FEET OF CLAY.
It is not the fashion generally to admit the fact, and yet a great deal
of disappointment might be spared the rising generation were parents,
guardians, and others to assure them no money yields such poor interest
as that invested in philanthropic pursuits.
There may be many reasons for this besides the innate wickedness of
mankind, but one seems sufficient for the present purpose.
Taking philanthropy as a rule, we find it desires not merely to help its
fellow, but to help him in its own way; and as there is probably nothing
more difficult to do than this, when the good intended and the good
effected—when the gratitude due and the gratitude received come to be
balanced—the well-meaning benefactor generally finds himself
considerably poorer, and no one else very much the better than if he had
been content to leave well alone.
Truth is, kindly disposed persons are apt to imagine that money has the
power of conferring upon them the position of a sort of minor
Providence; and then, when the events they have influenced, and the
changes they have wrought, turn out to have worked together for anything
rather than good, they are inclined to become misanthropical.
Few men who benefit their fellows have the slightest idea of leaving
them free-will; and when free-will rises and asserts itself,
philanthropy is very naturally disgusted at such a display of
ingratitude.
Perhaps when those who give and those who help, give and help merely
because it is right to do both, and not because they expect thanks or
return, doing good may prove a more useful and pleasant pursuit than is
generally the case at present.
No idea of exorbitant interest in the shape of either thanks or
gratitude had influenced Grace Moffat in any of the efforts she made to
ameliorate the condition of the men and women by whom she was
surrounded; nevertheless, it was scarcely in human nature to avoid
feeling a sort of sick disappointment when she came calmly to review the
incidents of her visit to the Castle Farm.
With all her heart she desired to set matters straight for Amos Scott;
but the longer she thought, the more difficult the task appeared.
She had little hope that Mr. Brady would relinquish his claim. She could
not see in what way either Mr. Dillwyn or Mr. Somerford might help her
in the affair. In any event she was not sufficiently strong-minded to
apply to one of the three, without first taking some friend into her
confidence, and friends likely to take the slightest interest in the
farmer’s concerns had passed beyond Grace’s reach. She had her father,
however, and although his views on all such subjects were well known to
her, she determined to consult him.
For love of any abstract principle of right, or any general affection
for his fellow-creatures, she was perfectly aware he would not lift a
finger; for love of her, however, he might be moved to exertion; at any
rate, she would try.
She chose the best hour in the day for her attack—that when the cloth
was removed, and the dessert reflected itself from the face of a shining
mahogany table—when the door was closed, and the servant gone, and the
wine placed near the elbow of Mr. Moffat’s chair.
A bright fire blazed on the hearth; no sound broke the stillness, save
an occasional gust of wind blowing amongst the trees. Mr. Moffat liked
the fire, and the perfect sense of solitude. He sat looking into the
blaze for a few minutes, and then, turning to his daughter, remarked,—
“You are very quiet this evening, Grace; are you not well?”
“Yes,” she replied, “but I am troubled and vexed and perplexed. I want
to consult you, papa; may I?”
“Certainly, my dear, having already, no doubt, made up your mind whether
you mean to say yes or no.”
She smiled and coloured. “I think I have come to an end of my suitors,”
she answered. “It is quite six months since any one made love to my
fortune. I am not in a perplexity of that kind, but I am greatly
troubled about poor Amos Scott.”
“What is wrong with him now?”
“Lady Jane Somerford is dead, and the land consequently belongs to Mr.
Brady.”
“Well?” Mr. Moffat’s tone was not encouraging. Truth is, feeling a
certain amount of self-reproach at not having interested himself in the
smallest degree about Mr. Scott’s affairs when that interest might have
proved beneficial, he would now have preferred ignoring the subject
altogether.
Nevertheless, when Grace remained silent, he repeated his inquiring
“Well?” with a slight access of irritability.
“Dear papa,” she said gravely, “if it vexes you to hear me talk of these
things, say so, and I will be silent, only—only—if I may not come to you
for advice in my trouble and perplexity, where can I go?”
He stretched out his hand, and drew her towards him. “Gracie darling,
talk away, and I will help and advise you if I can; but I am old, and
you are young; and young people think it an easy matter to put the world
right, and we old people know it cannot be done. That is all. If you
will make allowance for me, I will for you. Now say on.”
“Amos does not want to leave his farm,” she began, after kissing him.
