The lake was dragged that night, and all the following day, in spite of
the gamekeeper's strong remonstrance for the sake of the tender
pintails. But nothing whatever was found, except the Italian cap. The
"Witches' grave," invisible I am glad to say from the house, is more
than forty feet deep, when the water is at its lowest. Three or four
years afterwards young William Hiatt caught a monstrous pike in the
lake, and sent him, with our permission, to be stuffed at Gloucester.
Like the famous fish of Samos, this pike had swallowed a ring, which was
sent to Conrad by the Gloucester gun-maker. It was Lepardo's seal-ring,
the cross of the family engraved on a bloodstone, with L.D.C. below it.
Whether the midnight stabber died by the blow of an English fist, or
suffered vivisection through a dog's vendetta--an institution more
excusable and dignified than man's--is known to Him, and Him alone, who
holds the scales of retribution, and laughs in scorn as well as wrath at
our attempts to swing them. For are we not therein ourselves; and how
shall the best and strongest of us carry the thing he is carried in?
Right glad I am, and ever shall be, that I moved not in the awful scene,
which closed my father's tragedy.
Through Conrad's skill and presence of mind, the dear farmer's life was
saved. We sent to Gloucester immediately for the cleverest surgeon
there; and he owned that he could not have fixed the ligatures better,
though he did what Conny durst not attempt, he extracted the murderer's
bullet. It was the first shot that did all the mischief, being aimed
deliberately at the large and tender heart. Thanks to the waving of the
willow-tree, for Lepardo was a known marksman, it had missed by about
two inches. The second shot, fired quite close and wildly, had grooved
the left temple, and stricken the farmer senseless.
For six weeks now our dear friend, whose patience amazed all but me, was
kept from his Devonshire home. To London I sent at once for the two
children and Mr. Dawe, and would have sent to Devon as well, for kind
and good Mrs. Huxtable, but her husband would not hear of it. By Ann
Maples, who had left Lady Cranberry "shockingly," on hearing from Mrs.
Fletcher that I would take her again, he sent to his wife "kind love and
best duty, and for goodness' sake, stop at home now. No call to make a
fule of yourself, and the farm go to rack and ruin. There be fuss
enough 'bout I already, and never I brag no more, when a pill like
thiccy upsot me. But Miss Clara, God bless her bootiful eyes, she nurse
me, just as if she wor my own darter, with the apron on as you give her.
And you should see the kitchen, Honor, you loves a kitchen so; they be a
bilin and roastin arl day, and they be vorced to swape the chimbley
three times in a vortnight"--the rest of this glorious message, about
three pages long, I am "vorced" to suppress; I only hope Ann Maples
remembered a quarter of it.
But his wonderful Miss Clara did not nurse him long. Hearing from the
surgeon that all the danger was over by the end of the following
week--so strong was the constitution--Conrad, Lily, and I set sail for
Corsica on our melancholy errand. In that letter, which seemed to come
to me from the grave, my poor Uncle after expressing his joy and deep
gratitude at so happy a close to his life, continued thus:--
"Yes, my dear child, the close of my wasted and weary life. You may be
surprised and perplexed at what I am about to tell you; but you are not
one of those low-minded ones, who condemn as superstition all beyond
their philosophy. The very night after you brought me my new Lily, a
sweet thing just like her mother, I lay for some hours awake, broad
awake as I am now. I was thinking of my two Lilies, the lovely and
loving creatures. I was not in the least excited, but calm, reflective,
and happy. Soon after the clock struck two, at the time when our life
burns lowest, I heard a soft voice, sweet as the music of heaven, call
me by name three times. Of course I knew whose it was: too often that
voice had murmured upon my bosom, for me not to know it now. Not
rashly, but with a mind long since resolved, I answered: 'Sweetest
mine'--her own artless and young endearment--'Sweetest mine, no longer
will I keep you lonely.' No answer came in words; but the light, the
golden light of my own love's smile, as I had seen it in Corsica, when
she came from the grave to comfort me. And now, as after that visit, I
fell into deep and perfect rest, such rest as comes but rarely until the
sleep of all. No wonder you and Lily thought me so strong next day. In
the morning I knew and rejoiced in my quick departure. This cold
obstruction was to be cast aside, this palsied frame to release the
winged soul. On the third day I was to find and dwell with my Lily for
ever. So on the first day I enjoyed the harmless pleasures of life, and
could not bear you to leave me, because that would have turned them to
pain. The second day I got through all the business that still
remained, refreshing its dryness often with my sweet child's society.
