flounders about like a sheep as

has cast itself, and can’t get on’ts legs again. You wouldn’t like that,

Mrs. Patten, if you was to go to church now?’

‘Eh, dear,’ said Mrs. Patten, falling back in her chair, and lifting up

her little withered hands, ‘what ’ud Mr. Gilfil say, if he was worthy to

know the changes as have come about i’ the Church these last ten years? I

don’t understand these new sort o’ doctrines. When Mr. Barton comes to

see me, he talks about nothing but my sins and my need o’ marcy. Now, Mr.

Hackit, I’ve never been a sinner. From the fust beginning, when I went

into service, I al’ys did my duty by my emplyers. I was a good wife as

any in the county--never aggravated my husband. The cheese-factor used to

say my cheese was al’ys to be depended on. I’ve known women, as their

cheeses swelled a shame to be seen, when their husbands had counted on

the cheese-money to make up their rent; and yet they’d three gowns to my

one. If I’m not to be saved, I know a many as are in a bad way. But it’s

well for me as I can’t go to church any longer, for if th’ old singers

are to be done away with, there’ll be nothing left as it was in Mr.

Patten’s time; and what’s more, I hear you’ve settled to pull the church

down and build it up new?’

Now the fact was that the Rev. Amos Barton, on his last visit to Mrs.

Patten, had urged her to enlarge her promised subscription of twenty

pounds, representing to her that she was only a steward of her riches,

and that she could not spend them more for the glory of God than by

giving a heavy subscription towards the rebuilding of Shepperton

Church--a practical precept which was not likely to smooth the way to her

acceptance of his theological doctrine. Mr. Hackit, who had more

doctrinal enlightenment than Mrs. Patten, had been a little shocked by

the heathenism of her speech, and was glad of the new turn given to the

subject by this question, addressed to him as churchwarden and an

authority in all parochial matters.

‘Ah,’ he answered, ‘the parson’s bothered us into it at last, and we’re

to begin pulling down this spring. But we haven’t got money enough yet. I

was for waiting till we’d made up the sum, and, for my part, I think the

congregation’s fell off o’ late; though Mr. Barton says that’s because

there’s been no room for the people when they’ve come. You see, the

congregation got so large in Parry’s time, the people stood in the

aisles; but there’s never any crowd now, as I can see.’

‘Well,’ said Mrs. Hackit, whose good-nature began to act now that it was

a little in contradiction with the dominant tone of the conversation,

‘_I_ like Mr. Barton. I think he’s a good sort o’ man, for all he’s not

overburthen’d i’ th’ upper storey; and his wife’s as nice a lady-like

woman as I’d wish to see. How nice she keeps her children! and little

enough money to do’t with; and a delicate creatur’--six children, and

another a-coming. I don’t know how they make both ends meet, I’m sure,

now her aunt has left ’em. But I sent ’em a cheese and a sack o’ potatoes

last week; that’s something towards filling the little mouths.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Hackit, ‘and my wife makes Mr. Barton a good stiff glass

o’ brandy-and-water, when he comes into supper after his cottage

preaching. The parson likes it; it puts a bit o’ colour into ’is face,

and makes him look a deal handsomer.’

This allusion to brandy-and-water suggested to Miss Gibbs the

introduction of the liquor decanters, now that the tea was cleared away;

for in bucolic society five-and-twenty years ago, the human animal of the

male sex was understood to be perpetually athirst, and ‘something to

drink’ was as necessary a ‘condition of thought’ as Time and Space.

‘Now, that cottage preaching,’ said Mr. Pilgrim, mixing himself a strong

glass of ‘cold without,’ ‘I was talking about it to our Parson Ely the

other day, and he doesn’t approve of it at all. He said it did as much

harm as good to give a too familiar aspect to religious teaching. That

was what Ely said--it does as much harm as good to give a too familiar

aspect to religious teaching.’

Mr. Pilgrim generally spoke with an intermittent kind of splutter;

indeed, one of his patients had observed that it was a pity such a clever

man had a ‘pediment’ in his speech. But when he came to what he conceived

the pith of his argument or the point of his joke, he mouthed out his

words with slow emphasis; as a hen, when advertising her accouchement,

passes at irregular intervals from pianissimo semiquavers to fortissimo

crotchets. He thought this speech of Mr. Ely’s particularly metaphysical

and profound, and the more decisive of the question because it was a

generality which represented no particulars to his mind.

‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ said Mrs. Hackit, who had always the

courage of her opinion, ‘but I know, some of our labourers and

stockingers as used never to come to church, come to the cottage, and

that’s better than never hearing anything good from week’s end to week’s

end. And there’s that Track Society as Mr. Barton has begun--I’ve seen

more o’ the poor people with going tracking, than all the time I’ve lived

in the parish before. And there’d need be something done among ’em; for

the drinking at them Benefit Clubs is shameful. There’s hardly a steady

man or steady woman either, but what’s a dissenter.’

During this speech of Mrs. Hackit’s, Mr. Pilgrim had emitted a succession

of little snorts, something like the treble grunts of a guinea-pig, which

were always with him the sign of suppressed disapproval. But he never

contradicted Mrs. Hackit--a woman whose ‘pot-luck’ was always to be

relied on, and who on her side had unlimited reliance on bleeding,

blistering, and draughts.

Mrs. Patten, however, felt equal disapprobation, and had no reasons for

suppressing it.

‘Well,’ she remarked, ‘I’ve heared of no good from interfering with one’s

neighbours, poor or rich. And I hate the sight o’ women going about

trapesing from house to house in all weathers, wet or dry, and coming in

with their petticoats dagged and their shoes all over mud. Janet wanted

to join in the tracking, but I told her I’d have nobody tracking out o’

my house; when I’m gone, she may do as she likes. I never dagged my

petticoats in _my_ life, and I’ve no opinion o’ that sort o’ religion.’

‘No,’ said Mr. Hackit, who was fond of soothing the acerbities of the

feminine mind with a jocose compliment, ‘you held your petticoats so

high, to show your tight ankles: it isn’t everybody as likes to show her

ankles.’

This joke met with general acceptance, even from the snubbed Janet, whose

ankles were only tight in the sense of looking extremely squeezed by her

boots. But Janet seemed always to identify herself with her aunt’s

personality, holding her own under protest.

Under cover of the general laughter the gentlemen replenished their

glasses, Mr. Pilgrim attempting to give his the character of a

stirrup-cup by observing that he ‘must be going’. Miss Gibbs seized this

opportunity of telling Mrs. Hackit that she suspected Betty, the

dairymaid, of frying the best bacon for the shepherd, when he sat up with

her to ‘help brew’; whereupon Mrs. Hackit replied that she had always

thought Betty false; and Mrs. Patten said there was no bacon stolen when

_she_ was able to manage. Mr. Hackit, who often complained that he ‘never

saw the like to women with their maids--he never had any trouble with his

men’, avoided listening to this discussion, by raising the question of

vetches with Mr. Pilgrim. The stream of conversation had thus diverged:

and no more was said about the Rev. Amos Barton, who is the main object

of interest to us just now. So we may leave Cross Farm without waiting

till Mrs. Hackit, resolutely donning her clogs and wrappings, renders it

incumbent on Mr. Pilgrim also to fulfil his frequent threat of going.

Chapter 2

It was happy for the Rev. Amos Barton that he did not, like us, overhear

the conversation recorded in the last chapter. Indeed, what mortal is

there of us, who would find his satisfaction enhanced by an opportunity

of comparing the picture he presents to himself of his own doings, with

the picture they make on the mental retina of his neighbours? We are poor

plants buoyed up by the air-vessels of our own conceit: alas for us, if

we get a few pinches that empty us of that windy self-subsistence! The

very capacity for good would go out of us. For, tell the most impassioned

orator, suddenly, that his wig is awry, or his shirt-lap hanging out, and

that he is tickling people by the oddity of his person, instead of

thrilling them by the energy of his periods, and you would infallibly dry

up the spring of his eloquence. That is a deep and wide saying, that no

miracle can be wrought without faith--without the worker’s faith in

himself, as well as the recipient’s faith in him. And the greater part of

the worker’s faith in himself is made up of the faith that others believe

in him.

Let me be persuaded that my neighbour Jenkins considers me a blockhead,

and I shall never shine in conversation with him any more. Let me

discover that the lovely Phœbe thinks my squint intolerable, and I shall

never be able to fix her blandly with my disengaged eye again. Thank

heaven, then, that a little illusion is left to us, to enable us to be

useful and agreeable--that we don’t know exactly what our friends think

of us--that the world is not made of looking-glass, to show us just the

figure we are making, and just what is going on behind our backs! By the

help of dear friendly illusion, we are able to dream that we are charming

and our faces wear a becoming air of self-possession; we are able to

dream that other men admire our talents--and our benignity is

undisturbed; we are able to dream that we are doing much good--and we do

a little. Thus it was with Amos Barton on that very Thursday evening,

when he was the subject of the conversation at Cross Farm. He had been

dining at Mr. Farquhar’s, the secondary squire of the parish, and,

stimulated by unwonted gravies and port-wine, had been delivering his

opinion on affairs parochial and otherwise with considerable animation.

And he was now returning home in the moonlight--a little chill, it is

true, for he had just now no greatcoat compatible with clerical dignity,

and a fur boa round one’s neck, with a waterproof cape over one’s

shoulders, doesn’t frighten away the cold from one’s legs; but entirely

unsuspicious, not only of Mr. Hackit’s estimate of his oratorical powers,

but also of the critical remarks passed on him by the Misses Farquhar as

soon as the drawing-room door had closed behind him. Miss Julia had

observed that she _never_ heard any one sniff so frightfully as Mr.

Barton did--she had a great mind to offer him her pocket-handkerchief;

and Miss Arabella wondered why he always said he was going _for_ to do a

thing. He, excellent man! was meditating fresh pastoral exertions on the

morrow; he would set on foot his lending library; in which he had

introduced some books that would be a pretty sharp blow to the

Dissenters--one especially, purporting to be written by a working man

who, out of pure zeal for the welfare of his class, took the trouble to

warn them in this way against those hypocritical thieves, the Dissenting

preachers. The Rev. Amos Barton profoundly believed in the existence of

that working man, and had thoughts of writing to him. Dissent, he

considered, would have its head bruised in Shepperton, for did he not

attack it in two ways? He preached Low-Church doctrine--as evangelical as

anything to be heard in the Independent Chapel; and he made a High-Church

assertion of ecclesiastical powers and functions. Clearly, the Dissenters

would feel that ‘the parson’ was too many for them. Nothing like a man

who combines shrewdness with energy. The wisdom of the serpent, Mr.

Barton considered, was one of his strong points.

Look at him as he winds through the little churchyard! The silver light

that falls aslant on church and tomb, enables you to see his slim black

figure, made all the slimmer by tight pantaloons, as it flits past the

pale gravestones. He walks with a quick step, and is now rapping with

sharp decision at the vicarage door. It is opened without delay by the

nurse, cook, and housemaid, all at once--that is to say, by the robust

maid-of-all-work, Nanny; and as Mr. Barton hangs up his hat in the

passage, you see that a narrow face of no particular complexion--even the

small-pox that has attacked it seems to have been of a mongrel,

indefinite kind--with features of no particular shape, and an eye of no

particular expression is surmounted by a slope of baldness gently rising

from brow to crown. You judge him, rightly, to be about forty. The house

is quiet, for it is half-past ten, and the children have long been gone

to bed. He opens the sitting-room door, but instead of seeing his wife,

as he expected, stitching with the nimblest of fingers by the light of

one candle, he finds her dispensing with the light of a candle

altogether. She is softly pacing up and down by the red firelight,

holding in her arms little Walter, the year-old baby, who looks over her

shoulder with large wide-open eyes, while the patient mother pats his

back with her soft hand, and glances with a sigh at the heap of large and

small stockings lying unmended on the table.

She was a lovely woman--Mrs. Amos Barton, a large, fair, gentle Madonna,

with thick, close, chestnut curls beside her well-rounded cheeks, and

with large, tender, short-sighted eyes. The flowing lines of her tall

figure made the limpest dress look graceful, and her old frayed black

silk seemed to repose on her bust and limbs with a placid elegance and

sense of distinction, in strong contrast with the uneasy sense of being

no fit, that seemed to express itself in the rustling of Mrs. Farquhar’s

_gros de Naples_. The caps she wore would have been pronounced, when off

her head, utterly heavy and hideous--for in those days even fashionable

caps were large and floppy; but surmounting her long arched neck, and

mingling their borders of cheap lace and ribbon with her chestnut curls,

they seemed miracles of successful millinery. Among strangers she was shy

and tremulous as a girl of fifteen; she blushed crimson if any one

appealed to her opinion; yet that tall, graceful, substantial presence

was so imposing in its mildness, that men spoke to her with an agreeable

sensation of timidity.

Soothing, unspeakable charm of gentle womanhood! which supersedes all

acquisitions, all accomplishments. You would never have asked, at any

period of Mrs. Amos Barton’s life, if she sketched or played the piano.

You would even perhaps have been rather scandalized if she had descended

from the serene dignity of _being_ to the assiduous unrest of _doing_.

Happy the man, you would have thought, whose eye will rest on her in the

pauses of his fireside reading--whose hot aching forehead will be soothed

by the contact of her cool soft hand--who will recover himself from

dejection at his mistakes and failures in the loving light of her

unreproaching eyes! You would not, perhaps, have anticipated that this

bliss would fall to the share of precisely such a man as Amos Barton,

whom you have already surmised not to have the refined sensibilities for

which you might have imagined Mrs. Barton’s qualities to be destined by

pre-established harmony. But I, for one, do not grudge Amos Barton this

sweet wife. I have all my life had a sympathy for mongrel ungainly dogs,

who are nobody’s pets; and I would rather surprise one of them by a pat

and a pleasant morsel, than meet the condescending advances of the

loveliest Skye-terrier who has his cushion by my lady’s chair. That, to

be sure, is not the way of the world: if it happens to see a fellow of

fine proportions and aristocratic mien, who makes no _faux pas_, and wins

golden opinions from all sorts of men, it straightway picks out for him

the loveliest of unmarried women, and says, _There_ would be a proper

match! Not at all, say I: let that successful, well-shapen, discreet and

able gentleman put up with something less than the best in the

matrimonial department; and let the sweet woman go to make sunshine and a

soft pillow for the poor devil whose legs are not models, whose efforts

are often blunders, and who in general gets more kicks than halfpence.

She--the sweet woman--will like it as well; for her sublime capacity of

loving will have all the more scope; and I venture to say, Mrs. Barton’s

nature would never have grown half so angelic if she had married the man

you would perhaps have had in your eye for her--a man with sufficient

income and abundant personal _éclat_. Besides, Amos was an affectionate

husband, and, in his way, valued his wife as his best treasure.

But now he has shut the door behind him, and said, ‘Well, Milly!’

‘Well, dear!’ was the corresponding greeting, made eloquent by a smile.

‘So that young rascal won’t go to sleep! Can’t you give him to Nanny?’

‘Why, Nanny has been busy ironing this evening; but I think I’ll take him

to her now.’ And Mrs. Barton glided towards the kitchen, while her

husband ran up-stairs to put on his maize-coloured dressing-gown, in

which costume he was quietly filling his long pipe when his wife returned

to the sitting-room. Maize is a colour that decidedly did _not_ suit his

complexion, and it is one that soon soils; why, then, did Mr. Barton

select it for domestic wear? Perhaps because he had a knack of hitting on

the wrong thing in garb as well as in grammar.

Mrs. Barton now lighted her candle, and seated herself before her heap of

stockings. She had something disagreeable to tell her husband, but she

would not enter on it at once. ‘Have you had a nice evening, dear?’

‘Yes, pretty well. Ely was there to dinner, but went away rather early.

Miss Arabella is setting her cap at him with a vengeance. But I don’t

think he’s much smitten. I’ve a notion Ely’s engaged to some one at a

distance, and will astonish all the ladies who are languishing for him

here, by bringing home his bride one of these days. Ely’s a sly dog;

he’ll like that.’

‘Did the Farquhars say anything about the singing last Sunday?’

‘Yes; Farquhar said he thought it was time there was some improvement in

the choir. But he was rather scandalized at my setting the tune of

“Lydia.” He says he’s always hearing it as he passes the Independent

meeting.’ Here Mr. Barton laughed--he had a way of laughing at criticisms

that other people thought damaging--and thereby showed the remainder of a

set of teeth which, like the remnants of the Old Guard, were few in

number, and very much the worse for wear. ‘But,’ he continued, ‘Mrs.

Farquhar talked the most about Mr. Bridmain and the Countess. She has

taken up all the gossip about them, and wanted to convert me to her

opinion, but I told her pretty strongly what I thought.’

‘Dear me! why will people take so much pains to find out evil about

others? I have had a note from the Countess since you went, asking us to

dine with them on Friday.’

Here Mrs. Barton reached the note from the mantelpiece, and gave it to

her husband. We will look over his shoulder while he reads it:--

‘SWEETEST MILLY,--Bring your lovely face with your husband to dine with us

on Friday at seven--do. If not, I will be sulky with you till Sunday,

when I shall be obliged to see you, and shall long to kiss you that very

moment. Yours, according to your answer,

‘CAROLINE CZERLASKI.

‘Just like her, isn’t it?’ said Mrs. Barton. ‘I suppose we can go?’

‘Yes; I have no engagement. The Clerical Meeting is to-morrow, you know.’

‘And, dear, Woods the butcher called, to say he must have some money next

week. He has a payment to make up.’

This announcement made Mr. Barton thoughtful. He puffed more rapidly, and

looked at the fire.

‘I think I must ask Hackit to lend me twenty pounds, for it is nearly two

months till Lady-day, and we can’t give Woods our last shilling.’

‘I hardly like you to ask Mr. Hackit, dear--he and Mrs. Hackit have been

so very kind to us; they have sent us so many things lately.’

‘Then I must ask Oldinport. I’m going to write to him to-morrow morning,

for to tell him the arrangement I’ve been thinking of about having

service in the workhouse while the church is being enlarged. If he agrees

to attend service there once or twice, the other people will come. Net

the large fish, and you’re sure to have the small fry.’

‘I wish we could do without borrowing money, and yet I don’t see how we

can. Poor Fred must have some new shoes; I couldn’t let him go to Mrs.

Bond’s yesterday because his toes were peeping out, dear child! and I

can’t let him walk anywhere except in the garden. He must have a pair

before Sunday. Really, boots and shoes are the greatest trouble of my

life. Everything else one can turn and turn about, and make old look like

new; but there’s no coaxing boots and shoes to look better than they

are.’

Mrs. Barton was playfully undervaluing her skill in metamorphosing boots

and shoes. She had at that moment on her feet a pair of slippers which

had long ago lived through the prunella phase of their existence, and

were now running a respectable career as black silk slippers, having been

neatly covered with that material by Mrs. Barton’s own neat fingers.

Wonderful fingers those! they were never empty; for if she went to spend

a few hours with a friendly parishioner, out came her thimble and a piece

of calico or muslin, which, before she left, had become a mysterious

little garment with all sorts of hemmed ins and outs. She was even trying

to persuade her husband to leave off tight pantaloons, because if he

would wear the ordinary gun-cases, she knew she could make them so well

that no one would suspect the sex of the tailor.

But by this time Mr. Barton has finished his pipe, the candle begins to

burn low, and Mrs. Barton goes to see if Nanny has succeeded in lulling

Walter to sleep. Nanny is that moment putting him in the little cot by

his mother’s bedside; the head, with its thin wavelets of brown hair,

indents the little pillow; and a tiny, waxen, dimpled fist hides the rosy

lips, for baby is given to the infantile peccadillo of thumb-sucking.

So Nanny could now join in the short evening prayer, and all could go

to bed.

Mrs. Barton carried up-stairs the remainder of her heap of

stockings, and laid them on a table close to her bedside, where also she

placed a warm shawl, removing her candle, before she put it out, to a tin

socket fixed at the head of her bed. Her body was very weary, but her

heart was not heavy, in spite of Mr. Woods the butcher, and the

transitory nature of shoe-leather; for her heart so overflowed with love,

she felt sure she was near a fountain of love that would care for husband

and babes better than she could foresee; so she was soon asleep. But

about half-past five o’clock in the morning, if there were any angels

watching round her bed--and angels might be glad of such an office--they

saw Mrs. Barton rise up quietly, careful not to disturb the slumbering

Amos, who was snoring the snore of the just, light her candle, prop

herself upright with the pillows, throw the warm shawl round her

shoulders, and renew her attack on the heap of undarned stockings. She

darned away until she heard Nanny stirring, and then drowsiness came with

the dawn; the candle was put out, and she sank into a doze. But at nine

o’clock she was at the breakfast-table, busy cutting bread-and-butter for

five hungry mouths, while Nanny, baby on one arm, in rosy cheeks, fat

neck, and night-gown, brought in a jug of hot milk-and-water. Nearest her

mother sits the nine-year-old Patty, the eldest child, whose sweet fair

face is already rather grave sometimes, and who always wants to run

up-stairs to save mamma’s legs, which get so tired of an evening. Then

there are four other blond heads--two boys and two girls, gradually

decreasing in size down to Chubby, who is making a round O of her mouth

to receive a bit of papa’s ‘baton’. Papa’s attention was divided between

petting Chubby, rebuking the noisy Fred, which he did with a somewhat

excessive sharpness, and eating his own breakfast. He had not yet looked

at Mamma, and did not know that her cheek was paler than usual. But Patty

whispered, ‘Mamma, have you the headache?’

Happily coal was cheap in the neighbourhood of Shepperton, and Mr. Hackit

would any time let his horses draw a load for ‘the parson’ without

charge; so there was a blazing fire in the sitting-room, and not without

need, for the vicarage garden, as they looked out on it from the

bow-window, was hard with black frost, and the sky had the white woolly

look that portends snow.

Breakfast over, Mr. Barton mounted to his study, and occupied himself in

the first place with his letter to Mr. Oldinport. It was very much the

same sort of letter as most clergymen would have written under the same

circumstances, except that instead of perambulate, the Rev. Amos wrote

preambulate, and instead of ‘if haply’, ‘if happily’, the contingency

indicated being the reverse of happy. Mr. Barton had not the gift of

perfect accuracy in English orthography and syntax, which was

unfortunate, as he was known not to be a Hebrew scholar, and not in the

least suspected of being an accomplished Grecian. These lapses, in a man

who had gone through the Eleusinian mysteries of a university education,

surprised the young ladies of his parish extremely; especially the Misses

Farquhar, whom he had once addressed in a letter as Dear Mads.,

apparently an abbreviation for Madams. The persons least surprised at the

Rev. Amos’s deficiencies were his clerical brethren, who had gone through

the mysteries themselves.

At eleven o’clock, Mr. Barton walked forth in cape and boa, with the

sleet driving in his face, to read prayers at the workhouse,

euphemistically called the ‘College’. The College was a huge square stone

building, standing on the best apology for an elevation of ground that

could be seen for about ten miles around Shepperton. A flat ugly district

this; depressing enough to look at even on the brightest days. The roads

are black with coal-dust, the brick houses dingy with smoke; and at that

time--the time of handloom weavers--every other cottage had a loom at its

window, where you might see a pale, sickly-looking man or woman pressing

a narrow chest against a board, and doing a sort of treadmill work with

legs and arms. A troublesome district for a clergyman; at least to one

who, like Amos Barton, understood the ‘cure of souls’ in something more

than an official sense; for over and above the rustic stupidity furnished

by the farm-labourers, the miners brought obstreperous animalism, and the

weavers an acrid Radicalism and Dissent. Indeed, Mrs. Hackit often

observed that the colliers, who many of them earned better wages than Mr.

Barton, ‘passed their time in doing nothing but swilling ale and smoking,

like the beasts that perish’ (speaking, we may presume, in a remotely

analogical sense); and in some of the alehouse corners the drink was

flavoured by a dingy kind of infidelity, something like rinsings of Tom

Paine in ditch-water. A certain amount of religious excitement created by

the popular preaching of Mr. Parry, Amos’s predecessor, had nearly died

out, and the religious life of Shepperton was falling back towards

low-water mark. Here, you perceive, was a terrible stronghold of Satan;

and you may well pity the Rev. Amos Barton, who had to stand

single-handed and summon it to surrender. We read, indeed, that the walls

of Jericho fell down before the sound of trumpets; but we nowhere hear

that those trumpets were hoarse and feeble. Doubtless they were trumpets

that gave forth clear ringing tones, and sent a mighty vibration through

brick and mortar. But the oratory of the Rev. Amos resembled rather a

Belgian railway-horn, which shows praiseworthy intentions inadequately

fulfilled. He often missed the right note both in public and private

exhortation, and got a little angry in consequence. For though Amos

thought himself strong, he did not _feel_ himself strong. Nature had

given him the opinion, but not the sensation. Without that opinion he

would probably never have worn cambric bands, but would have been an

excellent cabinetmaker and deacon of an Independent church, as his father

was before him (he was not a shoemaker, as Mr. Pilgrim had reported). He

might then have sniffed long and loud in the corner of his pew in Gun

Street Chapel; he might have indulged in halting rhetoric at

prayer-meetings, and have spoken faulty English in private life; and

these little infirmities would not have prevented him, honest faithful

man that he was, from being a shining light in the dissenting circle of

Bridgeport. A tallow dip, of the long-eight description, is an excellent

thing in the kitchen candlestick, and Betty’s nose and eye are not

sensitive to the difference between it and the finest wax; it is only

when you stick it in the silver candlestick, and introduce it into the

drawing-room, that it seems plebeian, dim, and ineffectual. Alas for the

worthy man who, like that candle, gets himself into the wrong place! It

is only the very largest souls who will be able to appreciate and pity

him--who will discern and love sincerity of purpose amid all the bungling

feebleness of achievement.

But now Amos Barton has made his way through the sleet as far as the

College, has thrown off his hat, cape, and boa, and is reading, in the

dreary stone-floored dining-room, a portion of the morning service to the

inmates seated on the benches before him. Remember, the New Poor-law had

not yet come into operation, and Mr. Barton was not acting as paid

chaplain of the Union, but as the pastor who had the cure of all souls in

his parish, pauper as well as other. After the prayers he always

addressed to them a short discourse on some subject suggested by the

lesson for the day, striving if by this means some edifying matter might

find its way into the pauper mind and conscience--perhaps a task as

trying as you could well imagine to the faith and patience of any honest

clergyman. For, on the very first bench, these were the faces on which

his eye had to rest, watching whether there was any stirring under the

stagnant surface.

Right in front of him--probably because he was stone-deaf, and it was

deemed more edifying to hear nothing at a short distance than at a long

one--sat ‘Old Maxum’, as he was familiarly called, his real patronymic

remaining a mystery to most persons. A fine philological sense discerns

in this cognomen an indication that the pauper patriarch had once been

considered pithy and sententious in his speech; but now the weight of

ninety-five years lay heavy on his tongue as well as in his ears, and he

sat before the clergyman with protruded chin, and munching mouth, and

eyes that seemed to look at emptiness.

Next to him sat Poll Fodge--known to the magistracy of her county as Mary

Higgins--a one-eyed woman, with a scarred and seamy face, the most

notorious rebel in the workhouse, said to have once thrown her broth over

the master’s coat-tails, and who, in spite of nature’s apparent

safeguards against that contingency, had contributed to the perpetuation

of the Fodge characteristics in the person of a small boy, who was

behaving naughtily on one of the back benches. Miss Fodge fixed her one

sore eye on Mr. Barton with a sort of hardy defiance.

Beyond this member of the softer sex, at the end of the bench, sat ‘Silly

Jim’, a young man afflicted with hydrocephalus, who rolled his head from

side to side, and gazed at the point of his nose. These were the

supporters of Old Maxum on his right.

On his left sat Mr. Fitchett, a tall fellow, who had once been a footman

in the Oldinport family, and in that giddy elevation had enunciated a

contemptuous opinion of boiled beef, which had been traditionally handed

down in Shepperton as the direct cause of his ultimate reduction to

pauper commons. His calves were now shrunken, and his hair was grey

without the aid of powder; but he still carried his chin as if he were

conscious of a stiff cravat; he set his dilapidated hat on with a knowing

inclination towards the left ear; and when he was on field-work, he

carted and uncarted the manure with a sort of flunkey grace, the ghost of

that jaunty demeanour with which he used to usher in my lady’s morning

visitors. The flunkey nature was nowhere completely subdued but in his

stomach, and he still divided society into gentry, gentry’s flunkeys, and

the people who provided for them. A clergyman without a flunkey was an

anomaly, belonging to neither of these classes. Mr. Fitchett had an

irrepressible tendency to drowsiness under spiritual instruction, and in

the recurrent regularity with which he dozed off until he nodded and

awaked himself, he looked not unlike a piece of mechanism, ingeniously

contrived for measuring the length of Mr. Barton’s discourse.

Perfectly wide-awake, on the contrary, was his left-hand neighbour, Mrs.

Brick, one of those hard undying old women, to whom age seems to have

given a network of wrinkles, as a coat of magic armour against the

attacks of winters, warm or cold. The point on which Mrs. Brick was still

sensitive--the theme on which you might possibly excite her hope and

fear--was snuff. It seemed to be an embalming powder, helping her soul to

do the office of salt.

And now, eke out an audience of which this front benchful was a sample,

with a certain number of refractory children, over whom Mr. Spratt, the

master of the workhouse, exercised an irate surveillance, and I think you

will admit that the university-taught clergyman, whose office it is to

bring home the gospel to a handful of such souls, has a sufficiently hard

task. For, to have any chance of success, short of miraculous

intervention, he must bring his geographical, chronological, exegetical

mind pretty nearly to the pauper point of view, or of no view; he must

have some approximate conception of the mode in which the doctrines that

have so much vitality in the plenum of his own brain will comport

themselves _in vacuo_--that is to say, in a brain that is neither

geographical, chronological, nor exegetical. It is a flexible imagination

that can take such a leap as that, and an adroit tongue that can adapt

its speech to so unfamiliar a position. The Rev. Amos Barton had neither

that flexible imagination, nor that adroit tongue. He talked of Israel

and its sins, of chosen vessels, of the Paschal lamb, of blood as a

medium of reconciliation; and he strove in this way to convey religious

truth within reach of the Fodge and Fitchett mind. This very morning, the

first lesson was the twelfth chapter of Exodus, and Mr. Barton’s

exposition turned on unleavened bread. Nothing in the world more suited

to the simple understanding than instruction through familiar types and

symbols! But there is always this danger attending it, that the interest

or comprehension of your hearers may stop short precisely at the point

where your spiritual interpretation begins. And Mr. Barton this morning

succeeded in carrying the pauper imagination to the dough-tub, but

unfortunately was not able to carry it upwards from that well-known

object to the unknown truths which it was intended to shadow forth.

Alas! a natural incapacity for teaching, finished by keeping ‘terms’ at

Cambridge, where there are able mathematicians, and butter is sold by the

yard, is not apparently the medium through which Christian doctrine will

distil as welcome dew on withered souls.

And so, while the sleet outside was turning to unquestionable snow, and

the stony dining-room looked darker and drearier, and Mr. Fitchett was

nodding his lowest, and Mr. Spratt was boxing the boys’ ears with a

constant _rinforzando_, as he felt more keenly the approach of

dinner-time, Mr. Barton wound up his exhortation with something of the

February chill at his heart as well as his feet. Mr. Fitchett, thoroughly

roused now the instruction was at an end, obsequiously and gracefully

advanced to help Mr. Barton in putting on his cape, while Mrs. Brick

rubbed her withered forefinger round and round her little shoe-shaped

snuff-box, vainly seeking for the fraction of a pinch. I can’t help

thinking that if Mr. Barton had shaken into that little box a small

portion of Scotch high-dried, he might have produced something more like

an amiable emotion in Mrs. Brick’s mind than anything she had felt under

his morning’s exposition of the unleavened bread. But our good Amos

laboured under a deficiency of small tact as well as of small cash; and

when he observed the action of the old woman’s forefinger, he said, in

his brusque way, ‘So your snuff is all gone, eh?’

Mrs. Brick’s eyes twinkled with the visionary hope that the parson might

be intending to replenish her box, at least mediately, through the

present of a small copper.

‘Ah, well! you’ll soon be going where there is no more snuff. You’ll be

in need of mercy then. You must remember that you may have to seek for

mercy and not find it, just as you’re seeking for snuff.’

At the first sentence of this admonition, the twinkle subsided from Mrs.

Brick’s eyes. The lid of her box went ‘click!’ and her heart was shut up

at the same moment.

But now Mr. Barton’s attention was called for by Mr. Spratt, who was

dragging a small and unwilling boy from the rear. Mr. Spratt was a

small-featured, small-statured man, with a remarkable power of language,

mitigated by hesitation, who piqued himself on expressing unexceptionable

sentiments in unexceptional language on all occasions.

‘Mr. Barton, sir--aw--aw--excuse my trespassing on your time--aw--to beg

that you will administer a rebuke to this boy; he is--aw--aw--most

inveterate in ill-behaviour during service-time.’

The inveterate culprit was a boy of seven, vainly contending against

‘candles’ at his nose by feeble sniffing. But no sooner had Mr. Spratt

uttered his impeachment, than Miss Fodge rushed forward and placed

herself between Mr. Barton and the accused.

‘That’s _my_ child, Muster Barton,’ she exclaimed, further manifesting

her maternal instincts by applying her apron to her offspring’s nose.

‘He’s al’ys a-findin’ faut wi’ him, and a-poundin’ him for nothin’. Let

him goo an’ eat his roost goose as is a-smellin’ up in our noses while

we’re a-swallering them greasy broth, an’ let my boy alooan.’

Mr. Spratt’s small eyes flashed, and he was in danger of uttering

sentiments not unexceptionable before the clergyman; but Mr. Barton,

foreseeing that a prolongation of this episode would not be to

edification, said ‘Silence!’ in his severest tones.

‘Let me hear no abuse. Your boy is not likely to behave well, if you set

him the example of being saucy.’ Then stooping down to Master Fodge, and

taking him by the shoulder, ‘Do you like being beaten?’

‘No-a.’

‘Then what a silly boy you are to be naughty. If you were not naughty,

you wouldn’t be beaten. But if you are naughty, God will be angry, as

well as Mr. Spratt; and God can burn you for ever. That will be worse

than being beaten.’

Master Fodge’s countenance was neither affirmative nor negative of this

proposition.

‘But,’ continued Mr. Barton, ‘if you will be a good boy, God will love

you, and you will grow up to be a good man. Now, let me hear next

Thursday that you have been a good boy.’

Master Fodge had no distinct vision of the benefit that would accrue to

him from this change of courses. But Mr. Barton, being aware that Miss

Fodge had touched on a delicate subject in alluding to the roast goose,

was determined to witness no more polemics between her and Mr. Spratt,

so, saying good morning to the latter, he hastily left the College.

The snow was falling in thicker and thicker flakes, and already the

vicarage-garden was cloaked in white as he passed through the gate. Mrs.

Barton heard him open the door, and ran out of the sitting-room to meet

him.

‘I’m afraid your feet are very wet, dear. What a terrible morning! Let me

take your hat. Your slippers are at the fire.’

Mr. Barton was feeling a little cold and cross. It is difficult, when you

have been doing disagreeable duties, without praise, on a snowy day, to

attend to the very minor morals. So he showed no recognition of Milly’s

attentions, but simply said, ‘Fetch me my dressing-gown, will you?’

‘It is down, dear. I thought you wouldn’t go into the study, because you

said you would letter and number the books for the Lending Library. Patty

and I have been covering them, and they are all ready in the

sitting-room.’

‘Oh, I can’t do those this morning,’ said Mr. Barton, as he took off his

boots and put his feet into the slippers Milly had brought him; ‘you must

put them away into the parlour.’

The sitting-room was also the day nursery and schoolroom; and while

Mamma’s back was turned, Dickey, the second boy, had insisted on

superseding Chubby in the guidance of a headless horse, of the

red-wafered species, which she was drawing round the room, so that when

Papa opened the door Chubby was giving tongue energetically.

‘Milly, some of these children must go away. I want to be quiet.’

‘Yes, dear. Hush, Chubby; go with Patty, and see what Nanny is getting

for our dinner. Now, Fred and Sophy and Dickey, help me to carry these

books into the parlour. There are three for Dickey. Carry them steadily.’

Papa meanwhile settled himself in his easy-chair, and took up a work on

Episcopacy, which he had from the Clerical Book Society; thinking he

would finish it and return it this afternoon, as he was going to the

Clerical Meeting at Milby Vicarage, where the Book Society had its

headquarters.

The Clerical Meetings and Book Society, which had been founded some eight

or ten months, had had a noticeable effect on the Rev. Amos Barton. When

he first came to Shepperton he was simply an evangelical clergyman, whose

Christian experiences had commenced under the teaching of the Rev. Mr.

Johns, of Gun Street Chapel, and had been consolidated at Cambridge under

the influence of Mr. Simeon. John Newton and Thomas Scott were his

doctrinal ideals; he would have taken in the “Christian Observer” and the

“Record,” if he could have afforded it; his anecdotes were chiefly of the

pious-jocose kind, current in dissenting circles; and he thought an

Episcopalian Establishment unobjectionable.

But by this time the effect of the Tractarian agitation was beginning to

be felt in backward provincial regions, and the Tractarian satire on the

Low-Church party was beginning to tell even on those who disavowed or

resisted Tractarian doctrines. The vibration of an intellectual movement

was felt from the golden head to the miry toes of the Establishment; and

so it came to pass that, in the district round Milby, the market-town

close to Shepperton, the clergy had agreed to have a clerical meeting

every month, wherein they would exercise their intellects by discussing

theological and ecclesiastical questions, and cement their brotherly love

by discussing a good dinner. A Book Society naturally suggested itself as

an adjunct of this agreeable plan; and thus, you perceive, there was

provision made for ample friction of the clerical mind.

Now, the Rev. Amos Barton was one of those men who have a decided will

and opinion of their own; he held himself bolt upright, and had no

self-distrust. He would march very determinedly along the road he thought

best; but then it was wonderfully easy to convince him which was the best

road. And so a very little unwonted reading and unwonted discussion made

him see that an Episcopalian Establishment was much more than

unobjectionable, and on many other points he began to feel that he held

opinions a little too far-sighted and profound to be crudely and suddenly

communicated to ordinary minds. He was like an onion that has been rubbed

with spices; the strong original odour was blended with something new and

foreign. The Low-Church onion still offended refined High Church

nostrils, and the new spice was unwelcome to the palate of the genuine

onion-eater.

We will not accompany him to the Clerical Meeting to-day, because we shall

probably want to go thither some day when he will be absent. And just now

I am bent on introducing you to Mr. Bridmain and the Countess Czerlaski,

with whom Mr. and Mrs. Barton are invited to dine to-morrow.

Chapter 3

Outside, the moon is shedding its cold light on the cold snow, and the

white-bearded fir-trees round Camp Villa are casting a blue shadow across

the white ground, while the Rev. Amos Barton and his wife are audibly

crushing the crisp snow beneath their feet, as, about seven o’clock on

Friday evening, they approach the door of the above-named desirable

country residence, containing dining, breakfast, and drawing rooms, etc.,

situated only half a mile from the market-town of Milby.

Inside, there is a bright fire in the drawing-room, casting a pleasant

but uncertain light on the delicate silk dress of a lady who is reclining

behind a screen in the corner of the sofa, and allowing you to discern

that the hair of the gentleman who is seated in the arm-chair opposite,

with a newspaper over his knees, is becoming decidedly grey. A little

‘King Charles’, with a crimson ribbon round his neck, who has been lying

curled up in the very middle of the hearth-rug, has just discovered that

that zone is too hot for him, and is jumping on the sofa, evidently with

the intention of accommodating his person on the silk gown. On the table

there are two wax-candles, which will be lighted as soon as the expected

knock is heard at the door.

The knock is heard, the candles are lighted, and presently Mr. and Mrs.

Barton are ushered in--Mr. Barton erect and clerical, in a faultless tie

and shining cranium; Mrs. Barton graceful in a newly-turned black silk.

‘Now this is charming of you,’ said the Countess Czerlaski, advancing to

meet them, and embracing Milly with careful elegance. ‘I am really

ashamed of my selfishness in asking my friends to come and see me in this

frightful weather.’ Then, giving her hand to Amos, ‘And you, Mr. Barton,

whose time is so precious! But I am doing a good deed in drawing you away

from your labours. I have a plot to prevent you from martyrizing

yourself.’

While this greeting was going forward, Mr. Bridmain, and Jet the spaniel,

looked on with the air of actors who had no idea of by-play. Mr.

Bridmain, a stiff and rather thick-set man, gave his welcome with a

laboured cordiality. It was astonishing how very little he resembled his

beautiful sister.

For the Countess Czerlaski was undeniably beautiful. As she seated

herself by Mrs. Barton on the sofa, Milly’s eyes, indeed, rested--must it

be confessed?--chiefly on the details of the tasteful dress, the rich

silk of a pinkish lilac hue (the Countess always wore delicate colours in

an evening), the black lace pelerine, and the black lace veil falling at

the back of the small closely-braided head. For Milly had one

weakness--don’t love her any the less for it, it was a pretty woman’s

weakness--she was fond of dress; and often, when she was making up her

own economical millinery, she had romantic visions how nice it would be

to put on really handsome stylish things--to have very stiff balloon

sleeves, for example, without which a woman’s dress was nought in those

days. You and I, too, reader, have our weakness, have we not? which makes

us think foolish things now and then. Perhaps it may lie in an excessive

admiration for small hands and feet, a tall lithe figure, large dark

eyes, and dark silken braided hair. All these the Countess possessed, and

she had, moreover, a delicately-formed nose, the least bit curved, and a

clear brunette complexion. Her mouth it must be admitted, receded too

much from her nose and chin and to a prophetic eye threatened

‘nut-crackers’ in advanced age. But by the light of fire and wax candles

that age seemed very far off indeed, and you would have said that the

Countess was not more than thirty.

Look at the two women on the sofa together! The large, fair, mild-eyed

Milly is timid even in friendship: it is not easy to her to speak of the

affection of which her heart is full. The lithe, dark, thin-lipped

Countess is racking her small brain for caressing words and charming

exaggerations.

‘And how are all the cherubs at home?’ said the Countess, stooping to

pick up Jet, and without waiting for an answer. ‘I have been kept

in-doors by a cold ever since Sunday, or I should not have rested without

seeing you. What have you done with those wretched singers, Mr. Barton?’

‘O, we have got a new choir together, which will go on very well with a

little practice. I was quite determined that the old set of singers

should be dismissed. I had given orders that they should not sing the

wedding psalm, as they call it, again, to make a new-married couple look

ridiculous, and they sang it in defiance of me. I could put them into the

Ecclesiastical Court, if I chose for to do so, for lifting up their

voices in church in opposition to the clergyman.’

‘And a most wholesome discipline that would be,’ said the Countess,

‘indeed, you are too patient and forbearing, Mr. Barton. For my part, _I_

lose _my_ temper when I see how far you are from being appreciated in

that miserable Shepperton.’

If, as is probable, Mr. Barton felt at a loss what to say in reply to the

insinuated compliment, it was a relief to him that dinner was announced

just then, and that he had to offer his arm to the Countess.

As Mr. Bridmain was leading Mrs. Barton to the dining-room, he observed,

‘The weather is very severe.’

‘Very, indeed,’ said Milly.

Mr. Bridmain studied conversation as an art. To ladies he spoke of the

weather, and was accustomed to consider it under three points of view: as

a question of climate in general, comparing England with other countries

in this respect; as a personal question, inquiring how it affected his

lady interlocutor in particular; and as a question of probabilities,

discussing whether there would be a change or a continuance of the

present atmospheric conditions. To gentlemen he talked politics, and he

read two daily papers expressly to qualify himself for this function. Mr.

Barton thought him a man of considerable political information, but not

of lively parts.

‘And so you are always to hold your Clerical Meetings at Mr. Ely’s?’ said

the Countess, between her spoonfuls of soup. (The soup was a little

over-spiced. Mrs. Short of Camp Villa, who was in the habit of letting

her best apartments, gave only moderate wages to her cook.)

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Barton; ‘Milby is a central place, and there are many

conveniences in having only one point of meeting.’

‘Well,’ continued the Countess, ‘every one seems to agree in giving the

precedence to Mr. Ely. For my part, I _cannot_ admire him. His preaching

is too cold for me. It has no fervour--no heart. I often say to my

brother, it is a great comfort to me that Shepperton Church is not too

far off for us to go to; don’t I, Edmund?’

‘Yes,’ answered Mr. Bridmain; ‘they show us into such a bad pew at

Milby--just where there is a draught from that door. I caught a stiff

neck the first time I went there.’

‘O, it is the cold in the pulpit that affects me, not the cold in the

pew. I was writing to my friend Lady Porter this morning, and telling her

all about my feelings. She and I think alike on such matters. She is most

anxious that when Sir William has an opportunity of giving away the

living at their place, Dippley, they should have a thoroughly zealous

clever man there. I have been describing a certain friend of mine to her,

who, I think, would be just to her mind. And there is such a pretty

rectory, Milly; shouldn’t I like to see you the mistress of it?’

Milly smiled and blushed slightly. The Rev. Amos blushed very red, and

gave a little embarrassed laugh--he could rarely keep his muscles within

the limits of a smile. At this moment John, the man-servant, approached

Mrs. Barton with a gravy-tureen, and also with a slight odour of the

stable, which usually adhered to him through his in-door functions. John

was rather nervous; and the Countess happening to speak to him at this

inopportune moment, the tureen slipped and emptied itself on Mrs.

Barton’s newly-turned black silk.

‘O, horror! Tell Alice to come directly and rub Mrs. Barton’s dress,’

said the Countess to the trembling John, carefully abstaining from

approaching the gravy-sprinkled spot on the floor with her own lilac

silk. But Mr. Bridmain, who had a strictly private interest in silks,

good-naturedly jumped up and applied his napkin at once to Mrs. Barton’s

gown.

Milly felt a little inward anguish, but no ill-temper, and tried to make

light of the matter for the sake of John as well as others. The Countess

felt inwardly thankful that her own delicate silk had escaped, but threw

out lavish interjections of distress and indignation.

‘Dear saint that you are,’ she said, when Milly laughed, and suggested

that, as her silk was not very glossy to begin with, the dim patch would

not be much seen; ‘you don’t mind about these things, I know. Just the

same sort of thing happened to me at the Princess Wengstein’s one day, on

a pink satin. I was in an agony. But you are so indifferent to dress; and

well you may be. It is you who make dress pretty, and not dress that

makes you pretty.’

Alice, the buxom lady’s-maid, wearing a much better dress than Mrs.

Barton’s, now appeared to take Mr. Bridmain’s place in retrieving the

mischief, and after a great amount of supplementary rubbing, composure

was restored, and the business of dining was continued. When John was

recounting his accident to the cook in the kitchen, he observed, ‘Mrs.

Barton’s a hamable woman; I’d a deal sooner ha’ throwed the gravy o’er

the Countess’s fine gownd. But laws! what tantrums she’d ha’ been in

arter the visitors was gone.’