“Naturally—no Irishman ever did,” was Mr. Moffat’s comment on this
announcement.
“Do you think there is any chance of his being able to remain?”
“Not the slightest; Brady has law on his side, and he is not the man to
forego his rights—at least, so I am assured. Of the man I myself know
nothing, and want to know nothing.”
“But do you not think, if it was made worth his while to forego them, he
might do so?” she asked.
“Meaning, I suppose—do I not think, if soft-hearted Grace Moffat liked
to make herself by some hundreds of pounds a poorer woman than she is
to-night, would Mr. Brady give up the Castle Farm? No, my dear, I do
not; Mr. Brady has, as I understand, many undesirable qualities. Amongst
others he is intensely Irish—using that expression in its most
disparaging sense. I do not mean that he is Irish in impulsiveness,
recklessness, generosity or folly; but he is Irish in cunning, in
hatred, in revenge, in acquisitiveness, in every undesirable quality the
worst classes in Ireland hold in common. He has been waiting for this
land for years; grudging Scott his possession, and yet gloating over
every stone the poor wretch laid, one on the top of another, for his
(Brady’s) benefit. You may give up the notion, Grace; money will not
give Scott back the Castle Farm.”
“Do you not think the Glendares might?”
“You can try, Gracie.” Mr. Moffat said this very drily.
“I mean do you not think Mr. Brady might be susceptible to the influence
of rank?”
“I do not exactly see how rank is to use its influence,” was the reply;
“and, if I did, I believe Mr. Brady would talk rank over.”
“You have not much opinion of the Glendare strength of character,” she
said, as though in jest.
“Perhaps I have not much opinion of any part of the Glendare character,”
he answered bitterly. “However, that is a question we need not discuss
to-night. If I understand you rightly, you thought, perhaps, some member
of that family might exert his or her influence over Mr. Brady. Suppose
the experiment worth trying—who is to try it? Not the young earl, who is
dying, no doubt, with a rapidity commendable in the eyes of the next
heir, who, in his old age, it is said is seriously considering
matrimony; not that next heir, who, whether earl or not, will never
consider any human being except himself; not Lady Glendare, whose star
has waned; not Mr. Robert Somerford—”
“Why not?” Grace inquired.
“Well, I am sure I can scarcely say why,” returned her father. “Try him,
my dear; ask him to use his influence; perhaps he might, if he has any.
Perhaps Mr. Brady might be influenced by him. Mr. Somerford has received
a certain amount of kindness from us during the last seven years;
perhaps he would not object to do us a trifling kindness in return. It
is all problematical, Grace. I have not much faith in its satisfactory
solution, but you can try.”
There was a pause, during which Grace sat with her cheek resting on her
hand, her thoughts straying over many subjects, and not one pleasant
subject amongst the number.
“Is there not such a thing as equity?” she inquired at length.
“Do you mean in law or in public opinion?” asked her father.
“In law.”
“There is a thing called equity.”
“Would it not help Amos?”
“Most decidedly not. Nothing can help him. No person can help him unless
he like to help himself.”
“How can he do that?”
“He made a mistake once by acting on his impulses; he had better not
make a second by following his impulses again. He has had a long, long
term of his farm, but now he will have to leave it, and he ought to
leave it peaceably. He cannot fight with the least chance of winning. If
the dead earl came back to life, he could not remedy the wrong wrought
by his carelessness. Scott might establish a claim against him, if the
fact of ever having received money could be recalled to the memory of a
Glendare; but money is not what Scott wants; he wants his farm, and all
the king’s horses and all the king’s men could not give it to him. Brady
is the only man who could, and he won’t; and the sooner Scott realizes
that fact, the better for him and all belonging to him.”
“You think his case hopeless, then?”
“Utterly—so far as his present holding is concerned. There are other
farms—”
“Yes,” she said, “but the Castle Farm is to him just what I am to you.”
For a minute after neither spoke. Involuntarily Mr. Moffat’s thoughts
sped back to that bright summer’s day when first he heard of the Earl’s
Promise, and never thought of asking a question concerning it.
If he had known then, by one sentence he might have averted the misery
now close at hand. He might have asked, “What have you got to show for
this? where is the earl’s receipt? where his promise in any shape that
shall avail you hereafter?”