On this, the third, I write to you, and am, through the grace of God, as
calm and content, nay more content than if I were going to bed.
"Beloved daughters both, and my dear son as well, I implore you not to
grieve painfully for me. Too well I know the weight of excessive
sorrow, and how it oppresses the lost one, even more than the loser.
Since the parting is so brief, the reunion so eternal, why make the
interval long and dreary by counting every footstep?
Alas, it is easy to talk and think so, but very hard to feel it. Time
demands his walk with sorrow, and will not have his arm dispensed with.
Then think of my happiness, darlings, and how your own will increase it.
Only one more request, which after Ciceronian sentiments--which Cicero
could not practise--you are all too young not to wonder at. If you, my
three children, can manage it, without any heavy expense, or much
trouble to yourselves, it is my last wish as regards the body, that it
should lie by the side of my wife's. The name of the little church, St.
Katharine's on the Cliff, can scarcely have escaped my Clara's excellent
memory. Lily lies beside her father, in the right-hand corner towards
the sea. Each of them has a cross of the Signor's alabaster, made from
my own design. Lily's is enough for me: put my name with hers."
Not only did we look upon his last fond wish as sacred, but we
accomplished it in the manner that was likely to please him most. We
put his own "Lilyflower," the little love-boat as they called it, into
commission again, engaged a good captain and crew, and taking old Cora
with us, set sail from Gloucester for the Mediterranean. Poor Cora was
now all devotion to Conrad and Lily, ever since she had found that they
were lawful blood and direct heirs of the Della Croce. The more recent
part of the family story she had known only from her master's version,
and had set little store by the children as bearing the stamp of
disgrace; though she could not help loving sweet Lily. Now, by her
evidence, coupled with my dear Uncle's deposition, his relics, and
documents, and my own testimony, confirmed by Balaam and Balak, we
established very easily the birth and the claims of my Uncle Edgar's
children; and the old Count Gaffori, most venerable of signors, would
have kept us a month at least to go through all his accounts. He was
entreated to retain his position as the guardian of our Lily.
So far as our recent sorrow permitted enjoyment of scenery, we were all
enchanted with the Balagna. At the funeral of "Signor Valentine," whose
name was still remembered and loved, nearly all the commune was present;
and many a dignified matron shed tears, who had smiled as a graceful
girl, and strown flowers, at his wedding. They were burning with
curiosity to see our beautiful Lily, for the tender tale had moved them,
as Southern natures are moved; and many of them had loved and gloried in
her mother.
But in spite of all this desire, not a prying glance fell on her, as she
bowed in the hooded robe, and wept to the mournful vocero. Foremost of
all stood old Petro and Marcantonia, who had found out and kissed with
sobs of delight their beloved master's daughter. For my part, I loved
the Corsicans; there is something so noble and simple about the men, so
graceful, warm-hearted, and lady-like in the women; and in a very short
time I could understand more than half they said. The black Vendetta,
they told me, was dying out among them, and in a few years would be but
a wonder of the past. God in His mercy grant it.
There must have been something surely in my Uncle Edgar's nature, which
won the Southern hearts, as my father won British affections. Such
things I cannot explain, or account for. I only know and feel them.