‘You’d a deal sooner not ha’ throwed it down at all, _I_ should think,’

responded the unsympathetic cook, to whom John did _not_ make love. ‘Who

d’you think’s to mek gravy anuff, if you’re to baste people’s gownds wi’

it?’

‘Well,’ suggested John, humbly, ‘you should wet the bottom of the _duree_

a bit, to hold it from slippin’.’

‘Wet your granny!’ returned the cook; a retort which she probably

regarded in the light of a _reductio ad absurdum_, and which in fact

reduced John to silence.

Later on in the evening, while John was removing the tea things from the

drawing-room, and brushing the crumbs from the table-cloth with an

accompanying hiss, such as he was wont to encourage himself with in

rubbing down Mr. Bridmain’s horse, the Rev. Amos Barton drew from his

pocket a thin green-covered pamphlet, and, presenting it to the Countess,

said,--‘You were pleased, I think, with my sermon on Christmas Day. It

has been printed in “The Pulpit,” and I thought you might like a copy.’

‘That indeed I shall. I shall quite value the opportunity of reading that

sermon. There was such depth in it!--such argument! It was not a sermon

to be heard only once. I am delighted that it should become generally

known, as it will be now it is printed in “The Pulpit.”’

‘Yes,’ said Milly, innocently, ‘I was so pleased with the editor’s

letter.’ And she drew out her little pocket-book, where she carefully

treasured the editorial autograph, while Mr. Barton laughed and blushed,

and said, ‘Nonsense, Milly!’

‘You see,’ she said, giving the letter to the Countess, ‘I am very proud

of the praise my husband gets.’

The sermon in question, by the by, was an extremely argumentative one on

the Incarnation; which, as it was preached to a congregation not one of

whom had any doubt of that doctrine, and to whom the Socinians therein

confuted were as unknown as the Arimaspians, was exceedingly well adapted

to trouble and confuse the Sheppertonian mind.

‘Ah,’ said the Countess, returning the editor’s letter, ‘he may well say

he will be glad of other sermons from the same source. But I would rather

you should publish your sermons in an independent volume, Mr. Barton; it

would be so desirable to have them in that shape. For instance, I could

send a copy to the Dean of Radborough. And there is Lord Blarney, whom I

knew before he was chancellor. I was a special favourite of his, and you

can’t think what sweet things he used to say to me. I shall not resist

the temptation to write to him one of these days _sans façon_, and tell

him how he ought to dispose of the next vacant living in his gift.’

Whether Jet the spaniel, being a much more knowing dog than was

suspected, wished to express his disapproval of the Countess’s last

speech, as not accordant with his ideas of wisdom and veracity, I cannot

say; but at this moment he jumped off her lap, and, turning his back upon

her, placed one paw on the fender, and held the other up to warm, as if

affecting to abstract himself from the current of conversation.

But now Mr. Bridmain brought out the chess-board, and Mr. Barton accepted

his challenge to play a game, with immense satisfaction. The Rev. Amos

was very fond of chess, as most people are who can continue through many

years to create interesting vicissitudes in the game, by taking

long-meditated moves with their knights, and subsequently discovering

that they have thereby exposed their queen.

Chess is a silent game; and the Countess’s chat with Milly is in quite an

under-tone--probably relating to women’s matters that it would be

impertinent for us to listen to; so we will leave Camp Villa, and proceed

to Milby Vicarage, where Mr. Farquhar has sat out two other guests with

whom he has been dining at Mr. Ely’s, and is now rather wearying that

reverend gentleman by his protracted small-talk.

Mr. Ely was a tall, dark-haired, distinguished-looking man of

three-and-thirty. By the laity of Milby and its neighbourhood he was

regarded as a man of quite remarkable powers and learning, who must make

a considerable sensation in London pulpits and drawing-rooms on his

occasional visit to the metropolis; and by his brother clergy he was

regarded as a discreet and agreeable fellow. Mr. Ely never got into a

warm discussion; he suggested what might be thought, but rarely said what

he thought himself; he never let either men or women see that he was

laughing at them, and he never gave any one an opportunity of laughing at

_him_. In one thing only he was injudicious. He parted his dark wavy hair

down the middle; and as his head was rather flat than otherwise, that

style of coiffure was not advantageous to him.

Mr. Farquhar, though not a parishioner of Mr. Ely’s, was one of his

warmest admirers, and thought he would make an unexceptionable

son-in-law, in spite of his being of no particular ‘family’. Mr. Farquhar

was susceptible on the point of ‘blood’--his own circulating fluid, which

animated a short and somewhat flabby person, being, he considered, of

very superior quality.

‘By the by,’ he said, with a certain pomposity counteracted by a lisp,

‘what an ath Barton makth of himthelf, about that Bridmain and the

Counteth, ath she callth herthelf. After you were gone the other evening,

Mithith Farquhar wath telling him the general opinion about them in the

neighbourhood, and he got quite red and angry. Bleth your thoul, he

believth the whole thtory about her Polish huthband and hith wonderful

ethcapeth; and ath for her--why, he thinkth her perfection, a woman of

motht refined feelingth, and no end of thtuff.’

Mr. Ely smiled. ‘Some people would say our friend Barton was not the best

judge of refinement. Perhaps the lady flatters him a little, and we men

are susceptible. She goes to Shepperton Church every Sunday--drawn there,

let us suppose, by Mr. Barton’s eloquence.’

‘Pshaw,’ said Mr. Farquhar: ‘Now, to my mind, you have only to look at

that woman to thee what she ith--throwing her eyth about when she comth

into church, and drething in a way to attract attention. I should thay,

she’th tired of her brother Bridmain, and looking out for another brother

with a thtronger family likeneth. Mithith Farquhar ith very fond of

Mithith Barton, and ith quite dithtrethed that she should athothiate with

thuch a woman, tho she attacked him on the thubject purpothly. But I tell

her it’th of no uthe, with a pig-headed fellow like him. Barton’th

well-meaning enough, but _tho_ contheited. I’ve left off giving him my

advithe.’

Mr. Ely smiled inwardly and said to himself, ‘What a punishment!’ But to

Mr. Farquhar he said, ‘Barton might be more judicious, it must be

confessed.’ He was getting tired, and did not want to develop the

subject.

‘Why, nobody vithit-th them but the Bartonth,’ continued Mr. Farquhar,

‘and why should thuch people come here, unleth they had particular

reathonth for preferring a neighbourhood where they are not known? Pooh!

it lookth bad on the very fathe of it. _You_ called on them, now; how did

you find them?’

‘O!--Mr. Bridmain strikes me as a common sort of man, who is making an

effort to seem wise and well-bred. He comes down on one tremendously with

political information, and seems knowing about the king of the French.

The Countess is certainly a handsome woman, but she puts on the grand air

a little too powerfully. Woodcock was immensely taken with her, and

insisted on his wife’s calling on her and asking her to dinner; but I

think Mrs. Woodcock turned restive after the first visit, and wouldn’t

invite her again.’

‘Ha, ha! Woodcock hath alwayth a thoft place in hith heart for a pretty

fathe. It’th odd how he came to marry that plain woman, and no fortune

either.’

‘Mysteries of the tender passion,’ said Mr. Ely. ‘I am not initiated yet,

you know.’

Here Mr. Farquhar’s carriage was announced, and as we have not found his

conversation particularly brilliant under the stimulus of Mr. Ely’s

exceptional presence, we will not accompany him home to the less exciting

atmosphere of domestic life.

Mr. Ely threw himself with a sense of relief into his easiest chair, set

his feet on the hobs, and in this attitude of bachelor enjoyment began to

read Bishop Jebb’s Memoirs.

Chapter 4

I am by no means sure that if the good people of Milby had known the

truth about the Countess Czerlaski, they would not have been considerably

disappointed to find that it was very far from being as bad as they

imagined. Nice distinctions are troublesome. It is so much easier to say

that a thing is black, than to discriminate the particular shade of

brown, blue, or green, to which it really belongs. It is so much easier

to make up your mind that your neighbour is good for nothing, than to

enter into all the circumstances that would oblige you to modify that

opinion.

Besides, think of all the virtuous declamation, all the penetrating

observation, which had been built up entirely on the fundamental position

that the Countess was a very objectionable person indeed, and which would

be utterly overturned and nullified by the destruction of that premiss.

Mrs. Phipps, the banker’s wife, and Mrs. Landor, the attorney’s wife, had

invested part of their reputation for acuteness in the supposition that

Mr. Bridmain was not the Countess’s brother. Moreover, Miss Phipps was

conscious that if the Countess was not a disreputable person, she, Miss

Phipps, had no compensating superiority in virtue to set against the

other lady’s manifest superiority in personal charms. Miss Phipps’s

stumpy figure and unsuccessful attire, instead of looking down from a

mount of virtue with an aureole round its head, would then be seen on the

same level and in the same light as the Countess Czerlaski’s Diana-like

form and well-chosen drapery. Miss Phipps, for her part, didn’t like

dressing for effect--she had always avoided that style of appearance

which was calculated to create a sensation.

Then what amusing innuendoes of the Milby gentlemen over their wine would

have been entirely frustrated and reduced to nought, if you had told them

that the Countess had really been guilty of no misdemeanours which

demanded her exclusion from strictly respectable society; that her

husband had been the veritable Count Czerlaski, who had had wonderful

escapes, as she said, and who, as she did _not_ say, but as was said in

certain circulars once folded by her fair hands, had subsequently given

dancing lessons in the metropolis; that Mr. Bridmain was neither more nor

less than her half-brother, who, by unimpeached integrity and industry,

had won a partnership in a silk-manufactory, and thereby a moderate

fortune, that enabled him to retire, as you see, to study politics, the

weather, and the art of conversation at his leisure. Mr. Bridmain, in

fact, quadragenarian bachelor as he was, felt extremely well pleased to

receive his sister in her widowhood, and to shine in the reflected light

of her beauty and title. Every man who is not a monster, a mathematician,

or a mad philosopher, is the slave of some woman or other. Mr. Bridmain

had put his neck under the yoke of his handsome sister, and though his

soul was a very little one--of the smallest description indeed--he would

not have ventured to call it his own. He might be slightly recalcitrant

now and then, as is the habit of long-eared pachyderms, under the thong

of the fair Countess’s tongue; but there seemed little probability that

he would ever get his neck loose. Still, a bachelor’s heart is an

outlying fortress that some fair enemy may any day take either by storm

or stratagem; and there was always the possibility that Mr. Bridmain’s

first nuptials might occur before the Countess was quite sure of her

second. As it was, however, he submitted to all his sister’s caprices,

never grumbled because her dress and her maid formed a considerable item

beyond her own little income of sixty pounds per annum, and consented to

lead with her a migratory life, as personages on the debatable ground

between aristocracy and commonalty, instead of settling in some spot

where his five hundred a-year might have won him the definite dignity of

a parochial magnate.

The Countess had her views in choosing a quiet provincial place like

Milby. After three years of widowhood, she had brought her feelings to

contemplate giving a successor to her lamented Czerlaski, whose fine

whiskers, fine air, and romantic fortunes had won her heart ten years

ago, when, as pretty Caroline Bridmain, in the full bloom of

five-and-twenty, she was governess to Lady Porter’s daughters, whom he

initiated into the mysteries of the _pas de basque_, and the lancers’

quadrilles. She had had seven years of sufficiently happy matrimony with

Czerlaski, who had taken her to Paris and Germany, and introduced her

there to many of his old friends with large titles and small fortunes. So

that the fair Caroline had had considerable experience of life, and had

gathered therefrom, not, indeed, any very ripe and comprehensive wisdom,

but much external polish, and certain practical conclusions of a very

decided kind. One of these conclusions was, that there were things more

solid in life than fine whiskers and a title, and that, in accepting a

second husband, she would regard these items as quite subordinate to a

carriage and a settlement. Now, she had ascertained, by tentative

residences, that the kind of bite she was angling for was difficult to be

met with at watering-places, which were already preoccupied with

abundance of angling beauties, and were chiefly stocked with men whose

whiskers might be dyed, and whose incomes were still more problematic; so

she had determined on trying a neighbourhood where people were extremely

well acquainted with each other’s affairs, and where the women were

mostly ill-dressed and ugly. Mr. Bridmain’s slow brain had adopted his

sister’s views, and it seemed to him that a woman so handsome and

distinguished as the Countess must certainly make a match that might lift

himself into the region of county celebrities, and give him at least a

sort of cousinship to the quarter-sessions.

All this, which was the simple truth, would have seemed extremely flat to

the gossips of Milby, who had made up their minds to something much more

exciting. There was nothing here so very detestable. It is true, the

Countess was a little vain, a little ambitious, a little selfish, a

little shallow and frivolous, a little given to white lies.--But who

considers such slight blemishes, such moral pimples as these,

disqualifications for entering into the most respectable society! Indeed,

the severest ladies in Milby would have been perfectly aware that these

characteristics would have created no wide distinction between the

Countess Czerlaski and themselves; and since it was clear there _was_ a

wide distinction--why, it must lie in the possession of some vices from

which they were undeniably free.

Hence it came to pass that Milby respectability refused to recognize the

Countess Czerlaski, in spite of her assiduous church-going, and the deep

disgust she was known to have expressed at the extreme paucity of the

congregations on Ash-Wednesdays. So she began to feel that she had

miscalculated the advantages of a neighbourhood where people are well

acquainted with each other’s private affairs. Under these circumstances,

you will imagine how welcome was the perfect credence and admiration she

met with from Mr. and Mrs. Barton. She had been especially irritated by

Mr. Ely’s behaviour to her; she felt sure that he was not in the least

struck with her beauty, that he quizzed her conversation, and that he

spoke of her with a sneer. A woman always knows where she is utterly

powerless, and shuns a coldly satirical eye as she would shun a Gorgon.

And she was especially eager for clerical notice and friendship, not

merely because that is quite the most respectable countenance to be

obtained in society, but because she really cared about religious

matters, and had an uneasy sense that she was not altogether safe in that

quarter. She had serious intentions of becoming _quite_ pious--without

any reserves--when she had once got her carriage and settlement. Let us

do this one sly trick, says Ulysses to Neoptolemus, and we will be

perfectly honest ever after--

ἀλλ’ ἡδὺ γάρ τοι κτῆμα τῆς νίκης λαβεῖν,

τόλμα· δίκαιοι δ’ αὖθις ἐκφανούμεθα.

The Countess did not quote Sophocles, but she said to herself, ‘Only this

little bit of pretence and vanity, and then I will be _quite_ good, and

make myself quite safe for another world.’

And as she had by no means such fine taste and insight in theological

teaching as in costume, the Rev. Amos Barton seemed to her a man not only

of learning--_that_ is always understood with a clergyman--but of much

power as a spiritual director. As for Milly, the Countess really loved

her as well as the preoccupied state of her affections would allow. For

you have already perceived that there was one being to whom the Countess

was absorbingly devoted, and to whose desires she made everything else

subservient--namely, Caroline Czerlaski, _nee_ Bridmain.

Thus there was really not much affectation in her sweet speeches and

attentions to Mr. and Mrs. Barton. Still their friendship by no means

adequately represented the object she had in view when she came to Milby,

and it had been for some time clear to her that she must suggest a new

change of residence to her brother.

The thing we look forward to often comes to pass, but never precisely in

the way we have imagined to ourselves. The Countess did actually leave

Camp Villa before many months were past, but under circumstances which

had not at all entered into her contemplation.

Chapter 5

The Rev. Amos Barton, whose sad fortunes I have undertaken to relate,

was, you perceive, in no respect an ideal or exceptional character; and

perhaps I am doing a bold thing to bespeak your sympathy on behalf of a

man who was so very far from remarkable,--a man whose virtues were not

heroic, and who had no undetected crime within his breast; who had not

the slightest mystery hanging about him, but was palpably and

unmistakably commonplace; who was not even in love, but had had that

complaint favourably many years ago. ‘An utterly uninteresting

character!’ I think I hear a lady reader exclaim--Mrs. Farthingale, for

example, who prefers the ideal in fiction; to whom tragedy means ermine

tippets, adultery, and murder; and comedy, the adventures of some

personage who is quite a ‘character’.

But, my dear madam, it is so very large a majority of your

fellow-countrymen that are of this insignificant stamp. At least eighty

out of a hundred of your adult male fellow-Britons returned in the last

census are neither extraordinarily silly, nor extraordinarily wicked, nor

extraordinarily wise; their eyes are neither deep and liquid with

sentiment, nor sparkling with suppressed witticisms; they have probably

had no hairbreadth escapes or thrilling adventures; their brains are

certainly not pregnant with genius, and their passions have not

manifested themselves at all after the fashion of a volcano. They are

simply men of complexions more or less muddy, whose conversation is more

or less bald and disjointed. Yet these commonplace people--many of

them--bear a conscience, and have felt the sublime prompting to do the

painful right; they have their unspoken sorrows, and their sacred joys;

their hearts have perhaps gone out towards their first-born, and they

have mourned over the irreclaimable dead. Nay, is there not a pathos in

their very insignificance--in our comparison of their dim and narrow

existence with the glorious possibilities of that human nature which they

share?

Depend upon it, you would gain unspeakably if you would learn with me to

see some of the poetry and the pathos, the tragedy and the comedy, lying

in the experience of a human soul that looks out through dull grey eyes,

and that speaks in a voice of quite ordinary tones. In that case, I

should have no fear of your not caring to know what farther befell the

Rev. Amos Barton, or of your thinking the homely details I have to tell

at all beneath your attention. As it is, you can, if you please, decline

to pursue my story farther; and you will easily find reading more to your

taste, since I learn from the newspapers that many remarkable novels,

full of striking situations, thrilling incidents, and eloquent writing,

have appeared only within the last season.

Meanwhile, readers who have begun to feel an interest in the Rev. Amos

Barton and his wife, will be glad to learn that Mr. Oldinport lent the

twenty pounds. But twenty pounds are soon exhausted when twelve are due

as back payment to the butcher, and when the possession of eight extra

sovereigns in February weather is an irresistible temptation to order a

new greatcoat. And though Mr. Bridmain so far departed from the necessary

economy entailed on him by the Countess’s elegant toilette and expensive

maid, as to choose a handsome black silk, stiff, as his experienced eye

discerned, with the genuine strength of its own texture, and not with the

factitious strength of gum, and present it to Mrs. Barton, in retrieval

of the accident that had occurred at his table, yet, dear me--as every

husband has heard--what is the present of a gown when you are deficiently

furnished with the et-ceteras of apparel, and when, moreover, there are

six children whose wear and tear of clothes is something incredible to

the non-maternal mind?

Indeed, the equation of income and expenditure was offering new and

constantly accumulating difficulties to Mr. and Mrs. Barton; for shortly

after the birth of little Walter, Milly’s aunt, who had lived with her

ever since her marriage, had withdrawn herself, her furniture, and her

yearly income, to the household of another niece; prompted to that step,

very probably, by a slight ‘tiff’ with the Rev. Amos, which occurred

while Milly was up-stairs, and proved one too many for the elderly lady’s

patience and magnanimity. Mr. Barton’s temper was a little warm, but, on

the other hand, elderly maiden ladies are known to be susceptible; so we

will not suppose that all the blame lay on his side--the less so, as he

had every motive for humouring an inmate whose presence kept the wolf

from the door. It was now nearly a year since Miss Jackson’s departure,

and, to a fine ear, the howl of the wolf was audibly approaching.

It was a sad thing, too, that when the last snow had melted, when the

purple and yellow crocuses were coming up in the garden, and the old

church was already half pulled down, Milly had an illness which made her

lips look pale, and rendered it absolutely necessary that she should not

exert herself for some time. Mr. Brand, the Shepperton doctor so

obnoxious to Mr. Pilgrim, ordered her to drink port-wine, and it was

quite necessary to have a charwoman very often, to assist Nanny in all

the extra work that fell upon her.

Mrs. Hackit, who hardly ever paid a visit to any one but her oldest and

nearest neighbour, Mrs. Patten, now took the unusual step of calling at

the vicarage one morning; and the tears came into her unsentimental eyes

as she saw Milly seated pale and feeble in the parlour, unable to

persevere in sewing the pinafore that lay on the table beside her. Little

Dickey, a boisterous boy of five, with large pink cheeks and sturdy legs,

was having his turn to sit with Mamma, and was squatting quiet as a mouse

at her knee, holding her soft white hand between his little red

black-nailed fists. He was a boy whom Mrs. Hackit, in a severe mood, had

pronounced ‘stocky’ (a word that etymologically in all probability,

conveys some allusion to an instrument of punishment for the refractory);

but seeing him thus subdued into goodness, she smiled at him with her

kindest smile, and stooping down, suggested a kiss--a favour which Dicky

resolutely declined.

‘Now _do_ you take nourishing things enough?’ was one of Mrs. Hackit’s

first questions, and Milly endeavoured to make it appear that no woman

was ever so much in danger of being over-fed and led into self-indulgent

habits as herself. But Mrs. Hackit gathered one fact from her replies,

namely, that Mr. Brand had ordered port-wine.

While this conversation was going forward, Dickey had been furtively

stroking and kissing the soft white hand; so that at last, when a pause

came, his mother said, smilingly, ‘Why are you kissing my hand, Dickey?’

‘It id to yovely,’ answered Dickey, who, you observe, was decidedly

backward in his pronunciation.

Mrs. Hackit remembered this little scene in after days, and thought with

peculiar tenderness and pity of the ‘stocky boy’.

The next day there came a hamper with Mrs. Hackit’s respects; and on

being opened it was found to contain half-a-dozen of port-wine and two

couples of fowls. Mrs. Farquhar, too, was very kind; insisted on Mrs.

Barton’s rejecting all arrowroot but hers, which was genuine Indian, and

carried away Sophy and Fred to stay with her a fortnight. These and other

good-natured attentions made the trouble of Milly’s illness more

bearable; but they could not prevent it from swelling expenses, and Mr.

Barton began to have serious thoughts of representing his case to a

certain charity for the relief of needy curates.

Altogether, as matters stood in Shepperton, the parishioners were more

likely to have a strong sense that the clergyman needed their material

aid, than that they needed his spiritual aid,--not the best state of

things in this age and country, where faith in men solely on the ground

of their spiritual gifts has considerably diminished, and especially

unfavourable to the influence of the Rev. Amos, whose spiritual gifts

would not have had a very commanding power even in an age of faith.

But, you ask, did not the Countess Czerlaski pay any attention to her

friends all this time? To be sure she did. She was indefatigable in

visiting her ‘sweet Milly’, and sitting with her for hours together. It

may seem remarkable to you that she neither thought of taking away any of

the children, nor of providing for any of Milly’s probable wants; but

ladies of rank and of luxurious habits, you know, cannot be expected to

surmise the details of poverty. She put a great deal of eau-de-Cologne on

Mrs. Barton’s pocket-handkerchief, rearranged her pillow and footstool,

kissed her cheeks, wrapped her in a soft warm shawl from her own

shoulders, and amused her with stories of the life she had seen abroad.

When Mr. Barton joined them she talked of Tractarianism, of her

determination not to re-enter the vortex of fashionable life, and of her

anxiety to see him in a sphere large enough for his talents. Milly

thought her sprightliness and affectionate warmth quite charming, and was

very fond of her; while the Rev. Amos had a vague consciousness that he

had risen into aristocratic life, and only associated with his

middle-class parishioners in a pastoral and parenthetic manner.

However, as the days brightened, Milly’s cheeks and lips brightened too;

and in a few weeks she was almost as active as ever, though watchful eyes

might have seen that activity was not easy to her. Mrs. Hackit’s eyes

were of that kind, and one day, when Mr. and Mrs. Barton had been dining

with her for the first time since Milly’s illness, she observed to her

husband--‘That poor thing’s dreadful weak an’ delicate; she won’t stan’

havin’ many more children.’

Mr. Barton, meanwhile, had been indefatigable in his vocation. He had

preached two extemporary sermons every Sunday at the workhouse, where a

room had been fitted up for divine service, pending the alterations in

the church; and had walked the same evening to a cottage at one or other

extremity of his parish to deliver another sermon, still more

extemporary, in an atmosphere impregnated with spring-flowers and

perspiration. After all these labours you will easily conceive that he

was considerably exhausted by half-past nine o’clock in the evening, and

that a supper at a friendly parishioner’s, with a glass, or even two

glasses, of brandy-and-water after it, was a welcome reinforcement. Mr.

Barton was not at all an ascetic; he thought the benefits of fasting were

entirely confined to the Old Testament dispensation; he was fond of

relaxing himself with a little gossip; indeed, Miss Bond, and other

ladies of enthusiastic views, sometimes regretted that Mr. Barton did not

more uninterruptedly exhibit a superiority to the things of the flesh.

Thin ladies, who take little exercise, and whose livers are not strong

enough to bear stimulants, are so extremely critical about one’s personal

habits! And, after all, the Rev. Amos never came near the borders of a

vice. His very faults were middling--he was not _very_ ungrammatical. It

was not in his nature to be superlative in anything; unless, indeed, he

was superlatively middling, the quintessential extract of mediocrity. If

there was any one point on which he showed an inclination to be

excessive, it was confidence in his own shrewdness and ability in

practical matters, so that he was very full of plans which were something

like his moves in chess--admirably well calculated, supposing the state

of the case were otherwise. For example, that notable plan of introducing

anti-dissenting books into his Lending Library did not in the least

appear to have bruised the head of Dissent, though it had certainly made

Dissent strongly inclined to bite the Rev. Amos’s heel. Again, he vexed

the souls of his churchwardens and influential parishioners by his

fertile suggestiveness as to what it would be well for them to do in the

matter of the church repairs, and other ecclesiastical secularities.

‘I never saw the like to parsons,’ Mr. Hackit said one day in

conversation with his brother churchwarden, Mr. Bond; ‘they’re al’ys for

meddling with business, an they know no more about it than my black

filly.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Bond, ‘they’re too high learnt to have much common-sense.’

‘Well,’ remarked Mr. Hackit, in a modest and dubious tone, as if throwing

out a hypothesis which might be considered bold, ‘I should say that’s a

bad sort of eddication as makes folks onreasonable.’

So that, you perceive, Mr. Barton’s popularity was in that precarious

condition, in that toppling and contingent state, in which a very slight

push from a malignant destiny would utterly upset it. That push was not

long in being given, as you shall hear.

One fine May morning, when Amos was out on his parochial visits, and the

sunlight was streaming through the bow-window of the sitting-room, where

Milly was seated at her sewing, occasionally looking up to glance at the

children playing in the garden, there came a loud rap at the door, which

she at once recognized as the Countess’s, and that well-dressed lady

presently entered the sitting-room, with her veil drawn over her face.

Milly was not at all surprised or sorry to see her; but when the Countess

threw up her veil, and showed that her eyes were red and swollen, she was

both surprised and sorry.

‘What can be the matter, dear Caroline?’

Caroline threw down Jet, who gave a little yelp; then she threw her arms

round Milly’s neck, and began to sob; then she threw herself on the sofa,

and begged for a glass of water; then she threw off her bonnet and shawl;

and by the time Milly’s imagination had exhausted itself in conjuring up

calamities, she said,--‘Dear, how shall I tell you? I am the most

wretched woman. To be deceived by a brother to whom I have been so

devoted--to see him degrading himself--giving himself utterly to the

dogs!’

‘What can it be?’ said Milly, who began to picture to herself the sober

Mr. Bridmain taking to brandy and betting.

‘He is going to be married--to marry my own maid, that deceitful Alice,

to whom I have been the most indulgent mistress. Did you ever hear of

anything so disgraceful? so mortifying? so disreputable?’

‘And has he only just told you of it?’ said Milly, who, having really

heard of worse conduct, even in her innocent life, avoided a direct

answer.

‘Told me of it! he had not even the grace to do that. I went into the

dining-room suddenly and found him kissing her--disgusting at his time of

life, is it not?--and when I reproved her for allowing such liberties,

she turned round saucily, and said she was engaged to be married to my

brother, and she saw no shame in allowing him to kiss her. Edmund is a

miserable coward, you know, and looked frightened; but when she asked him

to say whether it was not so, he tried to summon up courage and say yes.

I left the room in disgust, and this morning I have been questioning

Edmund, and find that he is bent on marrying this woman, and that he has

been putting off telling me--because he was ashamed of himself, I

suppose. I couldn’t possibly stay in the house after this, with my own

maid turned mistress. And now, Milly, I am come to throw myself on your

charity for a week or two. _Will_ you take me in?’

‘That we will,’ said Milly, ‘if you will only put up with our poor rooms

and way of living. It will be delightful to have you!’

‘It will soothe me to be with you and Mr. Barton a little while. I feel

quite unable to go among my other friends just at present. What those two

wretched people will do I don’t know--leave the neighbourhood at once, I

hope. I entreated my brother to do so, before he disgraced himself.’

When Amos came home, he joined his cordial welcome and sympathy to

Milly’s. By-and-by the Countess’s formidable boxes, which she had

carefully packed before her indignation drove her away from Camp Villa,

arrived at the vicarage, and were deposited in the spare bedroom, and in

two closets, not spare, which Milly emptied for their reception. A week

afterwards, the excellent apartments at Camp Villa, comprising dining and

drawing rooms, three bedrooms and a dressing-room, were again to let, and

Mr. Bridmain’s sudden departure, together with the Countess Czerlaski’s

installation as a visitor at Shepperton Vicarage, became a topic of

general conversation in the neighbourhood. The keen-sighted virtue of

Milby and Shepperton saw in all this a confirmation of its worst

suspicions, and pitied the Rev. Amos Barton’s gullibility.

But when week after week, and month after month, slipped by without

witnessing the Countess’s departure--when summer and harvest had fled,

and still left her behind them occupying the spare bedroom and the

closets, and also a large proportion of Mrs. Barton’s time and attention,

new surmises of a very evil kind were added to the old rumours, and began

to take the form of settled convictions in the minds even of Mr. Barton’s

most friendly parishioners.

And now, here is an opportunity for an accomplished writer to

apostrophize calumny, to quote Virgil, and to show that he is acquainted

with the most ingenious things which have been said on that subject in

polite literature.

But what is opportunity to the man who can’t use it? An undefecundated

egg, which the waves of time wash away into nonentity. So, as my memory

is ill-furnished, and my notebook still worse, I am unable to show myself

either erudite or eloquent apropos of the calumny whereof the Rev. Amos

Barton was the victim. I can only ask my reader,--did you ever upset your

ink-bottle, and watch, in helpless agony, the rapid spread of Stygian

blackness over your fair manuscript or fairer table-cover? With a like

inky swiftness did gossip now blacken the reputation of the Rev. Amos

Barton, causing the unfriendly to scorn and even the friendly to stand

aloof, at a time when difficulties of another kind were fast thickening

around him.

Chapter 6

One November morning, at least six months after the Countess Czerlaski

had taken up her residence at the vicarage, Mrs. Hackit heard that her

neighbour Mrs. Patten had an attack of her old complaint, vaguely called

‘the spasms’. Accordingly, about eleven o’clock, she put on her velvet

bonnet and cloth cloak, with a long boa and muff large enough to stow a

prize baby in; for Mrs. Hackit regulated her costume by the calendar, and

brought out her furs on the first of November; whatever might be the

temperature. She was not a woman weakly to accommodate herself to

shilly-shally proceedings. If the season didn’t know what it ought to do,

Mrs. Hackit did. In her best days, it was always sharp weather at

‘Gunpowder Plot’, and she didn’t like new fashions.

And this morning the weather was very rationally in accordance with her

costume, for as she made her way through the fields to Cross Farm, the

yellow leaves on the hedge-girt elms, which showed bright and golden

against the long-hanging purple clouds, were being scattered across the

grassy path by the coldest of November winds. ‘Ah,’ Mrs. Hackit thought

to herself, ‘I daresay we shall have a sharp pinch this winter, and if we

do, I shouldn’t wonder if it takes the old lady off. They say a green

Yule makes a fat churchyard; but so does a white Yule too, for that

matter. When the stool’s rotten enough, no matter who sits on it.’

However, on her arrival at Cross Farm, the prospect of Mrs. Patten’s

decease was again thrown into the dim distance in her imagination, for

Miss Janet Gibbs met her with the news that Mrs. Patten was much better,

and led her, without any preliminary announcement, to the old lady’s

bedroom. Janet had scarcely reached the end of her circumstantial

narrative how the attack came on and what were her aunt’s sensations--a

narrative to which Mrs. Patten, in her neatly-plaited nightcap, seemed to

listen with a contemptuous resignation to her niece’s historical

inaccuracy, contenting herself with occasionally confounding Janet by a

shake of the head--when the clatter of a horse’s hoofs on the yard

pavement announced the arrival of Mr. Pilgrim, whose large, top-booted

person presently made its appearance up-stairs. He found Mrs. Patten going

on so well that there was no need to look solemn. He might glide from

condolence into gossip without offence, and the temptation of having Mrs.

Hackit’s ear was irresistible.

‘What a disgraceful business this is turning out of your parson’s,’ was

the remark with which he made this agreeable transition, throwing himself

back in the chair from which he had been leaning towards the patient.

‘Eh, dear me!’ said Mrs. Hackit, ‘disgraceful enough. I stuck to Mr.

Barton as long as I could, for his wife’s sake; but I can’t countenance

such goings-on. It’s hateful to see that woman coming with ’em to service

of a Sunday, and if Mr. Hackit wasn’t churchwarden and I didn’t think it

wrong to forsake one’s own parish, I should go to Knebley Church. There’s

a many parish’ners as do.’

‘I used to think Barton was only a fool,’ observed Mr. Pilgrim, in a tone

which implied that he was conscious of having been weakly charitable. ‘I

thought he was imposed upon and led away by those people when they first

came. But that’s impossible now.’

‘O, it’s as plain as the nose in your face,’ said Mrs. Hackit,

unreflectingly, not perceiving the equivoque in her comparison--‘comin’

to Milby, like a sparrow perchin’ on a bough, as I may say, with her

brother, as she called him; and then all on a sudden the brother goes off

with himself, and she throws herself on the Bartons. Though what could

make her take up with a poor notomise of a parson, as hasn’t got enough

to keep wife and children, there’s One above knows--_I_ don’t.’

‘Mr. Barton may have attractions we don’t know of,’ said Mr. Pilgrim, who

piqued himself on a talent for sarcasm. ‘The Countess has no maid now,

and they say Mr. Barton is handy in assisting at her toilette--laces her

boots, and so forth.’

‘Tilette, be fiddled!’ said Mrs. Hackit, with indignant boldness of

metaphor; ‘an’ there’s that poor thing a-sewing her fingers to the bone

for them children--an’ another comin’ on. What she must have to go

through! It goes to my heart to turn my back on her. But she’s i’ the

wrong to let herself be put upon i’ that manner.’

‘Ah! I was talking to Mrs. Farquhar about that the other day. She said,

“I think Mrs. Barton a v-e-r-y w-e-a-k w-o-m-a-n”.’ (Mr. Pilgrim gave

this quotation with slow emphasis, as if he thought Mrs. Farquhar had

uttered a remarkable sentiment.) ‘They find it impossible to invite her

to their house while she has that equivocal person staying with her.’

‘Well!’ remarked Miss Gibbs, ‘if I was a wife, nothing should induce me

to bear what Mrs. Barton does.’

‘Yes, it’s fine talking,’ said Mrs. Patten, from her pillow; ‘old maids’

husbands are al’ys well-managed. If you was a wife you’d be as foolish as

your betters, belike.’

‘All my wonder is,’ observed Mrs. Hackit, ‘how the Bartons make both ends

meet. You may depend on it, _she’s_ got nothing to give ’em; for I

understand as he’s been having money from some clergy charity. They said

at fust as she stuffed Mr. Barton wi’ notions about her writing to the

Chancellor an’ her fine friends, to give him a living. Howiver, I don’t

know what’s true an’ what’s false. Mr. Barton keeps away from our house

now, for I gave him a bit o’ my mind one day. Maybe he’s ashamed of

himself. He seems to me to look dreadful thin an’ harassed of a Sunday.’

‘O, he must be aware he’s getting into bad odour everywhere. The clergy

are quite disgusted with his folly. They say Carpe would be glad to get

Barton out of the curacy if he could; but he can’t do that without coming

to Shepperton himself, as Barton’s a licensed curate; and he wouldn’t

like that, I suppose.’

At this moment Mrs. Patten showed signs of uneasiness, which recalled Mr.

Pilgrim to professional attentions; and Mrs. Hackit, observing that it

was Thursday, and she must see after the butter, said good-bye, promising

to look in again soon, and bring her knitting.

This Thursday, by the by, is the first in the month--the day on which the

Clerical Meeting is held at Milby Vicarage; and as the Rev. Amos Barton

has reasons for not attending, he will very likely be a subject of

conversation amongst his clerical brethren. Suppose we go there, and hear

whether Mr. Pilgrim has reported their opinion correctly.

There is not a numerous party to-day, for it is a season of sore throats

and catarrhs; so that the exegetical and theological discussions, which

are the preliminary of dining, have not been quite so spirited as usual;

and although a question relative to the Epistle of Jude has not been

quite cleared up, the striking of six by the church clock, and the

simultaneous announcement of dinner, are sounds that no one feels to be

importunate.

Pleasant (when one is not in the least bilious) to enter a comfortable

dining-room, where the closely-drawn red curtains glow with the double

light of fire and candle, where glass and silver are glittering on the

pure damask, and a soup-tureen gives a hint of the fragrance that will

presently rush out to inundate your hungry senses, and prepare them, by

the delicate visitation of atoms, for the keen gusto of ampler contact!

Especially if you have confidence in the dinner-giving capacity of your

host--if you know that he is not a man who entertains grovelling views of

eating and drinking as a mere satisfaction of hunger and thirst, and,

dead to all the finer influences of the palate, expects his guest to be

brilliant on ill-flavoured gravies and the cheapest Marsala. Mr. Ely was

particularly worthy of such confidence, and his virtues as an Amphitryon

had probably contributed quite as much as the central situation of Milby

to the selection of his house as a clerical rendezvous. He looks

particularly graceful at the head of his table, and, indeed, on all

occasions where he acts as president or moderator: he is a man who seems

to listen well, and is an excellent amalgam of dissimilar ingredients.

At the other end of the table, as ‘Vice’, sits Mr. Fellowes, rector and

magistrate, a man of imposing appearance, with a mellifluous voice and

the readiest of tongues. Mr. Fellowes once obtained a living by the

persuasive charms of his conversation, and the fluency with which he

interpreted the opinions of an obese and stammering baronet, so as to

give that elderly gentleman a very pleasing perception of his own wisdom.

Mr. Fellowes is a very successful man, and has the highest character

everywhere except in his own parish, where, doubtless because his

parishioners happen to be quarrelsome people, he is always at fierce feud

with a farmer or two, a colliery proprietor, a grocer who was once

churchwarden, and a tailor who formerly officiated as clerk.

At Mr. Ely’s right hand you see a very small man with a sallow and

somewhat puffy face, whose hair is brushed straight up, evidently with

the intention of giving him a height somewhat less disproportionate to

his sense of his own importance than the measure of five feet three

accorded him by an oversight of nature. This is Rev. Archibald Duke, a

very dyspeptic and evangelical man, who takes the gloomiest view of

mankind and their prospects, and thinks the immense sale of the ‘Pickwick

Papers,’ recently completed, one of the strongest proofs of original sin.

Unfortunately, though Mr. Duke was not burdened with a family, his yearly

expenditure was apt considerably to exceed his income; and the unpleasant

circumstances resulting from this, together with heavy meat-breakfasts,

may probably have contributed to his desponding views of the world

generally.

Next to him is seated Mr. Furness, a tall young man, with blond hair and

whiskers, who was plucked at Cambridge entirely owing to his genius; at

least I know that he soon afterwards published a volume of poems, which

were considered remarkably beautiful by many young ladies of his

acquaintance. Mr. Furness preached his own sermons, as any one of

tolerable critical acumen might have certified by comparing them with his

poems: in both, there was an exuberance of metaphor and simile entirely

original, and not in the least borrowed from any resemblance in the

things compared.

On Mr. Furness’s left you see Mr. Pugh, another young curate, of much

less marked characteristics. He had not published any poems; he had not

even been plucked; he had neat black whiskers and a pale complexion; read

prayers and a sermon twice every Sunday, and might be seen any day

sallying forth on his parochial duties in a white tie, a well-brushed

hat, a perfect suit of black, and well-polished boots--an equipment which

he probably supposed hieroglyphically to represent the spirit of

Christianity to the parishioners of Whittlecombe.

Mr. Pugh’s _vis-a-vis_ is the Rev. Martin Cleves, a man about

forty--middle-sized, broad-shouldered, with a negligently-tied cravat, large

irregular features, and a large head, thickly covered with lanky brown

hair. To a superficial glance, Mr. Cleves is the plainest and least

clerical-looking of the party; yet, strange to say, _there_ is the true

parish priest, the pastor beloved, consulted, relied on by his flock; a

clergyman who is not associated with the undertaker, but thought of as

the surest helper under a difficulty, as a monitor who is encouraging

rather than severe. Mr. Cleves has the wonderful art of preaching sermons

which the wheelwright and the blacksmith can understand; not because he

talks condescending twaddle, but because he can call a spade a spade, and

knows how to disencumber ideas of their wordy frippery. Look at him more

attentively, and you will see that his face is a very interesting

one--that there is a great deal of humour and feeling playing in his grey

eyes, and about the corners of his roughly-cut mouth: a man, you observe,

who has most likely sprung from the harder-working section of the middle

class, and has hereditary sympathies with the checkered life of the

people. He gets together the working men in his parish on a Monday

evening, and gives them a sort of conversational lecture on useful

practical matters, telling them stories, or reading some select passages

from an agreeable book, and commenting on them; and if you were to ask

the first labourer or artisan in Tripplegate what sort of man the parson

was, he would say,--‘a uncommon knowin’, sensable, free-spoken gentleman;

very kind an’ good-natur’d too’. Yet for all this, he is perhaps the best

Grecian of the party, if we except Mr. Baird, the young man on his left.

Mr. Baird has since gained considerable celebrity as an original writer

and metropolitan lecturer, but at that time he used to preach in a little

church something like a barn, to a congregation consisting of three rich

farmers and their servants, about fifteen labourers, and the due

proportion of women and children. The rich farmers understood him to be

‘very high learnt;’ but if you had interrogated them for a more precise

description, they would have said that he was ‘a thinnish-faced man, with

a sort o’ cast in his eye, like’.

Seven, altogether: a delightful number for a dinner-party, supposing the

units to be delightful, but everything depends on that. During dinner Mr.

Fellowes took the lead in the conversation, which set strongly in the

direction of mangold-wurzel and the rotation of crops; for Mr. Fellowes

and Mr. Cleves cultivated their own glebes. Mr. Ely, too, had some

agricultural notions, and even the Rev. Archibald Duke was made alive to

that class of mundane subjects by the possession of some potato-ground.

The two young curates talked a little aside during these discussions,

which had imperfect interest for their unbeneficed minds; and the

transcendental and near-sighted Mr. Baird seemed to listen somewhat

abstractedly, knowing little more of potatoes and mangold-wurzel than

that they were some form of the ‘Conditioned’.

‘What a hobby farming is with Lord Watling!’ said Mr. Fellowes, when the

cloth was being drawn. ‘I went over his farm at Tetterley with him last

summer. It is really a model farm; first-rate dairy, grazing and wheat

land, and such splendid farm-buildings! An expensive hobby, though. He

sinks a good deal of money there, I fancy. He has a great whim for black

cattle, and he sends that drunken old Scotch bailiff of his to Scotland

every year, with hundreds in his pocket, to buy these beasts.’

‘By the by,’ said Mr. Ely, ‘do you know who is the man to whom Lord

Watling has given the Bramhill living?’

‘A man named Sargent. I knew him at Oxford. His brother is a lawyer, and

was very useful to Lord Watling in that ugly Brounsell affair. That’s why

Sargent got the living.’

‘Sargent,’ said Mr. Ely. ‘I know him. Isn’t he a showy, talkative fellow;

has written travels in Mesopotamia, or something of that sort?’

‘That’s the man.’

‘He was at Witherington once, as Bagshawe’s curate. He got into rather

bad odour there, through some scandal about a flirtation, I think.’

‘Talking of scandal,’ returned Mr. Fellowes, ‘have you heard the last

story about Barton? Nisbett was telling me the other day that he dines

alone with the Countess at six, while Mrs. Barton is in the kitchen

acting as cook.’

‘Rather an apocryphal authority, Nisbett,’ said Mr. Ely.

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Cleves, with good-natured humour twinkling in his eyes,

‘depend upon it, that is a corrupt version. The original text is, that

they all dined together _with_ six--meaning six children--and that Mrs.

Barton is an excellent cook.’

‘I wish dining alone together may be the worst of that sad business,’

said the Rev. Archibald Duke, in a tone implying that his wish was a

strong figure of speech.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Fellowes, filling his glass and looking jocose, ‘Barton

is certainly either the greatest gull in existence, or he has some cunning

secret,--some philtre or other to make himself charming in the eyes of a

fair lady. It isn’t all of us that can make conquests when our ugliness

is past its bloom.’

‘The lady seemed to have made a conquest of him at the very outset,’ said

Mr. Ely. ‘I was immensely amused one night at Granby’s when he was

telling us her story about her husband’s adventures. He said, “When she

told me the tale, I felt I don’t know how,--I felt it from the crown of

my head to the sole of my feet.”’

Mr. Ely gave these words dramatically, imitating the Rev. Amos’s fervour

and symbolic action, and every one laughed except Mr. Duke, whose

after-dinner view of things was not apt to be jovial. He said,--‘I think

some of us ought to remonstrate with Mr. Barton on the scandal he is

causing. He is not only imperilling his own soul, but the souls of his

flock.’

‘Depend upon it,’ said Mr. Cleves, ‘there is some simple explanation of

the whole affair, if we only happened to know it. Barton has always

impressed me as a right-minded man, who has the knack of doing himself

injustice by his manner.’

‘Now I never liked Barton,’ said Mr. Fellowes. ‘He’s not a gentleman.

Why, he used to be on terms of intimacy with that canting Prior, who died

a little while ago;--a fellow who soaked himself with spirits, and talked

of the Gospel through an inflamed nose.’

‘The Countess has given him more refined tastes, I daresay,’ said Mr.

Ely.

‘Well,’ observed Mr. Cleves, ‘the poor fellow must have a hard pull to

get along, with his small income and large family. Let us hope the

Countess does something towards making the pot boil.’

‘Not she,’ said Mr. Duke; ‘there are greater signs of poverty about them

than ever.’

‘Well, come,’ returned Mr. Cleves, who could be caustic sometimes, and

who was not at all fond of his reverend brother, Mr. Duke, ‘that’s

something in Barton’s favour at all events. He might be poor _without_

showing signs of poverty.’

Mr. Duke turned rather yellow, which was his way of blushing, and Mr. Ely

came to his relief by observing,--‘They’re making a very good piece of

work of Shepperton Church. Dolby, the architect, who has it in hand, is a

very clever fellow.’

‘It’s he who has been doing Coppleton Church,’ said Mr. Furness. ‘They’ve

got it in excellent order for the visitation.’

This mention of the visitation suggested the Bishop, and thus opened a

wide duct, which entirely diverted the stream of animadversion from that

small pipe--that capillary vessel, the Rev. Amos Barton.