He might, with his knowledge of the world and its weary, wicked ways,
have stood between this poor, hard-working, trusting son of the soil,
and ruin. It all came back to him, as past sorrows sometimes do, in a
bad dream, with their anguish fresh as at the original moment. It all
came back: what he might have done—what he had left undone. The years
returned, each one laying a reproach at his feet ere gliding away to
give place to its successor.
He saw his motherless child returning bright and happy from her visits
to the Castle Farm; he beheld the honest faces of those from whom she
had never learnt harm—nothing but good; he could recall the words in
which she recounted the day’s doings, when she went to visit the Scotts,
clearly as if it had all happened yesterday; he could see her bringing
back treasures for him to inspect, turning out her little pocket that he
might look at all she had got.
And when she was ill of some childish disorder, had not Mrs. Scott left
her own home to come and help nurse her? Through all the years, had the
love and respect and admiration they felt for his darling ever abated?
Ah! well-a-day! Oh! tiring, harassing memory!
“Grace—” he began.
“Yes, papa!” she said, waking from her reverie with a start.
“I am not a demonstrative man; I do not talk in a general way about what
I feel; but if money could enable Scott to stay where he is, money
should not be wanting.”
The truth of this statement was not likely to be put to the test, but
Grace knew he meant what he said—every word.
“If anything could make me happy to-night,” she murmured, “that
assurance would; but, oh, papa, it is dreadful to think what may come of
all this, and we powerless to avert the evil!”
“Ay, Gracie, it is,” he answered. “By the time you are my age you will
know there are many evils we are powerless to avert. But now listen to
me, child: speak to Robert Somerford, and see what he will do in the
matter. If that fail, I will see what I can do myself.”
She did not reply to him verbally; she only took his hand, and stroked
and kissed it.
“Remember,” he went on, with a sudden change of tone, “I am now acting
in entire opposition to my own principles. I have always believed in
letting other people manage their own affairs, in allowing them to get
into difficulties if they please, and getting out of them as they can.
My opinion about Ireland has always been that her misfortunes arise as
much from the laxity as the severity of her landlords. I consider the
whole system of tenant-right a mistake. I have been, and am, utterly at
a loss to conceive why the fact of a man having rented a farm for a
certain number of years, during which he has probably exhausted the
land, and allowed the house and outbuildings to fall into decay, should
entitle him, and his children after him, to a renewal of the lease. I do
not see, if I were a landlord—which happily I am not—why, supposing I
prefer one tenant who applies for a farm rather than another, the one I
prefer should have his ricks burned down or find his best mare
hamstrung. I do not see the beauty of charity; in my opinion it benefits
neither him who gives nor him who receives—”
“Oh fie, papa!” she exclaimed.
“My dear, I only speak the truth. What good to themselves or any one
else are those sturdy and picturesque beggars who come to you as
regularly for their Saturday’s dole as if they were annuitants, or had
worked for a week’s wages?”
“I would rather give them wages,” she said; “but what am I to do?”
“I do not interfere with your almsgiving, Grace; nevertheless it seems
to me that whilst you are relieving distress, you are perpetuating an
evil.”
“Do you really believe,” she asked, “that the little I give away does me
no good?”
“I hope it does you no harm—that is the utmost I can say. I do not think
it a wise thing to assist in pauperizing a nation.”
“But we are expressly told that the poor shall be with us always.”
“Granted; but you do not mean, I suppose, to interpret the poor into
professional beggars? I am not much interested in Ireland or the Irish;
most persons would call me, and call me truly, an unobservant man; yet
there are things passing every day before me to which I cannot shut my
eyes; which you, Grace, would see as plainly as I if you did not
wilfully shut your eyes. First of all, I behold a number of landlords
who reside principally out of Ireland, for the very good reason that
they prefer living in London, or Paris, or Florence, or Vienna, wherein
they show their discrimination. Immediately there is a cry about the
evils of absenteeism, the popular idea being that if a man resides in
Ireland he must of necessity spend his income in Ireland likewise, just
as though any English duke, or earl, or baronet spent the whole of his
income at his country-seat.”