We were all back at Vaughan St. Mary before the end of August, and found
the farmer, the two chillers, and Beany Dawe as happy as if they were
born and reared there. Old Cora was left at Veduta Tower; and having
obtained Mr. Dawe's permission I presented her once and for all with the
whole treasure of the gordit. She intends, however, to bequeath it to me
in her will. Soon afterwards Conrad gave her a more substantial
blessing; for he sold the things left in Lucas Street, under letters of
administration, as being the next of kin. All the proceeds he handed
over to Cora, except one-tenth, which he presented to the Society for
the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. As many of the specimens,
iguanodon, and other monsters, fetched prices as hard to explain away as
themselves, poor Cora was amply provided for: all which of course she
attributed to the holy Madonna's heart. And now at last I understood
how 19, Grove Street had become No. 37, Lucas Street. The change of
number I have already explained; the change of name was on this
wise:--The builder, a rising man, who had bought the old part of the
street, and built thereto the new one, had a son, a fine undergraduate,
better skilled in the boats than in the books of Oxford. Reading hard
one day, after his third pluck, this young man discovered that lucus was
the Latin for grove. He smote his hand on his forehead, and a great
idea presented itself. Had there not been both nymphs and philosophers
of the grove? The street that was his inheritance should be
distinguished by nomenclature from the thousand groves of London,
wherein the nightingale pipeth not, neither--but I am getting poetical,
and don't understand the Gradus. Enough, that he wrote at once and
earnestly to his father, forgetting the vivid description, which was now
growing stale, of his pluck--a result secured, as the Winchester
gentlemen tell me, by learning too solid to carry--but begging that his
Oxford career might at least be commemorated in and by the street that
paid his bills there. "Lucus" he wrote plainly enough, and in very
large letters, but the father read it "Lucks." No, said the mother, she
was sure Alexander never meant such a low thing as that, it was "Lucas"
of course; why the Lucases were her own cousins, and Rosa such a nice
girl, she saw how it was, that she did, and Alexander might have done
worse. And so it was painted most bravely "Lucas Street," and the
builder wasn't going to make a fool of himself, when Alexander
protested.
When John Huxtable set off for home, just in time to see to his harvest,
which is always late round Exmoor, I kissed him--ay, Conny, you saw
it--and thrust, during his amazement, something far down into his mighty
pocket, which something he was not upon any account to look at until he
got home. It was a deed, prepared by our solicitors, presenting him
with the fee simple of Tossil's Barton farm. True, I was not of age,
but I signed it as if I had been, and Conny and I again signed it, when
we paid our first visit there. Perhaps, in strict law, it binds not my
interest even now; but if ever any one claiming "by, from, through,
under, or in trust for" me, forgets the Vaughan honour and dares to
dream of that farm, I'll be at him as sure as a ghost; and I trust
before that time comes, the farmer will have sound title by immemorial
years of possession. He is now a prosperous man; and has never found it
necessary to give up his beer, as he threatened Young John, who is just
like his father, cleaves fast to Tabby Badcock, now a blooming maiden;
but my Sally has more than balanced that imminent loss of caste, by
fixing the eyes and transfixing the heart of George Tamlin, the son of
our principal tenant, and himself of Devonshire origin. The young lady
comes to and fro every six weeks, and is to be married from our house,
when her father considers her "zober enough." Beany Dawe, who does not
like work, still lives at Tossil's Barton, and is in receipt of a
pension of sixpence a day from Government, as a bard at last
appreciated.
As for me, Clara Vaughan, on the very day after that which released me
from my teens (counting forward, as we do, till we count receding
years), to wit on the 31st of December, 1851, I did not change my name,
but wrote it in the old church register, half an inch below a better and
firmer hand. There was no fuss or frippery; no four clergymen and ten
bridesmaids simpering at one another. Our good vicar represented the
one class, dear Lily and Annie Franks the other. My godfather, newly
disclosed for the purpose, gave me away very gracefully, and young Peter
Green helped Conrad. Lily Vaughan looked so exquisite, so deliciously
lovely, that nobody in the whole world--Now Conny, hold your tongue, I
never fish for compliments, don't degrade yourself so for a kiss, of
course I know all my perfections, but how can I care about them, when
you say they belong to you?--Lily Vaughan, I say once more, was such a
sunrise of loveliness, that young Peter Green, just new from his Oxford
honours, collapsed, and fell over the railings, and wedged his head in
the "piscina," or whatever those nice young gentlemen, who see the duty
of wearing strait waistcoats, are pleased to denominate it.