The talk of the clergy about their Bishop belongs to the esoteric part of

their profession; so we will at once quit the dining-room at Milby

Vicarage, lest we should happen to overhear remarks unsuited to the lay

understanding, and perhaps dangerous to our repose of mind.

Chapter 7

I dare say the long residence of the Countess Czerlaski at Shepperton

Vicarage is very puzzling to you also, dear reader, as well as to Mr.

Barton’s clerical brethren; the more so, as I hope you are not in the

least inclined to put that very evil interpretation on it which evidently

found acceptance with the sallow and dyspeptic Mr. Duke, and with the

florid and highly peptic Mr. Fellowes. You have seen enough, I trust, of

the Rev. Amos Barton, to be convinced that he was more apt to fall into a

blunder than into a sin--more apt to be deceived than to incur a

necessity for being deceitful: and if you have a keen eye for

physiognomy, you will have detected that the Countess Czerlaski loved

herself far too well to get entangled in an unprofitable vice.

How then, you will say, could this fine lady choose to quarter herself on

the establishment of a poor curate, where the carpets were probably

falling into holes, where the attendance was limited to a maid of all

work, and where six children were running loose from eight o’clock in the

morning till eight o’clock in the evening? Surely you must be

misrepresenting the facts.

Heaven forbid! For not having a lofty imagination, as you perceive, and

being unable to invent thrilling incidents for your amusement, my only

merit must lie in the truth with which I represent to you the humble

experience of an ordinary fellow-mortal. I wish to stir your sympathy

with commonplace troubles--to win your tears for real sorrow: sorrow such

as may live next door to you--such as walks neither in rags nor in

velvet, but in very ordinary decent apparel.

Therefore, that you may dismiss your suspicions of my veracity, I will

beg you to consider, that at the time the Countess Czerlaski left Camp

Villa in dudgeon, she had only twenty pounds in her pocket, being about

one-third of the income she possessed independently of her brother. You

will then perceive that she was in the extremely inconvenient predicament

of having quarrelled, not indeed with her bread and cheese, but certainly

with her chicken and tart--a predicament all the more inconvenient to

her, because the habit of idleness had quite unfitted her for earning

those necessary superfluities, and because, with all her fascinations,

she had not secured any enthusiastic friends whose houses were open to

her, and who were dying to see her. Thus she had completely checkmated

herself, unless she could resolve on one unpleasant move--namely, to

humble herself to her brother, and recognize his wife. This seemed quite

impossible to her as long as she entertained the hope that he would make

the first advances; and in this flattering hope she remained month after

month at Shepperton Vicarage, gracefully overlooking the deficiencies of

accommodation, and feeling that she was really behaving charmingly. ‘Who

indeed,’ she thought to herself, ‘could do otherwise, with a lovely,

gentle creature like Milly? I shall really be sorry to leave the poor

thing.’

So, though she lay in bed till ten, and came down to a separate breakfast

at eleven, she kindly consented to dine as early as five, when a hot

joint was prepared, which coldly furnished forth the children’s table the

next day; she considerately prevented Milly from devoting herself too

closely to the children, by insisting on reading, talking, and walking

with her; and she even began to embroider a cap for the next baby, which

must certainly be a girl, and be named Caroline.

After the first month or two of her residence at the Vicarage, the Rev.

Amos Barton became aware--as, indeed, it was unavoidable that he

should--of the strong disapprobation it drew upon him, and the change of

feeling towards him which it was producing in his kindest parishioners.

But, in the first place, he still believed in the Countess as a charming

and influential woman, disposed to befriend him, and, in any case, he

could hardly hint departure to a lady guest who had been kind to him and

his, and who might any day spontaneously announce the termination of her

visit; in the second place, he was conscious of his own innocence, and

felt some contemptuous indignation towards people who were ready to

imagine evil of him; and, lastly, he had, as I have already intimated, a

strong will of his own, so that a certain obstinacy and defiance mingled

itself with his other feelings on the subject.

The one unpleasant consequence which was not to be evaded or counteracted

by any mere mental state, was the increasing drain on his slender purse

for household expenses, to meet which the remittance he had received from

the clerical charity threatened to be quite inadequate. Slander may be

defeated by equanimity; but courageous thoughts will not pay your baker’s

bill, and fortitude is nowhere considered legal tender for beef. Month

after month the financial aspect of the Rev. Amos’s affairs became more

and more serious to him, and month after month, too, wore away more and

more of that armour of indignation and defiance with which he had at

first defended himself from the harsh looks of faces that were once the

friendliest.

But quite the heaviest pressure of the trouble fell on Milly--on gentle,

uncomplaining Milly--whose delicate body was becoming daily less fit for

all the many things that had to be done between rising up and lying down.

At first, she thought the Countess’s visit would not last long, and she

was quite glad to incur extra exertion for the sake of making her friend

comfortable. I can hardly bear to think of all the rough work she did

with those lovely hands--all by the sly, without letting her husband know

anything about it, and husbands are not clairvoyant: how she salted

bacon, ironed shirts and cravats, put patches on patches, and re-darned

darns. Then there was the task of mending and eking out baby-linen in

prospect, and the problem perpetually suggesting itself how she and Nanny

should manage when there was another baby, as there would be before very

many months were past.

When time glided on, and the Countess’s visit did not end, Milly was not

blind to any phase of their position. She knew of the slander; she was

aware of the keeping aloof of old friends; but these she felt almost

entirely on her husband’s account. A loving woman’s world lies within the

four walls of her own home; and it is only through her husband that she

is in any electric communication with the world beyond. Mrs. Simpkins may

have looked scornfully at her, but baby crows and holds out his little

arms none the less blithely; Mrs. Tomkins may have left off calling on

her, but her husband comes home none the less to receive her care and

caresses; it has been wet and gloomy out of doors to-day, but she has

looked well after the shirt buttons, has cut out baby’s pinafores, and

half finished Willy’s blouse.

So it was with Milly. She was only vexed that her husband should be

vexed--only wounded because he was misconceived. But the difficulty about

ways and means she felt in quite a different manner. Her rectitude was

alarmed lest they should have to make tradesmen wait for their money; her

motherly love dreaded the diminution of comforts for the children; and

the sense of her own failing health gave exaggerated force to these

fears.

Milly could no longer shut her eyes to the fact, that the Countess was

inconsiderate, if she did not allow herself to entertain severer

thoughts; and she began to feel that it would soon be a duty to tell her

frankly that they really could not afford to have her visit farther

prolonged. But a process was going forward in two other minds, which

ultimately saved Milly from having to perform this painful task.

In the first place, the Countess was getting weary of Shepperton--weary

of waiting for her brother’s overtures which never came; so, one fine

morning, she reflected that forgiveness was a Christian duty, that a

sister should be placable, that Mr. Bridmain must feel the need of her

advice, to which he had been accustomed for three years, and that very

likely ‘that woman’ didn’t make the poor man happy. In this amiable frame

of mind she wrote a very affectionate appeal, and addressed it to Mr.

Bridmain, through his banker.

Another mind that was being wrought up to a climax was Nanny’s, the

maid-of-all-work, who had a warm heart and a still warmer temper. Nanny

adored her mistress: she had been heard to say, that she was ‘ready to

kiss the ground as the missis trod on’; and Walter, she considered, was

_her_ baby, of whom she was as jealous as a lover. But she had, from the

first, very slight admiration for the Countess Czerlaski. That lady, from

Nanny’s point of view, was a personage always ‘drawed out i’ fine

clothes’, the chief result of whose existence was to cause additional

bed-making, carrying of hot water, laying of table-cloths, and cooking of

dinners. It was a perpetually heightening ‘aggravation’ to Nanny that she

and her mistress had to ‘slave’ more than ever, because there was this

fine lady in the house.

‘An’ she pays nothin’ for’t neither,’ observed Nanny to Mr. Jacob Tomms,

a young gentleman in the tailoring line, who occasionally--simply out of

a taste for dialogue--looked into the vicarage kitchen of an evening. ‘I

know the master’s shorter o’ money than iver, an’ it meks no end o’

difference i’ th’ housekeepin’--her bein’ here, besides bein’ obliged to

have a charwoman constant.’

‘There’s fine stories i’ the village about her,’ said Mr. Tomms. ‘They

say as Muster Barton’s great wi’ her, or else she’d niver stop here.’

‘Then they say a passill o’ lies, an’ you ought to be ashamed to go an’

tell ’em o’er again. Do _you_ think as the master, as has got a wife like

the missis, ’ud go running arter a stuck-up piece o’ goods like that

Countess, as isn’t fit to black the missis’s shoes? I’m none so fond o’

the master, but I know better on him nor that.’

‘Well, I didn’t b’lieve it,’ said Mr. Tomms, humbly.

‘B’lieve it? you’d ha’ been a ninny if yer did. An’ she’s a nasty, stingy

thing, that Countess. She’s niver giv me a sixpence nor an old rag

neither, sin’ here’s she’s been. A-lyin’ a bed an a-comin’ down to

breakfast when other folks wants their dinner!’

If such was the state of Nanny’s mind as early as the end of August, when

this dialogue with Mr. Tomms occurred, you may imagine what it must have

been by the beginning of November, and that at that time a very slight

spark might any day cause the long-smouldering anger to flame forth in

open indignation.

That spark happened to fall the very morning that Mrs. Hackit paid the

visit to Mrs. Patten, recorded in the last chapter. Nanny’s dislike of

the Countess extended to the innocent dog Jet, whom she ‘couldn’t a-bear

to see made a fuss wi’ like a Christian. An’ the little ouzle must be

washed, too, ivery Saturday, as if there wasn’t children enoo to wash,

wi’out washin’ dogs.’

Now this particular morning it happened that Milly was quite too

poorly to get up, and Mr. Barton observed to Nanny, on going out, that

he would call and tell Mr. Brand to come. These circumstances were

already enough to make Nanny anxious and susceptible. But the Countess,

comfortably ignorant of them, came down as usual about eleven o’clock

to her separate breakfast, which stood ready for her at that hour in

the parlour; the kettle singing on the hob that she might make her own

tea. There was a little jug of cream, taken according to custom from

last night’s milk, and specially saved for the Countess’s breakfast.

Jet always awaited his mistress at her bedroom door, and it was her

habit to carry him down-stairs.

‘Now, my little Jet,’ she said, putting him down gently on the

hearth-rug, ‘you shall have a nice, nice breakfast.’

Jet indicated that he thought that observation extremely pertinent and

well-timed, by immediately raising himself on his hind-legs, and the

Countess emptied the cream-jug into the saucer. Now there was usually a

small jug of milk standing on the tray by the side of the cream, and

destined for Jet’s breakfast, but this morning Nanny, being ‘moithered’,

had forgotten that part of the arrangements, so that when the Countess

had made her tea, she perceived there was no second jug, and rang the

bell. Nanny appeared, looking very red and heated--the fact was, she had

been ‘doing up’ the kitchen fire, and that is a sort of work which by no

means conduces to blandness of temper. ‘Nanny, you have forgotten Jet’s

milk; will you bring me some more cream, please?’

This was just a little too much for Nanny’s forbearance. ‘Yes, I dare

say. Here am I wi’ my hands full o’ the children an’ the dinner, and

missis ill a-bed, and Mr. Brand a-comin’; and I must run o’er the village

to get more cream, ’cause you’ve give it to that nasty little

blackamoor.’

‘Is Mrs. Barton ill?’

‘Ill--yes--I should think she _is_ ill, an’ much you care. She’s likely to

be ill, moithered as _she_ is from mornin’ to night, wi’ folks as had

better be elsewhere.’

‘What do you mean by behaving in this way?’

‘Mean? Why I mean as the missis is a slavin’ her life out an’ a-sittin’

up o’nights, for folks as are better able to wait of _her_, i’stid o’

lyin’ a-bed an’ doin’ nothin’ all the blessed day, but mek work.’

‘Leave the room and don’t be insolent.’

‘Insolent! I’d better be insolent than like what some folks is,--a-livin’

on other folks, an’ bringin’ a bad name on ’em into the bargain.’

Here Nanny flung out of the room, leaving the lady to digest this

unexpected breakfast at her leisure.

The Countess was stunned for a few minutes, but when she began to recall

Nanny’s words, there was no possibility of avoiding very unpleasant

conclusions from them, or of failing to see her position at the Vicarage

in an entirely new light. The interpretation too of Nanny’s allusion to a

‘bad name’ did not lie out of the reach of the Countess’s imagination,

and she saw the necessity of quitting Shepperton without delay. Still,

she would like to wait for her brother’s letter--no--she would ask Milly

to forward it to her--still better, she would go at once to London,

inquire her brother’s address at his banker’s, and go to see him without

preliminary.

She went up to Milly’s room, and, after kisses and inquiries, said--‘I

find, on consideration, dear Milly, from the letter I had yesterday, that

I must bid you good-bye and go up to London at once. But you must not let

me leave you ill, you naughty thing.’

‘Oh no,’ said Milly, who felt as if a load had been taken off her back,

‘I shall be very well in an hour or two. Indeed, I’m much better now. You

will want me to help you to pack. But you won’t go for two or three

days?’

‘Yes, I must go to-morrow. But I shall not let you help me to pack, so

don’t entertain any unreasonable projects, but lie still. Mr. Brand is

coming, Nanny says.’

The news was not an unpleasant surprise to Mr. Barton when he came home,

though he was able to express more regret at the idea of parting than

Milly could summon to her lips. He retained more of his original feeling

for the Countess than Milly did, for women never betray themselves to men

as they do to each other; and the Rev. Amos had not a keen instinct for

character. But he felt that he was being relieved from a difficulty, and

in the way that was easiest for him. Neither he nor Milly suspected that

it was Nanny who had cut the knot for them, for the Countess took care to

give no sign on that subject. As for Nanny, she was perfectly aware of

the relation between cause and effect in the affair, and secretly

chuckled over her outburst of ‘sauce’ as the best morning’s work she had

ever done.

So, on Friday morning, a fly was seen standing at the Vicarage gate with

the Countess’s boxes packed upon it; and presently that lady herself was

seen getting into the vehicle. After a last shake of the hand to Mr.

Barton, and last kisses to Milly and the children, the door was closed;

and as the fly rolled off, the little party at the Vicarage gate caught a

last glimpse of the handsome Countess leaning and waving kisses from the

carriage window. Jet’s little black phiz was also seen, and doubtless he

had his thoughts and feelings on the occasion, but he kept them strictly

within his own bosom.

The schoolmistress opposite witnessed this departure, and lost no time in

telling it to the schoolmaster, who again communicated the news to the

landlord of ‘The Jolly Colliers’, at the close of the morning

school-hours. Nanny poured the joyful tidings into the ear of Mr.

Farquhar’s footman, who happened to call with a letter, and Mr. Brand

carried them to all the patients he visited that morning, after calling

on Mrs. Barton. So that, before Sunday, it was very generally known in

Shepperton parish that the Countess Czerlaski had left the Vicarage.

The Countess had left, but alas, the bills she had contributed to swell

still remained; so did the exiguity of the children’s clothing, which

also was partly an indirect consequence of her presence; and so, too, did

the coolness and alienation in the parishioners, which could not at once

vanish before the fact of her departure. The Rev. Amos was not

exculpated--the past was not expunged. But what was worse than all,

Milly’s health gave frequent cause for alarm, and the prospect of baby’s

birth was overshadowed by more than the usual fears. The birth came

prematurely, about six weeks after the Countess’s departure, but Mr.

Brand gave favourable reports to all inquirers on the following day,

which was Saturday. On Sunday, after morning service, Mrs. Hackit called

at the Vicarage to inquire how Mrs. Barton was, and was invited up-stairs

to see her. Milly lay placid and lovely in her feebleness, and held out

her hand to Mrs. Hackit with a beaming smile. It was very pleasant to her

to see her old friend unreserved and cordial once more. The seven months’

baby was very tiny and very red, but ‘handsome is that handsome does’--he

was pronounced to be ‘doing well’, and Mrs. Hackit went home gladdened at

heart to think that the perilous hour was over.

Chapter 8

The following Wednesday, when Mr. and Mrs. Hackit were seated comfortably

by their bright hearth, enjoying the long afternoon afforded by an early

dinner, Rachel, the housemaid, came in and said,--‘If you please ’m, the

shepherd says, have you heard as Mrs. Barton’s wuss, and not expected to

live?’

Mrs. Hackit turned pale, and hurried out to question the shepherd, who,

she found, had heard the sad news at an alehouse in the village. Mr.

Hackit followed her out and said, ‘Thee’dst better have the pony-chaise,

and go directly.’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Hackit, too much overcome to utter any exclamations.

‘Rachel, come an’ help me on wi’ my things.’

When her husband was wrapping her cloak round her feet in the

pony-chaise, she said,--‘If I don’t come home to-night, I shall send back

the pony-chaise, and you’ll know I’m wanted there.’

‘Yes, yes.’

It was a bright frosty day, and by the time Mrs. Hackit arrived at the

Vicarage, the sun was near its setting. There was a carriage and pair

standing at the gate, which she recognized as Dr Madeley’s, the physician

from Rotherby. She entered at the kitchen door that she might avoid

knocking, and quietly question Nanny. No one was in the kitchen, but,

passing on, she saw the sitting-room door open, and Nanny, with Walter in

her arms, removing the knives and forks, which had been laid for dinner

three hours ago.

‘Master says he can’t eat no dinner,’ was Nanny’s first word. ‘He’s never

tasted nothin’ sin’ yesterday mornin’, but a cup o’ tea.’

‘When was your missis took worse?’

‘O’ Monday night. They sent for Dr Madeley i’ the middle o’ the day

yisterday, an’ he’s here again now.’

‘Is the baby alive?’

‘No, it died last night. The children’s all at Mrs. Bond’s. She come and

took ’em away last night, but the master says they must be fetched soon.

He’s up-stairs now, wi’ Dr Madeley and Mr. Brand.’

At this moment Mrs. Hackit heard the sound of a heavy, slow foot, in the

passage; and presently Amos Barton entered, with dry despairing eyes,

haggard and unshaven. He expected to find the sitting-room as he left it,

with nothing to meet his eyes but Milly’s work-basket in the corner of

the sofa, and the children’s toys overturned in the bow-window. But when

he saw Mrs. Hackit come towards him with answering sorrow in her face,

the pent-up fountain of tears was opened; he threw himself on the sofa,

hid his face, and sobbed aloud.

‘Bear up, Mr. Barton,’ Mrs. Hackit ventured to say at last; ‘bear up, for

the sake o’ them dear children.’

‘The children,’ said Amos, starting up. ‘They must be sent for. Some one

must fetch them. Milly will want to ...’

He couldn’t finish the sentence, but Mrs. Hackit understood him, and

said, ‘I’ll send the man with the pony-carriage for ’em.’

She went out to give the order, and encountered Dr Madeley and Mr. Brand,

who were just going.

Mr. Brand said: ‘I am very glad to see you are here, Mrs. Hackit. No time

must be lost in sending for the children. Mrs. Barton wants to see them.’

‘Do you quite give her up then?’

‘She can hardly live through the night. She begged us to tell her how

long she had to live; and then asked for the children.’

The pony-carriage was sent; and Mrs. Hackit, returning to Mr. Barton,

said she would like to go up-stairs now. He went up-stairs with her and

opened the door. The chamber fronted the west; the sun was just setting,

and the red light fell full upon the bed, where Milly lay with the hand

of death visibly upon her. The feather-bed had been removed, and she lay

low on a mattress, with her head slightly raised by pillows. Her long

fair neck seemed to be struggling with a painful effort; her features

were pallid and pinched, and her eyes were closed. There was no one in

the room but the nurse, and the mistress of the free school, who had come

to give her help from the beginning of the change.

Amos and Mrs. Hackit stood beside the bed, and Milly opened her eyes.

‘My darling, Mrs. Hackit is come to see you.’

Milly smiled and looked at her with that strange, far-off look which

belongs to ebbing life.

‘Are the children coming?’ she said, painfully.

‘Yes, they will be here directly.’

She closed her eyes again.

Presently the pony-carriage was heard; and Amos, motioning to Mrs. Hackit

to follow him, left the room. On their way down-stairs, she suggested that

the carriage should remain to take them away again afterwards, and Amos

assented.

There they stood in the melancholy sitting-room--the five sweet children,

from Patty to Chubby--all, with their mother’s eyes--all, except Patty,

looking up with a vague fear at their father as he entered. Patty

understood the great sorrow that was come upon them, and tried to check

her sobs as she heard her papa’s footsteps.

‘My children,’ said Amos, taking Chubby in his arms, ‘God is going to

take away your dear mamma from us. She wants to see you to say good-bye.

You must try to be very good and not cry.’

He could say no more, but turned round to see if Nanny was there with

Walter, and then led the way up-stairs, leading Dickey with the other

hand. Mrs. Hackit followed with Sophy and Patty, and then came Nanny with

Walter and Fred.

It seemed as if Milly had heard the little footsteps on the stairs, for

when Amos entered her eyes were wide open, eagerly looking towards the

door. They all stood by the bedside--Amos nearest to her, holding Chubby

and Dickey. But she motioned for Patty to come first, and clasping the

poor pale child by the hand, said,--‘Patty, I’m going away from you. Love

your papa. Comfort him; and take care of your little brothers and

sisters. God will help you.’

Patty stood perfectly quiet, and said, ‘Yes, mamma.’

The mother motioned with her pallid lips for the dear child to lean

towards her and kiss her; and then Patty’s great anguish overcame her,

and she burst into sobs. Amos drew her towards him and pressed her head

gently to him, while Milly beckoned Fred and Sophy, and said to them more

faintly,--‘Patty will try to be your mamma when I am gone, my darlings.

You will be good and not vex her.’

They leaned towards her, and she stroked their fair heads, and kissed

their tear-stained cheeks. They cried because mamma was ill and papa

looked so unhappy; but they thought, perhaps next week things would be as

they used to be again.

The little ones were lifted on the bed to kiss her. Little Walter said,

‘Mamma, mamma’, and stretched out his fat arms and smiled; and Chubby

seemed gravely wondering; but Dickey, who had been looking fixedly at

her, with lip hanging down, ever since he came into the room, now seemed

suddenly pierced with the idea that mamma was going away somewhere; his

little heart swelled and he cried aloud.

Then Mrs. Hackit and Nanny took them all away. Patty at first begged to

stay at home and not go to Mrs. Bond’s again; but when Nanny reminded her

that she had better go to take care of the younger ones, she submitted at

once, and they were all packed in the pony-carriage once more.

Milly kept her eyes shut for some time after the children were gone. Amos

had sunk on his knees, and was holding her hand while he watched her

face. By-and-by she opened her eyes, and, drawing him close to her,

whispered slowly,--‘My dear--dear--husband--you have been--very--good to

me. You--have--made me--very--happy.’

She spoke no more for many hours. They watched her breathing becoming

more and more difficult, until evening deepened into night, and until

midnight was past. About half-past twelve she seemed to be trying to

speak, and they leaned to catch her words. ‘Music--music--didn’t you hear

it?’

Amos knelt by the bed and held her hand in his. He did not believe in his

sorrow. It was a bad dream. He did not know when she was gone. But Mr.

Brand, whom Mrs. Hackit had sent for before twelve o’clock, thinking that

Mr. Barton might probably need his help, now came up to him, and

said,--‘She feels no more pain now. Come, my dear sir, come with me.’

‘She isn’t _dead_?’ shrieked the poor desolate man, struggling to shake

off Mr. Brand, who had taken him by the arm. But his weary weakened frame

was not equal to resistance, and he was dragged out of the room.

Chapter 9

They laid her in the grave--the sweet mother with her baby in her

arms--while the Christmas snow lay thick upon the graves. It was Mr.

Cleves who buried her. On the first news of Mr. Barton’s calamity, he had

ridden over from Tripplegate to beg that he might be made of some use,

and his silent grasp of Amos’s hand had penetrated like the painful

thrill of life-recovering warmth to the poor benumbed heart of the

stricken man.

The snow lay thick upon the graves, and the day was cold and dreary; but

there was many a sad eye watching that black procession as it passed from

the vicarage to the church, and from the church to the open grave. There

were men and women standing in that churchyard who had bandied vulgar

jests about their pastor, and who had lightly charged him with sin; but

now, when they saw him following the coffin, pale and haggard, he was

consecrated anew by his great sorrow, and they looked at him with

respectful pity.

All the children were there, for Amos had willed it so, thinking that

some dim memory of that sacred moment might remain even with little

Walter, and link itself with what he would hear of his sweet mother in

after years. He himself led Patty and Dickey; then came Sophy and Fred;

Mr. Brand had begged to carry Chubby, and Nanny followed with Walter.

They made a circle round the grave while the coffin was being lowered.

Patty alone of all the children felt that mamma was in that coffin, and

that a new and sadder life had begun for papa and herself. She was pale

and trembling, but she clasped his hand more firmly as the coffin went

down, and gave no sob. Fred and Sophy, though they were only two and

three years younger, and though they had seen mamma in her coffin, seemed

to themselves to be looking at some strange show. They had not learned to

decipher that terrible handwriting of human destiny, illness and death.

Dickey had rebelled against his black clothes, until he was told that it

would be naughty to mamma not to put them on, when he at once submitted;

and now, though he had heard Nanny say that mamma was in heaven, he had a

vague notion that she would come home again to-morrow, and say he had been

a good boy and let him empty her work-box. He stood close to his father,

with great rosy cheeks, and wide open blue eyes, looking first up at Mr.

Cleves and then down at the coffin, and thinking he and Chubby would play

at that when they got home.

The burial was over, and Amos turned with his children to re-enter the

house--the house where, an hour ago, Milly’s dear body lay, where the

windows were half darkened, and sorrow seemed to have a hallowed precinct

for itself, shut out from the world. But now she was gone; the broad

snow-reflected daylight was in all the rooms; the Vicarage again seemed

part of the common working-day world, and Amos, for the first time, felt

that he was alone--that day after day, month after month, year after

year, would have to be lived through without Milly’s love. Spring would

come, and she would not be there; summer, and she would not be there; and

he would never have her again with him by the fireside in the long

evenings. The seasons all seemed irksome to his thoughts; and how dreary

the sunshiny days that would be sure to come! She was gone from him; and

he could never show her his love any more, never make up for omissions in

the past by filling future days with tenderness.

O the anguish of that thought that we can never atone to our dead for the

stinted affection we gave them, for the light answers we returned to

their plaints or their pleadings, for the little reverence we showed to

that sacred human soul that lived so close to us, and was the divinest

thing God had given us to know.

Amos Barton had been an affectionate husband, and while Milly was with

him, he was never visited by the thought that perhaps his sympathy with

her was not quick and watchful enough; but now he re-lived all their life

together, with that terrible keenness of memory and imagination which

bereavement gives, and he felt as if his very love needed a pardon for

its poverty and selfishness.

No outward solace could counteract the bitterness of this inward woe. But

outward solace came. Cold faces looked kind again, and parishioners

turned over in their minds what they could best do to help their pastor.

Mr. Oldinport wrote to express his sympathy, and enclosed another

twenty-pound note, begging that he might be permitted to contribute in

this way to the relief of Mr. Barton’s mind from pecuniary anxieties,

under the pressure of a grief which all his parishioners must share; and

offering his interest towards placing the two eldest girls in a school

expressly founded for clergymen’s daughters. Mr. Cleves succeeded in

collecting thirty pounds among his richer clerical brethren, and, adding

ten pounds himself, sent the sum to Amos, with the kindest and most

delicate words of Christian fellowship and manly friendship. Miss Jackson

forgot old grievances, and came to stay some months with Milly’s

children, bringing such material aid as she could spare from her small

income. These were substantial helps, which relieved Amos from the

pressure of his money difficulties; and the friendly attentions, the kind

pressure of the hand, the cordial looks he met with everywhere in his

parish, made him feel that the fatal frost which had settled on his

pastoral duties, during the Countess’s residence at the Vicarage, was

completely thawed, and that the hearts of his parishioners were once more

open to him. No one breathed the Countess’s name now; for Milly’s memory

hallowed her husband, as of old the place was hallowed on which an angel

from God had alighted.

When the spring came, Mrs. Hackit begged that she might have Dickey to

stay with her, and great was the enlargement of Dickey’s experience from

that visit. Every morning he was allowed--being well wrapt up as to his

chest by Mrs. Hackit’s own hands, but very bare and red as to his

legs--to run loose in the cow and poultry yard, to persecute the

turkey-cock by satirical imitations of his gobble-gobble, and to put

difficult questions to the groom as to the reasons why horses had four

legs, and other transcendental matters. Then Mr. Hackit would take Dickey

up on horseback when he rode round his farm, and Mrs. Hackit had a large

plumcake in cut, ready to meet incidental attacks of hunger. So that

Dickey had considerably modified his views as to the desirability of Mrs.

Hackit’s kisses.

The Misses Farquhar made particular pets of Fred and Sophy, to whom they

undertook to give lessons twice a-week in writing and geography; and Mrs.

Farquhar devised many treats for the little ones. Patty’s treat was to

stay at home, or walk about with her papa; and when he sat by the fire in

an evening, after the other children were gone to bed, she would bring a

stool, and, placing it against his feet, would sit down upon it and lean

her head against his knee. Then his hand would rest on that fair head,

and he would feel that Milly’s love was not quite gone out of his life.

So the time wore on till it was May again, and the church was quite

finished and reopened in all its new splendour, and Mr. Barton was

devoting himself with more vigour than ever to his parochial duties. But

one morning--it was a very bright morning, and evil tidings sometimes

like to fly in the finest weather--there came a letter for Mr. Barton,

addressed in the Vicar’s handwriting. Amos opened it with some

anxiety--somehow or other he had a presentiment of evil. The letter

contained the announcement that Mr. Carpe had resolved on coming to

reside at Shepperton, and that, consequently, in six months from that

time Mr. Barton’s duties as curate in that parish would be closed.

O, it was hard! Just when Shepperton had become the place where he most

wished to stay--where he had friends who knew his sorrows--where he lived

close to Milly’s grave. To part from that grave seemed like parting with

Milly a second time; for Amos was one who clung to all the material links

between his mind and the past. His imagination was not vivid, and

required the stimulus of actual perception.

It roused some bitter feeling, too, to think that Mr. Carpe’s wish to

reside at Shepperton was merely a pretext for removing Mr. Barton, in

order that he might ultimately give the curacy of Shepperton to his own

brother-in-law, who was known to be wanting a new position.

Still, it must be borne; and the painful business of seeking another

curacy must be set about without loss of time. After the lapse of some

months, Amos was obliged to renounce the hope of getting one at all near

Shepperton, and he at length resigned himself to accepting one in a

distant county. The parish was in a large manufacturing town, where his

walks would lie among noisy streets and dingy alleys, and where the

children would have no garden to play in, no pleasant farm-houses to

visit.

It was another blow inflicted on the bruised man.

Chapter 10

At length the dreaded week was come, when Amos and his children must

leave Shepperton. There was general regret among the parishioners at his

departure: not that any one of them thought his spiritual gifts

pre-eminent, or was conscious of great edification from his ministry. But

his recent troubles had called out their better sympathies, and that is

always a source of love. Amos failed to touch the spring of goodness by

his sermons, but he touched it effectually by his sorrows; and there was

now a real bond between him and his flock.

‘My heart aches for them poor motherless children,’ said Mrs. Hackit to

her husband, ‘a-going among strangers, and into a nasty town, where

there’s no good victuals to be had, and you must pay dear to get bad

uns.’

Mrs. Hackit had a vague notion of a town life as a combination of dirty

backyards, measly pork, and dingy linen.

The same sort of sympathy was strong among the poorer class of

parishioners. Old stiff-jointed Mr. Tozer, who was still able to earn a

little by gardening ‘jobs’, stopped Mrs. Cramp, the charwoman, on her way

home from the Vicarage, where she had been helping Nanny to pack up the

day before the departure, and inquired very particularly into Mr.

Barton’s prospects.

‘Ah, poor mon,’ he was heard to say, ‘I’m sorry for un. He hedn’t much

here, but he’ll be wuss off theer. Half a loaf’s better nor ne’er un.’

The sad good-byes had all been said before that last evening; and after

all the packing was done and all the arrangements were made, Amos felt

the oppression of that blank interval in which one has nothing left to

think of but the dreary future--the separation from the loved and

familiar, and the chilling entrance on the new and strange. In every

parting there is an image of death.

Soon after ten o’clock, when he had sent Nanny to bed, that she might

have a good night’s rest before the fatigues of the morrow, he stole

softly out to pay a last visit to Milly’s grave. It was a moonless night,

but the sky was thick with stars, and their light was enough to show that

the grass had grown long on the grave, and that there was a tombstone

telling in bright letters, on a dark ground, that beneath were deposited

the remains of Amelia, the beloved wife of Amos Barton, who died in the

thirty-fifth year of her age, leaving a husband and six children to

lament her loss. The final words of the inscription were, ‘Thy will be

done.’

The husband was now advancing towards the dear mound from which he was so

soon to be parted, perhaps for ever. He stood a few minutes reading over

and over again the words on the tombstone, as if to assure himself that

all the happy and unhappy past was a reality. For love is frightened at

the intervals of insensibility and callousness that encroach by little

and little on the dominion of grief, and it makes efforts to recall the

keenness of the first anguish.

Gradually, as his eye dwelt on the words, ‘Amelia, the beloved wife,’ the

waves of feeling swelled within his soul, and he threw himself on the

grave, clasping it with his arms, and kissing the cold turf.

‘Milly, Milly, dost thou hear me? I didn’t love thee enough--I wasn’t

tender enough to thee--but I think of it all now.’

The sobs came and choked his utterance, and the warm tears fell.

CONCLUSION

Only once again in his life has Amos Barton visited Milly’s grave. It was

in the calm and softened light of an autumnal afternoon, and he was not

alone. He held on his arm a young woman, with a sweet, grave face, which

strongly recalled the expression of Mrs. Barton’s, but was less lovely in

form and colour. She was about thirty, but there were some premature

lines round her mouth and eyes, which told of early anxiety.

Amos himself was much changed. His thin circlet of hair was nearly white,

and his walk was no longer firm and upright. But his glance was calm, and

even cheerful, and his neat linen told of a woman’s care. Milly did not

take all her love from the earth when she died. She had left some of it

in Patty’s heart.

All the other children were now grown up, and had gone their several

ways. Dickey, you will be glad to hear, had shown remarkable talents as

an engineer. His cheeks are still ruddy, in spite of mixed mathematics,

and his eyes are still large and blue; but in other respects his person

would present no marks of identification for his friend Mrs. Hackit, if

she were to see him; especially now that her eyes must be grown very dim,

with the wear of more than twenty additional years. He is nearly six feet

high, and has a proportionately broad chest; he wears spectacles, and

rubs his large white hands through a mass of shaggy brown hair. But I am

sure you have no doubt that Mr. Richard Barton is a thoroughly good

fellow, as well as a man of talent, and you will be glad any day to shake

hands with him, for his own sake as well as his mother’s.

Patty alone remains by her father’s side, and makes the evening sunshine

of his life.

MR. GILFIL’S LOVE STORY

Chapter 1

When old Mr. Gilfil died, thirty years ago, there was general sorrow in

Shepperton; and if black cloth had not been hung round the pulpit and

reading-desk, by order of his nephew and principal legatee, the

parishioners would certainly have subscribed the necessary sum out of

their own pockets, rather than allow such a tribute of respect to be

wanting. All the farmers’ wives brought out their black bombasines; and

Mrs. Jennings, at the Wharf, by appearing the first Sunday after Mr.

Gilfil’s death in her salmon-coloured ribbons and green shawl, excited

the severest remark. To be sure, Mrs. Jennings was a new-comer, and

town-bred, so that she could hardly be expected to have very clear

notions of what was proper; but, as Mrs. Higgins observed in an undertone

to Mrs. Parrot when they were coming out of church, ‘Her husband, who’d

been born i’ the parish, might ha’ told her better.’ An unreadiness to

put on black on all available occasions, or too great an alacrity in

putting it off, argued, in Mrs. Higgins’s opinion, a dangerous levity of

character, and an unnatural insensibility to the essential fitness of

things.

‘Some folks can’t a-bear to put off their colours,’ she remarked; ‘but

that was never the way i’ _my_ family. Why, Mrs. Parrot, from the time I

was married, till Mr. Higgins died, nine years ago come Candlemas, I

niver was out o’ black two year together!’

‘Ah,’ said Mrs. Parrot, who was conscious of inferiority in this respect,

‘there isn’t many families as have had so many deaths as yours, Mrs.

Higgins.’

Mrs. Higgins, who was an elderly widow, ‘well left’, reflected with

complacency that Mrs. Parrot’s observation was no more than just, and

that Mrs. Jennings very likely belonged to a family which had had no

funerals to speak of.

Even dirty Dame Fripp, who was a very rare church-goer, had been to Mrs.

Hackit to beg a bit of old crape, and with this sign of grief pinned on

her little coal-scuttle bonnet, was seen dropping her curtsy opposite the

reading-desk. This manifestation of respect towards Mr. Gilfil’s memory

on the part of Dame Fripp had no theological bearing whatever. It was due

to an event which had occurred some years back, and which, I am sorry to

say, had left that grimy old lady as indifferent to the means of grace as

ever. Dame Fripp kept leeches, and was understood to have such remarkable

influence over those wilful animals in inducing them to bite under the

most unpromising circumstances, that though her own leeches were usually

rejected, from a suspicion that they had lost their appetite, she herself

was constantly called in to apply the more lively individuals furnished

from Mr. Pilgrim’s surgery, when, as was very often the case, one of that

clever man’s paying patients was attacked with inflammation. Thus Dame

Fripp, in addition to ‘property’ supposed to yield her no less than

half-a-crown a-week, was in the receipt of professional fees, the gross

amount of which was vaguely estimated by her neighbours as ‘pouns an’

pouns’. Moreover, she drove a brisk trade in lollipop with epicurean

urchins, who recklessly purchased that luxury at the rate of two hundred

per cent. Nevertheless, with all these notorious sources of income, the

shameless old woman constantly pleaded poverty, and begged for scraps at

Mrs. Hackit’s, who, though she always said Mrs. Fripp was ‘as false as

two folks’, and no better than a miser and a heathen, had yet a leaning

towards her as an old neighbour.

‘There’s that case-hardened old Judy a-coming after the tea-leaves

again,’ Mrs. Hackit would say; ‘an’ I’m fool enough to give ’em her,

though Sally wants ’em all the while to sweep the floors with!’

Such was Dame Fripp, whom Mr. Gilfil, riding leisurely in top-boots and

spurs from doing duty at Knebley one warm Sunday afternoon, observed

sitting in the dry ditch near her cottage, and by her side a large pig,

who, with that ease and confidence belonging to perfect friendship, was

lying with his head in her lap, and making no effort to play the

agreeable beyond an occasional grunt.

‘Why, Mrs. Fripp,’ said the Vicar, ‘I didn’t know you had such a fine

pig. You’ll have some rare flitches at Christmas!’

‘Eh, God forbid! My son gev him me two ’ear ago, an’ he’s been company to

me iver sin’. I couldn’t find i’ my heart to part wi’m, if I niver knowed

the taste o’ bacon-fat again.’

‘Why, he’ll eat his head off, and yours too. How can you go on keeping a

pig, and making nothing by him?’

‘O, he picks a bit hisself wi’ rootin’, and I dooant mind doing wi’out to

gi’ him summat. A bit o’ company’s meat an’ drink too, an’ he follers me

about, and grunts when I spake to’m, just like a Christian.’

Mr. Gilfil laughed, and I am obliged to admit that he said good-bye to

Dame Fripp without asking her why she had not been to church, or making

the slightest effort for her spiritual edification. But the next day he

ordered his man David to take her a great piece of bacon, with a message,

saying, the parson wanted to make sure that Mrs. Fripp would know the

taste of bacon-fat again. So, when Mr. Gilfil died, Dame Fripp manifested

her gratitude and reverence in the simply dingy fashion I have mentioned.

You already suspect that the Vicar did not shine in the more spiritual

functions of his office; and indeed, the utmost I can say for him in this

respect is, that he performed those functions with undeviating attention

to brevity and despatch. He had a large heap of short sermons, rather

yellow and worn at the edges, from which he took two every Sunday,

securing perfect impartiality in the selection by taking them as they

came, without reference to topics; and having preached one of these

sermons at Shepperton in the morning, he mounted his horse and rode

hastily with the other in his pocket to Knebley, where he officiated in a

wonderful little church, with a checkered pavement which had once rung to

the iron tread of military monks, with coats of arms in clusters on the

lofty roof, marble warriors and their wives without noses occupying a

large proportion of the area, and the twelve apostles, with their heads

very much on one side, holding didactic ribbons, painted in fresco on the

walls. Here, in an absence of mind to which he was prone, Mr. Gilfil

would sometimes forget to take off his spurs before putting on his

surplice, and only become aware of the omission by feeling something

mysteriously tugging at the skirts of that garment as he stepped into the

reading-desk. But the Knebley farmers would as soon have thought of

criticizing the moon as their pastor. He belonged to the course of

nature, like markets and toll-gates and dirty bank-notes; and being a

vicar, his claim on their veneration had never been counteracted by an

exasperating claim on their pockets. Some of them, who did not indulge in

the superfluity of a covered cart without springs, had dined half an hour

earlier than usual--that is to say, at twelve o’clock--in order to have

time for their long walk through miry lanes, and present themselves duly

in their places at two o’clock, when Mr. Oldinport and Lady Felicia, to

whom Knebley Church was a sort of family temple, made their way among the

bows and curtsies of their dependants to a carved and canopied pew in the

chancel, diffusing as they went a delicate odour of Indian roses on the

unsusceptible nostrils of the congregation.

The farmers’ wives and children sat on the dark oaken benches, but the

husbands usually chose the distinctive dignity of a stall under one of

the twelve apostles, where, when the alternation of prayers and responses

had given place to the agreeable monotony of the sermon, Paterfamilias

might be seen or heard sinking into a pleasant doze, from which he

infallibly woke up at the sound of the concluding doxology. And then they

made their way back again through the miry lanes, perhaps almost as much

the better for this simple weekly tribute to what they knew of good and

right, as many a more wakeful and critical congregation of the present

day.

Mr. Gilfil, too, used to make his way home in the later years of his

life, for he had given up the habit of dining at Knebley Abbey on a

Sunday, having, I am sorry to say, had a very bitter quarrel with Mr.

Oldinport, the cousin and predecessor of the Mr. Oldinport who flourished

in the Rev. Amos Barton’s time. That quarrel was a sad pity, for the two

had had many a good day’s hunting together when they were younger, and in

those friendly times not a few members of the hunt envied Mr. Oldinport

the excellent terms he was on with his vicar; for, as Sir Jasper Sitwell

observed, ‘next to a man’s wife, there’s nobody can be such an infernal

plague to you as a parson, always under your nose on your own estate.’

I fancy the original difference which led to the rupture was very slight;

but Mr. Gilfil was of an extremely caustic turn, his satire having a

flavour of originality which was quite wanting in his sermons; and as Mr.

Oldinport’s armour of conscious virtue presented some considerable and

conspicuous gaps, the Vicar’s keen-edged retorts probably made a few

incisions too deep to be forgiven. Such, at least, was the view of the

case presented by Mr. Hackit, who knew as much of the matter as any third

person. For, the very week after the quarrel, when presiding at the

annual dinner of the Association for the Prosecution of Felons, held at

the Oldinport Arms, he contributed an additional zest to the conviviality

on that occasion by informing the company that ‘the parson had given the

squire a lick with the rough side of his tongue.’ The detection of the

person or persons who had driven off Mr. Parrot’s heifer, could hardly

have been more welcome news to the Shepperton tenantry, with whom Mr.

Oldinport was in the worst odour as a landlord, having kept up his rents

in spite of falling prices, and not being in the least stung to emulation

by paragraphs in the provincial newspapers, stating that the Honourable

Augustus Purwell, or Viscount Blethers, had made a return of ten per cent

on their last rent-day. The fact was, Mr. Oldinport had not the slightest

intention of standing for Parliament, whereas he had the strongest

intention of adding to his unentailed estate. Hence, to the Shepperton

farmers it was as good as lemon with their grog to know that the Vicar

had thrown out sarcasms against the Squire’s charities, as little better

than those of the man who stole a goose, and gave away the giblets in

alms. For Shepperton, you observe, was in a state of Attic culture

compared with Knebley; it had turnpike roads and a public opinion,

whereas, in the Bœotian Knebley, men’s minds and waggons alike moved in

the deepest of ruts, and the landlord was only grumbled at as a necessary

and unalterable evil, like the weather, the weevils, and the turnip-fly.

Thus in Shepperton this breach with Mr. Oldinport tended only to heighten

that good understanding which the Vicar had always enjoyed with the rest

of his parishioners, from the generation whose children he had christened

a quarter of a century before, down to that hopeful generation

represented by little Tommy Bond, who had recently quitted frocks and

trousers for the severe simplicity of a tight suit of corduroys, relieved

by numerous brass buttons. Tommy was a saucy boy, impervious to all

impressions of reverence, and excessively addicted to humming-tops and

marbles, with which recreative resources he was in the habit of

immoderately distending the pockets of his corduroys. One day, spinning

his top on the garden-walk, and seeing the Vicar advance directly towards

it, at that exciting moment when it was beginning to ‘sleep’

magnificently, he shouted out with all the force of his lungs--‘Stop!

don’t knock my top down, now!’ From that day ‘little Corduroys’ had been

an especial favourite with Mr. Gilfil, who delighted to provoke his ready

scorn and wonder by putting questions which gave Tommy the meanest

opinion of his intellect.

‘Well, little Corduroys, have they milked the geese to-day?’

‘Milked the geese! why, they don’t milk the geese, you silly!’

‘No! dear heart! why, how do the goslings live, then?’

The nutriment of goslings rather transcending Tommy’s observations in

natural history, he feigned to understand this question in an exclamatory

rather than an interrogatory sense, and became absorbed in winding up his

top.

‘Ah, I see you don’t know how the goslings live! But did you notice how

it rained sugar-plums yesterday?’ (Here Tommy became attentive.) ‘Why,

they fell into my pocket as I rode along. You look in my pocket and see

if they didn’t.’ Tommy, without waiting to discuss the alleged

antecedent, lost no time in ascertaining the presence of the agreeable

consequent, for he had a well-founded belief in the advantages of diving

into the Vicar’s pocket. Mr. Gilfil called it his wonderful pocket,

because, as he delighted to tell the ‘young shavers’ and ‘two-shoes’--so

he called all little boys and girls--whenever he put pennies into it,

they turned into sugar-plums or gingerbread, or some other nice thing.

Indeed, little Bessie Parrot, a flaxen-headed ‘two-shoes’, very white and

fat as to her neck, always had the admirable directness and sincerity to

salute him with the question--‘What zoo dot in zoo pottet?’