“Don’t you think there is a little difference between the two cases?”
said Grace. “If the Irish landlords resided in Dublin, for instance—”
“My dear girl, do you suppose that would satisfy tenantry residing in
the north? What the malcontents really want is to have the ‘good old
times’ back again; when there was open house and a ‘bite and sup’ for
everybody, broken victuals for the beggars, and a ‘drain of whiskey and
a cut of mate’ for persons supposed to be ‘earning their bread,’ whom
chance, design, or necessity led into kitchens, the doors of which
always stood wide. To put it in a sentence, people are now living almost
at the end of a system, and they want to go back to the beginning of it,
to the time when there was plenty of money instead of beggary; to the
commencement of borrowing, and mortgaging, and taking credit, instead of
paying back, and bankruptcy, and no money, no goods; to the wild,
reckless youth of families which are now expiating in unhonoured old age
the sins and the follies of that faraway time.”
There was truth in the picture he drew, and his daughter felt it; but
the truth was bitter, the picture too faithful in detail to be perfectly
life-like in fact.
“But surely people are not to be blamed because they look back to the
good old times with regret, and wish they could all come over again?”
said Grace, whose imagination had often held high revel amongst those
past days and doings of which her father spoke so contemptuously.
“Were they good old times?” he asked, with unwonted animation. “By the
grain men reap, by the fruit they gather, we can tell the sort of seed,
the manner of tree which was sowed and planted by those who went before.
There was wild sowing, there has been bitter reaping, and there will be
reaping still more bitter before Ireland becomes the paradise patriots
(so called) conjure up before the imagination of an excitable,
passionate, dissatisfied people.”
“What would benefit Ireland, papa?”
“How can I tell, child? Can the work of centuries be undone in a day?
can the education of generations be unlearned at the word of command? If
the country and the people be let alone, perhaps they may do something
for themselves, but I am extremely doubtful about the matter; it very
rarely happens that those who have been for eleven hours praying,
entreating, cursing, threatening in order to obtain help, turn round at
the twelfth and help themselves.”
“How prejudiced you are!” she said, but sorrowfully holding his hand the
while; “you only look at the faults, you never think of the virtues and
the wrongs.”
“My dear Grace, if there be one thing I dislike more than another, it is
the use of cant expressions. That is probably the reason why I have
always eschewed mixing myself up in political matters. There is
something particularly offensive to me in the war-cries of party; and,
speaking confidentially, I object quite as much to the music of ‘Vinegar
Hill’ as of ‘Protestant Boys.’ You have managed to adopt some cant
phrases, as for instance, that you used just now. Tell me, if you can,
what are Ireland’s wrongs.”
“The poverty, the distress, the misery.”
“Anything else?”
“The way in which the Irish are looked down upon by English people, the
laws that press so heavily on the Roman Catholics.”
“Anything else?”
“The money earned in a country being spent out of a country, the men who
earn that money living so hardly; Ireland being taxed for the benefit of
England.”
“Anything else?”
“Oh! yes; there are hundreds of other things, but I have mentioned
sufficient.”
“I think you must have been sitting at the feet of Mr. Hanlon, Grace,”
answered her father. “If either you or he can prove to me that Ireland
is taxed for the benefit of England, I shall be surprised. On the
contrary, Ireland is exempt from many most irritating taxes which clever
chancellors of the exchequer have devised for the express purpose of
reducing that plethora of riches from which Englishmen are supposed to
suffer. The amiability of Britannia has even exempted Ireland from the
soap-tax; another instance, I conclude, of that brutal ignorance of
Irish wants concerning which Mr. Hanlon speaks so freely. To a nation
that thinks the use of water unnecessary, it seems nothing less than an
insult to give soap free. As to your next point, making my way
backwards, men who earn money live hardly everywhere. It is in the
nature of things; from the London merchant, toiling to leave a fortune
or found a family, to Amos Scott, labouring to meet the next ‘gale day,’
the worker must live hard. Then you say it is wrong that money earned in
a country should be spent out of it. Perhaps so, but I fail to see how
you would propose to remedy the evil.”
“I would make all the people who derive their income from Ireland live
in Ireland,” said Grace energetically.
“It seems to me you would be guilty of a great injustice, then,” he
replied; “but, however, we will suppose, for the sake of argument, that
the plan you suggest is fair and practicable. Suppose, in a word, you
have the landlords here, how is the money to be kept in Ireland? Are the
nobility to have their portraits painted by local artists? are they to
buy the pictures on their walls from some vague Milesian genius, and
their statuettes from a Celtic stone-mason? Are their wives and
daughters to play music composed by the parish organist, on pianos made
by an enterprising country carpenter? I suppose you would have the
gentlemen wear frieze and carry bog-oak sticks, and the ladies array
themselves in poplin and Limerick lace. You would have the houses
furnished with chairs and tables made from arbutus wood, and the
cabinets filled with ‘speciments’ from the Giant’s Causeway and tokens
from Killarney. Turf should be burnt universally, instead of English or
Scotch coal. That is the only way to keep money in a country, Grace.