Ah, Little Distaff Lane, most unconnubial title, ah firm of Green,
Vowler, and Green, your Hercules holds the distaff, and holds it, alas,
in his heart! From that shock he never recovered, until we had at
Vaughan Park a really merry wedding; and I, ah me, I could not dance
just then, but I showered roses upon them, for the shadow of death was
past. Old Mr. Green,--nay, nay, not fifty yet, by our Lady,--Mr. Peter
Green the elder, came down here for the occasion, and I hardly ever took
such a fancy to any man before. He seemed to know almost everything,
not by the skin, as Dr. Ross seemed to hold things, but by the marrow
and fibrine of their alimentary part. And withal such a perfect
gentleman: he kept in the horns of his knowledge, instead of exalting
them, and making us wish for hay on them, while tossed in headlong
ignorance.
Scant as I am of space, I must tell how he behaved, when his son
revealed his attachment.
"Is it a lady, Peter?" "I should rather think she is, father." "Do you
love her with all your heart?" "Of course I do, every bit. I am tough,
but I know I shall die, unless--" "That will do, my son. You have my
full consent, and your mother's is sure to follow. Most likely you got
it beforehand. You young fellows are so deep. Let me kiss your
forehead, my boy, although I am not dramatic."
Having behaved so nobly, for this boy was his only hope, he deserved to
find, as he did, that if he had searched the world he could not have hit
upon any other so desirable for his son, as the daughter of his old
friend. The only mistake he has made is that he so adores her, he
cannot bear her to be in Corsica; though the trade they conduct is worth
at least fifty thousand a year. When Lily fell in love, I told her that
it was because she had an eye for the olives; and olives enough the
darling has, I trow, and olive branches too. The eldest is called Clara.
"Clara Green!" I don't like the sound altogether; but the substance is
something beautiful, and the freshest of all Spring verdure.
Nevertheless, my Clara is an inch larger round the calf, and I think her
eyelashes are longer. Her hair weighs more, that is certain. We
compare them very often; for they live only half the year at Veduta
Tower. In the summer heats they are here, and the children between
them, my own every bit as bad, leave dear Annie Elton (Annie Franks of
old), uncommonly few British Queens. It is all Mr. Shelfer's fault.
What is the use of a gardener, if he allows dessert all the day long?
Every autumn we go to Corsica to help at the olive harvest, and rarely
we enjoy it. The Old Veduta Tower is like a nest in the ivy, chirruping
with young voices; and the happy sleep of the two who loved so well is
dreaming, if dream it can or care to do, of the fairest flowers in
Europe, scattered there by little soft hands. Conny is wild every time
about the Rogliano and Luri; and if Peter Green listens to him--which
every one does, except me--he will introduce, very slowly of course,
those fine-bodied yet aerial wines to the noble British public, that
loves not even intoxication, unless it be adulterated.
Oh, queer Mrs. Shelfer, oh Balaam and Balak, shall I pretermit your
annals? The two Sheriff's officers, having secured their reward, set up
therewith a public-house called the "Posse-Comitatus," which soon became
the head quarters of all who are agents or patients in the machinery of
levying. As at such times all people drink and pay more than double,
the public-house has already a Queensbench-ful of good-will.
Poor Mrs. Shelfer and Charley did not invest the 325*l.* altogether
judiciously: at least, it went mainly to purchase "eternal gratitude,"
whose time does not begin to run till the purchaser's is over. But
Patty, I am glad to say, has still that 30*l.* a year of her own, left
to her in the funds by good and grateful Miss Minto. "Can't touch it, my
good friend, not the Queen, the Lord Mayor, and all the royal family.
Government give their bond for it, on parchment made of their skins, and
the ink come out of their gall." Be this as it may, what is much more
to the purpose is that Mr. Shelfer cannot touch it. And now I have
pride in announcing, for I never expected such glory, that all the cats
and birds, squirrels, mice, and monkeys, live, like the happy family, in
our northern lodge, where Patty is most useful and happy as the Queen of
the poultry. In a word, they keep the gate, not of their enemies, but
of old and grateful friends. I expected to see at least a leading
article in the "Times," when Mr. Shelfer left the metropolis; but they
let him go very easily for the sake of the discount market. They gave
him only two-and-twenty dinners; but when he first came to Vaughan Park,
how he wanted country air! Now he attends to the wall-trees, and the
avenue, and I hope finds harmony there. At any rate, he never breaks it
by any undue exertion. Nevertheless, his very long pipe is of some
account with the green fly, which has been very bad on our peaches, ever
since they repealed the corn laws. Mr. Shelfer, accordingly, is
compelled to spend half his time in smoking them. "Wonderful nice they
do taste, Miss Clara; you'd be quite surprised, you know. Wonderful
good, Miss, and werry high-flavoured you know, when they begins to fry."