You can imagine, then, that the christening dinners were none the less

merry for the presence of the parson. The farmers relished his society

particularly, for he could not only smoke his pipe, and season the

details of parish affairs with abundance of caustic jokes and proverbs,

but, as Mr. Bond often said, no man knew more than the Vicar about the

breed of cows and horses. He had grazing-land of his own about five miles

off, which a bailiff, ostensibly a tenant, farmed under his direction;

and to ride backwards and forwards, and look after the buying and selling

of stock, was the old gentleman’s chief relaxation, now his hunting days

were over. To hear him discussing the respective merits of the Devonshire

breed and the short-horns, or the last foolish decision of the

magistrates about a pauper, a superficial observer might have seen little

difference, beyond his superior shrewdness, between the Vicar and his

bucolic parishioners; for it was his habit to approximate his accent and

mode of speech to theirs, doubtless because he thought it a mere

frustration of the purposes of language to talk of ‘shear-hogs’ and

‘ewes’ to men who habitually said ‘sharrags’ and ‘yowes’. Nevertheless

the farmers themselves were perfectly aware of the distinction between

them and the parson, and had not at all the less belief in him as a

gentleman and a clergyman for his easy speech and familiar manners. Mrs.

Parrot smoothed her apron and set her cap right with the utmost

solicitude when she saw the Vicar coming, made him her deepest curtsy,

and every Christmas had a fat turkey ready to send him with her ‘duty’.

And in the most gossiping colloquies with Mr. Gilfil, you might have

observed that both men and women ‘minded their words’, and never became

indifferent to his approbation.

The same respect attended him in his strictly clerical functions. The

benefits of baptism were supposed to be somehow bound up with Mr.

Gilfil’s personality, so metaphysical a distinction as that between a man

and his office being, as yet, quite foreign to the mind of a good

Shepperton Churchman, savouring, he would have thought, of Dissent on the

very face of it. Miss Selina Parrot put off her marriage a whole month

when Mr. Gilfil had an attack of rheumatism, rather than be married in a

makeshift manner by the Milby curate.

‘We’ve had a very good sermon this morning’, was the frequent remark,

after hearing one of the old yellow series, heard with all the more

satisfaction because it had been heard for the twentieth time; for to

minds on the Shepperton level it is repetition, not novelty, that

produces the strongest effect; and phrases, like tunes, are a long time

making themselves at home in the brain.

Mr. Gilfil’s sermons, as you may imagine, were not of a highly doctrinal,

still less of a polemical, cast. They perhaps did not search the

conscience very powerfully; for you remember that to Mrs. Patten, who had

listened to them thirty years, the announcement that she was a sinner

appeared an uncivil heresy; but, on the other hand, they made no

unreasonable demand on the Shepperton intellect--amounting, indeed, to

little more than an expansion of the concise thesis, that those who do

wrong will find it the worse for them, and those who do well will find it

the better for them; the nature of wrong-doing being exposed in special

sermons against lying, backbiting, anger, slothfulness, and the like; and

well-doing being interpreted as honesty, truthfulness, charity, industry,

and other common virtues, lying quite on the surface of life, and having

very little to do with deep spiritual doctrine. Mrs. Patten understood

that if she turned out ill-crushed cheeses, a just retribution awaited

her; though, I fear, she made no particular application of the sermon on

backbiting. Mrs. Hackit expressed herself greatly edified by the sermon

on honesty, the allusion to the unjust weight and deceitful balance

having a peculiar lucidity for her, owing to a recent dispute with her

grocer; but I am not aware that she ever appeared to be much struck by

the sermon on anger.

As to any suspicion that Mr. Gilfil did not dispense the pure Gospel, or

any strictures on his doctrine and mode of delivery, such thoughts never

visited the minds of the Shepperton parishioners--of those very

parishioners who, ten or fifteen years later, showed themselves extremely

critical of Mr. Barton’s discourses and demeanour. But in the interim

they had tasted that dangerous fruit of the tree of knowledge--innovation

which is well known to open the eyes, even in an uncomfortable manner. At

present, to find fault with the sermon was regarded as almost equivalent

to finding fault with religion itself. One Sunday, Mr. Hackit’s nephew,

Master Tom Stokes, a flippant town youth, greatly scandalized his

excellent relatives by declaring that he could write as good a sermon as

Mr. Gilfil’s; whereupon Mr. Hackit sought to reduce the presumptuous

youth to utter confusion, by offering him a sovereign if he would fulfil

his vaunt. The sermon was written, however; and though it was not

admitted to be anywhere within reach of Mr. Gilfil’s, it was yet so

astonishingly like a sermon, having a text, three divisions, and a

concluding exhortation beginning ‘And now, my brethren’, that the

sovereign, though denied formally, was bestowed informally, and the

sermon was pronounced, when Master Stokes’s back was turned, to be ‘an

uncommon cliver thing’.

The Rev. Mr. Pickard, indeed, of the Independent Meeting, had stated, in

a sermon preached at Rotheby, for the reduction of a debt on New Zion,

built, with an exuberance of faith and a deficiency of funds, by seceders

from the original Zion, that he lived in a parish where the Vicar was

very ‘dark’, and in the prayers he addressed to his own congregation, he

was in the habit of comprehensively alluding to the parishioners outside

the chapel walls, as those who, ‘Gallio-like, cared for none of these

things’. But I need hardly say that no church-goer ever came within

earshot of Mr. Pickard.

It was not to the Shepperton farmers only that Mr. Gilfil’s society was

acceptable; he was a welcome guest at some of the best houses in that

part of the country. Old Sir Jasper Sitwell would have been glad to see

him every week; and if you had seen him conducting Lady Sitwell in to

dinner, or had heard him talking to her with quaint yet graceful

gallantry, you would have inferred that the earlier period of his life

had been passed in more stately society than could be found in

Shepperton, and that his slipshod chat and homely manners were but like

weather-stains on a fine old block of marble, allowing you still to see

here and there the fineness of the grain, and the delicacy of the

original tint. But in his later years these visits became a little too

troublesome to the old gentleman, and he was rarely to be found anywhere

of an evening beyond the bounds of his own parish--most frequently,

indeed, by the side of his own sitting-room fire, smoking his pipe, and

maintaining the pleasing antithesis of dryness and moisture by an

occasional sip of gin-and-water.

Here I am aware that I have run the risk of alienating all my refined

lady-readers, and utterly annihilating any curiosity they may have felt

to know the details of Mr. Gilfil’s love-story. ‘Gin-and-water! foh! you

may as well ask us to interest ourselves in the romance of a

tallow-chandler, who mingles the image of his beloved with short dips and

moulds.’

But in the first place, dear ladies, allow me to plead that

gin-and-water, like obesity, or baldness, or the gout, does not exclude a

vast amount of antecedent romance, any more than the neatly-executed

‘fronts’ which you may some day wear, will exclude your present

possession of less expensive braids. Alas, alas! we poor mortals are

often little better than wood-ashes--there is small sign of the sap, and

the leafy freshness, and the bursting buds that were once there; but

wherever we see wood-ashes, we know that all that early fullness of life

must have been. I, at least, hardly ever look at a bent old man, or a

wizened old woman, but I see also, with my mind’s eye, that Past of which

they are the shrunken remnant, and the unfinished romance of rosy cheeks

and bright eyes seems sometimes of feeble interest and significance,

compared with that drama of hope and love which has long ago reached its

catastrophe, and left the poor soul, like a dim and dusty stage, with all

its sweet garden-scenes and fair perspectives overturned and thrust out

of sight.

In the second place, let me assure you that Mr. Gilfil’s potations of

gin-and-water were quite moderate. His nose was not rubicund; on the

contrary, his white hair hung around a pale and venerable face. He drank

it chiefly, I believe, because it was cheap; and here I find myself

alighting on another of the Vicar’s weaknesses, which, if I had cared to

paint a flattering portrait rather than a faithful one, I might have

chosen to suppress. It is undeniable that, as the years advanced, Mr.

Gilfil became, as Mr. Hackit observed, more and more ‘close-fisted’,

though the growing propensity showed itself rather in the parsimony of

his personal habits, than in withholding help from the needy. He was

saving--so he represented the matter to himself--for a nephew, the only

son of a sister who had been the dearest object, all but one, in his

life. ‘The lad,’ he thought, ‘will have a nice little fortune to begin

life with, and will bring his pretty young wife some day to see the spot

where his old uncle lies. It will perhaps be all the better for his

hearth that mine was lonely.’

Mr. Gilfil was a bachelor, then?

That is the conclusion to which you would probably have come if you had

entered his sitting-room, where the bare tables, the large old-fashioned

horse-hair chairs, and the threadbare Turkey carpet perpetually fumigated

with tobacco, seemed to tell a story of wifeless existence that was

contradicted by no portrait, no piece of embroidery, no faded bit of

pretty triviality, hinting of taper-fingers and small feminine ambitions.

And it was here that Mr. Gilfil passed his evenings, seldom with other

society than that of Ponto, his old brown setter, who, stretched out at

full length on the rug with his nose between his fore-paws, would wrinkle

his brows and lift up his eyelids every now and then, to exchange a

glance of mutual understanding with his master. But there was a chamber

in Shepperton Vicarage which told a different story from that bare and

cheerless dining-room--a chamber never entered by any one besides Mr.

Gilfil and old Martha the housekeeper, who, with David her husband as

groom and gardener, formed the Vicar’s entire establishment. The blinds

of this chamber were always down, except once a-quarter, when Martha

entered that she might air and clean it. She always asked Mr. Gilfil for

the key, which he kept locked up in his bureau, and returned it to him

when she had finished her task.

It was a touching sight that the daylight streamed in upon, as Martha

drew aside the blinds and thick curtains, and opened the Gothic casement

of the oriel window! On the little dressing-table there was a dainty

looking-glass in a carved and gilt frame; bits of wax-candle were still

in the branched sockets at the sides, and on one of these branches hung a

little black lace kerchief; a faded satin pin-cushion, with the pins

rusted in it, a scent-bottle, and a large green fan, lay on the table;

and on a dressing-box by the side of the glass was a work-basket, and an

unfinished baby-cap, yellow with age, lying in it. Two gowns, of a

fashion long forgotten, were hanging on nails against the door, and a

pair of tiny red slippers, with a bit of tarnished silver embroidery on

them, were standing at the foot of the bed. Two or three water-colour

drawings, views of Naples, hung upon the walls; and over the mantelpiece,

above some bits of rare old china, two miniatures in oval frames. One of

these miniatures represented a young man about seven-and-twenty, with a

sanguine complexion, full lips, and clear candid grey eyes. The other was

the likeness of a girl probably not more than eighteen, with small

features, thin cheeks, a pale southern-looking complexion, and large dark

eyes. The gentleman wore powder; the lady had her dark hair gathered away

from her face, and a little cap, with a cherry-coloured bow, set on the

top of her head--a coquettish head-dress, but the eyes spoke of sadness

rather than of coquetry.

Such were the things that Martha had dusted and let the air upon, four

times a-year, ever since she was a blooming lass of twenty; and she was

now, in this last decade of Mr. Gilfil’s life, unquestionably on the

wrong side of fifty. Such was the locked-up chamber in Mr. Gilfil’s

house: a sort of visible symbol of the secret chamber in his heart, where

he had long turned the key on early hopes and early sorrows, shutting up

for ever all the passion and the poetry of his life.

There were not many people in the parish, besides Martha, who had any

very distinct remembrance of Mr. Gilfil’s wife, or indeed who knew

anything of her, beyond the fact that there was a marble tablet, with a

Latin inscription in memory of her, over the vicarage pew. The

parishioners who were old enough to remember her arrival were not

generally gifted with descriptive powers, and the utmost you could gather

from them was, that Mrs. Gilfil looked like a ‘furriner, wi’ such eyes,

you can’t think, an’ a voice as went through you when she sung at

church.’ The one exception was Mrs. Patten, whose strong memory and taste

for personal narrative made her a great source of oral tradition in

Shepperton. Mr. Hackit, who had not come into the parish until ten years

after Mrs. Gilfil’s death, would often put old questions to Mrs. Patten

for the sake of getting the old answers, which pleased him in the same

way as passages from a favourite book, or the scenes of a familiar play,

please more accomplished people.

‘Ah, you remember well the Sunday as Mrs. Gilfil first come to church,

eh, Mrs. Patten?’

‘To be sure I do. It was a fine bright Sunday as ever was seen, just at

the beginnin’ o’ hay harvest. Mr. Tarbett preached that day, and Mr.

Gilfil sat i’ the pew with his wife. I think I see him now, a-leading her

up the aisle, an’ her head not reachin’ much above his elber: a little

pale woman, with eyes as black as sloes, an’ yet lookin’ blank-like, as

if she see’d nothing with ’em.’

‘I warrant she had her weddin’ clothes on?’ said Mr. Hackit.

‘Nothin’ partikler smart--on’y a white hat tied down under her chin, an’

a white Indy muslin gown. But you don’t know what Mr. Gilfil was in those

times. He was fine an’ altered before you come into the parish. He’d a

fresh colour then, an’ a bright look wi’ his eyes, as did your heart good

to see. He looked rare and happy that Sunday; but somehow, I’d a feelin’

as it wouldn’t last long. I’ve no opinion o’ furriners, Mr. Hackit, for

I’ve travelled i’ their country with my lady in my time, an’ seen enough

o’ their victuals an’ their nasty ways.’

‘Mrs. Gilfil come from It’ly, didn’t she?’

‘I reckon she did, but I niver could rightly hear about that. Mr. Gilfil

was niver to be spoke to about her, and nobody else hereabout knowed

anythin’. Howiver, she must ha’ come over pretty young, for she spoke

English as well as you an’ me. It’s them Italians as has such fine

voices, an’ Mrs. Gilfil sung, you never heared the like. He brought her

here to have tea with me one afternoon, and says he, in his jovial way,

“Now, Mrs. Patten, I want Mrs. Gilfil to see the neatest house, and drink

the best cup o’ tea, in all Shepperton; you must show her your dairy and

your cheese-room, and then she shall sing you a song.” An’ so she did;

an’ her voice seemed sometimes to fill the room; an’ then it went low an’

soft, as if it was whisperin’ close to your heart like.’

‘You never heared her again, I reckon?’

‘No; she was sickly then, and she died in a few months after. She wasn’t

in the parish much more nor half a year altogether. She didn’t seem

lively that afternoon, an’ I could see she didn’t care about the dairy,

nor the cheeses, on’y she pretended, to please him. As for him, I niver

see’d a man so wrapt up in a woman. He looked at her as if he was

worshippin’ her, an’ as if he wanted to lift her off the ground ivery

minute, to save her the trouble o’ walkin’. Poor man, poor man! It had

like to ha’ killed him when she died, though he niver gev way, but went

on ridin’ about and preachin’. But he was wore to a shadder, an’ his eyes

used to look as dead--you wouldn’t ha’ knowed ’em.’

‘She brought him no fortune?’

‘Not she. All Mr. Gilfil’s property come by his mother’s side. There was

blood an’ money too, there. It’s a thousand pities as he married i’ that

way--a fine man like him, as might ha’ had the pick o’ the county, an’

had his grandchildren about him now. An’ him so fond o’ children, too.’

In this manner Mrs. Patten usually wound up her reminiscences of the

Vicar’s wife, of whom, you perceive, she knew but little. It was clear

that the communicative old lady had nothing to tell of Mrs. Gilfil’s

history previous to her arrival in Shepperton, and that she was

unacquainted with Mr. Gilfil’s love-story.

But I, dear reader, am quite as communicative as Mrs. Patten, and much

better informed; so that, if you care to know more about the Vicar’s

courtship and marriage, you need only carry your imagination back to the

latter end of the last century, and your attention forward into the next

chapter.

Chapter 2

It is the evening of the 21st of June 1788. The day has been bright and

sultry, and the sun will still be more than an hour above the horizon,

but his rays, broken by the leafy fretwork of the elms that border the

park, no longer prevent two ladies from carrying out their cushions and

embroidery, and seating themselves to work on the lawn in front of

Cheverel Manor. The soft turf gives way even under the fairy tread of the

younger lady, whose small stature and slim figure rest on the tiniest of

full-grown feet. She trips along before the elder, carrying the cushions,

which she places in the favourite spot, just on the slope by a clump of

laurels, where they can see the sunbeams sparkling among the

water-lilies, and can be themselves seen from the dining-room windows.

She has deposited the cushions, and now turns round, so that you may have

a full view of her as she stands waiting the slower advance of the elder

lady. You are at once arrested by her large dark eyes, which, in their

inexpressive unconscious beauty, resemble the eyes of a fawn, and it is

only by an effort of attention that you notice the absence of bloom on

her young cheek, and the southern yellowish tint of her small neck and

face, rising above the little black lace kerchief which prevents the too

immediate comparison of her skin with her white muslin gown. Her large

eyes seem all the more striking because the dark hair is gathered away

from her face, under a little cap set at the top of her head, with a

cherry-coloured bow on one side.

The elder lady, who is advancing towards the cushions, is cast in a very

different mould of womanhood. She is tall, and looks the taller because

her powdered hair is turned backward over a toupee, and surmounted by

lace and ribbons. She is nearly fifty, but her complexion is still fresh

and beautiful, with the beauty of an auburn blond; her proud pouting

lips, and her head thrown a little backward as she walks, give an

expression of hauteur which is not contradicted by the cold grey eye. The

tucked-in kerchief, rising full over the low tight bodice of her blue

dress, sets off the majestic form of her bust, and she treads the lawn as

if she were one of Sir Joshua Reynolds’ stately ladies, who had suddenly

stepped from her frame to enjoy the evening cool.

‘Put the cushions lower, Caterina, that we may not have so much sun upon

us,’ she called out, in a tone of authority, when still at some distance.

Caterina obeyed, and they sat down, making two bright patches of red and

white and blue on the green background of the laurels and the lawn, which

would look none the less pretty in a picture because one of the women’s

hearts was rather cold and the other rather sad.

And a charming picture Cheverel Manor would have made that evening, if

some English Watteau had been there to paint it: the castellated house of

grey-tinted stone, with the flickering sunbeams sending dashes of golden

light across the many-shaped panes in the mullioned windows, and a great

beech leaning athwart one of the flanking towers, and breaking, with its

dark flattened boughs, the too formal symmetry of the front; the broad

gravel-walk winding on the right, by a row of tall pines, alongside the

pool--on the left branching out among swelling grassy mounds, surmounted

by clumps of trees, where the red trunk of the Scotch fir glows in the

descending sunlight against the bright green of limes and acacias; the

great pool, where a pair of swans are swimming lazily with one leg tucked

under a wing, and where the open water-lilies lie calmly accepting the

kisses of the fluttering light-sparkles; the lawn, with its smooth

emerald greenness, sloping down to the rougher and browner herbage of the

park, from which it is invisibly fenced by a little stream that winds

away from the pool, and disappears under a wooden bridge in the distant

pleasure-ground; and on this lawn our two ladies, whose part in the

landscape the painter, standing at a favourable point of view in the

park, would represent with a few little dabs of red and white and blue.

Seen from the great Gothic windows of the dining-room, they had much more

definiteness of outline, and were distinctly visible to the three

gentlemen sipping their claret there, as two fair women in whom all three

had a personal interest. These gentlemen were a group worth considering

attentively; but any one entering that dining-room for the first time,

would perhaps have had his attention even more strongly arrested by the

room itself, which was so bare of furniture that it impressed one with

its architectural beauty like a cathedral. A piece of matting stretched

from door to door, a bit of worn carpet under the dining-table, and a

sideboard in a deep recess, did not detain the eye for a moment from the

lofty groined ceiling, with its richly-carved pendants, all of creamy

white, relieved here and there by touches of gold. On one side, this

lofty ceiling was supported by pillars and arches, beyond which a lower

ceiling, a miniature copy of the higher one, covered the square

projection which, with its three large pointed windows, formed the

central feature of the building. The room looked less like a place to

dine in than a piece of space enclosed simply for the sake of beautiful

outline; and the small dining-table, with the party round it, seemed an

odd and insignificant accident, rather than anything connected with the

original purpose of the apartment.

But, examined closely, that group was far from insignificant; for the

eldest, who was reading in the newspaper the last portentous proceedings

of the French parliaments, and turning with occasional comments to his

young companions, was as fine a specimen of the old English gentleman as

could well have been found in those venerable days of cocked-hats and

pigtails. His dark eyes sparkled under projecting brows, made more

prominent by bushy grizzled eyebrows; but any apprehension of severity

excited by these penetrating eyes, and by a somewhat aquiline nose, was

allayed by the good-natured lines about the mouth, which retained all its

teeth and its vigour of expression in spite of sixty winters. The

forehead sloped a little from the projecting brows, and its peaked

outline was made conspicuous by the arrangement of the profusely-powdered

hair, drawn backward and gathered into a pigtail. He sat in a small hard

chair, which did not admit the slightest approach to a lounge, and which

showed to advantage the flatness of his back and the breadth of his

chest. In fact, Sir Christopher Cheverel was a splendid old gentleman, as

any one may see who enters the saloon at Cheverel Manor, where his

full-length portrait, taken when he was fifty, hangs side by side with

that of his wife, the stately lady seated on the lawn.

Looking at Sir Christopher, you would at once have been inclined to hope

that he had a full-grown son and heir; but perhaps you would have wished

that it might not prove to be the young man on his right hand, in whom a

certain resemblance to the Baronet, in the contour of the nose and brow,

seemed to indicate a family relationship. If this young man had been less

elegant in his person, he would have been remarked for the elegance of

his dress. But the perfections of his slim well-proportioned figure were

so striking that no one but a tailor could notice the perfections of his

velvet coat; and his small white hands, with their blue veins and taper

fingers, quite eclipsed the beauty of his lace ruffles. The face,

however--it was difficult to say why--was certainly not pleasing. Nothing

could be more delicate than the blond complexion--its bloom set off by

the powdered hair--than the veined overhanging eyelids, which gave an

indolent expression to the hazel eyes; nothing more finely cut than the

transparent nostril and the short upper-lip. Perhaps the chin and lower

jaw were too small for an irreproachable profile, but the defect was on

the side of that delicacy and _finesse_ which was the distinctive

characteristic of the whole person, and which was carried out in the

clear brown arch of the eyebrows, and the marble smoothness of the

sloping forehead. Impossible to say that this face was not eminently

handsome; yet, for the majority both of men and women, it was destitute

of charm. Women disliked eyes that seemed to be indolently accepting

admiration instead of rendering it; and men, especially if they had a

tendency to clumsiness in the nose and ankles, were inclined to think

this Antinous in a pigtail a ‘confounded puppy’. I fancy that was

frequently the inward interjection of the Rev. Maynard Gilfil, who was

seated on the opposite side of the dining-table, though Mr. Gilfil’s legs

and profile were not at all of a kind to make him peculiarly alive to the

impertinence and frivolity of personal advantages. His healthy open face

and robust limbs were after an excellent pattern for everyday wear, and,

in the opinion of Mr. Bates, the north-country gardener, would have

become regimentals ‘a fain saight’ better than the ‘peaky’ features and

slight form of Captain Wybrow, notwithstanding that this young gentleman,

as Sir Christopher’s nephew and destined heir, had the strongest

hereditary claim on the gardener’s respect, and was undeniably

‘clean-limbed’. But alas! human longings are perversely obstinate; and to

the man whose mouth is watering for a peach, it is of no use to offer the

largest vegetable marrow. Mr. Gilfil was not sensitive to Mr. Bates’s

opinion, whereas he was sensitive to the opinion of another person, who

by no means shared Mr. Bates’s preference.

Who the other person was it would not have required a very keen observer

to guess, from a certain eagerness in Mr. Gilfil’s glance as that little

figure in white tripped along the lawn with the cushions. Captain Wybrow,

too, was looking in the same direction, but his handsome face remained

handsome--and nothing more.

‘Ah,’ said Sir Christopher, looking up from his paper, ‘there’s my lady.

Ring for coffee, Anthony; we’ll go and join her, and the little monkey

Tina shall give us a song.’

The coffee presently appeared, brought not as usual by the footman, in

scarlet and drab, but by the old butler, in threadbare but well-brushed

black, who, as he was placing it on the table, said--‘If you please, Sir

Christopher, there’s the widow Hartopp a-crying i’ the still room, and

begs leave to see your honour.’

‘I have given Markham full orders about the widow Hartopp,’ said Sir

Christopher, in a sharp decided tone. ‘I have nothing to say to her.’

‘Your honour,’ pleaded the butler, rubbing his hands, and putting on an

additional coating of humility, ‘the poor woman’s dreadful overcome, and

says she can’t sleep a wink this blessed night without seeing your

honour, and she begs you to pardon the great freedom she’s took to come

at this time. She cries fit to break her heart.’

‘Ay, ay; water pays no tax. Well, show her into the library.’

Coffee despatched, the two young men walked out through the open window,

and joined the ladies on the lawn, while Sir Christopher made his way to

the library, solemnly followed by Rupert, his pet bloodhound, who, in his

habitual place at the Baronet’s right hand, behaved with great urbanity

during dinner; but when the cloth was drawn, invariably disappeared under

the table, apparently regarding the claret-jug as a mere human weakness,

which he winked at, but refused to sanction.

The library lay but three steps from the dining-room, on the other side

of a cloistered and matted passage. The oriel window was overshadowed by

the great beech, and this, with the flat heavily-carved ceiling and the

dark hue of the old books that lined the walls, made the room look

sombre, especially on entering it from the dining-room, with its aerial

curves and cream-coloured fretwork touched with gold. As Sir Christopher

opened the door, a jet of brighter light fell on a woman in a widow’s

dress, who stood in the middle of the room, and made the deepest of

curtsies as he entered. She was a buxom woman approaching forty, her eyes

red with the tears which had evidently been absorbed by the handkerchief

gathered into a damp ball in her right hand.

‘Now, Mrs. Hartopp,’ said Sir Christopher, taking out his gold snuff-box

and tapping the lid, ‘what have you to say to me? Markham has delivered

you a notice to quit, I suppose?’

‘O yis, your honour, an’ that’s the reason why I’ve come. I hope your

honour ’ll think better on it, an’ not turn me an’ my poor children out

o’ the farm, where my husband al’ys paid his rent as reglar as the day

come.’

‘Nonsense! I should like to know what good it will do you and your

children to stay on a farm and lose every farthing your husband has left

you, instead of selling your stock and going into some little place where

you can keep your money together. It is very well known to every tenant

of mine that I never allow widows to stay on their husbands’ farms.’

‘O, Sir Christifer, if you _would_ consider--when I’ve sold the hay, an’

corn, an’ all the live things, an’ paid the debts, an’ put the money out

to use, I shall have hardly enough to keep our souls an’ bodies together.

An’ how can I rear my boys and put ’em ’prentice? They must go for

dey-labourers, an’ their father a man wi’ as good belongings as any on

your honour’s estate, an’ niver threshed his wheat afore it was well i’

the rick, nor sold the straw off his farm, nor nothin’. Ask all the

farmers round if there was a stiddier, soberer man than my husband as

attended Ripstone market. An’ he says, “Bessie,” says he--them was his

last words--“you’ll mek a shift to manage the farm, if Sir Christifer

’ull let you stay on.”’

‘Pooh, pooh!’ said Sir Christopher, Mrs. Hartopp’s sobs having

interrupted her pleadings, ‘now listen to me, and try to understand a

little common sense. You are about as able to manage the farm as your

best milch cow. You’ll be obliged to have some managing man, who will

either cheat you out of your money or wheedle you into marrying him.’

‘O, your honour, I was never that sort o’ woman, an’ nobody has known it

on me.’

‘Very likely not, because you were never a widow before. A woman’s always

silly enough, but she’s never quite as great a fool as she can be until

she puts on a widow’s cap. Now, just ask yourself how much the better you

will be for staying on your farm at the end of four years, when you’ve

got through your money, and let your farm run down, and are in arrears

for half your rent; or, perhaps, have got some great hulky fellow for a

husband, who swears at you and kicks your children.’

‘Indeed, Sir Christifer, I know a deal o’ farmin,’ an’ was brought up i’

the thick on it, as you may say. An’ there was my husband’s great-aunt

managed a farm for twenty year, an’ left legacies to all her nephys an’

nieces, an’ even to my husband, as was then a babe unborn.’

‘Psha! a woman six feet high, with a squint and sharp elbows, I

daresay--a man in petticoats. Not a rosy-cheeked widow like you, Mrs.

Hartopp.’

‘Indeed, your honour, I never heard of her squintin’, an’ they said as

she might ha’ been married o’er and o’er again, to people as had no call

to hanker after her money.’

‘Ay, ay, that’s what you all think. Every man that looks at you wants to

marry you, and would like you the better the more children you have and

the less money. But it is useless to talk and cry. I have good reasons

for my plans, and never alter them. What you have to do is to take the

best of your stock, and to look out for some little place to go to, when

you leave The Hollows. Now, go back to Mrs. Bellamy’s room, and ask her

to give you a dish of tea.’

Mrs. Hartopp, understanding from Sir Christopher’s tone that he was not

to be shaken, curtsied low and left the library, while the Baronet,

seating himself at his desk in the oriel window, wrote the following

letter:

‘MR. MARKHAM,--Take no steps about letting Crowsfoot Cottage, as I intend

to put in the widow Hartopp when she leaves her farm; and if you will be

here at eleven on Saturday morning, I will ride round with you, and

settle about making some repairs, and see about adding a bit of land to

the take, as she will want to keep a cow and some pigs.--Yours

faithfully,

‘CHRISTOPHER CHEVEREL.’

After ringing the bell and ordering this letter to be sent, Sir

Christopher walked out to join the party on the lawn. But finding the

cushions deserted, he walked on to the eastern front of the building,

where, by the side of the grand entrance, was the large bow-window of the

saloon, opening on to the gravel-sweep, and looking towards a long vista

of undulating turf, bordered by tall trees, which, seeming to unite

itself with the green of the meadows and a grassy road through a

plantation, only terminated with the Gothic arch of a gateway in the far

distance. The bow-window was open, and Sir Christopher, stepping in,

found the group he sought, examining the progress of the unfinished

ceiling. It was in the same style of florid pointed Gothic as the

dining-room, but more elaborate in its tracery, which was like petrified

lace-work picked out with delicate and varied colouring. About a fourth

of its still remained uncoloured, and under this part were scaffolding,

ladders, and tools; otherwise the spacious saloon was empty of furniture,

and seemed to be a grand Gothic canopy for the group of five human

figures standing in the centre.

‘Francesco has been getting on a little better the last day or two,’ said

Sir Christopher, as he joined the party: ‘he’s a sad lazy dog, and I

fancy he has a knack of sleeping as he stands, with his brushes in his

hands. But I must spur him on, or we may not have the scaffolding cleared

away before the bride comes, if you show dexterous generalship in your

wooing, eh, Anthony? and take your Magdeburg quickly.’

‘Ah, sir, a siege is known to be one of the most tedious operations in

war,’ said Captain Wybrow, with an easy smile.

‘Not when there’s a traitor within the walls in the shape of a soft

heart. And that there will be, if Beatrice has her mother’s tenderness as

well as her mother’s beauty.’

‘What do you think, Sir Christopher,’ said Lady Cheverel, who seemed to

wince a little under her husband’s reminiscences, ‘of hanging Guercino’s

“Sibyl” over that door when we put up the pictures? It is rather lost in

my sitting-room.’

‘Very good, my love,’ answered Sir Christopher, in a tone of

punctiliously polite affection; ‘if you like to part with the ornament

from your own room, it will show admirably here. Our portraits, by Sir

Joshua, will hang opposite the window, and the “Transfiguration” at that

end. You see, Anthony, I am leaving no good places on the walls for you

and your wife. We shall turn you with your faces to the wall in the

gallery, and you may take your revenge on us by-and-by.’

While this conversation was going on, Mr. Gilfil turned to Caterina and

said,--‘I like the view from this window better than any other in the

house.’

She made no answer, and he saw that her eyes were filling with tears; so

he added, ‘Suppose we walk out a little; Sir Christopher and my lady seem

to be occupied.’

Caterina complied silently, and they turned down one of the gravel walks

that led, after many windings under tall trees and among grassy openings,

to a large enclosed flower-garden. Their walk was perfectly silent, for

Maynard Gilfil knew that Caterina’s thoughts were not with him, and she

had been long used to make him endure the weight of those moods which she

carefully hid from others. They reached the flower-garden, and turned

mechanically in at the gate that opened, through a high thick hedge, on

an expanse of brilliant colour, which, after the green shades they had

passed through, startled the eye like flames. The effect was assisted by

an undulation of the ground, which gradually descended from the

entrance-gate, and then rose again towards the opposite end, crowned by

an orangery. The flowers were glowing with their evening splendours;

verbenas and heliotropes were sending up their finest incense. It seemed

a gala where all was happiness and brilliancy, and misery could find no

sympathy. This was the effect it had on Caterina. As she wound among the

beds of gold and blue and pink, where the flowers seemed to be looking at

her with wondering elf-like eyes, knowing nothing of sorrow, the feeling

of isolation in her wretchedness overcame her, and the tears, which had

been before trickling slowly down her pale cheeks, now gushed forth

accompanied with sobs. And yet there was a loving human being close

beside her, whose heart was aching for hers, who was possessed by the

feeling that she was miserable, and that he was helpless to soothe her.

But she was too much irritated by the idea that his wishes were different

from hers, that he rather regretted the folly of her hopes than the

probability of their disappointment, to take any comfort in his sympathy.

Caterina, like the rest of us, turned away from sympathy which she

suspected to be mingled with criticism, as the child turns away from the

sweetmeat in which it suspects imperceptible medicine.

‘Dear Caterina, I think I hear voices,’ said Mr. Gilfil; ‘they may be

coming this way.’

She checked herself like one accustomed to conceal her emotions, and ran

rapidly to the other end of the garden, where she seemed occupied in

selecting a rose. Presently Lady Cheverel entered, leaning on the arm of

Captain Wybrow, and followed by Sir Christopher. The party stopped to

admire the tiers of geraniums near the gate; and in the mean time

Caterina tripped back with a moss rose-bud in her hand, and, going up to

Sir Christopher, said--‘There, Padroncello--there is a nice rose for your

button-hole.’

‘Ah, you black-eyed monkey,’ he said, fondly stroking her cheek; ‘so you

have been running off with Maynard, either to torment or coax him an inch

or two deeper into love. Come, come, I want you to sing us “_Ho perduto_”

before we sit down to picquet. Anthony goes to-morrow, you know; you must

warble him into the right sentimental lover’s mood, that he may acquit

himself well at Bath.’ He put her little arm under his, and calling to

Lady Cheverel, ‘Come, Henrietta!’ led the way towards the house.

The party entered the drawing-room, which, with its oriel window,

corresponded to the library in the other wing, and had also a flat

ceiling heavy with carving and blazonry; but the window being unshaded,

and the walls hung with full-length portraits of knights and dames in

scarlet, white, and gold, it had not the sombre effect of the library.

Here hung the portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel, who in the reign of

Charles II. was the renovator of the family splendour, which had suffered

some declension from the early brilliancy of that Chevreuil who came over

with the Conqueror. A very imposing personage was this Sir Anthony,

standing with one arm akimbo, and one fine leg and foot advanced,

evidently with a view to the gratification of his contemporaries and

posterity. You might have taken off his splendid peruke, and his scarlet

cloak, which was thrown backward from his shoulders, without annihilating

the dignity of his appearance. And he had known how to choose a wife,

too, for his lady, hanging opposite to him, with her sunny brown hair

drawn away in bands from her mild grave face, and falling in two large

rich curls on her snowy gently-sloping neck, which shamed the harsher hue

and outline of her white satin robe, was a fit mother of ‘large-acred’

heirs.

In this room tea was served; and here, every evening, as regularly as the

great clock in the courtyard with deliberate bass tones struck nine, Sir

Christopher and Lady Cheverel sat down to picquet until half-past ten,

when Mr. Gilfil read prayers to the assembled household in the chapel.

But now it was not near nine, and Caterina must sit down to the

harpsichord and sing Sir Christopher’s favourite airs from Gluck’s

‘Orfeo’, an opera which, for the happiness of that generation, was then

to be heard on the London stage. It happened this evening that the

sentiment of these airs, ‘_Che faro senza Eurydice?_’ and ‘_Ho perduto il

bel sembiante_’, in both of which the singer pours out his yearning after

his lost love, came very close to Caterina’s own feeling. But her

emotion, instead of being a hindrance to her singing, gave her additional

power. Her singing was what she could do best; it was her one point of

superiority, in which it was probable she would excel the highborn beauty

whom Anthony was to woo; and her love, her jealousy, her pride, her

rebellion against her destiny, made one stream of passion which welled

forth in the deep rich tones of her voice. She had a rare contralto,

which Lady Cheverel, who had high musical taste, had been careful to

preserve her from straining.

‘Excellent, Caterina,’ said Lady Cheverel, as there was a pause after the

wonderful linked sweetness of ‘_Che faro_’. ‘I never heard you sing that

so well. Once more!’

It was repeated; and then came, ‘_Ho perduto_’, which Sir Christopher

encored, in spite of the clock, just striking nine. When the last note

was dying out he said--‘There’s a clever black-eyed monkey. Now bring out

the table for picquet.’

Caterina drew out the table and placed the cards; then, with her rapid

fairy suddenness of motion, threw herself on her knees, and clasped Sir

Christopher’s knee. He bent down, stroked her cheek and smiled.

‘Caterina, that is foolish,’ said Lady Cheverel. ‘I wish you would leave

off those stage-players’ antics.’

She jumped up, arranged the music on the harpsichord, and then, seeing

the Baronet and his lady seated at picquet, quietly glided out of the

room.

Captain Wybrow had been leaning near the harpsichord during the singing,

and the chaplain had thrown himself on a sofa at the end of the room.

They both now took up a book. Mr. Gilfil chose the last number of the

‘Gentleman’s Magazine’; Captain Wybrow, stretched on an ottoman near the

door, opened ‘Faublas’; and there was perfect silence in the room which,

ten minutes before, was vibrating to the passionate tones of Caterina.

She had made her way along the cloistered passages, now lighted here and

there by a small oil-lamp, to the grand-staircase, which led directly to

a gallery running along the whole eastern side of the building, where it

was her habit to walk when she wished to be alone. The bright moonlight

was streaming through the windows, throwing into strange light and shadow

the heterogeneous objects that lined the long walls: Greek statues and

busts of Roman emperors; low cabinets filled with curiosities, natural

and antiquarian; tropical birds and huge horns of beasts; Hindoo gods and

strange shells; swords and daggers, and bits of chain-armour; Roman lamps

and tiny models of Greek temples; and, above all these, queer old family

portraits--of little boys and girls, once the hope of the Cheverels, with

close-shaven heads imprisoned in stiff ruffs--of faded, pink-faced

ladies, with rudimentary features and highly-developed head-dresses--of

gallant gentlemen, with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointed

beards.

Here, on rainy days, Sir Christopher and his lady took their promenade,

and here billiards were played; but, in the evening, it was forsaken by

all except Caterina--and, sometimes, one other person.

She paced up and down in the moonlight, her pale face and thin

white-robed form making her look like the ghost of some former Lady

Cheverel come to revisit the glimpses of the moon.

By-and-by she paused opposite the broad window above the portico, and

looked out on the long vista of turf and trees now stretching chill and

saddened in the moonlight.

Suddenly a breath of warmth and roses seemed to float towards her, and an

arm stole gently round her waist, while a soft hand took up her tiny

fingers. Caterina felt an electric thrill, and was motionless for one

long moment; then she pushed away the arm and hand, and, turning round,

lifted up to the face that hung over her eyes full of tenderness and

reproach. The fawn-like unconsciousness was gone, and in that one look

were the ground tones of poor little Caterina’s nature--intense love and

fierce jealousy.

‘Why do you push me away, Tina?’ said Captain Wybrow in a half-whisper;

‘are you angry with me for what a hard fate puts upon me? Would you have

me cross my uncle--who has done so much for us both--in his dearest wish?

You know I have duties--we both have duties--before which feeling must be

sacrificed.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Caterina, stamping her foot, and turning away her head;

‘don’t tell me what I know already.’

There was a voice speaking in Caterina’s mind to which she had never yet

given vent. That voice said continually, ‘Why did he make me love

him--why did he let me know he loved me, if he knew all the while that he

couldn’t brave everything for my sake?’ Then love answered, ‘He was led

on by the feeling of the moment, as you have been, Caterina; and now you

ought to help him to do what is right.’ Then the voice rejoined, ‘It was

a slight matter to him. He doesn’t much mind giving you up. He will soon

love that beautiful woman, and forget a poor little pale thing like you.’

Thus love, anger, and jealousy were struggling in that young soul.

‘Besides, Tina,’ continued Captain Wybrow in still gentler tones, ‘I

shall not succeed. Miss Assher very likely prefers some one else; and you

know I have the best will in the world to fail. I shall come back a

hapless bachelor--perhaps to find you already married to the good-looking

chaplain, who is over head and ears in love with you. Poor Sir

Christopher has made up his mind that you’re to have Gilfil.’

‘Why will you speak so? You speak from your own want of feeling. Go away

from me.’

‘Don’t let us part in anger, Tina. All this may pass away. It’s as likely

as not that I may never marry any one at all. These palpitations may

carry me off, and you may have the satisfaction of knowing that I shall

never be anybody’s bridegroom. Who knows what may happen? I may be my

own master before I get into the bonds of holy matrimony, and be able to

choose my little singing-bird. Why should we distress ourselves before

the time?’

‘It is easy to talk so when you are not feeling,’ said Caterina, the

tears flowing fast. ‘It is bad to bear now, whatever may come after. But

you don’t care about my misery.’

‘Don’t I, Tina?’ said Anthony in his tenderest tones, again stealing his

arm round her waist, and drawing her towards him. Poor Tina was the slave

of this voice and touch. Grief and resentment, retrospect and foreboding,

vanished--all life before and after melted away in the bliss of that

moment, as Anthony pressed his lips to hers.

Captain Wybrow thought, ‘Poor little Tina! it would make her very happy

to have me. But she is a mad little thing.’

At that moment a loud bell startled Caterina from her trance of bliss. It

was the summons to prayers in the chapel, and she hastened away, leaving

Captain Wybrow to follow slowly.

It was a pretty sight, that family assembled to worship in the little

chapel, where a couple of wax-candles threw a mild faint light on the

figures kneeling there. In the desk was Mr. Gilfil, with his face a shade

graver than usual. On his right hand, kneeling on their red velvet

cushions, were the master and mistress of the household, in their elderly

dignified beauty. On his left, the youthful grace of Anthony and

Caterina, in all the striking contrast of their colouring--he, with his

exquisite outline and rounded fairness, like an Olympian god; she, dark

and tiny, like a gypsy changeling. Then there were the domestics kneeling

on red-covered forms,--the women headed by Mrs. Bellamy, the natty little

old housekeeper, in snowy cap and apron, and Mrs. Sharp, my lady’s maid,

of somewhat vinegar aspect and flaunting attire; the men by Mr. Bellamy

the butler, and Mr. Warren, Sir Christopher’s venerable valet.

A few collects from the Evening Service was what Mr. Gilfil habitually

read, ending with the simple petition, ‘Lighten our darkness.’

And then they all rose, the servants turning to curtsy and bow as they

went out. The family returned to the drawing-room, said good-night to

each other, and dispersed--all to speedy slumber except two. Caterina

only cried herself to sleep after the clock had struck twelve. Mr. Gilfil

lay awake still longer, thinking that very likely Caterina was crying.

Captain Wybrow, having dismissed his valet at eleven, was soon in a soft

slumber, his face looking like a fine cameo in high relief on the

slightly indented pillow.

Chapter 3

The last chapter has given the discerning reader sufficient insight into

the state of things at Cheverel Manor in the summer of 1788. In that

summer, we know, the great nation of France was agitated by conflicting

thoughts and passions, which were but the beginning of sorrows. And in

our Caterina’s little breast, too, there were terrible struggles. The

poor bird was beginning to flutter and vainly dash its soft breast

against the hard iron bars of the inevitable, and we see too plainly the

danger, if that anguish should go on heightening instead of being

allayed, that the palpitating heart may be fatally bruised.

Meanwhile, if, as I hope, you feel some interest in Caterina and her

friends at Cheverel Manor, you are perhaps asking, How came she to be

there? How was it that this tiny, dark-eyed child of the south, whose

face was immediately suggestive of olive-covered hills and taper-lit

shrines, came to have her home in that stately English manor-house, by

the side of the blonde matron, Lady Cheverel--almost as if a humming-bird

were found perched on one of the elm-trees in the park, by the side of

her ladyship’s handsomest pouter-pigeon? Speaking good English, too, and

joining in Protestant prayers! Surely she must have been adopted and

brought over to England at a very early age. She was.

During Sir Christopher’s last visit to Italy with his lady, fifteen years

before, they resided for some time at Milan, where Sir Christopher, who

was an enthusiast for Gothic architecture, and was then entertaining the

project of metamorphosing his plain brick family mansion into the model

of a Gothic manor-house, was bent on studying the details of that marble

miracle, the Cathedral. Here Lady Cheverel, as at other Italian cities

where she made any protracted stay, engaged a _maestro_ to give her

lessons in singing, for she had then not only fine musical taste, but a

fine soprano voice. Those were days when very rich people used manuscript

music, and many a man who resembled Jean Jacques in nothing else,

resembled him in getting a livelihood ‘à copier la musique à tant la

page’. Lady Cheverel having need of this service, Maestro Albani told her

he would send her a _poveraccio_ of his acquaintance, whose manuscript was

the neatest and most correct he knew of. Unhappily, the _poveraccio_ was

not always in his best wits, and was sometimes rather slow in

consequence; but it would be a work of Christian charity worthy of the

beautiful Signora to employ poor Sarti.

The next morning, Mrs. Sharp, then a blooming abigail of

three-and-thirty, entered her lady’s private room and said, ‘If you

please, my lady, there’s the frowsiest, shabbiest man you ever saw,

outside, and he’s told Mr. Warren as the singing-master sent him to see

your ladyship. But I think you’ll hardly like him to come in here. Belike

he’s only a beggar.’

‘O yes, show him in immediately.’

Mrs. Sharp retired, muttering something about ‘fleas and worse’. She had

the smallest possible admiration for fair Ausonia and its natives, and

even her profound deference for Sir Christopher and her lady could not

prevent her from expressing her amazement at the infatuation of

gentlefolks in choosing to sojourn among ‘Papises, in countries where

there was no getting to air a bit o’ linen, and where the people smelt o’

garlick fit to knock you down.’

However she presently reappeared, ushering in a small meagre man, sallow

and dingy, with a restless wandering look in his dull eyes, and an

excessive timidity about his deep reverences, which gave him the air of a

man who had been long a solitary prisoner. Yet through all this squalor

and wretchedness there were some traces discernible of comparative youth

and former good looks. Lady Cheverel, though not very tender-hearted,

still less sentimental, was essentially kind, and liked to dispense

benefits like a goddess, who looks down benignly on the halt, the maimed,

and the blind that approach her shrine. She was smitten with some

compassion at the sight of poor Sarti, who struck her as the mere

battered wreck of a vessel that might have once floated gaily enough on

its outward voyage to the sound of pipes and tabors. She spoke gently as

she pointed out to him the operatic selections she wished him to copy,

and he seemed to sun himself in her auburn, radiant presence, so that

when he made his exit with the music-books under his arm, his bow, though

not less reverent, was less timid.