Does the programme please you?”
“You are jesting with me,” she said, “and yet you would not, if you knew
how near it all lies to my heart.”
“What lies near your heart, Gracie? which of the grievances? I am
running through them as fast as I am able. Which was the next sorrow?
Oh! I remember, the Roman Catholics. Well, they certainly had a
considerable number of grievances at one time, but that time is past and
gone. The Protestants, at one period of England’s history, did not sleep
exactly on roses, so that perhaps there might be some excuse to urge
even in this matter. I do not want to excuse, however. It is a pity, to
borrow one of Mr. Hanlon’s figures of speech, that the Roman Catholics
‘ever were trampled under foot and forced to kiss the shamrock-spangled
sod of Erin;’ but all I have now to remark about the members of that
Church is, they have nothing in the present to complain of, and are
quite at liberty to commence taking that ell which is popularly supposed
to be the next step after receiving an inch. I have no particular
prejudice against the Pope, or his clergy, or his followers myself, but
I think that part of the population which Mr. Hanlon’s ‘stalwart
peasantry, their country’s pride,’ call the ‘Papishers,’ will take one
ell—probably many.”
Grace sat quite still and silent. This, she said to herself, was the
reasoning the friends of Ireland had to listen to and bear patiently.
Well, Ireland’s time would come. In the meanwhile, the speaker was her
father. Although he, being English, could not possibly understand
anything about Ireland, still she, Grace, could not argue with and
contradict him.
“The next grievance stated,” went on Mr. Moffat, “is that the English
look down on the Irish. Now, may I not inquire whether that feeling be
entirely one-sided? Do not the Irish look down on the English? Have I
not heard ridicule directed to their ‘mincing talk,’ to their ‘cutting
away’ of words, to their drawl, their airs, their notions, the whole
tirade ending, ‘But what else can be expected from foreigners?’ Going
down to the lower orders, it is generally supposed few Englishmen ever
sound an ‘H’ in its place, or fail to put one in where it is not wanted.
I have laughed over and over again at such ideas, but it certainly never
occurred to me that the ignorance in which they originated was a
grievance. Further, English cleanliness is an offence, ‘What a dirthy
people to nade so much washing!’ is a neat way of putting the Irish
prejudice into a nutshell.”
“Pray stop; pray do;” Grace cried; “we do not agree, we cannot—”
“Why not? I was going on to say that, if I may be allowed to make a
bull, all England’s best men have been Irishmen; in England they have
made their mark, and England has not been chary of recognizing their
merits.”
“She dare not!” exclaimed Grace.
“We won’t go into that question,” said Mr. Moffat calmly. “It is natural
enough when gangs of imperfectly-clothed, strange-tongued, foul-mouthed,
ill-looking, unkempt, unwashed Irish sweepings go over to the English
harvest, a highly-civilized community, though composed of the lower
orders, should—not comprehending that these gangs are the very dregs of
the population—think but little of the bulk, judging from the sample;
but the upper classes, better informed, look to the higher specimens,
and judge accordingly—judge of the capabilities of the Irish on much too
exalted a scale.”
“And you?” interrupted his daughter.
“I try to hold the scales even, but find it hard work. If O’Connell were
to present a glass which could not flatter to the face of his
countrymen, even he would find they and their circumstances capable of
presenting some very ugly features.”
“I love and respect that man!” cried Grace.
“Well, my dear, so far as I am concerned, I have no objection to your
doing both. He certainly is a very wonderful man; whether he is a great
one cannot be determined yet, those who live to see the end will know.
Meanwhile I have nothing else to answer except the misery, the distress,
the poverty. All are—why, we cannot tell with any certainty. You talk of
England: there are hundreds, thousands of people in London even, who
would not let a dog want if they knew it, and yet in wretched garrets
men, willing to work, die; into the cold rivers women, unwilling to face
the last alternative, throw themselves, as though death were a friend
tried and trusted. Do you think there is any place on the face of this
earth where misery, distress, poverty, are not? I have never seen it; I
do not expect ever to see it. Indeed, I consider Kingslough singularly
exempt from the common epidemic of chronic and unrelieved poverty. The
poverty is, but the relief is also—often foolishly given—like yours,
Grace.”