"Come, come, Mr. Shelfer, I fear you cultivate them for their flavour.
There are ten times as many of them, I see, as of peaches on the trees.
And you charge me every week five shillings for tobacco."
"To be sure, Miss Clara. Shows a fine constitooshun, you know. And
dreadful hard work it is to have to smoke so much, you know. And then
the sun will come on the wall, and only a quart of beer allowed all the
afternoon. And sometimes they makes me go for it myself, you know!
Indeed they does, Miss, they has such cheek here in Gloucestershire!"
Patty brought all her sticks of course, in spite of the twenty-five
bills of sale, which by this time had grown upon them. One whole
roomful was packed in the duplicate inventories. The law on this
subject she contemplated from a peculiar point of view.
"Lor, Miss, I never grudges 'em. They do cost a bit at the time; but
see how safe they makes them. If it wasn't for them I should be
frightened out of my wits of thieves, down here where the trees and all
the green grocery is, worse than the Regency Park. Bless me, I never
should have gone out of doors, Miss, if you hadn't pulled me. And to
see the flowers here all a-growing with their heads up as bootiful as a
bonnet. Pray, my good friend, is that what they was made for, if I may
be so bold?"
"No, Patty, not for bonnets. They were made for the bees and the
butterflies, and for us to enjoy them, while they enjoy themselves."
"Well, I never. Pray, Miss, did I tell you Uncle John's come home, and
they only ate a piece of his shoulder for they found his belt was
tenderer; and he put the glazing on it the same as they wears on their
hats, and three cork pins to hold it, and he find it werry convenient,
it save so much rheumatism: and he'll be here next week to convict the
man that made his wife swallow the tea-pot. Dear, dear, what things
they does do in the country. Not a bit like Christians. And so, Miss
Clara, the old man won't drop off after all; and Uncle John a-coming,
how nice it would have been."
The old man was poor Whitehead, whose lodge Mrs. Shelfer coveted, as it
was larger and livelier than her own.
"No, Mrs. Shelfer, I think he will get over it. Surely you would not
wish to hurry him."
"To be sure, my good friend; no, no: let him have his time, I say. But
he would have had it long ago, if he had any reason in him. What good
can he do now, holding on with his eyebrows? Please God to let him go
in peace; and so much happier for us all."
When Uncle John appeared, he scolded me for my want of intelligence on
the night when I was blinded. Of the four men in that room, the one whom
I had noticed least was the very one whom he had meant me especially to
observe. At least, so he said; but I fully believed, and did not
scruple to tell him, that he had discovered little beyond the
information and description given at the time by Mr. Edgar Vaughan.
These he had disinterred from the archives of Bow Street and Whitehall,
and was then trying to apply them. However, I forgave him freely;
inasmuch as, but for my blindness, even blind love would have known me
as an objectionable being.
And now I come to a real grievance. When there is another Miss
Clara--such a beauty! I can't tell you--and a little Harry, for whose
sake this tale is told--why will every one on these premises, even the
under-gardener's boy, persist in calling me "Miss Clara?" It makes me
stamp sometimes, and such a bad example that is for my children. Dear
me, if either of my ducklings were to carry on as I did at their age, I
would cut down immediately the largest birch-tree on the property, and
order a hogshead of salt. But, to return to that contumely--is it to be
suspected that I was more forcible and pronounced, in the days of my
trial and misery, than now when I am the happiest of all the young
mothers of England? "Come, Conny, tell the truth now, don't I keep you
in order?"
"My own delight, I should think you did. I am nearly as much afraid of
you as I am of little Clary. Clary ride on Judy now, and Harry on pup
Sampiero, and come and see papa go chip, chip, chip?"
"No, Clary stop and see mamma go scratch, scratch, scratch, like Cooky
at the pie-crust. Clary love mamma to-day, and papa to-morrow."