It was ten years at least since Sarti had seen anything so bright and

stately and beautiful as Lady Cheverel. For the time was far off in which

he had trod the stage in satin and feathers, the _primo tenore_ of one

short season. He had completely lost his voice in the following winter,

and had ever since been little better than a cracked fiddle, which is

good for nothing but firewood. For, like many Italian singers, he was too

ignorant to teach, and if it had not been for his one talent of

penmanship, he and his young helpless wife might have starved. Then, just

after their third child was born, fever came, swept away the sickly

mother and the two eldest children, and attacked Sarti himself, who rose

from his sick-bed with enfeebled brain and muscle, and a tiny baby on his

hands, scarcely four months old. He lodged over a fruit-shop kept by a

stout virago, loud of tongue and irate in temper, but who had had

children born to her, and so had taken care of the tiny yellow,

black-eyed _bambinetto_, and tended Sarti himself through his sickness.

Here he continued to live, earning a meagre subsistence for himself and

his little one by the work of copying music, put into his hands chiefly

by Maestro Albani. He seemed to exist for nothing but the child: he

tended it, he dandled it, he chatted to it, living with it alone in his

one room above the fruit-shop, only asking his landlady to take care of

the marmoset during his short absences in fetching and carrying home

work. Customers frequenting that fruit-shop might often see the tiny

Caterina seated on the floor with her legs in a heap of pease, which it

was her delight to kick about; or perhaps deposited, like a kitten, in a

large basket out of harm’s way.

Sometimes, however, Sarti left his little one with another kind of

protectress. He was very regular in his devotions, which he paid thrice

a-week in the great cathedral, carrying Caterina with him. Here, when the

high morning sun was warming the myriad glittering pinnacles without, and

struggling against the massive gloom within, the shadow of a man with a

child on his arm might be seen flitting across the more stationary

shadows of pillar and mullion, and making its way towards a little tinsel

Madonna hanging in a retired spot near the choir. Amid all the

sublimities of the mighty cathedral, poor Sarti had fixed on this tinsel

Madonna as the symbol of divine mercy and protection,--just as a child,

in the presence of a great landscape, sees none of the glories of wood

and sky, but sets its heart on a floating feather or insect that happens

to be on a level with its eye. Here, then, Sarti worshipped and prayed,

setting Caterina on the floor by his side; and now and then, when the

cathedral lay near some place where he had to call, and did not like to

take her, he would leave her there in front of the tinsel Madonna, where

she would sit, perfectly good, amusing herself with low crowing noises

and see-sawings of her tiny body. And when Sarti came back, he always

found that the Blessed Mother had taken good care of Caterina.

That was briefly the history of Sarti, who fulfilled so well the orders

Lady Cheverel gave him, that she sent him away again with a stock of new

work. But this time, week after week passed, and he neither reappeared

nor sent home the music intrusted to him. Lady Cheverel began to be

anxious, and was thinking of sending Warren to inquire at the address

Sarti had given her, when one day, as she was equipped for driving out,

the valet brought in a small piece of paper, which, he said, had been

left for her ladyship by a man who was carrying fruit. The paper

contained only three tremulous lines, in Italian:--‘Will the

Eccelentissima, for the love of God, have pity on a dying man, and come

to him?’

Lady Cheverel recognized the handwriting as Sarti’s in spite of its

tremulousness, and, going down to her carriage, ordered the Milanese

coachman to drive to Strada Quinquagesima, Numero 10. The coach stopped

in a dirty narrow street opposite La Pazzini’s fruit-shop, and that large

specimen of womanhood immediately presented herself at the door, to the

extreme disgust of Mrs. Sharp, who remarked privately to Mr. Warren that

La Pazzini was a ‘hijeous porpis’. The fruit-woman, however, was all

smiles and deep curtsies to the Eccelentissima, who, not very well

understanding her Milanese dialect, abbreviated the conversation by

asking to be shown at once to Signor Sarti. La Pazzini preceded her up

the dark narrow stairs, and opened a door through which she begged her

ladyship to enter. Directly opposite the door lay Sarti, on a low

miserable bed. His eyes were glazed, and no movement indicated that he

was conscious of their entrance.

On the foot of the bed was seated a tiny child, apparently not three

years old, her head covered by a linen cap, her feet clothed with leather

boots, above which her little yellow legs showed thin and naked. A frock,

made of what had once been a gay flowered silk, was her only other

garment. Her large dark eyes shone from out her queer little face, like

two precious stones in a grotesque image carved in old ivory. She held an

empty medicine-bottle in her hand, and was amusing herself with putting

the cork in and drawing it out again, to hear how it would pop.

La Pazzini went up to the bed and said, ‘Ecco la nobilissima donna;’ but

directly after screamed out, ‘Holy mother! he is dead!’

It was so. The entreaty had not been sent in time for Sarti to carry out

his project of asking the great English lady to take care of his

Caterina. That was the thought which haunted his feeble brain as soon as

he began to fear that his illness would end in death. She had wealth--she

was kind--she would surely do something for the poor orphan. And so, at

last, he sent that scrap of paper which won the fulfilment of his prayer,

though he did not live to utter it. Lady Cheverel gave La Pazzini money

that the last decencies might be paid to the dead man, and carried away

Caterina, meaning to consult Sir Christopher as to what should be done

with her. Even Mrs. Sharp had been so smitten with pity by the scene she

had witnessed when she was summoned up-stairs to fetch Caterina, as to

shed a small tear, though she was not at all subject to that weakness;

indeed, she abstained from it on principle, because, as she often said,

it was known to be the worst thing in the world for the eyes.

On the way back to her hotel, Lady Cheverel turned over various projects

in her mind regarding Caterina, but at last one gained the preference

over all the rest. Why should they not take the child to England, and

bring her up there? They had been married twelve years, yet Cheverel

Manor was cheered by no children’s voices, and the old house would be all

the better for a little of that music. Besides, it would be a Christian

work to train this little Papist into a good Protestant, and graft as

much English fruit as possible on the Italian stem.

Sir Christopher listened to this plan with hearty acquiescence. He loved

children, and took at once to the little black-eyed monkey--his name for

Caterina all through her short life. But neither he nor Lady Cheverel had

any idea of adopting her as their daughter, and giving her their own rank

in life. They were much too English and aristocratic to think of anything

so romantic. No! the child would be brought up at Cheverel Manor as a

protegée, to be ultimately useful, perhaps, in sorting worsteds, keeping

accounts, reading aloud, and otherwise supplying the place of spectacles

when her ladyship’s eyes should wax dim.

So Mrs. Sharp had to procure new clothes, to replace the linen cap,

flowered frock, and leathern boots; and now, strange to say, little

Caterina, who had suffered many unconscious evils in her existence of

thirty moons, first began to know conscious troubles. ‘Ignorance,’ says

Ajax, ‘is a painless evil;’ so, I should think, is dirt, considering the

merry faces that go along with it. At any rate, cleanliness is sometimes

a painful good, as any one can vouch who has had his face washed the

wrong way, by a pitiless hand with a gold ring on the third finger. If

you, reader, have not known that initiatory anguish, it is idle to expect

that you will form any approximate conception of what Caterina endured

under Mrs. Sharp’s new dispensation of soap-and-water. Happily, this

purgatory came presently to be associated in her tiny brain with a

passage straightway to a seat of bliss--the sofa in Lady Cheverel’s

sitting-room, where there were toys to be broken, a ride was to be had on

Sir Christopher’s knee, and a spaniel of resigned temper was prepared to

undergo small tortures without flinching.

Chapter 4

In three months from the time of Caterina’s adoption--namely, in the late

autumn of 1773--the chimneys of Cheverel Manor were sending up unwonted

smoke, and the servants were awaiting in excitement the return of their

master and mistress after a two years’ absence. Great was the

astonishment of Mrs. Bellamy, the housekeeper, when Mr. Warren lifted a

little black-eyed child out of the carriage, and great was Mrs. Sharp’s

sense of superior information and experience, as she detailed Caterina’s

history, interspersed with copious comments, to the rest of the upper

servants that evening, as they were taking a comfortable glass of grog

together in the housekeeper’s room.

A pleasant room it was as any party need desire to muster in on a cold

November evening. The fireplace alone was a picture: a wide and deep

recess with a low brick altar in the middle, where great logs of dry wood

sent myriad sparks up the dark chimney-throat; and over the front of this

recess a large wooden entablature bearing this motto, finely carved in

old English letters, ‘Fear God and honour the King’. And beyond the

party, who formed a half-moon with their chairs and well-furnished table

round this bright fireplace, what a space of chiaroscuro for the

imagination to revel in! Stretching across the far end of the room, what

an oak table, high enough surely for Homer’s gods, standing on four

massive legs, bossed and bulging like sculptured urns! and, lining the

distant wall, what vast cupboards, suggestive of inexhaustible apricot

jam and promiscuous butler’s perquisites! A stray picture or two had

found their way down there, and made agreeable patches of dark brown on

the buff-coloured walls. High over the loud-resounding double door hung

one which, from some indications of a face looming out of blackness,

might, by a great synthetic effort, be pronounced a Magdalen.

Considerably lower down hung the similitude of a hat and feathers, with

portions of a ruff, stated by Mrs. Bellamy to represent Sir Francis

Bacon, who invented gunpowder, and, in her opinion, ‘might ha’ been

better emplyed.’

But this evening the mind is but slightly arrested by the great Verulam,

and is in the humour to think a dead philosopher less interesting than a

living gardener, who sits conspicuous in the half-circle round the

fireplace. Mr. Bates is habitually a guest in the housekeeper’s room of

an evening, preferring the social pleasures there--the feast of gossip

and the flow of grog--to a bachelor’s chair in his charming thatched

cottage on a little island, where every sound is remote, but the cawing

of rooks and the screaming of wild geese, poetic sounds, doubtless, but,

humanly speaking, not convivial.

Mr. Bates was by no means an average person, to be passed without special

notice. He was a sturdy Yorkshireman, approaching forty, whose face

Nature seemed to have coloured when she was in a hurry, and had no time

to attend to _nuances_, for every inch of him visible above his neckcloth

was of one impartial redness; so that when he was at some distance your

imagination was at liberty to place his lips anywhere between his nose

and chin. Seen closer, his lips were discerned to be of a peculiar cut,

and I fancy this had something to do with the peculiarity of his dialect,

which, as we shall see, was individual rather than provincial. Mr. Bates

was further distinguished from the common herd by a perpetual blinking of

the eyes; and this, together with the red-rose tint of his complexion,

and a way he had of hanging his head forward, and rolling it from side to

side as he walked, gave him the air of a Bacchus in a blue apron, who, in

the present reduced circumstances of Olympus, had taken to the management

of his own vines. Yet, as gluttons are often thin, so sober men are often

rubicund; and Mr. Bates was sober, with that manly, British,

churchman-like sobriety which can carry a few glasses of grog without any

perceptible clarification of ideas.

‘Dang my boottons!’ observed Mr. Bates, who, at the conclusion of Mrs.

Sharp’s narrative, felt himself urged to his strongest interjection,

‘it’s what I shouldn’t ha’ looked for from Sir Cristhifer an’ my ledy, to

bring a furrin child into the coonthry; an’ depend on’t, whether you an’

me lives to see’t or noo, it’ll coom to soom harm. The first sitiation

iver I held--it was a hold hancient habbey, wi’ the biggest orchard o’

apples an’ pears you ever see--there was a French valet, an’ he stool

silk stoockins, an’ shirts, an’ rings, an’ iverythin’ he could ley his

hands on, an’ run awey at last wi’ th’ missis’s jewl-box. They’re all

alaike, them furriners. It roons i’ th’ blood.’

‘Well,’ said Mrs. Sharp, with the air of a person who held liberal views,

but knew where to draw the line, ‘I’m not a-going to defend the

furriners, for I’ve as good reason to know what they are as most folks,

an’ nobody’ll ever hear me say but what they’re next door to heathens,

and the hile they eat wi’ their victuals is enough to turn any

Christian’s stomach. But for all that--an’ for all as the trouble in

respect o’ washin’ and managin’ has fell upo’ me through the journey--I

can’t say but what I think as my Lady an’ Sir Cristifer’s done a right

thing by a hinnicent child as doesn’t know its right hand from its left,

i’ bringing it where it’ll learn to speak summat better nor gibberish,

and be brought up i’ the true religion. For as for them furrin churches

as Sir Cristifer is so unaccountable mad after, wi’ pictures o’ men an’

women a-showing themselves just for all the world as God made ’em. I

think, for my part, as it’s welly a sin to go into ’em.’

‘You’re likely to have more foreigners, however,’ said Mr. Warren, who

liked to provoke the gardener, ‘for Sir Christopher has engaged some

Italian workmen to help in the alterations in the house.’

‘Olterations!’ exclaimed Mrs. Bellamy, in alarm. ‘What olterations!’

‘Why,’ answered Mr. Warren, ‘Sir Christopher, as I understand, is going

to make a new thing of the old Manor-house both inside and out. And he’s

got portfolios full of plans and pictures coming. It is to be cased with

stone, in the Gothic style--pretty near like the churches, you know, as

far as I can make out; and the ceilings are to be beyond anything that’s

been seen in the country. Sir Christopher’s been giving a deal of study

to it.’

‘Dear heart alive!’ said Mrs. Bellamy, ‘we shall be pisoned wi’ lime an’

plaster, an’ hev the house full o’ workmen colloguing wi’ the maids, an’

makin’ no end o’ mischief.’

‘That ye may ley your life on, Mrs. Bellamy,’ said Mr. Bates. ‘Howiver,

I’ll noot denay that the Goothic stayle’s prithy anoof, an’ it’s

woonderful how near them stoon-carvers cuts oot the shapes o’ the pine

apples, an’ shamrucks, an’ rooses. I dare sey Sir Cristhifer’ll meck a

naice thing o’ the Manor, an’ there woon’t be many gentlemen’s houses i’

the coonthry as’ll coom up to’t, wi’ sich a garden an’ pleasure-groons

an’ wall-fruit as King George maight be prood on.’

‘Well, I can’t think as the house can be better nor it is, Gothic or no

Gothic,’ said Mrs. Bellamy; ‘an’ I’ve done the picklin’ and preservin’ in

it fourteen year Michaelmas was a three weeks. But what does my lady say

to’t?’

‘My lady knows better than cross Sir Cristifer in what he’s set his mind

on,’ said Mr. Bellamy, who objected to the critical tone of the

conversation. ‘Sir Cristifer’ll hev his own way, _that_ you may tek your

oath. An’ i’ the right on’t too. He’s a gentleman born, an’s got the

money. But come, Mester Bates, fill your glass, an’ we’ll drink health

an’ happiness to his honour an’ my lady, and then you shall give us a

song. Sir Cristifer doesn’t come hum from Italy ivery night.’

This demonstrable position was accepted without hesitation as ground for

a toast; but Mr. Bates, apparently thinking that his song was not an

equally reasonable sequence, ignored the second part of Mr. Bellamy’s

proposal. So Mrs. Sharp, who had been heard to say that she had no

thoughts at all of marrying Mr. Bates, though he was ‘a sensable

fresh-coloured man as many a woman ’ud snap at for a husband,’ enforced

Mr. Bellamy’s appeal.

‘Come, Mr. Bates, let us hear “Roy’s Wife.” I’d rether hear a good old

song like that, nor all the fine Italian toodlin.’

Mr. Bates, urged thus flatteringly, stuck his thumbs into the armholes of

his waistcoat, threw himself back in his chair with his head in that

position in which he could look directly towards the zenith, and struck

up a remarkably _staccato_ rendering of ‘Roy’s Wife of Aldivalloch’. This

melody may certainly be taxed with excessive iteration, but that was

precisely its highest recommendation to the present audience, who found

it all the easier to swell the chorus. Nor did it at all diminish their

pleasure that the only particular concerning ‘Roy’s Wife’, which Mr.

Bates’s enunciation allowed them to gather, was that she ‘chated’

him,--whether in the matter of garden stuff or of some other commodity,

or why her name should, in consequence, be repeatedly reiterated with

exultation, remaining an agreeable mystery.

Mr. Bates’s song formed the climax of the evening’s good-fellowship, and

the party soon after dispersed--Mrs. Bellamy perhaps to dream of

quicklime flying among her preserving-pans, or of love-sick housemaids

reckless of unswept corners--and Mrs. Sharp to sink into pleasant visions

of independent housekeeping in Mr. Bates’s cottage, with no bells to

answer, and with fruit and vegetables _ad libitum_.

Caterina soon conquered all prejudices against her foreign blood; for

what prejudices will hold out against helplessness and broken prattle?

She became the pet of the household, thrusting Sir Christopher’s

favourite bloodhound of that day, Mrs. Bellamy’s two canaries, and Mr.

Bates’s largest Dorking hen, into a merely secondary position. The

consequence was, that in the space of a summer’s day she went through a

great cycle of experiences, commencing with the somewhat acidulated

goodwill of Mrs. Sharp’s nursery discipline. Then came the grave luxury

of her ladyship’s sitting-room, and, perhaps, the dignity of a ride on

Sir Christopher’s knee, sometimes followed by a visit with him to the

stables, where Caterina soon learned to hear without crying the baying of

the chained bloodhounds, and say, with ostentatious bravery, clinging to

Sir Christopher’s leg all the while, ‘Dey not hurt Tina.’ Then Mrs.

Bellamy would perhaps be going out to gather the rose-leaves and

lavender, and Tina was made proud and happy by being allowed to carry a

handful in her pinafore; happier still, when they were spread out on

sheets to dry, so that she could sit down like a frog among them, and

have them poured over her in fragrant showers. Another frequent pleasure

was to take a journey with Mr. Bates through the kitchen-gardens and the

hothouses, where the rich bunches of green and purple grapes hung from

the roof, far out of reach of the tiny yellow hand that could not help

stretching itself out towards them; though the hand was sure at last to

be satisfied with some delicate-flavoured fruit or sweet-scented flower.

Indeed, in the long monotonous leisure of that great country-house, you

may be sure there was always some one who had nothing better to do than

to play with Tina. So that the little southern bird had its northern nest

lined with tenderness, and caresses, and pretty things. A loving

sensitive nature was too likely, under such nurture, to have its

susceptibility heightened into unfitness for an encounter with any harder

experience; all the more, because there were gleams of fierce resistance

to any discipline that had a harsh or unloving aspect. For the only thing

in which Caterina showed any precocity was a certain ingenuity in

vindictiveness. When she was five years old she had revenged herself for

an unpleasant prohibition by pouring the ink into Mrs. Sharp’s

work-basket; and once, when Lady Cheverel took her doll from her, because

she was affectionately licking the paint off its face, the little minx

straightway climbed on a chair and threw down a flower-vase that stood on

a bracket. This was almost the only instance in which her anger overcame

her awe of Lady Cheverel, who had the ascendancy always belonging to

kindness that never melts into caresses, and is severely but uniformly

beneficent.

By-and-by the happy monotony of Cheverel Manor was broken in upon in the

way Mr. Warren had announced. The roads through the park were cut up by

waggons carrying loads of stone from a neighbouring quarry, the green

courtyard became dusty with lime, and the peaceful house rang with the

sound of tools. For the next ten years Sir Christopher was occupied with

the architectural metamorphosis of his old family mansion; thus

anticipating, through the prompting of his individual taste, that general

reaction from the insipid imitation of the Palladian style, towards a

restoration of the Gothic, which marked the close of the eighteenth

century. This was the object he had set his heart on, with a singleness

of determination which was regarded with not a little contempt by his

fox-hunting neighbours, who wondered greatly that a man with some of the

best blood in England in his veins, should be mean enough to economize in

his cellar, and reduce his stud to two old coach-horses and a hack, for

the sake of riding a hobby, and playing the architect. Their wives did

not see so much to blame in the matter of the cellar and stables, but

they were eloquent in pity for poor Lady Cheverel, who had to live in no

more than three rooms at once, and who must be distracted with noises,

and have her constitution undermined by unhealthy smells. It was as bad

as having a husband with an asthma. Why did not Sir Christopher take a

house for her at Bath, or, at least, if he must spend his time in

overlooking workmen, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Manor? This

pity was quite gratuitous, as the most plentiful pity always is; for

though Lady Cheverel did not share her husband’s architectural

enthusiasm, she had too rigorous a view of a wife’s duties, and too

profound a deference for Sir Christopher, to regard submission as a

grievance. As for Sir Christopher, he was perfectly indifferent to

criticism. ‘An obstinate, crotchety man,’ said his neighbours. But I, who

have seen Cheverel Manor, as he bequeathed it to his heirs, rather

attribute that unswerving architectural purpose of his, conceived and

carried out through long years of systematic personal exertion, to

something of the fervour of genius, as well as inflexibility of will; and

in walking through those rooms, with their splendid ceilings and their

meagre furniture, which tell how all the spare money had been absorbed

before personal comfort was thought of, I have felt that there dwelt in

this old English baronet some of that sublime spirit which distinguishes

art from luxury, and worships beauty apart from self-indulgence.

While Cheverel Manor was growing from ugliness into beauty, Caterina too

was growing from a little yellow bantling into a whiter maiden, with no

positive beauty indeed, but with a certain light airy grace, which, with

her large appealing dark eyes, and a voice that, in its low-toned

tenderness, recalled the love-notes of the stock-dove, gave her a more

than usual charm. Unlike the building, however, Caterina’s development

was the result of no systematic or careful appliances. She grew up very

much like the primroses, which the gardener is not sorry to see within

his enclosure, but takes no pains to cultivate. Lady Cheverel taught her

to read and write, and say her catechism; Mr. Warren, being a good

accountant, gave her lessons in arithmetic, by her ladyship’s desire; and

Mrs. Sharp initiated her in all the mysteries of the needle. But, for a

long time, there was no thought of giving her any more elaborate

education. It is very likely that to her dying day Caterina thought the

earth stood still, and that the sun and stars moved round it; but so, for

the matter of that, did Helen, and Dido, and Desdemona, and Juliet;

whence I hope you will not think my Caterina less worthy to be a heroine

on that account. The truth is, that, with one exception, her only talent

lay in loving; and there, it is probable, the most astronomical of women

could not have surpassed her. Orphan and protegée though she was, this

supreme talent of hers found plenty of exercise at Cheverel Manor, and

Caterina had more people to love than many a small lady and gentleman

affluent in silver mugs and blood relations. I think the first place in

her childish heart was given to Sir Christopher, for little girls are apt

to attach themselves to the finest-looking gentleman at hand, especially

as he seldom has anything to do with discipline. Next to the Baronet came

Dorcas, the merry rosy-cheeked damsel who was Mrs. Sharp’s lieutenant in

the nursery, and thus played the part of the raisins in a dose of senna.

It was a black day for Caterina when Dorcas married the coachman, and

went, with a great sense of elevation in the world, to preside over a

‘public’ in the noisy town of Sloppeter. A little china-box, bearing the

motto ‘Though lost to sight, to memory dear’, which Dorcas sent her as a

remembrance, was among Caterina’s treasures ten years after.

The one other exceptional talent, you already guess, was music. When the

fact that Caterina had a remarkable ear for music, and a still more

remarkable voice, attracted Lady Cheverel’s notice, the discovery was

very welcome both to her and Sir Christopher. Her musical education

became at once an object of interest. Lady Cheverel devoted much time to

it; and the rapidity of Tina’s progress surpassing all hopes, an Italian

singing-master was engaged, for several years, to spend some months

together at Cheverel Manor. This unexpected gift made a great alteration

in Caterina’s position. After those first years in which little girls are

petted like puppies and kittens, there comes a time when it seems less

obvious what they can be good for, especially when, like Caterina, they

give no particular promise of cleverness or beauty; and it is not

surprising that in that uninteresting period there was no particular plan

formed as to her future position. She could always help Mrs. Sharp,

supposing she were fit for nothing else, as she grew up; but now, this

rare gift of song endeared her to Lady Cheverel, who loved music above

all things, and it associated her at once with the pleasures of the

drawing-room. Insensibly she came to be regarded as one of the family,

and the servants began to understand that Miss Sarti was to be a lady

after all.

‘And the raight on’t too,’ said Mr. Bates, ‘for she hasn’t the cut of a

gell as must work for her bread; she’s as nesh an’ dilicate as a

paich-blossom--welly laike a linnet, wi’ on’y joost body anoof to hold

her voice.’

But long before Tina had reached this stage of her history, a new era had

begun for her, in the arrival of a younger companion than any she had

hitherto known. When she was no more than seven, a ward of Sir

Christopher’s--a lad of fifteen, Maynard Gilfil by name--began to spend

his vacations at Cheverel Manor, and found there no playfellow so much to

his mind as Caterina. Maynard was an affectionate lad, who retained a

propensity to white rabbits, pet squirrels, and guinea-pigs, perhaps a

little beyond the age at which young gentlemen usually look down on such

pleasures as puerile. He was also much given to fishing, and to

carpentry, considered as a fine art, without any base view to utility.

And in all these pleasures it was his delight to have Caterina as his

companion, to call her little pet names, answer her wondering questions,

and have her toddling after him as you may have seen a Blenheim spaniel

trotting after a large setter. Whenever Maynard went back to school,

there was a little scene of parting.

‘You won’t forget me, Tina, before I come back again? I shall leave you

all the whip-cord we’ve made; and don’t you let Guinea die. Come, give me

a kiss, and promise not to forget me.’

As the years wore on, and Maynard passed from school to college, and from

a slim lad to a stalwart young man, their companionship in the vacations

necessarily took a different form, but it retained a brotherly and

sisterly familiarity. With Maynard the boyish affection had insensibly

grown into ardent love. Among all the many kinds of first love, that

which begins in childish companionship is the strongest and most

enduring: when passion comes to unite its force to long affection, love

is at its spring-tide. And Maynard Gilfil’s love was of a kind to make

him prefer being tormented by Caterina to any pleasure, apart from her,

which the most benevolent magician could have devised for him. It is the

way with those tall large-limbed men, from Samson downwards. As for Tina,

the little minx was perfectly well aware that Maynard was her slave; he

was the one person in the world whom she did as she pleased with; and I

need not tell you that this was a symptom of her being perfectly

heart-whole so far as he was concerned: for a passionate woman’s love is

always overshadowed by fear.

Maynard Gilfil did not deceive himself in his interpretation of

Caterina’s feelings, but he nursed the hope that some time or other she

would at least care enough for him to accept his love. So he waited

patiently for the day when he might venture to say, ‘Caterina, I love

you!’ You see, he would have been content with very little, being one of

those men who pass through life without making the least clamour about

themselves; thinking neither the cut of his coat, nor the flavour of his

soup, nor the precise depth of a servant’s bow, at all momentous. He

thought--foolishly enough, as lovers _will_ think--that it was a good

augury for him when he came to be domesticated at Cheverel Manor in the

quality of chaplain there, and curate of a neighbouring parish; judging

falsely, from his own case, that habit and affection were the likeliest

avenues to love. Sir Christopher satisfied several feelings in installing

Maynard as chaplain in his house. He liked the old-fashioned dignity of

that domestic appendage; he liked his ward’s companionship; and, as

Maynard had some private fortune, he might take life easily in that

agreeable home, keeping his hunter, and observing a mild regimen of

clerical duty, until the Cumbermoor living should fall in, when he might

be settled for life in the neighbourhood of the manor. ‘With Caterina for

a wife, too,’ Sir Christopher soon began to think; for though the good

Baronet was not at all quick to suspect what was unpleasant and opposed

to his views of fitness, he was quick to see what would dovetail with his

own plans; and he had first guessed, and then ascertained, by direct

inquiry, the state of Maynard’s feelings. He at once leaped to the

conclusion that Caterina was of the same mind, or at least would be, when

she was old enough. But these were too early days for anything definite

to be said or done.

Meanwhile, new circumstances were arising, which, though they made no

change in Sir Christopher’s plans and prospects, converted Mr. Gilfil’s

hopes into anxieties, and made it clear to him not only that Caterina’s

heart was never likely to be his, but that it was given entirely to

another.

Once or twice in Caterina’s childhood, there had been another boy-visitor

at the manor, younger than Maynard Gilfil--a beautiful boy with brown

curls and splendid clothes, on whom Caterina had looked with shy

admiration. This was Anthony Wybrow, the son of Sir Christopher’s

youngest sister, and chosen heir of Cheverel Manor. The Baronet had

sacrificed a large sum, and even straitened the resources by which he was

to carry out his architectural schemes, for the sake of removing the

entail from his estate, and making this boy his heir--moved to the step,

I am sorry to say, by an implacable quarrel with his elder sister; for a

power of forgiveness was not among Sir Christopher’s virtues. At length,

on the death of Anthony’s mother, when he was no longer a curly-headed

boy, but a tall young man, with a captain’s commission, Cheverel Manor

became _his_ home too, whenever he was absent from his regiment. Caterina

was then a little woman, between sixteen and seventeen, and I need not

spend many words in explaining what you perceive to be the most natural

thing in the world.

There was little company kept at the Manor, and Captain Wybrow would have

been much duller if Caterina had not been there. It was pleasant to pay

her attentions--to speak to her in gentle tones, to see her little

flutter of pleasure, the blush that just lit up her pale cheek, and the

momentary timid glance of her dark eyes, when he praised her singing,

leaning at her side over the piano. Pleasant, too, to cut out that

chaplain with his large calves! What idle man can withstand

the temptation of a woman to fascinate, and another man to

eclipse?--especially when it is quite clear to himself that he means no

mischief, and shall leave everything to come right again by-and-by? At

the end of eighteen months, however, during which Captain Wybrow had

spent much of his time at the Manor, he found that matters had reached a

point which he had not at all contemplated. Gentle tones had led to

tender words, and tender words had called forth a response of looks which

made it impossible not to carry on the _crescendo_ of love-making. To

find one’s self adored by a little, graceful, dark-eyed, sweet-singing

woman, whom no one need despise, is an agreeable sensation, comparable to

smoking the finest Latakia, and also imposes some return of tenderness as

a duty.

Perhaps you think that Captain Wybrow, who knew that it would be

ridiculous to dream of his marrying Caterina, must have been a reckless

libertine to win her affections in this manner! Not at all. He was a

young man of calm passions, who was rarely led into any conduct of which

he could not give a plausible account to himself; and the tiny fragile

Caterina was a woman who touched the imagination and the affections

rather than the senses. He really felt very kindly towards her, and would

very likely have loved her--if he had been able to love any one. But

nature had not endowed him with that capability. She had given him an

admirable figure, the whitest of hands, the most delicate of nostrils,

and a large amount of serene self-satisfaction; but, as if to save such a

delicate piece of work from any risk of being shattered, she had guarded

him from the liability to a strong emotion. There was no list of youthful

misdemeanours on record against him, and Sir Christopher and Lady

Cheverel thought him the best of nephews, the most satisfactory of heirs,

full of grateful deference to themselves, and, above all things, guided

by a sense of duty. Captain Wybrow always did the thing easiest and most

agreeable to him from a sense of duty: he dressed expensively, because it

was a duty he owed to his position; from a sense of duty he adapted

himself to Sir Christopher’s inflexible will, which it would have been

troublesome as well as useless to resist; and, being of a delicate

constitution, he took care of his health from a sense of duty. His health

was the only point on which he gave anxiety to his friends; and it was

owing to this that Sir Christopher wished to see his nephew early

married, the more so as a match after the Baronet’s own heart appeared

immediately attainable. Anthony had seen and admired Miss Assher, the

only child of a lady who had been Sir Christopher’s earliest love, but

who, as things will happen in this world, had married another baronet

instead of him. Miss Assher’s father was now dead, and she was in

possession of a pretty estate. If, as was probable, she should prove

susceptible to the merits of Anthony’s person and character, nothing

could make Sir Christopher so happy as to see a marriage which might be

expected to secure the inheritance of Cheverel Manor from getting into

the wrong hands. Anthony had already been kindly received by Lady Assher

as the nephew of her early friend; why should he not go to Bath, where

she and her daughter were then residing, follow up the acquaintance, and

win a handsome, well-born, and sufficiently wealthy bride?

Sir Christopher’s wishes were communicated to his nephew, who at once

intimated his willingness to comply with them--from a sense of duty.

Caterina was tenderly informed by her lover of the sacrifice demanded

from them both; and three days afterwards occurred the parting scene you

have witnessed in the gallery, on the eve of Captain Wybrow’s departure

for Bath.

Chapter 5

The inexorable ticking of the clock is like the throb of pain to

sensations made keen by a sickening fear. And so it is with the great

clockwork of nature. Daisies and buttercups give way to the brown waving

grasses, tinged with the warm red sorrel; the waving grasses are swept

away, and the meadows lie like emeralds set in the bushy hedgerows; the

tawny-tipped corn begins to bow with the weight of the full ear; the

reapers are bending amongst it, and it soon stands in sheaves, then

presently, the patches of yellow stubble lie side by side with streaks of

dark-red earth, which the plough is turning up in preparation for the

new-thrashed seed. And this passage from beauty to beauty, which to the

happy is like the flow of a melody, measures for many a human heart the

approach of foreseen anguish--seems hurrying on the moment when the

shadow of dread will be followed up by the reality of despair.

How cruelly hasty that summer of 1788 seemed to Caterina! Surely the

roses vanished earlier, and the berries on the mountain-ash were more

impatient to redden, and bring on the autumn, when she would be face to

face with her misery, and witness Anthony giving all his gentle tones,

tender words, and soft looks to another.

Before the end of July, Captain Wybrow had written word that Lady Assher

and her daughter were about to fly from the heat and gaiety of Bath to

the shady quiet of their place at Farleigh, and that he was invited to

join the party there. His letters implied that he was on an excellent

footing with both the ladies, and gave no hint of a rival; so that Sir

Christopher was more than usually bright and cheerful after reading them.

At length, towards the close of August, came the announcement that

Captain Wybrow was an accepted lover, and after much complimentary and

congratulatory correspondence between the two families, it was understood

that in September Lady Assher and her daughter would pay a visit to

Cheverel Manor, when Beatrice would make the acquaintance of her future

relatives, and all needful arrangements could be discussed. Captain

Wybrow would remain at Farleigh till then, and accompany the ladies on

their journey.

In the interval, every one at Cheverel Manor had something to do by way

of preparing for the visitors. Sir Christopher was occupied in

consultations with his steward and lawyer, and in giving orders to every

one else, especially in spurring on Francesco to finish the saloon. Mr.

Gilfil had the responsibility of procuring a lady’s horse, Miss Assher

being a great rider. Lady Cheverel had unwonted calls to make and

invitations to deliver. Mr. Bates’s turf, and gravel, and flower-beds

were always at such a point of neatness and finish that nothing

extraordinary could be done in the garden, except a little extraordinary

scolding of the under-gardener, and this addition Mr. Bates did not

neglect.

Happily for Caterina, she too had her task, to fill up the long dreary

daytime: it was to finish a chair-cushion which would complete the set of

embroidered covers for the drawing-room, Lady Cheverel’s year-long work,

and the only noteworthy bit of furniture in the Manor. Over this

embroidery she sat with cold lips and a palpitating heart, thankful that

this miserable sensation throughout the daytime seemed to counteract the

tendency to tears which returned with night and solitude. She was most

frightened when Sir Christopher approached her. The Baronet’s eye was

brighter and his step more elastic than ever, and it seemed to him that

only the most leaden or churlish souls could be otherwise than brisk and

exulting in a world where everything went so well. Dear old gentleman! he

had gone through life a little flushed with the power of his will, and

now his latest plan was succeeding, and Cheverel Manor would be inherited

by a grand-nephew, whom he might even yet live to see a fine young fellow

with at least the down on his chin. Why not? one is still young at sixty.

Sir Christopher had always something playful to say to Caterina.

‘Now, little monkey, you must be in your best voice: you’re the minstrel

of the Manor, you know, and be sure you have a pretty gown and a new

ribbon. You must not be dressed in russet, though you are a

singing-bird.’ Or perhaps, ‘It is your turn to be courted next, Tina. But

don’t you learn any naughty proud airs. I must have Maynard let off

easily.’

Caterina’s affection for the old Baronet helped her to summon up a smile

as he stroked her cheek and looked at her kindly, but that was the moment

at which she felt it most difficult not to burst out crying. Lady

Cheverel’s conversation and presence were less trying; for her ladyship

felt no more than calm satisfaction in this family event; and besides,

she was further sobered by a little jealousy at Sir Christopher’s

anticipation of pleasure in seeing Lady Assher, enshrined in his memory

as a mild-eyed beauty of sixteen, with whom he had exchanged locks before

he went on his first travels. Lady Cheverel would have died rather than

confess it, but she couldn’t help hoping that he would be disappointed in

Lady Assher, and rather ashamed of having called her so charming.

Mr. Gilfil watched Caterina through these days with mixed feelings. Her

suffering went to his heart; but, even for her sake, he was glad that a

love which could never come to good should be no longer fed by false

hopes; and how could he help saying to himself, ‘Perhaps, after a while,

Caterina will be tired of fretting about that cold-hearted puppy, and

then . . .’

At length the much-expected day arrived, and the brightest of September

suns was lighting up the yellowing lime-trees, as about five o’clock Lady

Assher’s carriage drove under the portico. Caterina, seated at work in

her own room, heard the rolling of the wheels, followed presently by the

opening and shutting of doors, and the sound of voices in the corridors.

Remembering that the dinner-hour was six, and that Lady Cheverel had

desired her to be in the drawing-room early, she started up to dress, and

was delighted to find herself feeling suddenly brave and strong.

Curiosity to see Miss Assher--the thought that Anthony was in the

house--the wish not to look unattractive, were feelings that brought

some colour to her lips, and made it easy to attend to her toilette.

They would ask her to sing this evening, and she would sing well. Miss

Assher should not think her utterly insignificant. So she put on her

grey silk gown and her cherry coloured ribbon with as much care as if

she had been herself the betrothed; not forgetting the pair of round

pearl earrings which Sir Christopher had told Lady Cheverel to give her,

because Tina’s little ears were so pretty.

Quick as she had been, she found Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel in the

drawing-room chatting with Mr. Gilfil, and telling him how handsome Miss

Assher was, but how entirely unlike her mother--apparently resembling her

father only.

‘Aha!’ said Sir Christopher, as he turned to look at Caterina, ‘what do

you think of this, Maynard? Did you ever see Tina look so pretty before?

Why, that little grey gown has been made out of a bit of my

lady’s, hasn’t it? It doesn’t take anything much larger than a

pocket-handkerchief to dress the little monkey.’

Lady Cheverel, too, serenely radiant in the assurance a single glance had

given her of Lady Assher’s inferiority, smiled approval, and Caterina was

in one of those moods of self possession and indifference which come as

the ebb-tide between the struggles of passion. She retired to the piano,

and busied herself with arranging her music, not at all insensible to the

pleasure of being looked at with admiration the while, and thinking that,

the next time the door opened, Captain Wybrow would enter, and she would

speak to him quite cheerfully. But when she heard him come in, and the

scent of roses floated towards her, her heart gave one great leap. She

knew nothing till he was pressing her hand, and saying, in the old easy

way, ‘Well, Caterina, how do you do? You look quite blooming.’

She felt her cheeks reddening with anger that he could speak and look

with such perfect nonchalance. Ah! he was too deeply in love with some

one else to remember anything he had felt for _her_. But the next moment

she was conscious of her folly;--‘as if he could show any feeling then!’

This conflict of emotions stretched into a long interval the few moments

that elapsed before the door opened again, and her own attention, as well

as that of all the rest, was absorbed by the entrance of the two ladies.

The daughter was the more striking, from the contrast she presented to

her mother, a round-shouldered, middle-sized woman, who had once had the

transient pink-and-white beauty of a blonde, with ill-defined features

and early embonpoint. Miss Assher was tall, and gracefully though

substantially formed, carrying herself with an air of mingled

graciousness and self-confidence; her dark-brown hair, untouched by

powder, hanging in bushy curls round her face, and falling in long thick

ringlets nearly to her waist. The brilliant carmine tint of her

well-rounded cheeks, and the finely-cut outline of her straight nose,

produced an impression of splendid beauty, in spite of commonplace brown

eyes, a narrow forehead, and thin lips. She was in mourning, and the dead

black of her crape dress, relieved here and there by jet ornaments, gave

the fullest effect to her complexion, and to the rounded whiteness of her

arms, bare from the elbow. The first _coup d’œil_ was dazzling, and as she

stood looking down with a gracious smile on Caterina, whom Lady Cheverel

was presenting to her, the poor little thing seemed to herself to feel,

for the first time, all the folly of her former dream.

‘We are enchanted with your place, Sir Christopher,’ said Lady Assher,

with a feeble kind of pompousness, which she seemed to be copying from

some one else: ‘I’m sure your nephew must have thought Farleigh

wretchedly out of order. Poor Sir John was so very careless about keeping

up the house and grounds. I often talked to him about it, but he said,

“Pooh pooh! as long as my friends find a good dinner and a good bottle of

wine, they won’t care about my ceilings being rather smoky.” He was so

very hospitable, was Sir John.’

‘I think the view of the house from the park, just after we passed the

bridge, particularly fine,’ said Miss Assher, interposing rather eagerly,

as if she feared her mother might be making infelicitous speeches, ‘and

the pleasure of the first glimpse was all the greater because Anthony

would describe nothing to us beforehand. He would not spoil our first

impressions by raising false ideas. I long to go over the house, Sir

Christopher, and learn the history of all your architectural designs,

which Anthony says have cost you so much time and study.’

‘Take care how you set an old man talking about the past, my dear,’ said

the Baronet; ‘I hope we shall find something pleasanter for you to do

than turning over my old plans and pictures. Our friend Mr. Gilfil here

has found a beautiful mare for you and you can scour the country to your

heart’s content. Anthony has sent us word what a horsewoman you are.’

Miss Assher turned to Mr. Gilfil with her most beaming smile, and

expressed her thanks with the elaborate graciousness of a person who

means to be thought charming, and is sure of success.

‘Pray do not thank me,’ said Mr. Gilfil, ‘till you have tried the mare.

She has been ridden by Lady Sara Linter for the last two years; but one

lady’s taste may not be like another’s in horses, any more than in other

matters.’

While this conversation was passing, Captain Wybrow was leaning against

the mantelpiece, contenting himself with responding from under his

indolent eyelids to the glances Miss Assher was constantly directing

towards him as she spoke. ‘She is very much in love with him,’ thought

Caterina. But she was relieved that Anthony remained passive in his

attentions. She thought, too, that he was looking paler and more languid

than usual. ‘If he didn’t love her very much--if he sometimes thought of

the past with regret, I think I could bear it all, and be glad to see Sir

Christopher made happy.’

During dinner there was a little incident which confirmed these thoughts.

When the sweets were on the table, there was a mould of jelly just

opposite Captain Wybrow, and being inclined to take some himself, he

first invited Miss Assher, who coloured, and said, in rather a sharper

key than usual, ‘Have you not learned by this time that I never take

jelly?’

‘Don’t you?’ said Captain Wybrow, whose perceptions were not acute enough

for him to notice the difference of a semitone. ‘I should have thought

you were fond of it. There was always some on the table at Farleigh, I

think.’

‘You don’t seem to take much interest in my likes and dislikes.’

‘I’m too much possessed by the happy thought that you like me,’ was the

_ex officio_ reply, in silvery tones.

This little episode was unnoticed by every one but Caterina. Sir

Christopher was listening with polite attention to Lady Assher’s history

of her last man-cook, who was first-rate at gravies, and for that reason

pleased Sir John--he was so particular about his gravies, was Sir John:

and so they kept the man six years in spite of his bad pastry. Lady

Cheverel and Mr. Gilfil were smiling at Rupert the bloodhound, who had

pushed his great head under his master’s arm, and was taking a survey of

the dishes, after snuffing at the contents of the Baronet’s plate.

When the ladies were in the drawing-room again, Lady Assher was soon deep

in a statement to Lady Cheverel of her views about burying people in

woollen.

‘To be sure, you must have a woollen dress, because it’s the law, you

know; but that need hinder no one from putting linen underneath. I always

used to say, “If Sir John died to-morrow, I would bury him in his shirt;”

and I did. And let me advise you to do so by Sir Christopher. You never

saw Sir John, Lady Cheverel. He was a large tall man, with a nose just

like Beatrice, and so very particular about his shirts.’

Miss Assher, meanwhile, had seated herself by Caterina, and, with that

smiling affability which seems to say, ‘I am really not at all proud,

though you might expect it of me,’ said,--‘Anthony tells me you sing so

very beautifully. I hope we shall hear you this evening.’

‘O yes,’ said Caterina, quietly, without smiling; ‘I always sing when I

am wanted to sing.’

‘I envy you such a charming talent. Do you know, I have no ear; I cannot

hum the smallest tune, and I delight in music so. Is it not unfortunate?

But I shall have quite a treat while I am here; Captain Wybrow says you

will give us some music every day.’

‘I should have thought you wouldn’t care about music if you had no ear,’

said Caterina, becoming epigrammatic by force of grave simplicity.

‘O, I assure you, I doat on it; and Anthony is so fond of it; it would be

so delightful if I could play and sing to him; though he says he likes me

best not to sing, because it doesn’t belong to his idea of me. What style

of music do you like best?’

‘I don’t know. I like all beautiful music.’

‘And are you as fond of riding as of music?’

‘No; I never ride. I think I should be very frightened.’

‘O no! indeed you would not, after a little practice. I have never been

in the least timid. I think Anthony is more afraid for me than I am for

myself; and since I have been riding with him, I have been obliged to be

more careful, because he is so nervous about me.’

Caterina made no reply; but she said to herself, ‘I wish she would go

away and not talk to me. She only wants me to admire her good-nature, and

to talk about Anthony.’

Miss Assher was thinking at the same time, ‘This Miss Sarti seems a

stupid little thing. Those musical people often are. But she is prettier

than I expected; Anthony said she was not pretty.’

Happily at this moment Lady Assher called her daughter’s attention to the

embroidered cushions, and Miss Assher, walking to the opposite sofa, was

soon in conversation with Lady Cheverel about tapestry and embroidery in

general, while her mother, feeling herself superseded there, came and

placed herself beside Caterina.

‘I hear you are the most beautiful singer,’ was of course the opening

remark. ‘All Italians sing so beautifully. I travelled in Italy with Sir

John when we were first married, and we went to Venice, where they go

about in gondolas, you know. You don’t wear powder, I see. No more will

Beatrice; though many people think her curls would look all the better

for powder. She has so much hair, hasn’t she? Our last maid dressed it

much better than this; but, do you know, she wore Beatrice’s stockings

before they went to the wash, and we couldn’t keep her after that, could

we?’

Caterina, accepting the question as a mere bit of rhetorical effect,

thought it superfluous to reply, till Lady Assher repeated, ‘Could we,

now?’ as if Tina’s sanction were essential to her repose of mind. After a

faint ‘No’, she went on.

‘Maids are so very troublesome, and Beatrice is so particular, you can’t

imagine. I often say to her, “My dear, you can’t have perfection.” That

very gown she has on--to be sure, it fits her beautifully now--but it has

been unmade and made up again twice. But she is like poor Sir John--he

was so very particular about his own things, was Sir John. Is Lady

Cheverel particular?’

‘Rather. But Mrs. Sharp has been her maid twenty years.’