“Like mine, papa?” and Mistress Grace fired up.
“Like yours, my dear,” he answered calmly. “But for you, and such as
you, the paupers would work or go into the poorhouse. They say, ‘God’s
mercies are better than the house.’ Translated from their glib language
the phrase means, ‘What we can beg, threaten, or steal, is better than
that we receive as a right by line and plummet. The casual halfpenny,
with the wind blowing free about our exposed persons, is sweeter than
stir-about served in a house, where we are expected to conform to
rules.’ Let me go through your annuitants. First comes that patriarchal
and religious gentleman who, if he could be transported to London, would
make his own fortune as a model, and the fortune of any artist who
painted him. His is a splendid and a venerable presence, is it not? He
might be an Irish Melanchthon—on canvas. His head is worn bare by taking
off his hat. He impresses the beholder with the idea of former
respectability and of present sanctity. He can quote the Scriptures with
marvellous fluency, and has a text ready for every occasion. His talk is
of another world, and when he sees a fitting opportunity he bestows the
penny just dropped into his hat on some one who, to use his own
expression, ‘wants it worse than himself.’ He is a prince amongst
beggars—a cross between an archbishop and an emperor. Now suppose we
trace his career.”
“I know what you are going to say, papa, but, it is not true. I am
certain it cannot be!” exclaimed Grace vehemently.
“It is quite true. His father had one of those small freehold farms
which are amongst the misfortunes of this country. He did little
himself, and he brought up his two sons to do less. Nevertheless when he
died, one of the two, not our venerable friend, but his brother, worked
on his land after the prevailing fashion. He tickled the soil, he went
through a pantomime of manuring it. He sowed seed which produced
miserable crops, though better than could have been expected. In due
time the brother died, and then, while his supposed grief lay heavy on
him, the neighbours said, ‘It’s is plantin’ time, Barney; arn’t ye goin’
to put in the corn and the praties?’ Solemnly Barney answered, ‘The Lord
will provide.’ Thinking him crazy with trouble, the kindly-foolish
people ploughed his acres, and bringing their seed potatoes and their
seed corn, set and sowed for the gentleman within doors. Further, having
a certain interest and pride in the matter, ‘consate’ as they call the
feeling, they moulded the potatoes, and dug them up; they reaped the
corn and thrashed it. Nothing could have been found to please our friend
better. He thanked them in his best manner, lived off the produce they
had garnered for him, and spent the winter not unpleasantly. Seed-time
came again, but the people did not quite see their way to providing and
planting once more, so the land lay untilled, the fields yielded no
increase. He sold his cow, his horse, his pigs, his fowls; he sold the
furniture, his farm, his house; he lived on the money thus procured so
long as it lasted. When it was gone he took to begging, and he has gone
on begging ever since, with a brief interval, when he tried ‘the house.’
One day, while in residence there, he saw some bundles of new spades
arrive. Foreseeing what that portended, he left, and returned to his old
haunts and his old occupation, and was sufficiently fortunate to please
a young lady, who, charmed by his acquaintance with Scripture, actually
settled a pension upon him. Then there are your three idiots, who,
harmless though they may be, ought never to be allowed to go roaming
about the country, frightening children into fits, and disgusting every
one who has not a fellow-feeling for the ‘naturals.’ That deaf and dumb
girl you encourage is a perfect nuisance to the neighbourhood, making
believe to tell fortunes and to prophesy, in her hideous gibberish, good
or evil. As for the women, Grace, I don’t like to speak as I feel about
them. Harmless, toothless old hags they seem to you, no doubt, shivering
with cold, barefooted, scantily dressed, with a tattered patchwork quilt
covering their shoulders; but, so far as I am concerned, rather than
meet one of them I would make a _détour_ of a mile any day. But, there,
I will not vex you any more. We do not agree on this matter, and I see
no chance of our ever doing so.”
“We are agreed on one point, I am sure,” said Grace slowly, “they are
poor—”
“They are certainly not millionaires.”
“And we have comparative wealth.”
“We should not be wealthy long if their wishes were gratified.”