And the lovely dear jumps on the stool, to pull the top of my pen.
Harry pops out from under the table, and prepares himself for onset. My
husband comes and lifts my hair, and throws his arm around me. It is
all up now with writing.
"Darlings, I love all three of you, to-day, to-morrow, and for ever.
Only don't pull me to pieces."
THE END.
LONDON:
R. CLAY, SON, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS,
BREAD STREET HILL.
* * * * *
WORKS BY THE REV. CHARLES KINGSLEY.
CHAPLAIN IN ORDINARY TO THE QUEEN; RECTOR OF EVERSLEY;
AND PROFESSOR OF MODERN HISTORY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE.
THE WATER BABIES:
A FAIRY TALE FOR A LAND BABY.
With Two Illustrations by J. NOEL PATON, R.S.A. Small 4to. 7s. 6d.
WESTWARD HO!
New and Cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo. cloth, 6s.
TWO YEARS AGO.
New and Cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo. cloth, 6s.
HYPATIA:
OR, NEW FOES WITH AN OLD FACE.
Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. cloth, 6s.
ALTON LOCKE, TAILOR AND POET.
New Edition. Crown 8vo. cloth, 4s. 6d. With New Preface.
THE HEROES.
GREEK FAIRY TALES FOR THE YOUNG.
Second Edition, with Illustrations. Royal 16mo. cloth, 3s. 6d.
ALEXANDRIA AND HER SCHOOLS.
Crown 8vo. cloth, 5s.
THE LIMITS OF EXACT SCIENCE
AS APPLIED TO HISTORY.
AN INAUGURAL LECTURE DELIVERED BEFORE THE UNIVERSITY OF
CAMBRIDGE. Crown 8vo. 2s.
PHAETHON.
LOOSE THOUGHTS FOR LOOSE THINKERS.
Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 2s.
POPULAR WORKS.
Third Edition.
AUSTIN ELLIOT.
By HENRY KINGSLEY.
2 Vols. Crown 8vo. cloth. 1*l.* 1s.
"Mr. Henry Kingsley's novels have so much fulness of life in them, such
a strong, bounding pulse, that there are few books of the kind
pleasanter to read."--_Spectator_.
Second Edition.
RAVENSHOE.
By HENRY KINGSLEY.
3 Vols. Crown 8vo. cloth. 1*l.* 11s. 6d.
"Admirable descriptions, which place 'Ravenshoe' almost in the first
rank of novels. Of the story itself it would really be difficult to
speak too highly. The author seems to possess every essential for a
writer of fiction."--_London Review_.
Second Edition.
RECOLLECTIONS OF GEOFFRY HAMLYN.
By HENRY KINGSLEY.
Crown 8vo. cloth. 6s.
"Mr. Henry Kingsley has written a work that keeps up its interest from
the first page to the last--it is full of vigorous stirring life. The
descriptions of Australian life in the early colonial days are marked by
an unmistakable touch of reality and personal experience. A book which
the public will be more inclined to read than to criticise, and we
commend them to each other."--_Athenaeum_.
Second Edition.
TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.
3 Vols. 1*l.* 11s. 6d.
"A book that will live. In no other work that we can call to mind are
the finer qualities of the English gentleman more happily
portrayed."--_Daily News_.
"The extracts we have given can give no adequate expression to the
literary vividness and noble ethical atmosphere which pervade the whole
book."--_Spectator_.
Twenty-ninth Thousand.
TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS.
By AN OLD BOY.
Fcap. 8vo. 5s.
"A book which every father might well wish to see in the hands of his
son."--_Times_.
Eighth Thousand.
SCOURING OF THE WHITE HORSE.
By the Author of "Tom Brown's School Days."
With numerous Illustrations by Richard Doyle. Imperial 16mo.
Printed on toned paper, gilt leaves, 8s. 6d.
"The execution is excellent.... Like 'Tom Brown's School Days,' the
'White Horse' gives the reader a feeling of gratitude and personal
esteem towards the author. The author could not have a better style, nor
a better temper, nor a more excellent artist than Mr. Doyle to adorn his
book."--_Saturday Review_.
MACMILLAN AND CO. LONDON AND CAMBRIDGE.