‘I wish there was any chance of our keeping Griffin twenty years. But I

am afraid we shall have to part with her because her health is so

delicate; and she is so obstinate, she will not take bitters as I want

her. _You_ look delicate, now. Let me recommend you to take camomile tea

in a morning, fasting. Beatrice is so strong and healthy, she never takes

any medicine; but if I had had twenty girls, and they had been delicate,

I should have given them all camomile tea. It strengthens the

constitution beyond anything. Now, will you promise me to take camomile

tea?’

‘Thank you: I’m not at all ill,’ said Caterina. ‘I’ve always been pale

and thin.’

Lady Assher was sure camomile tea would make all the difference in the

world--Caterina must see if it wouldn’t--and then went dribbling on like

a leaky shower-bath, until the early entrance of the gentlemen created a

diversion, and she fastened on Sir Christopher, who probably began to

think that, for poetical purposes, it would be better not to meet one’s

first love again, after a lapse of forty years.

Captain Wybrow, of course, joined his aunt and Miss Assher, and Mr.

Gilfil tried to relieve Caterina from the awkwardness of sitting aloof

and dumb, by telling her how a friend of his had broken his arm and

staked his horse that morning, not at all appearing to heed that she

hardly listened, and was looking towards the other side of the room. One

of the tortures of jealousy is, that it can never turn its eyes away from

the thing that pains it.

By-and-by every one felt the need of a relief from chit-chat--Sir

Christopher perhaps the most of all--and it was he who made the

acceptable proposition--

‘Come, Tina, are we to have no music to-night before we sit down to

cards? Your ladyship plays at cards, I think?’ he added, recollecting

himself, and turning to Lady Assher.

‘O yes! Poor dear Sir John would have a whist-table every night.’

Caterina sat down to the harpsichord at once, and had no sooner begun to

sing than she perceived with delight that Captain Wybrow was gliding

towards the harpsichord, and soon standing in the old place. This

consciousness gave fresh strength to her voice; and when she noticed that

Miss Assher presently followed him with that air of ostentatious

admiration which belongs to the absence of real enjoyment, her closing

_bravura_ was none the worse for being animated by a little triumphant

contempt.

‘Why, you are in better voice than ever, Caterina,’ said Captain Wybrow,

when she had ended. ‘This is rather different from Miss Hibbert’s small

piping that we used to be glad of at Farleigh, is it not, Beatrice?’

‘Indeed it is. You are a most enviable creature, Miss Sarti--Caterina--may

I not call you Caterina? for I have heard Anthony speak of you so often, I

seem to know you quite well. You will let me call you Caterina?’

‘O yes, every one calls me Caterina, only when they call me Tina.’

‘Come, come, more singing, more singing, little monkey,’ Sir Christopher

called out from the other side of the room. ‘We have not had half enough

yet.’

Caterina was ready enough to obey, for while she was singing she was

queen of the room, and Miss Assher was reduced to grimacing admiration.

Alas! you see what jealousy was doing in this poor young soul. Caterina,

who had passed her life as a little unobtrusive singing-bird, nestling so

fondly under the wings that were outstretched for her, her heart beating

only to the peaceful rhythm of love, or fluttering with some easily

stifled fear, had begun to know the fierce palpitations of triumph and

hatred.

When the singing was over, Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel sat down to

whist with Lady Assher and Mr. Gilfil, and Caterina placed herself at the

Baronet’s elbow, as if to watch the game, that she might not appear to

thrust herself on the pair of lovers. At first she was glowing with her

little triumph, and felt the strength of pride; but her eye _would_ steal

to the opposite side of the fireplace, where Captain Wybrow had seated

himself close to Miss Assher, and was leaning with his arm over the back

of the chair, in the most lover-like position. Caterina began to feel a

choking sensation. She could see, almost without looking, that he was

taking up her arm to examine her bracelet; their heads were bending close

together, her curls touching his cheek--now he was putting his lips to

her hand. Caterina felt her cheeks burn--she could sit no longer. She got

up, pretended to be gliding about in search of something, and at length

slipped out of the room.

Outside, she took a candle, and, hurrying along the passages and up the

stairs to her own room, locked the door.

‘O, I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it!’ the poor thing burst out aloud,

clasping her little fingers, and pressing them back against her forehead,

as if she wanted to break them.

Then she walked hurriedly up and down the room.

‘And this must go on for days and days, and I must see it.’

She looked about nervously for something to clutch. There was a muslin

kerchief lying on the table; she took it up and tore it into shreds as

she walked up and down, and then pressed it into hard balls in her hand.

‘And Anthony,’ she thought, ‘he can do this without caring for what I

feel. O, he can forget everything: how he used to say he loved me--how he

used to take my hand in his as we walked--how he used to stand near me in

the evenings for the sake of looking into my eyes.’

‘Oh, it is cruel, it is cruel!’ she burst out again aloud, as all those

love-moments in the past returned upon her. Then the tears gushed forth,

she threw herself on her knees by the bed, and sobbed bitterly.

She did not know how long she had been there, till she was startled by

the prayer-bell; when, thinking Lady Cheverel might perhaps send some one

to inquire after her, she rose, and began hastily to undress, that there

might be no possibility of her going down again. She had hardly

unfastened her hair, and thrown a loose gown about her, before there was

a knock at the door, and Mrs. Sharp’s voice said--‘Miss Tina, my lady

wants to know if you’re ill.’

Caterina opened the door and said, ‘Thank you, dear Mrs. Sharp; I have a

bad headache; please tell my lady I felt it come on after singing.’

‘Then, goodness me! why aren’t you in bed, istid o’ standing shivering

there, fit to catch your death? Come, let me fasten up your hair and tuck

you up warm.’

‘O no, thank you; I shall really be in bed very soon. Good-night, dear

Sharpy; don’t scold; I will be good, and get into bed.’

Caterina kissed her old friend coaxingly, but Mrs. Sharp was not to be

‘come over’ in that way, and insisted on seeing her former charge in bed,

taking away the candle which the poor child had wanted to keep as a

companion. But it was impossible to lie there long with that beating

heart; and the little white figure was soon out of bed again, seeking

relief in the very sense of chill and uncomfort. It was light enough for

her to see about her room, for the moon, nearly at full, was riding high

in the heavens among scattered hurrying clouds. Caterina drew aside the

window-curtain; and, sitting with her forehead pressed against the cold

pane, looked out on the wide stretch of park and lawn.

How dreary the moonlight is! robbed of all its tenderness and repose by

the hard driving wind. The trees are harassed by that tossing motion,

when they would like to be at rest; the shivering grass makes her quake

with sympathetic cold; and the willows by the pool, bent low and white

under that invisible harshness, seem agitated and helpless like herself.

But she loves the scene the better for its sadness: there is some pity in

it. It is not like that hard unfeeling happiness of lovers, flaunting in

the eyes of misery.

She set her teeth tight against the window-frame, and the tears fell

thick and fast. She was so thankful she could cry, for the mad passion

she had felt when her eyes were dry frightened her. If that dreadful

feeling were to come on when Lady Cheverel was present, she should never

be able to contain herself.

Then there was Sir Christopher--so good to her--so happy about Anthony’s

marriage; and all the while she had these wicked feelings.

‘O, I cannot help it, I cannot help it!’ she said in a loud whisper

between her sobs. ‘O God, have pity upon me!’

In this way Tina wore out the long hours of the windy moonlight, till at

last, with weary aching limbs, she lay down in bed again, and slept from

mere exhaustion.

While this poor little heart was being bruised with a weight too heavy

for it, Nature was holding on her calm inexorable way, in unmoved and

terrible beauty. The stars were rushing in their eternal courses; the

tides swelled to the level of the last expectant weed; the sun was making

brilliant day to busy nations on the other side of the swift earth. The

stream of human thought and deed was hurrying and broadening onward. The

astronomer was at his telescope; the great ships were labouring over the

waves; the toiling eagerness of commerce, the fierce spirit of

revolution, were only ebbing in brief rest; and sleepless statesmen were

dreading the possible crisis of the morrow. What were our little Tina and

her trouble in this mighty torrent, rushing from one awful unknown to

another? Lighter than the smallest centre of quivering life in the

waterdrop, hidden and uncared for as the pulse of anguish in the breast

of the tiniest bird that has fluttered down to its nest with the

long-sought food, and has found the nest torn and empty.

Chapter 6

The next morning, when Caterina was waked from her heavy sleep by Martha

bringing in the warm water, the sun was shining, the wind had abated, and

those hours of suffering in the night seemed unreal and dreamlike, in

spite of weary limbs and aching eyes. She got up and began to dress with

a strange feeling of insensibility, as if nothing could make her cry

again; and she even felt a sort of longing to be down-stairs in the midst

of company, that she might get rid of this benumbed condition by contact.

There are few of us that are not rather ashamed of our sins and follies

as we look out on the blessed morning sunlight, which comes to us like a

bright-winged angel beckoning us to quit the old path of vanity that

stretches its dreary length behind us; and Tina, little as she knew about

doctrines and theories, seemed to herself to have been both foolish and

wicked yesterday. Today she would try to be good; and when she knelt down

to say her short prayer--the very form she had learned by heart when she

was ten years old--she added, ‘O God, help me to bear it!’

That day the prayer seemed to be answered, for after some remarks on her

pale looks at breakfast, Caterina passed the morning quietly, Miss Assher

and Captain Wybrow being out on a riding excursion. In the evening there

was a dinner-party, and after Caterina had sung a little, Lady Cheverel

remembering that she was ailing, sent her to bed, where she soon sank

into a deep sleep. Body and mind must renew their force to suffer as well

as to enjoy.

On the morrow, however, it was rainy, and every one must stay in-doors;

so it was resolved that the guests should be taken over the house by Sir

Christopher, to hear the story of the architectural alterations, the

family portraits, and the family relics. All the party, except Mr.

Gilfil, were in the drawing-room when the proposition was made; and when

Miss Assher rose to go, she looked towards Captain Wybrow, expecting to

see him rise too; but he kept his seat near the fire, turning his eyes

towards the newspaper which he had been holding unread in his hand.

‘Are you not coming, Anthony?’ said Lady Cheverel, noticing Miss Assher’s

look of expectation.

‘I think not, if you’ll excuse me,’ he answered, rising and opening the

door; ‘I feel a little chilled this morning, and I am afraid of the cold

rooms and draughts.’

Miss Assher reddened, but said nothing, and passed on, Lady Cheverel

accompanying her.

Caterina was seated at work in the oriel window. It was the first time

she and Anthony had been alone together, and she had thought before that

he wished to avoid her. But now, surely, he wanted to speak to her--he

wanted to say something kind. Presently he rose from his seat near the

fire, and placed himself on the ottoman opposite to her.

‘Well, Tina, and how have you been all this long time?’ Both the tone and

the words were an offence to her; the tone was so different from the old

one, the words were so cold and unmeaning. She answered, with a little

bitterness,--‘I think you needn’t ask. It doesn’t make much difference to

you.’

‘Is that the kindest thing you have to say to me after my long absence?’

‘I don’t know why you should expect me to say kind things.’

Captain Wybrow was silent. He wished very much to avoid allusions to the

past or comments on the present. And yet he wished to be well with

Caterina. He would have liked to caress her, make her presents, and have

her think him very kind to her. But these women are plaguy perverse!

There’s no bringing them to look rationally at anything. At last he said,

‘I hoped you would think all the better of me, Tina, for doing as I have

done, instead of bearing malice towards me. I hoped you would see that it

is the best thing for every one--the best for your happiness too.’

‘O pray don’t make love to Miss Assher for the sake of my happiness,’

answered Tina.

At this moment the door opened, and Miss Assher entered, to fetch her

reticule, which lay on the harpsichord. She gave a keen glance at

Caterina, whose face was flushed, and saying to Captain Wybrow with a

slight sneer, ‘Since you are so chill I wonder you like to sit in the

window,’ left the room again immediately.

The lover did not appear much discomposed, but sat quiet a little longer,

and then, seating himself on the music-stool, drew it near to Caterina,

and, taking her hand, said, ‘Come, Tina, look kindly at me, and let us be

friends. I shall always be your friend.’

‘Thank you,’ said Caterina, drawing away her hand. ‘You are very

generous. But pray move away. Miss Assher may come in again.’

‘Miss Assher be hanged!’ said Anthony, feeling the fascination of old

habit returning on him in his proximity to Caterina. He put his arm round

her waist, and leaned his cheek down to hers. The lips couldn’t help

meeting after that; but the next moment, with heart swelling and tears

rising, Caterina burst away from him, and rushed out of the room.

Chapter 7

Caterina tore herself from Anthony with the desperate effort of one who

has just self-recollection enough left to be conscious that the fumes of

charcoal will master his senses unless he bursts a way for himself to the

fresh air; but when she reached her own room, she was still too

intoxicated with that momentary revival of old emotions, too much

agitated by the sudden return of tenderness in her lover, to know whether

pain or pleasure predominated. It was as if a miracle had happened in her

little world of feeling, and made the future all vague--a dim morning

haze of possibilities, instead of the sombre wintry daylight and clear

rigid outline of painful certainty.

She felt the need of rapid movement. She must walk out in spite of the

rain. Happily, there was a thin place in the curtain of clouds which

seemed to promise that now, about noon, the day had a mind to clear up.

Caterina thought to herself, ‘I will walk to the Mosslands, and carry Mr.

Bates the comforter I have made for him, and then Lady Cheverel will not

wonder so much at my going out.’ At the hall door she found Rupert, the

old bloodhound, stationed on the mat, with the determination that the

first person who was sensible enough to take a walk that morning should

have the honour of his approbation and society. As he thrust his great

black and tawny head under her hand, and wagged his tail with vigorous

eloquence, and reached the climax of his welcome by jumping up to lick

her face, which was at a convenient licking height for him, Caterina felt

quite grateful to the old dog for his friendliness. Animals are such

agreeable friends--they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms.

The ‘Mosslands’ was a remote part of the grounds, encircled by the little

stream issuing from the pool; and certainly, for a wet day, Caterina

could hardly have chosen a less suitable walk, for though the rain was

abating, and presently ceased altogether, there was still a smart shower

falling from the trees which arched over the greater part of her way. But

she found just the desired relief from her feverish excitement in

labouring along the wet paths with an umbrella that made her arm ache.

This amount of exertion was to her tiny body what a day’s hunting often

was to Mr. Gilfil, who at times had _his_ fits of jealousy and sadness to

get rid of, and wisely had recourse to nature’s innocent opium--fatigue.

When Caterina reached the pretty arched wooden bridge which formed the

only entrance to the Mosslands for any but webbed feet, the sun had

mastered the clouds, and was shining through the boughs of the tall elms

that made a deep nest for the gardener’s cottage--turning the raindrops

into diamonds, and inviting the nasturtium flowers creeping over the

porch and low-thatched roof to lift up their flame-coloured heads once

more. The rooks were cawing with many-voiced monotony, apparently--by a

remarkable approximation to human intelligence--finding great

conversational resources in the change of weather. The mossy turf,

studded with the broad blades of marsh-loving plants, told that Mr.

Bates’s nest was rather damp in the best of weather; but he was of

opinion that a little external moisture would hurt no man who was not

perversely neglectful of that obvious and providential antidote,

rum-and-water.

Caterina loved this nest. Every object in it, every sound that haunted

it, had been familiar to her from the days when she had been carried

thither on Mr. Bates’s arm, making little cawing noises to imitate the

rooks, clapping her hands at the green frogs leaping in the moist grass,

and fixing grave eyes on the gardener’s fowls cluck-clucking under their

pens. And now the spot looked prettier to her than ever; it was so out of

the way of Miss Assher, with her brilliant beauty, and personal claims,

and small civil remarks. She thought Mr. Bates would not be come into his

dinner yet, so she would sit down and wait for him.

But she was mistaken. Mr. Bates was seated in his arm-chair, with his

pocket-handkerchief thrown over his face, as the most eligible mode of

passing away those superfluous hours between meals when the weather

drives a man in-doors. Roused by the furious barking of his chained

bulldog, he descried his little favourite approaching, and forthwith

presented himself at the doorway, looking disproportionately tall

compared with the height of his cottage. The bulldog, meanwhile, unbent

from the severity of his official demeanour, and commenced a friendly

interchange of ideas with Rupert.

Mr. Bates’s hair was now grey, but his frame was none the less stalwart,

and his face looked all the redder, making an artistic contrast with the

deep blue of his cotton neckerchief, and of his linen apron twisted into

a girdle round his waist.

‘Why, dang my boottons, Miss Tiny,’ he exclaimed, ‘hoo coom ye to coom

oot dabblin’ your faet laike a little Muscovy duck, sich a day as this?

Not but what ai’m delaighted to sae ye. Here Hesther,’ he called to his

old humpbacked housekeeper, ‘tek the young ledy’s oombrella an’ spread

it oot to dray. Coom, coom in, Miss Tiny, an’ set ye doon by the faire

an’ dray yer faet, an’ hev summat warm to kape ye from ketchin’ coold.’

Mr. Bates led the way, stooping under the doorplaces, into his small

sitting-room, and, shaking the patchwork cushion in his arm-chair, moved

it to within a good roasting distance of the blazing fire.

‘Thank you, uncle Bates’ (Caterina kept up her childish epithets for her

friends, and this was one of them); ‘not quite so close to the fire, for

I am warm with walking.’

‘Eh, but yer shoes are faine an’ wet, an’ ye must put up yer faet on the

fender. Rare big faet, baint ’em?--aboot the saize of a good big spoon. I

woonder ye can mek a shift to stan’ on ’em. Now, what’ll ye hev to warm

yer insaide?--a drop o’ hot elder wain, now?’

‘No, not anything to drink, thank you; it isn’t very long since

breakfast,’ said Caterina, drawing out the comforter from her deep

pocket. Pockets were capacious in those days. ‘Look here, uncle Bates,

here is what I came to bring you. I made it on purpose for you. You must

wear it this winter, and give your red one to old Brooks.’

‘Eh, Miss Tiny, this _is_ a beauty. An’ ye made it all wi’ yer little

fingers for an old feller laike mae! I tek it very kaind on ye, an’ I

belave ye I’ll wear it, and be prood on’t too. These sthraipes, blue an’

whaite, now, they mek it uncommon pritty.’

‘Yes, that will suit your complexion, you know, better than the old

scarlet one. I know Mrs. Sharp will be more in love with you than ever

when she sees you in the new one.’

‘My complexion, ye little roogue! ye’re a laughin’ at me. But talkin’ o’

complexions, what a beautiful colour the bride as is to be has on her

cheeks! Dang my boottons! she looks faine and handsome o’ hossback--sits

as upraight as a dart, wi’ a figure like a statty! Misthress Sharp has

promised to put me behaind one o’ the doors when the ladies are comin’

doon to dinner, so as I may sae the young un i’ full dress, wi’ all her

curls an’ that. Misthress Sharp says she’s almost beautifuller nor my

ledy was when she was yoong; an’ I think ye’ll noot faind man i’ the

counthry as’ll coom up to that.’

‘Yes, Miss Assher is very handsome,’ said Caterina, rather faintly,

feeling the sense of her own insignificance returning at this picture of

the impression Miss Assher made on others.

‘Well, an’ I hope she’s good too, an’ll mek a good naice to Sir

Cristhifer an’ my ledy. Misthress Griffin, the maid, says as she’s rether

tatchy and find-fautin’ aboot her cloothes, laike. But she’s yoong--she’s

yoong; that’ll wear off when she’s got a hoosband, an’ children, an’

summat else to think on. Sir Cristhifer’s fain an’ delaighted, I can see.

He says to me th’ other mornin’, says he, “Well, Bates, what do you think

of your young misthress as is to be?” An’ I says, “Whay, yer honour, I

think she’s as fain a lass as iver I set eyes on; an’ I wish the Captain

luck in a fain family, an’ your honour laife an’ health to see’t.” Mr.

Warren says as the masther’s all for forrardin’ the weddin’, an’ it’ll

very laike be afore the autumn’s oot.’

As Mr. Bates ran on, Caterina felt something like a painful contraction

at her heart. ‘Yes,’ she said, rising, ‘I dare say it will. Sir

Christopher is very anxious for it. But I must go, uncle Bates; Lady

Cheverel will be wanting me, and it is your dinner-time.’

‘Nay, my dinner doon’t sinnify a bit; but I moosn’t kaep ye if my ledy

wants ye. Though I hevn’t thanked ye half anoof for the comfiter--the

wrapraskil, as they call’t. My feckins, it’s a beauty. But ye look very

whaite and sadly, Miss Tiny; I doubt ye’re poorly; an’ this walking i’

th’ wet isn’t good for ye.’

‘O yes, it is indeed,’ said Caterina, hastening out, and taking up her

umbrella from the kitchen floor. ‘I must really go now; so good-bye.’

She tripped off, calling Rupert, while the good gardener, his hands

thrust deep in his pockets, stood looking after her and shaking his head

with rather a melancholy air.

‘She gets moor nesh and dillicat than iver,’ he said, half to himself and

half to Hester. ‘I shouldn’t woonder if she fades away laike them

cyclamens as I transplanted. She puts me i’ maind on ’em somehow, hangin’

on their little thin stalks, so whaite an’ tinder.’

The poor little thing made her way back, no longer hungering for the cold

moist air as a counteractive of inward excitement, but with a chill at

her heart which made the outward chill only depressing. The golden

sunlight beamed through the dripping boughs like a Shechinah, or visible

divine presence, and the birds were chirping and trilling their new

autumnal songs so sweetly, it seemed as if their throats, as well as the

air, were all the clearer for the rain; but Caterina moved through all

this joy and beauty like a poor wounded leveret painfully dragging its

little body through the sweet clover-tufts--for it, sweet in vain. Mr.

Bates’s words about Sir Christopher’s joy, Miss Assher’s beauty, and the

nearness of the wedding, had come upon her like the pressure of a cold

hand, rousing her from confused dozing to a perception of hard, familiar

realities. It is so with emotional natures whose thoughts are no more

than the fleeting shadows cast by feeling: to them words are facts, and

even when known to be false, have a mastery over their smiles and tears.

Caterina entered her own room again, with no other change from her former

state of despondency and wretchedness than an additional sense of injury

from Anthony. His behaviour towards her in the morning was a new wrong.

To snatch a caress when she justly claimed an expression of penitence, of

regret, of sympathy, was to make more light of her than ever.

Chapter 8

That evening Miss Assher seemed to carry herself with unusual

haughtiness, and was coldly observant of Caterina. There was unmistakably

thunder in the air. Captain Wybrow appeared to take the matter very

easily, and was inclined to brave it out by paying more than ordinary

attention to Caterina. Mr. Gilfil had induced her to play a game at

draughts with him, Lady Assher being seated at picquet with Sir

Christopher, and Miss Assher in determined conversation with Lady

Cheverel. Anthony, thus left as an odd unit, sauntered up to Caterina’s

chair, and leaned behind her, watching the game. Tina, with all the

remembrances of the morning thick upon her, felt her cheeks becoming more

and more crimson, and at last said impatiently, ‘I wish you would go

away.’

This happened directly under the view of Miss Assher, who saw Caterina’s

reddening cheeks, saw that she said something impatiently, and that

Captain Wybrow moved away in consequence. There was another person, too,

who had noticed this incident with strong interest, and who was moreover

aware that Miss Assher not only saw, but keenly observed what was

passing. That other person was Mr. Gilfil, and he drew some painful

conclusions which heightened his anxiety for Caterina.

The next morning, in spite of the fine weather, Miss Assher declined

riding, and Lady Cheverel, perceiving that there was something wrong

between the lovers, took care that they should be left together in the

drawing-room. Miss Assher, seated on the sofa near the fire, was busy

with some fancy-work, in which she seemed bent on making great progress

this morning. Captain Wybrow sat opposite with a newspaper in his hand,

from which he obligingly read extracts with an elaborately easy air,

wilfully unconscious of the contemptuous silence with which she pursued

her filigree work. At length he put down the paper, which he could no

longer pretend not to have exhausted, and Miss Assher then said,--‘You

seem to be on very intimate terms with Miss Sarti.’

‘With Tina? oh yes; she has always been the pet of the house, you know.

We have been quite brother and sister together.’

‘Sisters don’t generally colour so very deeply when their brothers

approach them.’

‘Does she colour? I never noticed it. But she’s a timid little thing.’

‘It would be much better if you would not be so hypocritical, Captain

Wybrow. I am confident there has been some flirtation between you. Miss

Sarti, in her position, would never speak to you with the petulance she

did last night, if you had not given her some kind of claim on you.’

‘My dear Beatrice, now do be reasonable; do ask yourself what earthly

probability there is that I should think of flirting with poor little

Tina. _Is_ there anything about her to attract that sort of attention?

She is more child than woman. One thinks of her as a little girl to be

petted and played with.’

‘Pray, what were you playing at with her yesterday morning, when I came

in unexpectedly, and her cheeks were flushed, and her hands trembling?’

‘Yesterday morning?--O, I remember. You know I always tease her about

Gilfil, who is over head and ears in love with her; and she is angry at

that,--perhaps, because she likes him. They were old playfellows years

before I came here, and Sir Christopher has set his heart on their

marrying.’

‘Captain Wybrow, you are very false. It had nothing to do with Mr. Gilfil

that she coloured last night when you leaned over her chair. You might

just as well be candid. If your own mind is not made up, pray do no

violence to yourself. I am quite ready to give way to Miss Sarti’s

superior attractions. Understand that, so far as I am concerned, you are

perfectly at liberty. I decline any share in the affection of a man who

forfeits my respect by duplicity.’

In saying this Miss Assher rose, and was sweeping haughtily out of the

room, when Captain Wybrow placed himself before her, and took her hand.

‘Dear, dear Beatrice, be patient; do not judge me so rashly. Sit down

again, sweet,’ he added in a pleading voice, pressing both her hands

between his, and leading her back to the sofa, where he sat down beside

her. Miss Assher was not unwilling to be led back or to listen, but she

retained her cold and haughty expression.

‘Can you not trust me, Beatrice? Can you not believe me, although there

may be things I am unable to explain?’

‘Why should there be anything you are unable to explain? An honourable

man will not be placed in circumstances which he cannot explain to the

woman he seeks to make his wife. He will not ask her to _believe_ that he

acts properly; he will let her _know_ that he does so. Let me go, sir.’

She attempted to rise, but he passed his hand round her waist and

detained her.

‘Now, Beatrice dear,’ he said imploringly, ‘can you not understand that

there are things a man doesn’t like to talk about--secrets that he must

keep for the sake of others, and not for his own sake? Everything that

relates to myself you may ask me, but do not ask me to tell other

people’s secrets. Don’t you understand me?’

‘O yes,’ said Miss Assher scornfully, ‘I understand. Whenever you make

love to a woman--that is her secret, which you are bound to keep for her.

But it is folly to be talking in this way, Captain Wybrow. It is very

plain that there is some relation more than friendship between you and

Miss Sarti. Since you cannot explain that relation, there is no more to

be said between us.’

‘Confound it, Beatrice! you’ll drive me mad. Can a fellow help a girl’s

falling in love with him? Such things are always happening, but men don’t

talk of them. These fancies will spring up without the slightest

foundation, especially when a woman sees few people; they die out again

when there is no encouragement. If you could like me, you ought not to be

surprised that other people can; you ought to think the better of them

for it.’

‘You mean to say, then, that Miss Sarti is in love with you, without your

ever having made love to her.’

‘Do not press me to say such things, dearest. It is enough that you know

I love you--that I am devoted to you. You naughty queen, you, you know

there is no chance for any one else where you are. You are only

tormenting me, to prove your power over me. But don’t be too cruel; for

you know they say I have another heart-disease besides love, and these

scenes bring on terrible palpitations.’

‘But I must have an answer to this one question,’ said Miss Assher, a

little softened: ‘Has there been, or is there, any love on your side

towards Miss Sarti? I have nothing to do with her feelings, but I have a

right to know yours.’

‘I like Tina very much; who would not like such a little simple thing?

You would not wish me not to like her? But love--that is a very different

affair. One has a brotherly affection for such a woman as Tina; but it is

another sort of woman that one loves.’

These last words were made doubly significant by a look of tenderness,

and a kiss imprinted on the hand Captain Wybrow held in his. Miss Assher

was conquered. It was so far from probable that Anthony should love that

pale insignificant little thing--so highly probable that he should adore

the beautiful Miss Assher. On the whole, it was rather gratifying that

other women should be languishing for her handsome lover; he really was

an exquisite creature. Poor Miss Sarti! Well, she would get over it.

Captain Wybrow saw his advantage. ‘Come, sweet love,’ he continued, ‘let

us talk no more about unpleasant things. You will keep Tina’s secret, and

be very kind to her--won’t you?--for my sake. But you will ride out now?

See what a glorious day it is for riding. Let me order the horses. I’m

terribly in want of the air. Come, give me one forgiving kiss, and say

you will go.’

Miss Assher complied with the double request, and then went to equip

herself for the ride, while her lover walked to the stables.

Chapter 9

Meanwhile Mr. Gilfil, who had a heavy weight on his mind, had watched for

the moment when, the two elder ladies having driven out, Caterina would

probably be alone in Lady Cheverel’s sitting-room. He went up and knocked

at the door.

‘Come in,’ said the sweet mellow voice, always thrilling to him as the

sound of rippling water to the thirsty.

He entered and found Caterina standing in some confusion as if she had

been startled from a reverie. She felt relieved when she saw it was

Maynard, but, the next moment, felt a little pettish that he should have

come to interrupt and frighten her.

‘Oh, it is you, Maynard! Do you want Lady Cheverel?’

‘No, Caterina,’ he answered gravely; ‘I want you. I have something very

particular to say to you. Will you let me sit down with you for half an

hour?’

‘Yes, dear old preacher,’ said Caterina, sitting down with an air of

weariness; ‘what is it?’

Mr. Gilfil placed himself opposite to her, and said, ‘I hope you will not

be hurt, Caterina, by what I am going to say to you. I do not speak from

any other feelings than real affection and anxiety for you. I put

everything else out of the question. You know you are more to me than all

the world; but I will not thrust before you a feeling which you are

unable to return. I speak to you as a brother--the old Maynard that used

to scold you for getting your fishing-line tangled ten years ago. You

will not believe that I have any mean, selfish motive in mentioning

things that are painful to you?’

‘No; I know you are very good,’ said Caterina, abstractedly.

‘From what I saw yesterday evening,’ Mr. Gilfil went on, hesitating and

colouring slightly, ‘I am led to fear--pray forgive me if I am wrong,

Caterina--that you--that Captain Wybrow is base enough still to trifle

with your feelings, that he still allows himself to behave to you as no

man ought who is the declared lover of another woman.’

‘What do you mean, Maynard?’ said Caterina, with anger flashing from her

eyes. ‘Do you mean that I let him make love to me? What right have you to

think that of me? What do you mean that you saw yesterday evening?’

‘Do not be angry, Caterina. I don’t suspect you of doing wrong. I only

suspect that heartless puppy of behaving so as to keep awake feelings in

you that not only destroy your own peace of mind, but may lead to very

bad consequences with regard to others. I want to warn you that Miss

Assher has her eyes open on what passes between you and Captain Wybrow,

and I feel sure she is getting jealous of you. Pray be very careful,

Caterina, and try to behave with politeness and indifference to him. You

must see by this time that he is not worth the feeling you have given

him. He’s more disturbed at his pulse beating one too many in a minute,

than at all the misery he has caused you by his foolish trifling.’

‘You ought not to speak so of him, Maynard,’ said Caterina, passionately.

‘He is not what you think. He _did_ care for me; he _did_ love me; only

he wanted to do what his uncle wished.’

‘O to be sure! I know it is only from the most virtuous motives that he

does what is convenient to himself.’

Mr. Gilfil paused. He felt that he was getting irritated, and defeating

his own object. Presently he continued in a calm and affectionate tone.

‘I will say no more about what I think of him, Caterina. But whether he

loved you or not, his position now with Miss Assher is such that any love

you may cherish for him can bring nothing but misery. God knows, I don’t

expect you to leave off loving him at a moment’s notice. Time and

absence, and trying to do what is right, are the only cures. If it were

not that Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel would be displeased and

puzzled at your wishing to leave home just now, I would beg you to pay a

visit to my sister. She and her husband are good creatures, and would

make their house a home to you. But I could not urge the thing just now

without giving a special reason; and what is most of all to be dreaded is

the raising of any suspicion in Sir Christopher’s mind of what has

happened in the past, or of your present feelings. You think so too,

don’t you, Tina?’

Mr. Gilfil paused again, but Caterina said nothing. She was looking away

from him, out of the window, and her eyes were filling with tears. He rose,

and, advancing a little towards her, held out his hand and said,--‘Forgive

me, Caterina, for intruding on your feelings in this way. I was so afraid

you might not be aware how Miss Assher watched you. Remember, I entreat

you, that the peace of the whole family depends on your power of governing

yourself. Only say you forgive me before I go.’

‘Dear, good Maynard,’ she said, stretching out her little hand, and

taking two of his large fingers in her grasp, while her tears flowed

fast; ‘I am very cross to you. But my heart is breaking. I don’t know

what I do. Good-bye.’

He stooped down, kissed the little hand, and then left the room.

‘The cursed scoundrel!’ he muttered between his teeth, as he closed the

door behind him. ‘If it were not for Sir Christopher, I should like to

pound him into paste to poison puppies like himself.’

Chapter 10

That evening Captain Wybrow, returning from a long ride with Miss Assher,

went up to his dressing-room, and seated himself with an air of

considerable lassitude before his mirror. The reflection there presented

of his exquisite self was certainly paler and more worn than usual, and

might excuse the anxiety with which he first felt his pulse, and then

laid his hand on his heart.

‘It’s a devil of a position this for a man to be in,’ was the train of

his thought, as he kept his eyes fixed on the glass, while he leaned back

in his chair, and crossed his hands behind his head; ‘between two jealous

women, and both of them as ready to take fire as tinder. And in my state

of health, too! I should be glad enough to run away from the whole

affair, and go off to some lotus-eating place or other where there are no

women, or only women who are too sleepy to be jealous. Here am I, doing

nothing to please myself, trying to do the best thing for everybody else,

and all the comfort I get is to have fire shot at me from women’s eyes,

and venom spirted at me from women’s tongues. If Beatrice takes another

jealous fit into her head--and it’s likely enough, Tina is so

unmanageable--I don’t know what storm she may raise. And any hitch in

this marriage, especially of that sort, might be a fatal business for the

old gentleman. I wouldn’t have such a blow fall upon him for a great

deal. Besides, a man must be married some time in his life, and I could

hardly do better than marry Beatrice. She’s an uncommonly fine woman, and

I’m really very fond of her; and as I shall let her have her own way, her

temper won’t signify much. I wish the wedding was over and done with, for

this fuss doesn’t suit me at all. I haven’t been half so well lately.

That scene about Tina this morning quite upset me. Poor little Tina! What

a little simpleton it was, to set her heart on me in that way! But she

ought to see how impossible it is that things should be different. If she

would but understand how kindly I feel towards her, and make up her mind

to look on me as a friend;--but that is what one never can get a woman to

do. Beatrice is very good-natured; I’m sure she would be kind to the

little thing. It would be a great comfort if Tina would take to Gilfil,

if it were only in anger against me. He’d make her a capital husband, and

I should like to see the little grass-hopper happy. If I had been in a

different position, I would certainly have married her myself: but that

was out of the question with my responsibilities to Sir Christopher. I

think a little persuasion from my uncle would bring her to accept Gilfil;

I know she would never be able to oppose my uncle’s wishes. And if they

were once married, she’s such a loving little thing, she would soon be

billing and cooing with him as if she had never known me. It would

certainly be the best thing for her happiness if that marriage were

hastened. Heigho! Those are lucky fellows that have no women falling in

love with them. It’s a confounded responsibility.’

At this point in his meditations he turned his head a little, so as to

get a three-quarter view of his face. Clearly it was the ‘_dono infelice

della bellezza_’ that laid these onerous duties upon him--an idea which

naturally suggested that he should ring for his valet.

For the next few days, however, there was such a cessation of threatening

symptoms as to allay the anxiety both of Captain Wybrow and Mr. Gilfil.

All earthly things have their lull: even on nights when the most

unappeasable wind is raging, there will be a moment of stillness before

it crashes among the boughs again, and storms against the windows, and

howls like a thousand lost demons through the keyholes.

Miss Assher appeared to be in the highest good-humour; Captain Wybrow was

more assiduous than usual, and was very circumspect in his behaviour to

Caterina, on whom Miss Assher bestowed unwonted attentions. The weather

was brilliant; there were riding excursions in the mornings and

dinner-parties in the evenings. Consultations in the library between Sir

Christopher and Lady Assher seemed to be leading to a satisfactory

result; and it was understood that this visit at Cheverel Manor would

terminate in another fortnight, when the preparations for the wedding

would be carried forward with all despatch at Farleigh. The Baronet

seemed every day more radiant. Accustomed to view people who entered into

his plans by the pleasant light which his own strong will and bright

hopefulness were always casting on the future, he saw nothing hut

personal charms and promising domestic qualities in Miss Assher, whose

quickness of eye and taste in externals formed a real ground of sympathy

between her and Sir Christopher. Lady Cheverel’s enthusiasm never rose

above the temperate mark of calm satisfaction, and, having quite her

share of the critical acumen which characterizes the mutual estimates of

the fair sex, she had a more moderate opinion of Miss Assher’s qualities.

She suspected that the fair Beatrice had a sharp and imperious temper;

and being herself, on principle and by habitual self-command, the most

deferential of wives, she noticed with disapproval Miss Assher’s

occasional air of authority towards Captain Wybrow. A proud woman who has

learned to submit, carries all her pride to the reinforcement of her

submission, and looks down with severe superiority on all feminine

assumption as ‘unbecoming’. Lady Cheverel, however, confined her

criticisms to the privacy of her own thoughts, and, with a reticence

which I fear may seem incredible, did not use them as a means of

disturbing her husband’s complacency.

And Caterina? How did she pass these sunny autumn days, in which the

skies seemed to be smiling on the family gladness? To her the change in

Miss Assher’s manner was unaccountable. Those compassionate attentions,

those smiling condescensions, were torture to Caterina, who was

constantly tempted to repulse them with anger. She thought, ‘Perhaps

Anthony has told her to be kind to poor Tina.’ This was an insult. He

ought to have known that the mere presence of Miss Assher was painful to

her, that Miss Assher’s smiles scorched her, that Miss Assher’s kind

words were like poison stings inflaming her to madness. And he--Anthony--he

was evidently repenting of the tenderness he had been betrayed into

that morning in the drawing-room. He was cold and distant and civil to

her, to ward off Beatrice’s suspicions, and Beatrice could be so gracious

now, because she was sure of Anthony’s entire devotion. Well! and so it

ought to be--and she ought not to wish it otherwise. And yet--oh, he

_was_ cruel to her. She could never have behaved so to him. To make her

love him so--to speak such tender words--to give her such caresses, and

then to behave as if such things had never been. He had given her the

poison that seemed so sweet while she was drinking it, and now it was in

her blood, and she was helpless.

With this tempest pent up in her bosom, the poor child went up to her

room every night, and there it all burst forth. There, with loud whispers

and sobs, restlessly pacing up and down, lying on the hard floor,

courting cold and weariness, she told to the pitiful listening night the

anguish which she could pour into no mortal ear. But always sleep came at

last, and always in the morning the reactive calm that enabled her to

live through the day.

It is amazing how long a young frame will go on battling with this sort

of secret wretchedness, and yet show no traces of the conflict for any

but sympathetic eyes. The very delicacy of Caterina’s usual appearance,

her natural paleness and habitually quiet mouse-like ways, made any

symptoms of fatigue and suffering less noticeable. And her singing--the

one thing in which she ceased to be passive, and became prominent--lost

none of its energy. She herself sometimes wondered how it was that,

whether she felt sad or angry, crushed with the sense of Anthony’s

indifference, or burning with impatience under Miss Assher’s attentions,

it was always a relief to her to sing. Those full deep notes she sent

forth seemed to be lifting the pain from her heart--seemed to be carrying

away the madness from her brain.

Thus Lady Cheverel noticed no change in Caterina, and it was only Mr.

Gilfil who discerned with anxiety the feverish spot that sometimes rose

on her cheek, the deepening violet tint under her eyes, and the strange

absent glance, the unhealthy glitter of the beautiful eyes themselves.

But those agitated nights were producing a more fatal effect than was

represented by these slight outward changes.

Chapter 11

The following Sunday, the morning being rainy, it was determined that the

family should not go to Cumbermoor Church as usual, but that Mr. Gilfil,

who had only an afternoon service at his curacy, should conduct the

morning service in the chapel.

Just before the appointed hour of eleven, Caterina came down into the

drawing-room, looking so unusually ill as to call forth an anxious

inquiry from Lady Cheverel, who, on learning that she had a severe

headache, insisted that she should not attend service, and at once packed

her up comfortably on a sofa near the fire, putting a volume of

Tillotson’s Sermons into her hands--as appropriate reading, if Caterina

should feel equal to that means of edification.

Excellent medicine for the mind are the good Archbishop’s sermons, but a

medicine, unhappily, not suited to Tina’s case. She sat with the book

open on her knees, her dark eyes fixed vacantly on the portrait of that

handsome Lady Cheverel, wife of the notable Sir Anthony. She gazed at the

picture without thinking of it, and the fair blonde dame seemed to look

down on her with that benignant unconcern, that mild wonder, with which

happy self-possessed women are apt to look down on their agitated and

weaker sisters.

Caterina was thinking of the near future--of the wedding that was so soon

to come--of all she would have to live through in the next months.

‘I wish I could be very ill, and die before then,’ she thought. ‘When

people get very ill, they don’t mind about things. Poor Patty Richards

looked so happy when she was in a decline. She didn’t seem to care any

more about her lover that she was engaged to be married to, and she liked

the smell of the flowers so, that I used to take her. O, if I could but

like anything--if I could but think about anything else! If these

dreadful feelings would go away, I wouldn’t mind about not being happy. I

wouldn’t want anything--and I could do what would please Sir Christopher

and Lady Cheverel. But when that rage and anger comes into me, I don’t

know what to do. I don’t feel the ground under me; I only feel my head

and heart beating, and it seems as if I must do something dreadful. O! I

wonder if any one ever felt like me before. I must be very wicked. But

God will have pity on me; He knows all I have to bear.’

In this way the time wore on till Tina heard the sound of voices along

the passage, and became conscious that the volume of Tillotson had

slipped on the floor. She had only just picked it up, and seen with alarm

that the pages were bent, when Lady Assher, Beatrice, and Captain Wybrow

entered, all with that brisk and cheerful air which a sermon is often

observed to produce when it is quite finished.

Lady Assher at once came and seated herself by Caterina. Her ladyship had

been considerably refreshed by a doze, and was in great force for

monologue.

‘Well, my dear Miss Sarti, and how do you feel now?--a little better, I

see. I thought you would be, sitting quietly here. These headaches, now,

are all from weakness. You must not over-exert yourself, and you must

take bitters. I used to have just the same sort of headaches when I was

your age, and old Dr Samson used to say to my mother, “Madam, what your

daughter suffers from is weakness.” He was such a curious old man, was Dr

Samson. But I wish you could have heard the sermon this morning. Such an

excellent sermon! It was about the ten virgins: five of them were

foolish, and five were clever, you know; and Mr. Gilfil explained all

that. What a very pleasant young man he is! so very quiet and agreeable,

and such a good hand at whist. I wish we had him at Farleigh. Sir John

would have liked him beyond anything; he is so good-tempered at cards,

and he was such a man for cards, was Sir John. And our rector is a very

irritable man; he can’t bear to lose his money at cards. I don’t think a

clergyman ought to mind about losing his money; do you?--do you now?’

‘O pray, Lady Assher,’ interposed Beatrice, in her usual tone of

superiority, ‘do not weary poor Caterina with such uninteresting

questions. Your head seems very bad still, dear,’ she continued, in a

condoling tone, to Caterina; ‘do take my vinaigrette, and keep it in your

pocket. It will perhaps refresh you now and then.’

‘No, thank you,’ answered Caterina; ‘I will not take it away from you.’

‘Indeed, dear, I never use it; you must take it,’ Miss Assher persisted,

holding it close to Tina’s hand. Tina coloured deeply, pushed the

vinaigrette away with some impatience, and said, ‘Thank you, I never use

those things. I don’t like vinaigrettes.’

Miss Assher returned the vinaigrette to her pocket in surprise and

haughty silence, and Captain Wybrow, who had looked on in some alarm,

said hastily, ‘See! it is quite bright out of doors now. There is time

for a walk before luncheon. Come, Beatrice, put on your hat and cloak,

and let us have half an hour’s walk on the gravel.’

‘Yes, do, my dear,’ said Lady Assher, ‘and I will go and see if Sir

Christopher is having his walk in the gallery.’

As soon as the door had closed behind the two ladies, Captain Wybrow,

standing with his back to the fire, turned towards Caterina, and said in

a tone of earnest remonstrance, ‘My dear Caterina. Let me beg of you to

exercise more control over your feelings; you are really rude to Miss

Assher, and I can see that she is quite hurt. Consider how strange your

behaviour must appear to her. She will wonder what can be the cause of

it. Come, dear Tina,’ he added, approaching her, and attempting to take

her hand; ‘for your own sake let me entreat you to receive her attentions

politely. She really feels very kindly towards you, and I should be so

happy to see you friends.’

Caterina was already in such a state of diseased susceptibility that the

most innocent words from Captain Wybrow would have been irritating to

her, as the whirr of the most delicate wing will afflict a nervous

patient. But this tone of benevolent remonstrance was intolerable. He had

inflicted a great and unrepented injury on her, and now he assumed an air

of benevolence towards her. This was a new outrage. His profession of

goodwill was insolence.

Caterina snatched away her hand and said indignantly, ‘Leave me to

myself, Captain Wybrow! I do not disturb you.’

‘Caterina, why will you be so violent--so unjust to me? It is for you

that I feel anxious. Miss Assher has already noticed how strange your

behaviour is both to her and me, and it puts me into a very difficult

position. What can I say to her?’

‘Say?’ Caterina burst forth with intense bitterness, rising, and moving

towards the door; ‘say that I am a poor silly girl, and have fallen in

love with you, and am jealous of her; but that you have never had any

feeling but pity for me--you have never behaved with anything more than

friendliness to me. Tell her that, and she will think all the better of

you.’

Tina uttered this as the bitterest sarcasm her ideas would furnish her

with, not having the faintest suspicion that the sarcasm derived any of

its bitterness from truth. Underneath all her sense of wrong, which was

rather instinctive than reflective--underneath all the madness of

her jealousy, and her ungovernable impulses of resentment and

vindictiveness--underneath all this scorching passion there were still

left some hidden crystal dews of trust, of self-reproof, of belief that

Anthony was trying to do the right. Love had not all gone to feed the

fires of hatred. Tina still trusted that Anthony felt more for her than

he seemed to feel; she was still far from suspecting him of a wrong

which a woman resents even more than inconstancy. And she threw out this

taunt simply as the most intense expression she could find for the anger

of the moment.

As she stood nearly in the middle of the room, her little body trembling

under the shock of passions too strong for it, her very lips pale, and

her eyes gleaming, the door opened, and Miss Assher appeared, tall,

blooming, and splendid, in her walking costume. As she entered, her face

wore the smile appropriate to the exits and entrances of a young lady who

feels that her presence is an interesting fact; but the next moment she

looked at Caterina with grave surprise, and then threw a glance of angry

suspicion at Captain Wybrow, who wore an air of weariness and vexation.