“And being rich,” went on Grace, unheeding, “I fancy we ought to help
those who are poor. They may be lazy, and dirty, and deceitful, and
wicked, very possibly they are; but when I lie awake at night, warm and
snug, I do not think the remembrance of their sinfulness would make me
feel more comfortable if, through any fault of mine, they were sleeping
on the bare ground, with the stars looking down upon them, and not a
morsel to put in their lips when the day broke. The system may be bad,
and the people too, but I did not make either, and I would fain be of
use to somebody, if I can.”
“You are a good girl, Grace,” answered her father, “and if it be a
pleasure to you to give, give; it would be no pleasure to me, and so I
refrain. To show you, however, that I want to please you, I repeat, if
your eloquence fail to touch the possible future earl, I will see
whether I can do anything. By the way, Grace, we see little,
comparatively, of Mr. Somerford now.”
“I suppose he is studying how he shall bear his new dignities when they
are thrust upon him,” said Miss Moffat a little bitterly.
“Have you heard that Lady Glendare was extremely anxious for her son to
marry?”
“Impossible!”
“Perfectly possible; she found the young lady, too. But his lordship
seemed, so Dillwyn tells me, to consider there had been sufficient
division in the family; in a word, he does not think the idea of
disappointing his cousin so entrancing a one as it might have appeared
formerly. Further, the bride he is bound to will not hear of
disappointment, so Mr. Somerford may awake any morning and find himself
one step nearer the earldom of Glendare.”
“He will have much in his power;” that was all Grace said or meant to
say about the matter.
“I am not quite sure of that,” replied her father, “the property is
frightfully encumbered.”
“But a few years of retrenchment and good management would work a great
change in the state of affairs,” she suggested.
“It will have to be wrought by some one not a Somerford, or I am greatly
mistaken,” said Mr. Moffat, and then Grace understood that Mr. Dillwyn
had been depreciating Robert Somerford to her parent.
A few days later she felt disposed to depreciate him to herself. Walking
back from Kingslough she met the possible earl riding towards the town.
At sight of her he dismounted, and, leading his horse, retraced part of
his way in her company.
She had wished to see him, and said so frankly; she wanted to speak
about Amos Scott, and ascertain if anything could be done for him, and
if so, what? She spoke of the great trouble which had come to her humble
friend, spoke out of the fulness of her heart of the wrong he had
sustained, of the misery he was suffering, of all the wretchedness she
feared might arise from the affair.
“Such cases have been, unhappily, not uncommon,” said Mr. Somerford. “It
is no wonder a judgment has fallen on our race.”
“When you come into the title you will try to put all the wrong right,”
she said eagerly, forgetting herself—forgetting him, as she thought of
Amos Scott, and others in a like predicament, who had been left homeless
through the carelessness or wickedness of the Glendares.
“If ever I am Earl of Glendare,” he replied, in a tone which told Grace
the full extent of the error she had committed, “If ever I have the
misfortune to be Earl of Glendare, I expect I shall find everything
wrong, and nothing left wherewith to put wrong right. As to Scott, I
know not what to say or to do. I will talk the matter over with Dillwyn,
and, if anything can be done, I will write to you or call.”
She had gone so far, that she felt disposed to go a little farther. She
would put affairs upon some different footing, let the consequences be
what they would, let her companion think what he chose.
“We have not had the pleasure of seeing much of you lately,” she said in
a tone studiously careless, though her voice almost trembled as she
uttered the words.
“I have been scarcely my own master since Henry went away,” he replied.
“The fact is—” but there he stopped.
“You did not complete your sentence, I think,” she said, after an
instant’s pause.
“No, it was an awkward sentence, one I ought not perhaps to have begun;
but the fact is, my time is so little at my own disposal; my position is
now so different from what it was formerly—that—you are so clever, Miss
Moffat, I am certain you understand.”
“I am not particularly clever,” she retorted; “but I fancy I understand,
and I will speak more plainly than you. We, my father and I, made you
welcome to come to Bayview; we now make you equally welcome to stay
away. Good morning, Mr. Somerford,” and, with a slight curtsey, Grace
left him, as greatly disconcerted a gentleman as any gentleman who has
got what he wanted, but not in the way he wanted it, could possibly be.
For Grace, she was like one who, receiving a wound in the heat of
battle, feels neither ache nor pain. She was in such a tempest of
passion, that she could not tell where she was hurt, or whether she was
hurt at all. A man had trodden her pride under foot. She had been
jilted, and that by Robert Somerford!