‘Perhaps you are too much engaged to walk out, Captain Wybrow? I will go

alone.’

‘No, no, I am coming,’ he answered, hurrying towards her, and leading her

out of the room; leaving poor Caterina to feel all the reaction of shame

and self-reproach after her outburst of passion.

Chapter 12

‘Pray, what is likely to be the next scene in the drama between you and

Miss Sarti?’ said Miss Assher to Captain Wybrow as soon as they were out

on the gravel. ‘It would be agreeable to have some idea of what is

coming.’

Captain Wybrow was silent. He felt out of humour, wearied, annoyed. There

come moments when one almost determines never again to oppose anything

but dead silence to an angry woman. ‘Now then, confound it,’ he said to

himself, ‘I’m going to be battered on the other flank.’ He looked

resolutely at the horizon, with something more like a frown on his face

than Beatrice had ever seen there.

After a pause of two or three minutes, she continued in a still haughtier

tone, ‘I suppose you are aware, Captain Wybrow, that I expect an

explanation of what I have just seen.’

‘I have no explanation, my dear Beatrice,’ he answered at last, making a

strong effort over himself, ‘except what I have already given you. I

hoped you would never recur to the subject.’

‘Your explanation, however, is very far from satisfactory. I can only say

that the airs Miss Sarti thinks herself entitled to put on towards you,

are quite incompatible with your position as regards me. And her

behaviour to me is most insulting. I shall certainly not stay in the

house under such circumstances, and mamma must state the reasons to Sir

Christopher.’

‘Beatrice,’ said Captain Wybrow, his irritation giving way to alarm, ‘I

beseech you to be patient, and exercise your good feelings in this

affair. It is very painful, I know, but I am sure you would be grieved to

injure poor Caterina--to bring down my uncle’s anger upon her. Consider

what a poor little dependent thing she is.’

‘It is very adroit of you to make these evasions, but do not suppose that

they deceive me. Miss Sarti would never dare to behave to you as she

does, if you had not flirted with her, or made love to her. I suppose she

considers your engagement to me a breach of faith to her. I am much

obliged to you, certainly, for making me Miss Sarti’s rival. You have

told me a falsehood, Captain Wybrow.’

‘Beatrice, I solemnly declare to you that Caterina is nothing more to me

than a girl I naturally feel kindly to--as a favourite of my uncle’s, and

a nice little thing enough. I should be glad to see her married to Gilfil

to-morrow; that’s a good proof that I’m not in love with her, I should

think. As to the past, I may have shown her little attentions, which she

has exaggerated and misinterpreted. What man is not liable to that sort

of thing?’

‘But what can she found her behaviour on? What had she been saying to you

this morning to make her tremble and turn pale in that way?’

‘O, I don’t know. I just said something about her behaving peevishly.

With that Italian blood of hers, there’s no knowing how she may take what

one says. She’s a fierce little thing, though she seems so quiet

generally.’

‘But she ought to be made to know how unbecoming and indelicate her

conduct is. For my part, I wonder Lady Cheverel has not noticed her short

answers and the airs she puts on.’

‘Let me beg of you, Beatrice, not to hint anything of the kind to Lady

Cheverel. You must have observed how strict my aunt is. It never enters

her head that a girl can be in love with a man who has not made her an

offer.’

‘Well, I shall let Miss Sarti know myself that I have observed her

conduct. It will be only a charity to her.’

‘Nay, dear, that will be doing nothing but harm. Caterina’s temper is

peculiar. The best thing you can do will be to leave her to herself as

much as possible. It will all wear off. I’ve no doubt she’ll be married

to Gilfil before long. Girls’ fancies are easily diverted from one object

to another. By jove, what a rate my heart is galloping at! These

confounded palpitations get worse instead of better.’

Thus ended the conversation, so far as it concerned Caterina, not without

leaving a distinct resolution in Captain Wybrow’s mind--a resolution

carried into effect the next day, when he was in the library with Sir

Christopher for the purpose of discussing some arrangements about the

approaching marriage.

‘By the by,’ he said carelessly, when the business came to a pause, and

he was sauntering round the room with his hands in his coat-pockets,

surveying the backs of the books that lined the walls, ‘when is the

wedding between Gilfil and Caterina to come off, sir? I’ve a

fellow-feeling for a poor devil so many fathoms deep in love as Maynard.

Why shouldn’t their marriage happen as soon as ours? I suppose he has

come to an understanding with Tina?’

‘Why,’ said Sir Christopher, ‘I did think of letting the thing be until

old Crichley died; he can’t hold out very long, poor fellow; and then

Maynard might have entered into matrimony and the rectory both at once.

But, after all, that really is no good reason for waiting. There is no

need for them to leave the Manor when they are married. The little monkey

is quite old enough. It would be pretty to see her a matron, with a baby

about the size of a kitten in her arms.’

‘I think that system of waiting is always bad. And if I can further any

settlement you would like to make on Caterina, I shall be delighted to

carry out your wishes.’

‘My dear boy, that’s very good of you; but Maynard will have enough; and

from what I know of him--and I know him well--I think he would rather

provide for Caterina himself. However, now you have put this matter into

my head, I begin to blame myself for not having thought of it before.

I’ve been so wrapt up in Beatrice and you, you rascal, that I had really

forgotten poor Maynard. And he’s older than you--it’s high time he was

settled in life as a family man.’

Sir Christopher paused, took snuff in a meditative manner, and presently

said, more to himself than to Anthony, who was humming a tune at the far

end of the room, ‘Yes, yes. It will be a capital plan to finish off all

our family business at once.’

Riding out with Miss Assher the same morning, Captain Wybrow mentioned to

her incidentally, that Sir Christopher was anxious to bring about the

wedding between Gilfil and Caterina as soon as possible, and that he, for

his part, should do all he could to further the affair. It would be the

best thing in the world for Tina, in whose welfare he was really

interested.

With Sir Christopher there was never any long interval between purpose

and execution. He made up his mind promptly, and he acted promptly. On

rising from luncheon, he said to Mr. Gilfil, ‘Come with me into the

library, Maynard. I want to have a word with you.’

‘Maynard, my boy,’ he began, as soon as they were seated, tapping his

snuff-box, and looking radiant at the idea of the unexpected pleasure he

was about to give, ‘why shouldn’t we have two happy couples instead of

one, before the autumn is over, eh?’

‘Eh?’ he repeated, after a moment’s pause, lengthening out the

monosyllable, taking a slow pinch, and looking up at Maynard with a sly

smile.

‘I’m not quite sure that I understand you, sir,’ answered Mr. Gilfil, who

felt annoyed at the consciousness that he was turning pale.

‘Not understand me, you rogue? You know very well whose happiness lies

nearest to my heart after Anthony’s. You know you let me into your

secrets long ago, so there’s no confession to make. Tina’s quite old

enough to be a grave little wife now; and though the Rectory’s not ready

for you, that’s no matter. My lady and I shall feel all the more

comfortable for having you with us. We should miss our little

singing-bird if we lost her all at once.’

Mr. Gilfil felt himself in a painfully difficult position. He dreaded

that Sir Christopher should surmise or discover the true state of

Caterina’s feelings, and yet he was obliged to make those feelings the

ground of his reply.

‘My dear sir,’ he at last said with some effort, ‘you will not suppose

that I am not alive to your goodness--that I am not grateful for your

fatherly interest in my happiness; but I fear that Caterina’s feelings

towards me are not such as to warrant the hope that she would accept a

proposal of marriage from me.’

‘Have you ever asked her?’

‘No, sir. But we often know these things too well without asking.’

‘Pooh, pooh! the little monkey _must_ love you. Why, you were her first

playfellow; and I remember she used to cry if you cut your finger.

Besides, she has always silently admitted that you were her lover. You

know I have always spoken of you to her in that light. I took it for

granted you had settled the business between yourselves; so did Anthony.

Anthony thinks she’s in love with you, and he has young eyes, which are

apt enough to see clearly in these matters. He was talking to me about it

this morning, and pleased me very much by the friendly interest he showed

in you and Tina.’

The blood--more than was wanted--rushed back to Mr. Gilfil’s face; he set

his teeth and clenched his hands in the effort to repress a burst of

indignation. Sir Christopher noticed the flush, but thought it indicated

the fluctuation of hope and fear about Caterina. He went on:--‘You’re too

modest by half, Maynard. A fellow who can take a five-barred gate as you

can, ought not to be so faint-hearted. If you can’t speak to her

yourself, leave me to talk to her.’

‘Sir Christopher,’ said poor Maynard earnestly, ‘I shall really feel it

the greatest kindness you can possibly show me not to mention this

subject to Caterina at present. I think such a proposal, made

prematurely, might only alienate her from me.’

Sir Christopher was getting a little displeased at this contradiction.

His tone became a little sharper as he said, ‘Have you any grounds to

state for this opinion, beyond your general notion that Tina is not

enough in love with you?’

‘I can state none beyond my own very strong impression that she does not

love me well enough to marry me.’

‘Then I think that ground is worth nothing at all. I am tolerably correct

in my judgement of people; and if I am not very much deceived in Tina,

she looks forward to nothing else but to your being her husband. Leave me

to manage the matter as I think best. You may rely on me that I shall do

no harm to your cause, Maynard.’

Mr. Gilfil, afraid to say more, yet wretched in the prospect of what

might result from Sir Christopher’s determination, quitted the library in

a state of mingled indignation against Captain Wybrow, and distress for

himself and Caterina. What would she think of him? She might suppose that

_he_ had instigated or sanctioned Sir Christopher’s proceeding. He should

perhaps not have an opportunity of speaking to her on the subject in

time; he would write her a note, and carry it up to her room after the

dressing-bell had rung. No; that would agitate her, and unfit her for

appearing at dinner, and passing the evening calmly. He would defer it

till bed-time. After prayers, he contrived to lead her back to the

drawing-room, and to put a letter in her hand. She carried it up to her

own room, wondering, and there read--

‘DEAR CATERINA,--Do not suspect for a moment that anything Sir Christopher

may say to you about our marriage has been prompted by me. I have done

all I dare do to dissuade him from urging the subject, and have only been

prevented from speaking more strongly by the dread of provoking questions

which I could not answer without causing you fresh misery. I write this,

both to prepare you for anything Sir Christopher may say, and to assure

you--but I hope you already believe it--that your feelings are sacred to

me. I would rather part with the dearest hope of my life than be the

means of adding to your trouble.

‘It is Captain Wybrow who has prompted Sir Christopher to take up the

subject at this moment. I tell you this, to save you from hearing it

suddenly when you are with Sir Christopher. You see now what sort of

stuff that dastard’s heart is made of. Trust in me always, dearest

Caterina, as--whatever may come--your faithful friend and brother,

‘MAYNARD GILFIL.’

Caterina was at first too terribly stung by the words about Captain

Wybrow to think of the difficulty which threatened her--to think either

of what Sir Christopher would say to her, or of what she could say in

reply. Bitter sense of injury, fierce resentment, left no room for fear.

With the poisoned garment upon him, the victim writhes under the

torture--he has no thought of the coming death.

Anthony could do this!--Of this there could be no explanation but the

coolest contempt for her feelings, the basest sacrifice of all the

consideration and tenderness he owed her to the ease of his position with

Miss Assher. No. It was worse than that: it was deliberate, gratuitous

cruelty. He wanted to show her how he despised her; he wanted to make her

feel her folly in having ever believed that he loved her.

The last crystal drops of trust and tenderness, she thought, were dried

up; all was parched, fiery hatred. Now she need no longer check her

resentment by the fear of doing him an injustice: he _had_ trifled with

her, as Maynard had said; he _had_ been reckless of her; and now he was

base and cruel. She had cause enough for her bitterness and anger; they

were not so wicked as they had seemed to her.

As these thoughts were hurrying after each other like so many sharp

throbs of fevered pain, she shed no tear. She paced restlessly to and

fro, as her habit was--her hands clenched, her eyes gleaming fiercely and

wandering uneasily, as if in search of something on which she might throw

herself like a tigress.

‘If I could speak to him,’ she whispered, ‘and tell him I hate him, I

despise him, I loathe him!’

Suddenly, as if a new thought had struck her, she drew a key from her

pocket, and, unlocking an inlaid desk where she stored up her keepsakes,

took from it a small miniature. It was in a very slight gold frame, with

a ring to it, as if intended to be worn on a chain; and under the glass

at the back were two locks of hair, one dark and the other auburn,

arranged in a fantastic knot. It was Anthony’s secret present to her a

year ago--a copy he had had made specially for her. For the last month she

had not taken it from its hiding-place: there was no need to heighten the

vividness of the past. But now she clutched it fiercely, and dashed it

across the room against the bare hearth-stone.

Will she crush it under her feet, and grind it under her high-heeled

shoe, till every trace of those false cruel features is gone? Ah, no! She

rushed across the room; but when she saw the little treasure she had

cherished so fondly, so often smothered with kisses, so often laid under

her pillow, and remembered with the first return of consciousness in the

morning--when she saw this one visible relic of the too happy past lying

with the glass shivered, the hair fallen out, the thin ivory cracked,

there was a revulsion of the overstrained feeling: relenting came, and

she burst into tears.

Look at her stooping down to gather up her treasure, searching for the

hair and replacing it, and then mournfully examining the crack that

disfigures the once-loved image. Alas! there is no glass now to guard

either the hair or the portrait; but see how carefully she wraps delicate

paper round it, and locks it up again in its old place. Poor child! God

send the relenting may always come before the worst irrevocable deed!

This action had quieted her, and she sat down to read Maynard’s letter

again. She read it two or three times without seeming to take in the

sense; her apprehension was dulled by the passion of the last hour, and

she found it difficult to call up the ideas suggested by the words. At

last she began to have a distinct conception of the impending interview

with Sir Christopher. The idea of displeasing the Baronet, of whom every

one at the Manor stood in awe, frightened her so much that she thought it

would be impossible to resist his wish. He believed that she loved

Maynard; he had always spoken as if he were quite sure of it. How could

she tell him he was deceived--and what if he were to ask her whether she

loved anybody else? To have Sir Christopher looking angrily at her, was

more than she could bear, even in imagination. He had always been so good

to her! Then she began to think of the pain she might give him, and the

more selfish distress of fear gave way to the distress of affection.

Unselfish tears began to flow, and sorrowful gratitude to Sir Christopher

helped to awaken her sensibility to Mr. Gilfil’s tenderness and

generosity.

‘Dear, good Maynard!--what a poor return I make him! If I could but have

loved him instead--but I can never love or care for anything again. My

heart is broken.’

Chapter 13

The next morning the dreaded moment came. Caterina, stupified by the

suffering of the previous night, with that dull mental aching which

follows on acute anguish, was in Lady Cheverel’s sitting-room, copying

out some charity lists, when her ladyship came in, and said,--‘Tina, Sir

Christopher wants you; go down into the library.’

She went down trembling. As soon as she entered, Sir Christopher, who was

seated near his writing-table, said, ‘Now, little monkey, come and sit

down by me; I have something to tell you.’

Caterina took a footstool, and seated herself on it at the Baronet’s

feet. It was her habit to sit on these low stools, and in this way she

could hide her face better. She put her little arm round his leg, and

leaned her cheek against his knee.

‘Why, you seem out of spirits this morning, Tina. What’s the matter, eh?’

‘Nothing, Padroncello; only my head is bad.’

‘Poor monkey! Well, now, wouldn’t it do the head good if I were to

promise you a good husband, and smart little wedding-gowns, and by-and-by

a house of your own, where you would be a little mistress, and

Padroncello would come and see you sometimes?’

‘O no, no! I shouldn’t like ever to be married. Let me always stay with

you!’

‘Pooh, pooh, little simpleton. I shall get old and tiresome, and there

will be Anthony’s children putting your nose out of joint. You will want

some one to love you best of all, and you must have children of your own

to love. I can’t have you withering away into an old maid. I hate old

maids: they make me dismal to look at them. I never see Sharp without

shuddering. My little black-eyed monkey was never meant for anything so

ugly. And there’s Maynard Gilfil the best man in the county, worth his

weight in gold, heavy as he is; he loves you better than his eyes. And

you love him too, you silly monkey, whatever you may say about not being

married.’

‘No, no, dear Padroncello, do not say so; I could not marry him.’

‘Why not, you foolish child? You don’t know your own mind. Why, it is

plain to everybody that you love him. My lady has all along said she was

sure you loved him--she has seen what little princess airs you put on to

him; and Anthony too, he thinks you are in love with Gilfil. Come, what

has made you take it into your head that you wouldn’t like to marry him?’

Caterina was now sobbing too deeply to make any answer. Sir Christopher

patted her on the back and said, ‘Come, come; why, Tina, you are not well

this morning. Go and rest, little one. You will see things in quite

another light when you are well. Think over what I have said, and

remember there is nothing, after Anthony’s marriage, that I have set my

heart on so much as seeing you and Maynard settled for life. I must have

no whims and follies--no nonsense.’ This was said with a slight severity;

but he presently added, in a soothing tone, ‘There, there, stop crying,

and be a good little monkey. Go and lie down and get to sleep.’

Caterina slipped from the stool on to her knees, took the old Baronet’s

hand, covered it with tears and kisses, and then ran out of the room.

Before the evening, Captain Wybrow had heard from his uncle the result of

the interview with Caterina. He thought, ‘If I could have a long quiet

talk with her, I could perhaps persuade her to look more reasonably at

things. But there’s no speaking to her in the house without being

interrupted, and I can hardly see her anywhere else without Beatrice’s

finding it out.’ At last he determined to make it a matter of confidence

with Miss Assher--to tell her that he wished to talk to Caterina quietly

for the sake of bringing her to a calmer state of mind, and persuade her

to listen to Gilfil’s affection. He was very much pleased with this

judicious and candid plan, and in the course of the evening he had

arranged with himself the time and place of meeting, and had communicated

his purpose to Miss Assher, who gave her entire approval. Anthony, she

thought, would do well to speak plainly and seriously to Miss Sarti. He

was really very patient and kind to her, considering how she behaved.

Tina had kept her room all that day, and had been carefully tended as an

invalid, Sir Christopher having told her ladyship how matters stood. This

tendance was so irksome to Caterina, she felt so uneasy under attentions

and kindness that were based on a misconception, that she exerted herself

to appear at breakfast the next morning, and declared herself well,

though head and heart were throbbing. To be confined in her own room was

intolerable; it was wretched enough to be looked at and spoken to, but it

was more wretched to be left alone. She was frightened at her own

sensations: she was frightened at the imperious vividness with which

pictures of the past and future thrust themselves on her imagination. And

there was another feeling, too, which made her want to be down-stairs and

moving about. Perhaps she might have an opportunity of speaking to

Captain Wybrow alone--of speaking those words of hatred and scorn that

burned on her tongue. That opportunity offered itself in a very

unexpected manner.

Lady Cheverel having sent Caterina out of the drawing-room to fetch some

patterns of embroidery from her sitting-room, Captain Wybrow presently

walked out after her, and met her as she was returning down-stairs.

‘Caterina,’ he said, laying his hand on her arm as she was hurrying on

without looking at him, ‘will you meet me in the Rookery at twelve

o’clock? I must speak to you, and we shall be in privacy there. I cannot

speak to you in the house.’

To his surprise, there was a flash of pleasure across her face; she

answered shortly and decidedly, ‘Yes’, then snatched her arm away from

him, and passed down-stairs.

Miss Assher was this morning busy winding silks, being bent on emulating

Lady Cheverel’s embroidery, and Lady Assher chose the passive amusement

of holding the skeins. Lady Cheverel had now all her working apparatus

about her, and Caterina, thinking she was not wanted, went away and sat

down to the harpsichord in the sitting-room. It seemed as if playing

massive chords--bringing out volumes of sound, would be the easiest way

of passing the long feverish moments before twelve o’clock. Handel’s

Messiah stood open on the desk, at the chorus ‘All we like sheep’, and

Caterina threw herself at once into the impetuous intricacies of that

magnificent fugue. In her happiest moments she could never have played it

so well: for now all the passion that made her misery was hurled by a

convulsive effort into her music, just as pain gives new force to the

clutch of the sinking wrestler, and as terror gives farsounding intensity

to the shriek of the feeble.

But at half-past eleven she was interrupted by Lady Cheverel, who said,

‘Tina, go down, will you, and hold Miss Assher’s silks for her. Lady

Assher and I have decided on having our drive before luncheon.’

Caterina went down, wondering how she should escape from the drawing-room

in time to be in the Rookery at twelve. Nothing should prevent her from

going; nothing should rob her of this one precious moment--perhaps the

last--when she could speak out the thoughts that were in her. After that,

she would be passive; she would bear anything.

But she had scarcely sat down with a skein of yellow silk on her hands,

when Miss Assher said, graciously,--‘I know you have an engagement with

Captain Wybrow this morning. You must not let me detain you beyond the

time.’

‘So he has been talking to her about me,’ thought Caterina. Her hands

began to tremble as she held the skein.

Miss Assher continued in the same gracious tone: ‘It is tedious work

holding these skeins. I am sure I am very much obliged to you.’

‘No, you are not obliged to me,’ said Caterina, completely mastered by

her irritation; ‘I have only done it because Lady Cheverel told me.’

The moment was come when Miss Assher could no longer suppress her long

latent desire to ‘let Miss Sarti know the impropriety of her conduct.’

With the malicious anger that assumes the tone of compassion, she

said,--‘Miss Sarti, I am really sorry for you, that you are not able to

control yourself better. This giving way to unwarrantable feelings is

lowering you--it is indeed.’

‘What unwarrantable feelings?’ said Caterina, letting her hands fall, and

fixing her great dark eyes steadily on Miss Assher.

‘It is quite unnecessary for me to say more. You must be conscious

what I mean. Only summon a sense of duty to your aid. You are paining

Captain Wybrow extremely by your want of self-control.’

‘Did he tell you I pained him?’

‘Yes, indeed, he did. He is very much hurt that you should behave to me

as if you had a sort of enmity towards me. He would like you to make a

friend of me. I assure you we both feel very kindly towards you, and are

sorry you should cherish such feelings.’

‘He is very good,’ said Caterina, bitterly. ‘What feelings did he say I

cherished?’

This bitter tone increased Miss Assher’s irritation. There was still a

lurking suspicion in her mind, though she would not admit it to herself,

that Captain Wybrow had told her a falsehood about his conduct and

feelings towards Caterina. It was this suspicion, more even than the

anger of the moment, which urged her to say something that would test the

truth of his statement. That she would be humiliating Caterina at the

same time, was only an additional temptation.

‘These are things I do not like to talk of, Miss Sarti. I cannot even

understand how a woman can indulge a passion for a man who has never

given her the least ground for it, as Captain Wybrow assures me is the

case.’

‘He told you that, did he?’ said Caterina, in clear low tones, her lips

turning white as she rose from her chair.

‘Yes, indeed, he did. He was bound to tell it me after your strange

behaviour.’

Caterina said nothing, but turned round suddenly and left the room.

See how she rushes noiselessly, like a pale meteor, along the passages

and up the gallery stairs! Those gleaming eyes, those bloodless lips,

that swift silent tread, make her look like the incarnation of a fierce

purpose, rather than a woman. The mid-day sun is shining on the armour in

the gallery, making mimic suns on bossed sword-hilts and the angles of

polished breast-plates. Yes, there are sharp weapons in the gallery.

There is a dagger in that cabinet; she knows it well. And as a dragon-fly

wheels in its flight to alight for an instant on a leaf, she darts to the

cabinet, takes out the dagger, and thrusts it into her pocket. In three

minutes more she is out, in hat and cloak, on the gravel-walk, hurrying

along towards the thick shades of the distant Rookery. She threads the

windings of the plantations, not feeling the golden leaves that rain upon

her, not feeling the earth beneath her feet. Her hand is in her pocket,

clenching the handle of the dagger, which she holds half out of its

sheath.

She has reached the Rookery, and is under the gloom of the interlacing

boughs. Her heart throbs as if it would burst her bosom--as if every next

leap must be its last. Wait, wait, O heart!--till she has done this one

deed. He will be there--he will be before her in a moment. He will come

towards her with that false smile, thinking she does not know his

baseness--she will plunge that dagger into his heart.

Poor child! poor child! she who used to cry to have the fish put back

into the water--who never willingly killed the smallest living

thing--dreams now, in the madness of her passion, that she can kill the

man whose very voice unnerves her.

But what is that lying among the dank leaves on the path three yards

before her?

Good God! it is he--lying motionless--his hat fallen off. He is ill,

then--he has fainted. Her hand lets go the dagger, and she rushes towards

him. His eyes are fixed; he does not see her. She sinks down on her

knees, takes the dear head in her arms, and kisses the cold forehead.

‘Anthony, Anthony! speak to me--it is Tina--speak to me! O God, he is

dead!’

Chapter 14

‘Yes, Maynard,’ said Sir Christopher, chatting with Mr. Gilfil in the

library, ‘it really is a remarkable thing that I never in my life laid a

plan, and failed to carry it out. I lay my plans well, and I never swerve

from them--that’s it. A strong will is the only magic. And next to

striking out one’s plans, the pleasantest thing in the world is to see

them well accomplished. This year, now, will be the happiest of my life,

all but the year ’53, when I came into possession of the Manor, and

married Henrietta. The last touch is given to the old house; Anthony’s

marriage--the thing I had nearest my heart--is settled to my entire

satisfaction; and by-and-by you will be buying a little wedding-ring for

Tina’s finger. Don’t shake your head in that forlorn way;--when I make

prophecies they generally come to pass. But there’s a quarter after

twelve striking. I must be riding to the High Ash to meet Markham about

felling some timber. My old oaks will have to groan for this wedding,

but’--

The door burst open, and Caterina, ghastly and panting, her eyes

distended with terror, rushed in, threw her arms round Sir Christopher’s

neck, and gasping out--‘Anthony ... the Rookery ... dead ... in the

Rookery’, fell fainting on the floor.

In a moment Sir Christopher was out of the room, and Mr. Gilfil was

bending to raise Caterina in his arms. As he lifted her from the ground

he felt something hard and heavy in her pocket. What could it be? The

weight of it would be enough to hurt her as she lay. He carried her to

the sofa, put his hand in her pocket, and drew forth the dagger.

Maynard shuddered. Did she mean to kill herself, then, or ... or ... a

horrible suspicion forced itself upon him. ‘Dead--in the Rookery.’ He

hated himself for the thought that prompted him to draw the dagger from

its sheath. No! there was no trace of blood, and he was ready to kiss the

good steel for its innocence. He thrust the weapon into his own pocket;

he would restore it as soon as possible to its well-known place in the

gallery. Yet, why had Caterina taken this dagger? What was it that had

happened in the Rookery? Was it only a delirious vision of hers?

He was afraid to ring--afraid to summon any one to Caterina’s assistance.

What might she not say when she awoke from this fainting fit? She might

be raving. He could not leave her, and yet he felt as if he were guilty

for not following Sir Christopher to see what was the truth. It took but

a moment to think and feel all this, but that moment seemed such a long

agony to him that he began to reproach himself for letting it pass

without seeking some means of reviving Caterina. Happily the decanter of

water on Sir Christopher’s table was untouched. He would at least try the

effect of throwing that water over her. She might revive without his

needing to call any one else. Meanwhile Sir Christopher was hurrying at

his utmost speed towards the Rookery; his face, so lately bright and

confident, now agitated by a vague dread. The deep alarmed bark of

Rupert, who ran by his side, had struck the ear of Mr. Bates, then on his

way homeward, as something unwonted, and, hastening in the direction of

the sound, he met the Baronet just as he was approaching the entrance of

the Rookery. Sir Christopher’s look was enough. Mr. Bates said nothing,

but hurried along by his side, while Rupert dashed forward among the dead

leaves with his nose to the ground. They had scarcely lost sight of him a

minute when a change in the tone of his bark told them that he had found

something, and in another instant he was leaping back over one of the

large planted mounds. They turned aside to ascend the mound, Rupert

leading them; the tumultuous cawing of the rooks, the very rustling of

the leaves, as their feet plunged among them, falling like an evil omen

on the Baronet’s ear.

They had reached the summit of the mound, and had begun to descend. Sir

Christopher saw something purple down on the path below among the yellow

leaves. Rupert was already beside it, but Sir Christopher could not move

faster. A tremor had taken hold of the firm limbs. Rupert came back and

licked the trembling hand, as if to say ‘Courage!’ and then was down

again snuffing the body. Yes, it was a body ... Anthony’s body. There was

the white hand with its diamond-ring clutching the dark leaves. His eyes

were half open, but did not heed the gleam of sunlight that darted itself

directly on them from between the boughs.

Still he might only have fainted; it might only be a fit. Sir Christopher

knelt down, unfastened the cravat, unfastened the waistcoat, and laid his

hand on the heart. It might be syncope; it might not--it could not be

death. No! that thought must be kept far off.

‘Go, Bates, get help; we’ll carry him to your cottage. Send some one to

the house to tell Mr. Gilfil and Warren. Bid them send off for Doctor

Hart, and break it to my lady and Miss Assher that Anthony is ill.’

Mr. Bates hastened away, and the Baronet was left alone kneeling beside

the body. The young and supple limbs, the rounded cheeks, the delicate

ripe lips, the smooth white hands, were lying cold and rigid; and the

aged face was bending over them in silent anguish; the aged deep-veined

hands were seeking with tremulous inquiring touches for some symptom that

life was not irrevocably gone.

Rupert was there too, waiting and watching; licking first the dead and

then the living hands; then running off on Mr. Bates’s track as if he

would follow and hasten his return, but in a moment turning back again,

unable to quit the scene of his master’s sorrow.

Chapter 15

It is a wonderful moment, the first time we stand by one who has fainted,

and witness the fresh birth of consciousness spreading itself over the

blank features, like the rising sunlight on the alpine summits that lay

ghastly and dead under the leaden twilight. A slight shudder, and the

frost-bound eyes recover their liquid light; for an instant they show the

inward semi-consciousness of an infant’s; then, with a little start, they

open wider and begin to look; the present is visible, but only as a

strange writing, and the interpreter Memory is not yet there.

Mr. Gilfil felt a trembling joy as this change passed over Caterina’s

face. He bent over her, rubbing her chill hands, and looking at her with

tender pity as her dark eyes opened on him wonderingly. He thought there

might be some wine in the dining-room close by. He left the room, and

Caterina’s eyes turned towards the window--towards Sir Christopher’s

chair. There was the link at which the chain of consciousness had

snapped, and the events of the morning were beginning to recur dimly like

a half-remembered dream, when Maynard returned with some wine. He raised

her, and she drank it; but still she was silent, seeming lost in the

attempt to recover the past, when the door opened, and Mr. Warren

appeared with looks that announced terrible tidings. Mr. Gilfil, dreading

lest he should tell them in Caterina’s presence, hurried towards him with

his finger on his lips, and drew him away into the dining-room on the

opposite side of the passage.

Caterina, revived by the stimulant, was now recovering the full

consciousness of the scene in the Rookery. Anthony was lying there dead;

she had left him to tell Sir Christopher; she must go and see what they

were doing with him; perhaps he was not really dead--only in a trance;

people did fall into trances sometimes. While Mr. Gilfil was telling

Warren how it would be best to break the news to Lady Cheverel and Miss

Assher, anxious himself to return to Caterina, the poor child had made

her way feebly to the great entrance-door, which stood open. Her strength

increased as she moved and breathed the fresh air, and with every

increase of strength came increased vividness of emotion, increased

yearning to be where her thought was--in the Rookery with Anthony. She

walked more and more swiftly, and at last, gathering the artificial

strength of passionate excitement, began to run.

But now she heard the tread of heavy steps, and under the yellow shade

near the wooden bridge she saw men slowly carrying something. Soon she

was face to face with them. Anthony was no longer in the Rookery: they

were carrying him stretched on a door, and there behind him was Sir

Christopher, with the firmly-set mouth, the deathly paleness, and the

concentrated expression of suffering in the eye, which mark the

suppressed grief of the strong man. The sight of this face, on which

Caterina had never before beheld the signs of anguish, caused a rush of

new feeling which for the moment submerged all the rest. She went gently

up to him, put her little hand in his, and walked in silence by his side.

Sir Christopher could not tell her to leave him, and so she went on with

that sad procession to Mr. Bates’s cottage in the Mosslands, and sat

there in silence, waiting and watching to know if Anthony were really

dead. She had not yet missed the dagger from her pocket; she had not yet

even thought of it. At the sight of Anthony lying dead, her nature had

rebounded from its new bias of resentment and hatred to the old sweet

habit of love. The earliest and the longest has still the mastery over

us; and the only past that linked itself with those glazed unconscious

eyes, was the past when they beamed on her with tenderness. She forgot

the interval of wrong and jealousy and hatred--all his cruelty, and all

her thoughts of revenge--as the exile forgets the stormy passage that lay

between home and happiness and the dreary land in which he finds himself

desolate.

Chapter 16

Before night all hope was gone. Dr Hart had said it was death; Anthony’s

body had been carried to the house, and every one there knew the calamity

that had fallen on them.

Caterina had been questioned by Dr Hart, and had answered briefly that

she found Anthony lying in the Rookery. That she should have been walking

there just at that time was not a coincidence to raise conjectures in any

one besides Mr. Gilfil. Except in answering this question, she had not

broken her silence. She sat mute in a corner of the gardener’s kitchen

shaking her head when Maynard entreated her to return with him, and

apparently unable to think of anything but the possibility that Anthony

might revive, until she saw them carrying away the body to the house.

Then she followed by Sir Christopher’s side again, so quietly, that even

Dr Hart did not object to her presence.

It was decided to lay the body in the library until after the coroner’s

inquest to-morrow; and when Caterina saw the door finally closed, she

turned up the gallery stairs on her way to her own room, the place where

she felt at home with her sorrows. It was the first time she had been in

the gallery since that terrible moment in the morning, and now the spot

and the objects around began to reawaken her half-stunned memory. The

armour was no longer glittering in the sunlight, but there it hung dead

and sombre above the cabinet from which she had taken the dagger. Yes!

now it all came back to her--all the wretchedness and all the sin. But

where was the dagger now? She felt in her pocket; it was not there. Could

it have been her fancy--all that about the dagger? She looked in the

cabinet; it was not there. Alas! no; it could not have been her fancy,

and she _was_ guilty of that wickedness. But where could the dagger be

now? Could it have fallen out of her pocket? She heard steps ascending

the stairs, and hurried on to her room, where, kneeling by the bed, and

burying her face to shut out the hateful light, she tried to recall every

feeling and incident of the morning.

It all came back; everything Anthony had done, and everything she had

felt for the last month--for many months--ever since that June evening

when he had last spoken to her in the gallery. She looked back on her

storms of passion, her jealousy and hatred of Miss Assher, her thoughts

of revenge on Anthony. O how wicked she had been! It was she who had been

sinning; it was she who had driven him to do and say those things that

had made her so angry. And if he had wronged her, what had she been on

the verge of doing to him? She was too wicked ever to be pardoned. She

would like to confess how wicked she had been, that they might punish

her; she would like to humble herself to the dust before every

one--before Miss Assher even. Sir Christopher would send her away--would

never see her again, if he knew all; and she would be happier to be

punished and frowned on, than to be treated tenderly while she had that

guilty secret in her breast. But then, if Sir Christopher were to know

all, it would add to his sorrow, and make him more wretched than ever.

No! she could not confess it--she should have to tell about Anthony. But

she could not stay at the Manor; she must go away; she could not bear Sir

Christopher’s eye, could not bear the sight of all these things that

reminded her of Anthony and of her sin. Perhaps she should die soon: she

felt very feeble; there could not be much life in her. She would go away

and live humbly, and pray to God to pardon her, and let her die.

The poor child never thought of suicide. No sooner was the storm of anger

passed than the tenderness and timidity of her nature returned, and she

could do nothing but love and mourn. Her inexperience prevented her from

imagining the consequences of her disappearance from the Manor; she

foresaw none of the terrible details of alarm and distress and search

that must ensue. ‘They will think I am dead,’ she said to herself, ‘and

by-and-by they will forget me, and Maynard will get happy again, and love

some one else.’

She was roused from her absorption by a knock at the door. Mrs. Bellamy

was there. She had come by Mr. Gilfil’s request to see how Miss Sarti

was, and to bring her some food and wine.

‘You look sadly, my dear,’ said the old housekeeper, ‘an’ you’re all of a

quake wi’ cold. Get you to bed, now do. Martha shall come an’ warm it,

an’ light your fire. See now, here’s some nice arrowroot, wi’ a drop o’

wine in it. Take that, an’ it’ll warm you. I must go down again, for I

can’t awhile to stay. There’s so many things to see to; an’ Miss Assher’s

in hysterics constant, an’ her maid’s ill i’ bed--a poor creachy

thing--an’ Mrs. Sharp’s wanted every minute. But I’ll send Martha up, an’

do you get ready to go to bed, there’s a dear child, an’ take care o’

yourself.’

‘Thank you, dear mammy,’ said Tina, kissing the little old woman’s

wrinkled cheek; ‘I shall eat the arrowroot, and don’t trouble about me

any more to-night. I shall do very well when Martha has lighted my fire.

Tell Mr. Gilfil I’m better. I shall go to bed by-and-by, so don’t you

come up again, because you may only disturb me.’

‘Well, well, take care o’ yourself, there’s a good child, an’ God send

you may sleep.’

Caterina took the arrowroot quite eagerly, while Martha was lighting her

fire. She wanted to get strength for her journey, and she kept the plate

of biscuits by her that she might put some in her pocket. Her whole mind

was now bent on going away from the Manor, and she was thinking of all

the ways and means her little life’s experience could suggest.

It was dusk now; she must wait till early dawn, for she was too timid to

go away in the dark, but she must make her escape before any one was up

in the house. There would be people watching Anthony in the library, but

she could make her way out of a small door leading into the garden,

against the drawing-room on the other side of the house.

She laid her cloak, bonnet, and veil ready; then she lighted a candle,

opened her desk, and took out the broken portrait wrapped in paper. She

folded it again in two little notes of Anthony’s, written in pencil, and

placed it in her bosom. There was the little china box, too--Dorcas’s

present, the pearl earrings, and a silk purse, with fifteen

seven-shilling pieces in it, the presents Sir Christopher had made her on

her birthday, ever since she had been at the Manor. Should she take the

earrings and the seven-shilling pieces? She could not bear to part with

them; it seemed as if they had some of Sir Christopher’s love in them.

She would like them to be buried with her. She fastened the little round

earrings in her ears, and put the purse with Dorcas’s box in her pocket.

She had another purse there, and she took it out to count her money, for

she would never spend her seven-shilling pieces. She had a guinea and

eight shillings; that would be plenty.

So now she sat down to wait for the morning, afraid to lay herself on the

bed lest she should sleep too long. If she could but see Anthony once

more and kiss his cold forehead! But that could not be. She did not

deserve it. She must go away from him, away from Sir Christopher, and

Lady Cheverel, and Maynard, and everybody who had been kind to her, and

thought her good while she was so wicked.

Chapter 17

Some of Mrs. Sharp’s earliest thoughts, the next morning, were given to

Caterina, whom she had not been able to visit the evening before, and

whom, from a nearly equal mixture of affection and self-importance, she

did not at all like resigning to Mrs. Bellamy’s care. At half-past eight

o’clock she went up to Tina’s room, bent on benevolent dictation as to

doses and diet and lying in bed. But on opening the door she found the

bed smooth and empty. Evidently it had not been slept in. What could this

mean? Had she sat up all night, and was she gone out to walk? The poor

thing’s head might be touched by what had happened yesterday; it was such

a shock--finding Captain Wybrow in that way; she was perhaps gone out of

her mind. Mrs. Sharp looked anxiously in the place where Tina kept her

hat and cloak; they were not there, so that she had had at least the

presence of mind to put them on. Still the good woman felt greatly

alarmed, and hastened away to tell Mr. Gilfil, who, she knew, was in his

study.

‘Mr. Gilfil,’ she said, as soon as she had closed the door behind her,

‘my mind misgives me dreadful about Miss Sarti.’

‘What is it?’ said poor Maynard, with a horrible fear that Caterina had

betrayed something about the dagger.

‘She’s not in her room, an’ her bed’s not been slept in this night, an’

her hat an’ cloak’s gone.’

For a minute or two Mr. Gilfil was unable to speak. He felt sure the

worst had come: Caterina had destroyed herself. The strong man suddenly

looked so ill and helpless that Mrs. Sharp began to be frightened at the

effect of her abruptness.

‘O, sir, I’m grieved to my heart to shock you so; but I didn’t know who

else to go to.’

‘No, no, you were quite right.’

He gathered some strength from his very despair. It was all over, and he

had nothing now to do but to suffer and to help the suffering. He went on

in a firmer voice--‘Be sure not to breathe a word about it to any one. We

must not alarm Lady Cheverel and Sir Christopher. Miss Sarti may be only

walking in the garden. She was terribly excited by what she saw

yesterday, and perhaps was unable to lie down from restlessness. Just go

quietly through the empty rooms, and see whether she is in the house. I

will go and look for her in the grounds.’

He went down, and, to avoid giving any alarm in the house, walked at once

towards the Mosslands in search of Mr. Bates, whom he met returning from

his breakfast. To the gardener he confided his fear about Caterina,

assigning as a reason for this fear the probability that the shock she

had undergone yesterday had unhinged her mind, and begging him to send

men in search of her through the gardens and park, and inquire if she had

been seen at the lodges; and if she were not found or heard of in this

way, to lose no time in dragging the waters round the Manor.

‘God forbid it should be so, Bates, but we shall be the easier for having

searched everywhere.’

‘Troost to mae, troost to mae, Mr. Gilfil. Eh! but I’d ha’ worked for

day-wage all the rest o’ my life, rether than anythin’ should ha’

happened to her.’

The good gardener, in deep distress, strode away to the stables that he

might send the grooms on horseback through the park.

Mr. Gilfil’s next thought was to search the Rookery: she might be

haunting the scene of Captain Wybrow’s death. He went hastily over every

mound, looked round every large tree, and followed every winding of the

walks. In reality he had little hope of finding her there; but the bare

possibility fenced off for a time the fatal conviction that Caterina’s

body would be found in the water. When the Rookery had been searched in

vain, he walked fast to the border of the little stream that bounded one

side of the grounds. The stream was almost everywhere hidden among trees,

and there was one place where it was broader and deeper than

elsewhere--she would be more likely to come to that spot than to the

pool. He hurried along with strained eyes, his imagination continually

creating what he dreaded to see.

There is something white behind that overhanging bough. His knees tremble

under him. He seems to see part of her dress caught on a branch, and her

dear dead face upturned. O God, give strength to thy creature, on whom

thou hast laid this great agony! He is nearly up to the bough, and the

white object is moving. It is a waterfowl, that spreads its wings and

flies away screaming. He hardly knows whether it is a relief or a

disappointment that she is not there. The conviction that she is dead

presses its cold weight upon him none the less heavily.

As he reached the great pool in front of the Manor, he saw Mr. Bates,

with a group of men already there, preparing for the dreadful search

which could only displace his vague despair by a definite horror; for the

gardener, in his restless anxiety, had been unable to defer this until

other means of search had proved vain. The pool was not now laughing with

sparkles among the water-lilies. It looked black and cruel under the

sombre sky, as if its cold depths held relentlessly all the murdered hope

and joy of Maynard Gilfil’s life.

Thoughts of the sad consequences for others as well as himself were

crowding on his mind. The blinds and shutters were all closed in front of

the Manor, and it was not likely that Sir Christopher would be aware of

anything that was passing outside; but Mr. Gilfil felt that Caterina’s

disappearance could not long be concealed from him. The coroner’s inquest

would be held shortly; she would be inquired for, and then it would be

inevitable that the Baronet should know all.

Chapter 18

At twelve o’clock, when all search and inquiry had been in vain, and the

coroner was expected every moment, Mr. Gilfil could no longer defer the

hard duty of revealing this fresh calamity to Sir Christopher, who must

otherwise have it discovered to him abruptly.

The Baronet was seated in his dressing-room, where the dark

window-curtains were drawn so as to admit only a sombre light. It was the

first time Mr. Gilfil had had an interview with him this morning, and he

was struck to see how a single day and night of grief had aged the fine

old man. The lines in his brow and about his mouth were deepened; his

complexion looked dull and withered; there was a swollen ridge under his

eyes; and the eyes themselves, which used to cast so keen a glance on the

present, had the vacant expression which tells that vision is no longer a

sense, but a memory.

He held out his hand to Maynard, who pressed it, and sat down beside him

in silence. Sir Christopher’s heart began to swell at this unspoken

sympathy; the tears would rise, would roll in great drops down his

cheeks. The first tears he had shed since boyhood were for Anthony.

Maynard felt as if his tongue were glued to the roof of his mouth. He

could not speak first: he must wait until Sir Christopher said something

which might lead on to the cruel words that must be spoken.

At last the Baronet mastered himself enough to say, ‘I’m very weak,

Maynard--God help me! I didn’t think anything would unman me in this way;

but I’d built everything on that lad. Perhaps I’ve been wrong in not

forgiving my sister. She lost one of _her_ sons a little while ago. I’ve

been too proud and obstinate.’

‘We can hardly learn humility and tenderness enough except by suffering,’

said Maynard; ‘and God sees we are in need of suffering, for it is

falling more and more heavily on us. We have a new trouble this morning.’

‘Tina?’ said Sir Christopher, looking up anxiously--‘is Tina ill?’

‘I am in dreadful uncertainty about her. She was very much agitated

yesterday--and with her delicate health--I am afraid to think what turn

the agitation may have taken.’

‘Is she delirious, poor dear little one?’

‘God only knows how she is. We are unable to find her. When Mrs. Sharp

went up to her room this morning, it was empty. She had not been in bed.

Her hat and cloak were gone. I have had search made for her

everywhere--in the house and garden, in the park, and--in the water. No

one has seen her since Martha went up to light her fire at seven o’clock

in the evening.’

While Mr. Gilfil was speaking, Sir Christopher’s eyes, which were eagerly

turned on him, recovered some of their old keenness, and some sudden

painful emotion, as at a new thought, flitted rapidly across his already

agitated face, like the shadow of a dark cloud over the waves. When the

pause came, he laid his hand on Mr. Gilfil’s arm, and said in a lower

voice,--‘Maynard, did that poor thing love Anthony?’

‘She did.’

Maynard hesitated after these words, struggling between his reluctance to

inflict a yet deeper wound on Sir Christopher, and his determination that

no injustice should be done to Caterina. Sir Christopher’s eyes were

still fixed on him in solemn inquiry, and his own sunk towards the

ground, while he tried to find the words that would tell the truth least

cruelly.

‘You must not have any wrong thoughts about Tina,’ he said at length. ‘I

must tell you now, for her sake, what nothing but this should ever have

caused to pass my lips. Captain Wybrow won her affections by attentions

which, in his position, he was bound not to show her. Before his marriage

was talked of, he had behaved to her like a lover.’

Sir Christopher relaxed his hold of Maynard’s arm, and looked away from

him. He was silent for some minutes, evidently attempting to master

himself, so as to be able to speak calmly.

‘I must see Henrietta immediately,’ he said at last, with something of

his old sharp decision; ‘she must know all; but we must keep it from

every one else as far as possible. My dear boy,’ he continued in a kinder

tone, ‘the heaviest burthen has fallen on you. But we may find her yet;

we must not despair: there has not been time enough for us to be certain.

Poor dear little one! God help me! I thought I saw everything, and was

stone-blind all the while.’

Chapter 19

The sad slow week was gone by at last. At the coroner’s inquest a verdict

of sudden death had been pronounced. Dr Hart, acquainted with Captain

Wybrow’s previous state of health, had given his opinion that death had

been imminent from long-established disease of the heart, though it had

probably been accelerated by some unusual emotion. Miss Assher was the

only person who positively knew the motive that had led Captain Wybrow to

the Rookery; but she had not mentioned Caterina’s name, and all painful

details or inquiries were studiously kept from her. Mr. Gilfil and Sir

Christopher, however, knew enough to conjecture that the fatal agitation

was due to an appointed meeting with Caterina.

All search and inquiry after her had been fruitless, and were the more

likely to be so because they were carried on under the prepossession that

she had committed suicide. No one noticed the absence of the trifles she

had taken from her desk; no one knew of the likeness, or that she had

hoarded her seven-shilling pieces, and it was not remarkable that she

should have happened to be wearing the pearl earrings. She had left the

house, they thought, taking nothing with her; it seemed impossible she

could have gone far; and she must have been in a state of mental

excitement, that made it too probable she had only gone to seek relief in

death. The same places within three or four miles of the Manor were

searched again and again--every pond, every ditch in the neighbourhood

was examined.

Sometimes Maynard thought that death might have come on unsought, from

cold and exhaustion; and not a day passed but he wandered through the

neighbouring woods, turning up the heaps of dead leaves, as if it were

possible her dear body could be hidden there. Then another horrible

thought recurred, and before each night came he had been again through

all the uninhabited rooms of the house, to satisfy himself once more that

she was not hidden behind some cabinet, or door, or curtain--that he

should not find her there with madness in her eyes, looking and looking,

and yet not seeing him.

But at last those five long days and nights were at an end, the funeral

was over, and the carriages were returning through the park. When they

had set out, a heavy rain was falling; but now the clouds were breaking

up, and a gleam of sunshine was sparkling among the dripping boughs under

which they were passing. This gleam fell upon a man on horseback who was

jogging slowly along, and whom Mr. Gilfil recognized, in spite of

diminished rotundity, as Daniel Knott, the coachman who had married the

rosy-cheeked Dorcas ten years before.

Every new incident suggested the same thought to Mr. Gilfil; and his eye

no sooner fell on Knott than he said to himself, ‘Can he be come to tell

us anything about Caterina?’ Then he remembered that Caterina had been

very fond of Dorcas, and that she always had some present ready to send

her when Knott paid an occasional visit to the Manor. Could Tina have

gone to Dorcas? But his heart sank again as he thought, very likely Knott

had only come because he had heard of Captain Wybrow’s death, and wanted

to know how his old master had borne the blow.

As soon as the carriage reached the house, he went up to his study and

walked about nervously, longing, but afraid, to go down and speak to

Knott, lest his faint hope should be dissipated. Any one looking at that

face, usually so full of calm goodwill, would have seen that the last

week’s suffering had left deep traces. By day he had been riding or

wandering incessantly, either searching for Caterina himself, or

directing inquiries to be made by others. By night he had not known

sleep--only intermittent dozing, in which he seemed to be finding

Caterina dead, and woke up with a start from this unreal agony to the

real anguish of believing that he should see her no more. The clear grey

eyes looked sunken and restless, the full careless lips had a strange

tension about them, and the brow, formerly so smooth and open, was

contracted as if with pain. He had not lost the object of a few months’

passion; he had lost the being who was bound up with his power of loving,

as the brook we played by or the flowers we gathered in childhood are

bound up with our sense of beauty. Love meant nothing for him but to love

Caterina. For years, the thought of her had been present in everything,

like the air and the light; and now she was gone, it seemed as if all

pleasure had lost its vehicle: the sky, the earth, the daily ride, the

daily talk might be there, but the loveliness and the joy that were in

them had gone for ever.

Presently, as he still paced backwards and forwards, he heard steps along

the corridor, and there was a knock at his door. His voice trembled as he

said ‘Come in’, and the rush of renewed hope was hardly distinguishable

from pain when he saw Warren enter with Daniel Knott behind him.

‘Knott is come, sir, with news of Miss Sarti. I thought it best to bring

him to you first.’

Mr. Gilfil could not help going up to the old coachman and wringing his

hand; but he was unable to speak, and only motioned to him to take a

chair, while Warren left the room. He hung upon Daniel’s moon-face, and

listened to his small piping voice, with the same solemn yearning

expectation with which he would have given ear to the most awful

messenger from the land of shades.

‘It war Dorkis, sir, would hev me come; but we knowed nothin’ o’ what’s

happened at the Manor. She’s frightened out on her wits about Miss Sarti,

an’ she would hev me saddle Blackbird this mornin’, an’ leave the

ploughin’, to come an’ let Sir Christifer an’ my lady know. P’raps you’ve

heared, sir, we don’t keep the Cross Keys at Sloppeter now; a uncle o’

mine died three ’ear ago, an’ left me a leggicy. He was bailiff to Squire

Ramble, as hed them there big farms on his hans; an’ so we took a little

farm o’ forty acres or thereabouts, becos Dorkis didn’t like the public

when she got moithered wi’ children. As pritty a place as iver you see,

sir, wi’ water at the back convenent for the cattle.’

‘For God’s sake,’ said Maynard, ‘tell me what it is about Miss Sarti.

Don’t stay to tell me anything else now.’

‘Well, sir,’ said Knott, rather frightened by the parson’s vehemence,

‘she come t’ our house i’ the carrier’s cart o’ Wednesday, when it was

welly nine o’clock at night; and Dorkis run out, for she heared the cart

stop, an’ Miss Sarti throwed her arms roun’ Dorkis’s neck an’ says, “Tek

me in, Dorkis, tek me in,” an’ went off into a swoond, like. An’ Dorkis

calls out to me,--“Dannel,” she calls--an’ I run out and carried the

young miss in, an’ she come roun’ arter a bit, an’ opened her eyes, and

Dorkis got her to drink a spoonful o’ rum-an’-water--we’ve got some

capital rum as we brought from the Cross Keys, and Dorkis won’t let

nobody drink it. She says she keeps it for sickness; but for my part, I

think it’s a pity to drink good rum when your mouth’s out o’ taste; you

may just as well hev doctor’s stuff. However, Dorkis got her to bed, an’

there she’s lay iver sin’, stoopid like, an’ niver speaks, an’ on’y teks

little bits an’ sups when Dorkis coaxes her. An’ we begun to be

frightened, and couldn’t think what had made her come away from the

Manor, and Dorkis was afeared there was summat wrong. So this mornin’ she

could hold no longer, an’ would hev no nay but I must come an’ see; an’

so I’ve rode twenty mile upo’ Blackbird, as thinks all the while he’s

a-ploughin’, an’ turns sharp roun’, every thirty yards, as if he was at

the end of a furrow. I’ve hed a sore time wi’ him, I can tell you, sir.’

‘God bless you, Knott, for coming!’ said Mr. Gilfil, wringing the old

coachman’s hand again. ‘Now go down and have something and rest yourself.

You will stay here to-night, and by-and-by I shall come to you to learn

the nearest way to your house. I shall get ready to ride there

immediately, when I have spoken to Sir Christopher.’

In an hour from that time Mr. Gilfil was galloping on a stout mare

towards the little muddy village of Callam, five miles beyond Sloppeter.

Once more he saw some gladness in the afternoon sunlight; once more it

was a pleasure to see the hedgerow trees flying past him, and to be

conscious of a ‘good seat’ while his black Kitty bounded beneath him, and

the air whistled to the rhythm of her pace. Caterina was not dead; he had

found her; his love and tenderness and long-suffering seemed so strong,

they must recall her to life and happiness.

After that week of despair, the rebound was so violent that it carried

his hopes at once as far as the utmost mark they had ever reached.

Caterina would come to love him at last; she would be his. They had been

carried through all that dark and weary way that she might know the depth

of his love. How he would cherish her--his little bird with the timid

bright eye, and the sweet throat that trembled with love and music! She

would nestle against him, and the poor little breast which had been so

ruffled and bruised should be safe for evermore. In the love of a brave

and faithful man there is always a strain of maternal tenderness; he

gives out again those beams of protecting fondness which were shed on him

as he lay on his mother’s knee. It was twilight as he entered the village

of Callam, and, asking a homeward-bound labourer the way to Daniel

Knott’s, learned that it was by the church, which showed its stumpy

ivy-clad spire on a slight elevation of ground; a useful addition to the

means of identifying that desirable homestead afforded by Daniel’s

description--‘the prittiest place iver you see’--though a small cow-yard

full of excellent manure, and leading right up to the door, without any

frivolous interruption from garden or railing, might perhaps have been

enough to make that description unmistakably specific.

Mr. Gilfil had no sooner reached the gate leading into the cow-yard, than

he was descried by a flaxen-haired lad of nine, prematurely invested with

the _toga virilis_, or smock-frock, who ran forward to let in the unusual

visitor. In a moment Dorcas was at the door, the roses on her cheeks

apparently all the redder for the three pair of cheeks which formed a

group round her, and for the very fat baby who stared in her arms, and

sucked a long crust with calm relish.

‘Is it Mr. Gilfil, sir?’ said Dorcas, curtsying low as he made his way

through the damp straw, after tying up his horse.

‘Yes, Dorcas; I’m grown out of your knowledge. How is Miss Sarti?’

‘Just for all the world the same, sir, as I suppose Dannel’s told you;

for I reckon you’ve come from the Manor, though you’re come uncommon

quick, to be sure.’

‘Yes, he got to the Manor about one o’clock, and I set off as soon as I

could. She’s not worse, is she?’

‘No change, sir, for better or wuss. Will you please to walk in, sir? She

lies there takin’ no notice o’ nothin’, no more nor a baby as is on’y a

week old, an’ looks at me as blank as if she didn’t know me. O what can

it be, Mr. Gilfil? How come she to leave the Manor? How’s his honour an’

my lady?’

‘In great trouble, Dorcas. Captain Wybrow, Sir Christopher’s nephew, you

know, has died suddenly. Miss Sarti found him lying dead, and I think the

shock has affected her mind.’

‘Eh, dear! that fine young gentlemen as was to be th’ heir, as Dannel

told me about. I remember seein’ him when he was a little un, a-visitin’

at the Manor. Well-a-day, what a grief to his honour and my lady. But

that poor Miss Tina--an’ she found him a-lyin’ dead? O dear, O dear!’

Dorcas had led the way into the best kitchen, as charming a room as best

kitchens used to be in farmhouses which had no parlours--the fire

reflected in a bright row of pewter plates and dishes; the sand-scoured

deal tables so clean you longed to stroke them; the salt-coffer in one

chimney-corner, and a three-cornered chair in the other, the walls behind

handsomely tapestried with flitches of bacon, and the ceiling ornamented

with pendent hams.

‘Sit ye down, sir--do,’ said Dorcas, moving the three-cornered chair,

‘an’ let me get you somethin’ after your long journey. Here, Becky, come

an’ tek the baby.’

Becky, a red-armed damsel, emerged from the adjoining back-kitchen, and

possessed herself of baby, whose feelings or fat made him conveniently

apathetic under the transference.

‘What’ll you please to tek, sir, as I can give you? I’ll get you a rasher

o’ bacon i’ no time, an’ I’ve got some tea, or belike you’d tek a glass

o’ rum-an’-water. I know we’ve got nothin’ as you’re used t’ eat and

drink; but such as I hev, sir, I shall be proud to give you.’

‘Thank you, Dorcas; I can’t eat or drink anything. I’m not hungry or

tired. Let us talk about Tina. Has she spoken at all?’

‘Niver since the fust words. “Dear Dorkis,” says she, “tek me in;” an’

then went off into a faint, an’ not a word has she spoken since. I get

her t’ eat little bits an’ sups o’ things, but she teks no notice o’

nothin’. I’ve took up Bessie wi’ me now an’ then’--here Dorcas lifted to

her lap a curly-headed little girl of three, who was twisting a corner of

her mother’s apron, and opening round eyes at the gentleman--‘folks’ll

tek notice o’ children sometimes when they won’t o’ nothin’ else. An’ we

gathered the autumn crocuses out o’ th’ orchard, and Bessie carried ’em

up in her hand, an’ put ’em on the bed. I knowed how fond Miss Tina was

o’ flowers an’ them things, when she was a little un. But she looked at

Bessie an’ the flowers just the same as if she didn’t see ’em. It cuts me

to th’ heart to look at them eyes o’ hers; I think they’re bigger nor

iver, an’ they look like my poor baby’s as died, when it got so thin--O

dear, its little hands you could see thro’ ’em. But I’ve great hopes if

she was to see you, sir, as come from the Manor, it might bring back her

mind, like.’

Maynard had that hope too, but he felt cold mists of fear gathering round

him after the few bright warm hours of joyful confidence which had passed

since he first heard that Caterina was alive. The thought _would_ urge

itself upon him that her mind and body might never recover the strain

that had been put upon them--that her delicate thread of life had already

nearly spun itself out.

‘Go now, Dorcas, and see how she is, but don’t say anything about my

being here. Perhaps it would be better for me to wait till daylight

before I see her, and yet it would be very hard to pass another night in

this way.’

Dorcas set down little Bessie, and went away. The three other children,

including young Daniel in his smock-frock, were standing opposite to Mr.

Gilfil, watching him still more shyly now they were without their

mother’s countenance. He drew little Bessie towards him, and set her on

his knee. She shook her yellow curls out of her eyes, and looked up at

him as she said,--‘Zoo tome to tee ze yady? Zoo mek her peak? What zoo do

to her? Tiss her?’

‘Do you like to be kissed, Bessie?’

‘Det,’ said Bessie, immediately ducking down her head very low, in

resistance to the expected rejoinder.

‘We’ve got two pups,’ said young Daniel, emboldened by observing the

gentleman’s amenities towards Bessie. ‘Shall I show ’em yer? One’s got

white spots.’

‘Yes, let me see them.’

Daniel ran out, and presently reappeared with two blind puppies, eagerly

followed by the mother, affectionate though mongrel, and an exciting

scene was beginning when Dorcas returned and said,--‘There’s niver any

difference in her hardly. I think you needn’t wait, sir. She lies very

still, as she al’ys does. I’ve put two candle i’ the room, so as she may

see you well. You’ll please t’ excuse the room, sir, an’ the cap as she

has on; it’s one o’ mine.’

Mr. Gilfil nodded silently, and rose to follow her up-stairs. They turned

in at the first door, their footsteps making little noise on the plaster

floor. The red-checkered linen curtains were drawn at the head of the

bed, and Dorcas had placed the candles on this side of the room, so that

the light might not fall oppressively on Caterina’s eyes. When she had

opened the door, Dorcas whispered, ‘I’d better leave you, sir, I think?’

Mr. Gilfil motioned assent, and advanced beyond the curtain. Caterina lay

with her eyes turned the other way, and seemed unconscious that any one

had entered. Her eyes, as Dorcas had said, looked larger than ever,

perhaps because her face was thinner and paler, and her hair quite

gathered away under one of Dorcas’s thick caps. The small hands, too,

that lay listlessly on the outside of the bed-clothes were thinner than

ever. She looked younger than she really was, and any one seeing the tiny

face and hands for the first time might have thought they belonged to a

little girl of twelve, who was being taken away from coming instead of

past sorrow.

When Mr. Gilfil advanced and stood opposite to her, the light fell full

upon his face. A slight startled expression came over Caterina’s eyes;

she looked at him earnestly for a few moments, then lifted up her hand as

if to beckon him to stoop down towards her, and whispered ‘Maynard!’

He seated himself on the bed, and stooped down towards her. She whispered

again--‘Maynard, did you see the dagger?’

He followed his first impulse in answering her, and it was a wise one.

‘Yes,’ he whispered, ‘I found it in your pocket, and put it back again in

the cabinet.’

He took her hand in his and held it gently, awaiting what she would say

next. His heart swelled so with thankfulness that she had recognized him,

he could hardly repress a sob. Gradually her eyes became softer and less

intense in their gaze. The tears were slowly gathering, and presently

some large hot drops rolled down her cheek. Then the flood-gates were

opened, and the heart-easing stream gushed forth; deep sobs came; and for

nearly an hour she lay without speaking, while the heavy icy pressure

that withheld her misery from utterance was thus melting away. How

precious these tears were to Maynard, who day after day had been

shuddering at the continually recurring image of Tina with the dry

scorching stare of insanity!

By degrees the sobs subsided, she began to breathe calmly, and lay quiet

with her eyes shut. Patiently Maynard sat, not heeding the flight of the

hours, not heeding the old clock that ticked loudly on the landing. But

when it was nearly ten, Dorcas, impatiently anxious to know the result of

Mr. Gilfil’s appearance, could not help stepping in on tip-toe. Without

moving, he whispered in her ear to supply him with candles, see that the

cow-boy had shaken down his mare, and go to bed--he would watch with

Caterina--a great change had come over her.

Before long, Tina’s lips began to move. ‘Maynard,’ she whispered again.

He leaned towards her, and she went on.

‘You know how wicked I am, then? You know what I meant to do with the

dagger?’

‘Did you mean to kill yourself, Tina?’

She shook her head slowly, and then was silent for a long while. At last,

looking at him with solemn eyes, she whispered, ‘To kill _him_.’

‘Tina, my loved one, you would never have done it. God saw your whole

heart; He knows you would never harm a living thing. He watches over His

children, and will not let them do things they would pray with their

whole hearts not to do. It was the angry thought of a moment, and He

forgives you.’

She sank into silence again till it was nearly midnight. The weary

enfeebled spirit seemed to be making its slow way with difficulty through

the windings of thought; and when she began to whisper again, it was in

reply to Maynard’s words.

‘But I had had such wicked feelings for a long while. I was so angry, and

I hated Miss Assher so, and I didn’t care what came to anybody, because I

was so miserable myself. I was full of bad passions. No one else was ever

so wicked.’

‘Yes, Tina, many are just as wicked. I often have very wicked feelings,

and am tempted to do wrong things; but then my body is stronger than

yours, and I can hide my feelings and resist them better. They do not

master me so. You have seen the little birds when they are very young and

just begin to fly, how all their feathers are ruffled when they are

frightened or angry; they have no power over themselves left, and might

fall into a pit from mere fright. You were like one of those little

birds. Your sorrow and suffering had taken such hold of you, you hardly

knew what you did.’

He would not speak long. Lest he should tire her, and oppress her with

too many thoughts. Long pauses seemed needful for her before she could

concentrate her feelings in short words.

‘But when I meant to do it,’ was the next thing she whispered, ‘it was as

bad as if I had done it.’

‘No, my Tina,’ answered Maynard slowly, waiting a little between each

sentence; ‘we mean to do wicked things that we never could do, just as we

mean to do good or clever things that we never could do. Our thoughts are

often worse than we are, just as they are often better than we are. And

God sees us as we are altogether, not in separate feelings or actions, as

our fellow-men see us. We are always doing each other injustice, and

thinking better or worse of each other than we deserve, because we only

hear and see separate words and actions. We don’t see each other’s whole

nature. But God sees that you could not have committed that crime.’

Caterina shook her head slowly, and was silent. After a while,--‘I don’t

know,’ she said; ‘I seemed to see him coming towards me, just as he would

really have looked, and I meant--I meant to do it.’

‘But when you saw him--tell me how it was, Tina?’

‘I saw him lying on the ground and thought he was ill. I don’t know how

it was then; I forgot everything. I knelt down and spoke to him, and--and

he took no notice of me, and his eyes were fixed, and I began to think he

was dead.’

‘And you have never felt angry since?’

‘O no, no; it is I who have been more wicked than any one; it is I who

have been wrong all through.’

‘No, Tina; the fault has not all been yours; _he_ was wrong; he gave you

provocation. And wrong makes wrong. When people use us ill, we can hardly

help having ill feeling towards them. But that second wrong is more

excusable. I am more sinful than you, Tina; I have often had very bad

feelings towards Captain Wybrow; and if he had provoked me as he did you,

I should perhaps have done something more wicked.’

‘O, it was not so wrong in him; he didn’t know how he hurt me. How was it

likely he could love me as I loved him? And how could he marry a poor

little thing like me?’

Maynard made no reply to this, and there was again silence, till Tina

said, ‘Then I was so deceitful; they didn’t know how wicked I was.

Padroncello didn’t know; his good little monkey he used to call me; and

if he had known, O how naughty he would have thought me!’

‘My Tina, we have all our secret sins; and if we knew ourselves, we

should not judge each other harshly. Sir Christopher himself has felt,

since this trouble came upon him, that he has been too severe and

obstinate.’

In this way--in these broken confessions and answering words of

comfort--the hours wore on, from the deep black night to the chill early

twilight, and from early twilight to the first yellow streak of morning

parting the purple cloud. Mr. Gilfil felt as if in the long hours of that

night the bond that united his love for ever and alone to Caterina had

acquired fresh strength and sanctity. It is so with the human relations

that rest on the deep emotional sympathy of affection: every new day and

night of joy or sorrow is a new ground, a new consecration, for the love

that is nourished by memories as well as hopes--the love to which

perpetual repetition is not a weariness but a want, and to which a

separated joy is the beginning of pain.

The cocks began to crow; the gate swung; there was a tramp of footsteps

in the yard, and Mr. Gilfil heard Dorcas stirring. These sounds seemed to

affect Caterina, for she looked anxiously at him and said, ‘Maynard, are

you going away?’

‘No, I shall stay here at Callam until you are better, and then you will

go away too.’

‘Never to the Manor again, O no! I shall live poorly, and get my own

bread.’

‘Well, dearest, you shall do what you would like best. But I wish you

could go to sleep now. Try to rest quietly, and by-and-by you will

perhaps sit up a little. God has kept you in life in spite of all this

sorrow; it will be sinful not to try and make the best of His gift. Dear

Tina, you will try;--and little Bessie brought you some crocuses once,

you didn’t notice the poor little thing; but you _will_ notice her when

she comes again, will you not?’

‘I will try,’ whispered Tina humbly, and then closed her eyes.

By the time the sun was above the horizon, scattering the clouds, and

shining with pleasant morning warmth through the little leaded window,

Caterina was asleep. Maynard gently loosed the tiny hand, cheered Dorcas

with the good news, and made his way to the village inn, with a thankful

heart that Tina had been so far herself again. Evidently the sight of him

had blended naturally with the memories in which her mind was absorbed,

and she had been led on to an unburthening of herself that might be the

beginning of a complete restoration. But her body was so enfeebled--her

soul so bruised--that the utmost tenderness and care would be necessary.

The next thing to be done was to send tidings to Sir Christopher and Lady

Cheverel; then to write and summon his sister, under whose care he had

determined to place Caterina. The Manor, even if she had been wishing to

return thither, would, he knew, be the most undesirable home for her at

present: every scene, every object there, was associated with still

unallayed anguish. If she were domesticated for a time with his mild

gentle sister, who had a peaceful home and a prattling little boy, Tina

might attach herself anew to life, and recover, partly at least, the

shock that had been given to her constitution. When he had written his

letters and taken a hasty breakfast, he was soon in his saddle again, on

his way to Sloppeter, where he would post them, and seek out a medical

man, to whom he might confide the moral causes of Caterina’s enfeebled

condition.

Chapter 20

In less than a week from that time, Caterina was persuaded to travel in a

comfortable carriage, under the care of Mr. Gilfil and his sister, Mrs.

Heron, whose soft blue eyes and mild manners were very soothing to the

poor bruised child--the more so as they had an air of sisterly equality

which was quite new to her. Under Lady Cheverel’s uncaressing

authoritative goodwill, Tina had always retained a certain constraint and

awe; and there was a sweetness before unknown in having a young and

gentle woman, like an elder sister, bending over her caressingly, and

speaking in low loving tones.

Maynard was almost angry with himself for feeling happy while Tina’s mind

and body were still trembling on the verge of irrecoverable decline; but

the new delight of acting as her guardian angel, of being with her every

hour of the day, of devising everything for her comfort, of watching for

a ray of returning interest in her eyes, was too absorbing to leave room

for alarm or regret.

On the third day the carriage drove up to the door of Foxholm Parsonage,

where the Rev. Arthur Heron presented himself on the door-step, eager to

greet his returning Lucy, and holding by the hand a broad-chested

tawny-haired boy of five, who was smacking a miniature hunting-whip with

great vigour.

Nowhere was there a lawn more smooth-shaven, walks better swept, or a

porch more prettily festooned with creepers, than at Foxholm Parsonage,

standing snugly sheltered by beeches and chestnuts half-way down the

pretty green hill which was surmounted by the church, and overlooking a

village that straggled at its ease among pastures and meadows, surrounded

by wild hedgerows and broad shadowing trees, as yet unthreatened by

improved methods of farming.

Brightly the fire shone in the great parlour, and brightly in the little

pink bedroom, which was to be Caterina’s, because it looked away from the

churchyard, and on to a farm homestead, with its little cluster of

beehive ricks, and placid groups of cows, and cheerful matin sounds of

healthy labour. Mrs. Heron, with the instinct of a delicate, impressible

woman, had written to her husband to have this room prepared for

Caterina. Contented speckled hens, industriously scratching for the

rarely-found corn, may sometimes do more for a sick heart than a grove of

nightingales; there is something irresistibly calming in the

unsentimental cheeriness of top-knotted pullets, unpetted sheep-dogs, and

patient cart-horses enjoying a drink of muddy water.

In such a home as this parsonage, a nest of comfort, without any of the

stateliness that would carry a suggestion of Cheverel Manor, Mr. Gilfil

was not unreasonable in hoping that Caterina might gradually shake off

the haunting vision of the past, and recover from the languor and

feebleness which were the physical sign of that vision’s blighting

presence. The next thing to be done was to arrange an exchange of duties

with Mr. Heron’s curate, that Maynard might be constantly near Caterina,

and watch over her progress. She seemed to like him to be with her, to

look uneasily for his return; and though she seldom spoke to him, she was

most contented when he sat by her, and held her tiny hand in his large

protecting grasp. But Oswald, _alias_ Ozzy, the broad-chested boy, was

perhaps her most beneficial companion. With something of his uncle’s

person, he had inherited also his uncle’s early taste for a domestic

menagerie, and was very imperative in demanding Tina’s sympathy in the

welfare of his guinea-pigs, squirrels, and dormice. With him she seemed

now and then to have gleams of her childhood coming athwart the leaden

clouds, and many hours of winter went by the more easily for being spent

in Ozzy’s nursery.

Mrs. Heron was not musical, and had no instrument; but one of Mr.

Gilfil’s cares was to procure a harpsichord, and have it placed in the

drawing-room, always open, in the hope that some day the spirit of music

would be reawakened in Caterina, and she would be attracted towards the

instrument. But the winter was almost gone by, and he had waited in vain.

The utmost improvement in Tina had not gone beyond passiveness and

acquiescence--a quiet grateful smile, compliance with Oswald’s whims, and

an increasing consciousness of what was being said and done around her.

Sometimes she would take up a bit of woman’s work, but she seemed too

languid to persevere in it; her fingers soon dropped, and she relapsed

into motionless reverie.

At last--it was one of those bright days in the end of February, when the

sun is shining with a promise of approaching spring. Maynard had been

walking with her and Oswald round the garden to look at the snowdrops,

and she was resting on the sofa after the walk. Ozzy, roaming about the

room in quest of a forbidden pleasure, came to the harpsichord, and

struck the handle of his whip on a deep bass note.

The vibration rushed through Caterina like an electric shock: it seemed

as if at that instant a new soul were entering into her, and filling her

with a deeper, more significant life. She looked round, rose from the

sofa, and walked to the harpsichord. In a moment her fingers were

wandering with their old sweet method among the keys, and her soul was

floating in its true familiar element of delicious sound, as the

water-plant that lies withered and shrunken on the ground expands into

freedom and beauty when once more bathed in its native flood.

Maynard thanked God. An active power was re-awakened, and must make a new

epoch in Caterina’s recovery.

Presently there were low liquid notes blending themselves with the harder

tones of the instrument, and gradually the pure voice swelled into

predominance. Little Ozzy stood in the middle of the room, with his mouth

open and his legs very wide apart, struck with something like awe at this

new power in ‘Tin-Tin,’ as he called her, whom he had been accustomed to

think of as a playfellow not at all clever, and very much in need of his

instruction on many subjects. A genie soaring with broad wings out of his

milkjug would not have been more astonishing.

Caterina was singing the very air from the _Orfeo_ which we heard her

singing so many months ago at the beginning of her sorrows. It was ‘_Ho

perduto_’, Sir Christopher’s favourite, and its notes seemed to carry on

their wings all the tenderest memories of her life, when Cheverel Manor

was still an untroubled home. The long happy days of childhood and

girlhood recovered all their rightful predominance over the short

interval of sin and sorrow.

She paused, and burst into tears--the first tears she had shed since she

had been at Foxholm. Maynard could not help hurrying towards her, putting

his arm round her, and leaning down to kiss her hair. She nestled to him,

and put up her little mouth to be kissed.

The delicate-tendrilled plant must have something to cling to. The soul

that was born anew to music was born anew to love.

Chapter 21

On the 30th of May 1790, a very pretty sight was seen by the villagers

assembled near the door of Foxholm Church. The sun was bright upon the

dewy grass, the air was alive with the murmur of bees and the trilling of

birds, the bushy blossoming chestnuts and the foamy flowering hedgerows

seemed to be crowding round to learn why the church-bells were ringing so

merrily, as Maynard Gilfil, his face bright with happiness, walked out of

the old Gothic doorway with Tina on his arm. The little face was still

pale, and there was a subdued melancholy in it, as of one who sups with

friends for the last time, and has his ear open for the signal that will

call him away. But the tiny hand rested with the pressure of contented

affection on Maynard’s arm, and the dark eyes met his downward glance

with timid answering love.

There was no train of bridesmaids; only pretty Mrs. Heron leaning on the

arm of a dark-haired young man hitherto unknown in Foxholm, and holding

by the other hand little Ozzy, who exulted less in his new velvet cap and

tunic, than in the notion that he was bridesman to Tin-Tin.

Last of all came a couple whom the villagers eyed yet more eagerly than

the bride and bridegroom: a fine old gentleman, who looked round with

keen glances that cowed the conscious scapegraces among them, and a

stately lady in blue-and-white silk robes, who must surely be like Queen

Charlotte.

‘Well, that theer’s whut I coal a pictur,’ said old ‘Mester’ Ford, a true

Staffordshire patriarch, who leaned on a stick and held his head very

much on one side, with the air of a man who had little hope of the

present generation, but would at all events give it the benefit of his

criticism. ‘Th’ yoong men noo-a-deys, the’re poor squashy things--the’

looke well anoof, but the’ woon’t wear, the’ woon’t wear. Theer’s ne’er

un’ll carry his ’ears like that Sir Cris’fer Chuvrell.’

‘Ull bet ye two pots,’ said another of the seniors, ‘as that yoongster

a-walkin’ wi’ th’ parson’s wife ’ll be Sir Cris’fer’s son--he fevours

him.’

‘Nay, yae’ll bet that wi’ as big a fule as yersen; hae’s noo son at all.

As I oonderstan’, hae’s the nevey as is’ t’ heir th’ esteate. The

coochman as puts oop at th’ White Hoss tellt me as theer war another

nevey, a deal finer chap t’ looke at nor this un, as died in a fit, all

on a soodden, an’ soo this here yoong un’s got upo’ th’ perch istid.’

At the church gate Mr. Bates was standing in a new suit, ready to speak

words of good omen as the bride and bridegroom approached. He had come

all the way from Cheverel Manor on purpose to see Miss Tina happy once

more, and would have been in a state of unmixed joy but for the

inferiority of the wedding nosegays to what he could have furnished from

the garden at the Manor.

‘God A’maighty bless ye both, an’ send ye long laife an’ happiness,’ were

the good gardener’s rather tremulous words.

‘Thank you, uncle Bates; always remember Tina,’ said the sweet low voice,

which fell on Mr. Bates’s ear for the last time.

The wedding journey was to be a circuitous route to Shepperton, where Mr.

Gilfil had been for several months inducted as vicar. This small living

had been given him through the interest of an old friend who had some

claim on the gratitude of the Oldinport family; and it was a satisfaction

both to Maynard and Sir Christopher that a home to which he might take

Caterina had thus readily presented itself at a distance from Cheverel

Manor. For it had never yet been thought safe that she should revisit the

scene of her sufferings, her health continuing too delicate to encourage

the slightest risk of painful excitement. In a year or two, perhaps, by

the time old Mr. Crichley, the rector of Cumbermoor, should have left a

world of gout, and when Caterina would very likely be a happy mother,

Maynard might safely take up his abode at Cumbermoor, and Tina would feel

nothing but content at seeing a new ‘little black-eyed monkey’ running up

and down the gallery and gardens of the Manor. A mother dreads no

memories--those shadows have all melted away in the dawn of baby’s smile.

In these hopes, and in the enjoyment of Tina’s nestling affection, Mr.

Gilfil tasted a few months of perfect happiness. She had come to lean

entirely on his love, and to find life sweet for his sake. Her continual

languor and want of active interest was a natural consequence of bodily

feebleness, and the prospect of her becoming a mother was a new ground

for hoping the best. But the delicate plant had been too deeply bruised,

and in the struggle to put forth a blossom it died.

Tina died, and Maynard Gilfil’s love went with her into deep silence for

evermore.

EPILOGUE

This was Mr. Gilfil’s love-story, which lay far back from the time when

he sat, worn and grey, by his lonely fireside in Shepperton Vicarage.

Rich brown locks, passionate love, and deep early sorrow, strangely

different as they seem from the scanty white hairs, the apathetic

content, and the unexpectant quiescence of old age, are but part of the

same life’s journey; as the bright Italian plains, with the sweet _Addio_

of their beckoning maidens, are part of the same day’s travel that brings

us to the other side of the mountain, between the sombre rocky walls and

among the guttural voices of the Valais.

To those who were familiar only with the grey-haired Vicar, jogging

leisurely along on his old chestnut cob, it would perhaps have been hard

to believe that he had ever been the Maynard Gilfil who, with a heart

full of passion and tenderness, had urged his black Kitty to her swiftest

gallop on the way to Callam, or that the old gentleman of caustic tongue,

and bucolic tastes, and sparing habits, had known all the deep secrets of

devoted love, had struggled through its days and nights of anguish, and

trembled under its unspeakable joys.

And indeed the Mr. Gilfil of those late Shepperton days had more of the

knots and ruggedness of poor human nature than there lay any clear hint

of in the open-eyed loving Maynard. But it is with men as with trees: if

you lop off their finest branches, into which they were pouring their

young life-juice, the wounds will be healed over with some rough boss,

some odd excrescence; and what might have been a grand tree expanding

into liberal shade, is but a whimsical misshapen trunk. Many an

irritating fault, many an unlovely oddity, has come of a hard sorrow,

which has crushed and maimed the nature just when it was expanding into

plenteous beauty; and the trivial erring life which we visit with our

harsh blame, may be but as the unsteady motion of a man whose best limb

is withered.

And so the dear old Vicar, though he had something of the knotted

whimsical character of the poor lopped oak, had yet been sketched out by

nature as a noble tree. The heart of him was sound, the grain was of the

finest; and in the grey-haired man who filled his pocket with sugar-plums

for the little children, whose most biting words were directed against

the evil doing of the rich man, and who, with all his social pipes and

slipshod talk, never sank below the highest level of his parishioners’

respect, there was the main trunk of the same brave, faithful, tender

nature that had poured out the finest, freshest forces of its

life-current in a first and only love--the love of Tina.

JANET’S REPENTANCE

Chapter 1

‘No!’ said lawyer Dempster, in a loud, rasping, oratorical tone,

struggling against chronic huskiness, ‘as long as my Maker grants me

power of voice and power of intellect, I will take every legal means to

resist the introduction of demoralizing, methodistical doctrine into this

parish; I will not supinely suffer an insult to be inflicted on our

venerable pastor, who has given us sound instruction for half a century.’

It was very warm everywhere that evening, but especially in the bar of

the Red Lion at Milby, where Mr. Dempster was seated mixing his third

glass of brandy-and-water. He was a tall and rather massive man, and the

front half of his large surface was so well dredged with snuff, that the

cat, having inadvertently come near him, had been seized with a severe

fit of sneezing--an accident which, being cruelly misunderstood, had

caused her to be driven contumeliously from the bar. Mr. Dempster

habitually held his chin tucked in, and his head hanging forward, weighed

down, perhaps, by a preponderant occiput and a bulging forehead, between

which his closely-clipped coronal surface lay like a flat and new-mown

table-land. The only other observable features were puffy cheeks and a

protruding yet lipless mouth. Of his nose I can only say that it was

snuffy; and as Mr. Dempster was never caught in the act of looking at

anything in particular, it would have been difficult to swear to the

colour of his eyes.

‘Well! I’ll not stick at giving myself trouble to put down such

hypocritical cant,’ said Mr. Tomlinson, the rich miller. ‘I know well

enough what your Sunday evening lectures are good for--for wenches to

meet their sweethearts, and brew mischief. There’s work enough with the

servant-maids as it is--such as I never heard the like of in my mother’s

time, and it’s all along o’ your schooling and newfangled plans. Give me

a servant as can nayther read nor write, I say, and doesn’t know the year

o’ the Lord as she was born in. I should like to know what good those

Sunday schools have done, now. Why, the boys used to go a birds-nesting

of a Sunday morning; and a capital thing too--ask any farmer; and very

pretty it was to see the strings o’ heggs hanging up in poor people’s

houses. You’ll not see ’em nowhere now.’

‘Pooh!’ said Mr. Luke Byles, who piqued himself on his reading, and was

in the habit of asking casual acquaintances if they knew anything of

Hobbes; ‘it is right enough that the lower orders should be instructed.

But this sectarianism within the Church ought to be put down. In point of

fact, these Evangelicals are not Churchmen at all; they’re no better than

Presbyterians.’

‘Presbyterians? what are they?’ inquired Mr. Tomlinson, who often said

his father had given him ‘no eddication, and he didn’t care who knowed

it; he could buy up most o’ th’ eddicated men he’d ever come across.’

‘The Presbyterians,’ said Mr. Dempster, in rather a louder tone than

before, holding that every appeal for information must naturally be

addressed to him, ‘are a sect founded in the reign of Charles I., by a

man named John Presbyter, who hatched all the brood of Dissenting vermin

that crawl about in dirty alleys, and circumvent the lord of the manor in

order to get a few yards of ground for their pigeon-house conventicles.’

‘No, no, Dempster,’ said Mr. Luke Byles, ‘you’re out there.

Presbyterianism is derived from the word presbyter, meaning an elder.’

‘Don’t contradict _me_, sir!’ stormed Dempster. ‘I say the word

presbyterian is derived from John Presbyter, a miserable fanatic who wore

a suit of leather, and went about from town to village, and from village

to hamlet, inoculating the vulgar with the asinine virus of dissent.’

‘Come, Byles, that seems a deal more likely,’ said Mr. Tomlinson, in a

conciliatory tone, apparently of opinion that history was a process of

ingenious guessing.

‘It’s not a question of likelihood; it’s a known fact. I could fetch you

my Encyclopædia, and show it you this moment.’

‘I don’t care a straw, sir, either for you or your Encyclopædia,’ said

Mr. Dempster; ‘a farrago of false information, of which you picked up an

imperfect copy in a cargo of waste paper. Will you tell _me_, sir, that I

don’t know the origin of Presbyterianism? I, sir, a man known through the

county, intrusted with the affairs of half a score parishes; while you,

sir, are ignored by the very fleas that infest the miserable alley in

which you were bred.’

A loud and general laugh, with ‘You’d better let him alone Byles’;

‘You’ll not get the better of Dempster in a hurry’, drowned the retort of

the too well-informed Mr. Byles, who, white with rage, rose and walked

out of the bar.

‘A meddlesome, upstart, Jacobinical fellow, gentlemen’, continued Mr.

Dempster. ‘I was determined to be rid of him. What does he mean by

thrusting himself into our company? A man with about as much principle as

he has property, which, to my knowledge, is considerably less than none.

An insolvent atheist, gentlemen. A deistical prater, fit to sit in the

chimney-corner of a pot-house, and make blasphemous comments on the one

greasy newspaper fingered by beer-swilling tinkers. I will not suffer in

my company a man who speaks lightly of religion. The signature of a

fellow like Byles would be a blot on our protest.’

‘And how do you get on with your signatures?’ said Mr. Pilgrim, the

doctor, who had presented his large top-booted person within the bar

while Mr. Dempster was speaking. Mr. Pilgrim had just returned from one

of his long day’s rounds among the farm-houses, in the course of which he

had sat down to two hearty meals that might have been mistaken for

dinners if he had not declared them to be ‘snaps’; and as each snap had

been followed by a few glasses of ‘mixture’; containing a less liberal

proportion of water than the articles he himself labelled with that

broadly generic name, he was in that condition which his groom indicated

with poetic ambiguity by saying that ‘master had been in the sunshine’.

Under these circumstances, after a hard day, in which he had really had

no regular meal, it seemed a natural relaxation to step into the bar of

the Red Lion, where, as it was Saturday evening, he should be sure to

find Dempster, and hear the latest news about the protest against the

evening lecture.

‘Have you hooked Ben Landor yet?’ he continued, as he took two chairs,

one for his body, and the other for his right leg.

‘No,’ said Mr. Budd, the churchwarden, shaking his head; ‘Ben Landor has

a way of keeping himself neutral in everything, and he doesn’t like to

oppose his father. Old Landor is a regular Tryanite. But we haven’t got

your name yet, Pilgrim.’

‘Tut tut, Budd,’ said Mr. Dempster, sarcastically, ‘you don’t expect

Pilgrim to sign? He’s got a dozen Tryanite livers under his treatment.

Nothing like cant and methodism for producing a superfluity of bile.’

‘O, I thought, as Pratt had declared himself a Tryanite, we should be

sure to get Pilgrim on our side.’

Mr. Pilgrim was not a man to sit quiet under a sarcasm, nature having

endowed him with a considerable share of self-defensive wit. In his most

sober moments he had an impediment in his speech, and as copious

gin-and-water stimulated not the speech but the impediment, he had time

to make his retort sufficiently bitter.

‘Why, to tell you the truth, Budd,’ he spluttered, ‘there’s a report all

over the town that Deb Traunter swears you shall take her with you as one

of the delegates, and they say there’s to be a fine crowd at your door

the morning you start, to see the row. Knowing your tenderness for that

member of the fair sex, I thought you might find it impossible to deny

her. I hang back a little from signing on that account, as Prendergast

might not take the protest well if Deb Traunter went with you.’

Mr. Budd was a small, sleek-headed bachelor of five-and-forty, whose

scandalous life had long furnished his more moral neighbours with an

after-dinner joke. He had no other striking characteristic, except that

he was a currier of choleric temperament, so that you might wonder why he

had been chosen as clergyman’s churchwarden, if I did not tell you that

he had recently been elected through Mr. Dempster’s exertions, in order

that his zeal against the threatened evening lecture might be backed by

the dignity of office.

‘Come, come, Pilgrim,’ said Mr. Tomlinson, covering Mr. Budd’s retreat,

‘you know you like to wear the crier’s coat, green o’ one side and red

o’ the other. You’ve been to hear Tryan preach at Paddiford Common--you

know you have.’

‘To be sure I have; and a capital sermon too. It’s a pity you were not

there. It was addressed to those “void of understanding.”’

‘No, no, you’ll never catch me there,’ returned Mr. Tomlinson, not in the

least stung: ‘he preaches without book, they say, just like a Dissenter.

It must be a rambling sort of a concern.’

‘That’s not the worst,’ said Mr. Dempster; ‘he preaches against good

works; says good works are not necessary to salvation--a sectarian,

antinomian, anabaptist doctrine. Tell a man he is not to be saved by his

works, and you open the flood-gates of all immorality. You see it in all

these canting innovators; they’re all bad ones by the sly; smooth-faced,

drawling, hypocritical fellows, who pretend ginger isn’t hot in their

mouths, and cry down all innocent pleasures; their hearts are all the

blacker for their sanctimonious outsides. Haven’t we been warned against

those who make clean the outside of the cup and the platter? There’s this

Tryan, now, he goes about praying with old women, and singing with

charity children; but what has he really got his eye on all the while? A

domineering ambitious Jesuit, gentlemen; all he wants is to get his foot

far enough into the parish to step into Crewe’s shoes when the old

gentleman dies. Depend upon it, whenever you see a man pretending to be

better than his neighbours, that man has either some cunning end to

serve, or his heart is rotten with spiritual pride.’

As if to guarantee himself against this awful sin, Mr. Dempster seized

his glass of brandy-and-water, and tossed off the contents with even

greater rapidity than usual.

‘Have you fixed on your third delegate yet?’ said Mr. Pilgrim, whose

taste was for detail rather than for dissertation.

‘That’s the man,’ answered Dempster, pointing to Mr. Tomlinson. ‘We start

for Elmstoke Rectory on Tuesday morning; so, if you mean to give us your

signature, you must make up your mind pretty quickly, Pilgrim.’

Mr. Pilgrim did not in the least mean it, so he only said, ‘I shouldn’t

wonder if Tryan turns out too many for you, after all. He’s got a

well-oiled tongue of his own, and has perhaps talked over Prendergast

into a determination to stand by him.’

‘Ve-ry little fear of that,’ said Dempster, in a confident tone.

‘I’ll soon bring him round. Tryan has got his match. I’ve plenty of rods

in pickle for Tryan.’

At this moment Boots entered the bar, and put a letter into the lawyer’s

hands, saying, ‘There’s Trower’s man just come into the yard wi’ a gig,

sir, an’ he’s brought this here letter.’

Mr. Dempster read the letter and said, ‘Tell him to turn the gig--I’ll

be with him in a minute. Here, run to Gruby’s and get this snuff-box

filled--quick!’

‘Trower’s worse, I suppose; eh, Dempster? Wants you to alter his will,

eh?’ said Mr. Pilgrim.

‘Business--business--business--I don’t know exactly what,’ answered the

cautious Dempster, rising deliberately from his chair, thrusting on his

low-crowned hat, and walking with a slow but not unsteady step out of the

bar.

‘I never see Dempster’s equal; if I did I’ll be shot,’ said Mr.

Tomlinson, looking after the lawyer admiringly. ‘Why, he’s drunk the best

part of a bottle o’ brandy since here we’ve been sitting, and I’ll bet a

guinea, when he’s got to Trower’s his head’ll be as clear as mine. He

knows more about law when he’s drunk than all the rest on ’em when

they’re sober.’

‘Ay, and other things too, besides law,’ said Mr. Budd. ‘Did you notice

how he took up Byles about the Presbyterians? Bless your heart, he knows

everything, Dempster does. He studied very hard when he was a young man.’