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CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
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LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
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ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
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NO. 20.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, MAY 17, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
SOME CURIOSITIES OF THE PEERAGE.
IN TWO PARTS.—PART I.
In a paper which appeared in this _Journal_ (January 12) headed ‘What
is a Peer?’ it was sought to present within very narrow limits and
in untechnical language a sketch of the institution generally known
as the Peerage. We endeavoured to exhibit the difference between the
peerage itself as a whole and that important section of it termed the
House of Lords, the status of the peers of the United Kingdom, of Great
Britain, of Scotland, and of Ireland, and the distinction between real
titles of nobility and those permitted to be adopted by courtesy. In
short, we dealt with the external and legal features of the peerage
viewed as an element of the constitution. We now propose to, in some
measure, fill up the previous outline of the subject, and this will be
done by shortly examining some of the internal characteristics of this
institution which are distinctly peculiar to it. These will include a
reference to matters which may not inaptly be termed ‘curiosities,’ if
we limit the sense of this word to matters which, though perhaps not
exactly curiosities in themselves, are nevertheless such, from their
being confined to the cognisance of comparatively few persons.
Adopting for present purposes this acceptation of the word
‘curiosities,’ it may safely be asserted that the peerage abounds with
curiosities of all kinds. Probably the most interesting are those
disclosed in the records of family vicissitudes; but then these are
but chapters in human life with their interest enhanced by the exalted
position of the actors in the various dramas presented. Then, again,
there are the anecdotal curiosities, which are exceedingly amusing,
especially those of a strictly personal character; and we might easily
fill many pages with narrations of this kind, any one of which would
abundantly confirm the saw, that truth is stranger than fiction. But we
think that such curiosities as we have mentioned are not those which
would most interest or arrest the attention of an uninitiated reader,
and accordingly, we have culled a few which we consider calculated to
instruct as well as amuse him. If we are asked to define the species
of instruction likely to be conveyed by the study of a theme like the
peerage and its peculiarities, we should reply, that considered as we
now propose to consider it, the subject will unfold many facts of deep
historical interest; and we should not hesitate to declare that no one
can fully comprehend either the general or the constitutional history
of this country without some acquaintance with the peerage and its
workings.
In ‘What is a Peer?’ we dealt with the legal and the courtesy aspect
of titles; we shall here consider the mode of limiting them, their
devolution, &c.; and we shall have one word to say about etiquette—not
that species of etiquette, however, dealt with in books which purport
to be manuals of good manners, but what may be called the etiquette
of bearing titles; and this we hope will not be deemed unworthy of
attention.
And first, the reader is reminded that all hereditary titles of honour
are known to the law by the name of incorporeal hereditaments, a term
explained in ‘What is a Peer?’
A close analogy to the rules of real property law is observable in
those which govern the creation, &c., of titles. Thus, we have heirs
apparent and presumptive to honours as well as to estates; and this
observation will introduce us to one feature in the etiquette of the
peerage worthy of notice. We have shown how a peer may hold several
titles of different grades; and we will now more fully consider a
case of this kind. Suppose that the Marquis of A. is also Earl of B.,
Viscount C., and Baron D., and that he has several sons and daughters.
His eldest son is his heir-apparent, and he may assume, according to
his father’s pleasure, either of the other titles during his lifetime.
It is usual, however, in such cases for the eldest son to take the
earldom as a courtesy title. During the existence of the Marquis and
his eldest son, none of the other sons would be permitted to adopt
the remaining two titles; but all after the Earl would, as sons of a
Marquis, be Lord John or Lord William So-and-so, &c.; and only the
younger sons of Dukes and Marquises are so styled. The daughters,
however, of all noblemen except Viscounts and Barons are styled
‘Ladies,’ with their Christian and surnames following the word ‘Lady;’
but they have no other style similar to that of an eldest son. (The
position of daughters who claim a barony held by their father will be
considered in a subsequent portion of the present paper.) Now, if the
Earl of B. above mentioned were to die in his father’s lifetime, the
second son would succeed to the courtesy title, and so on as to the
rest, in the event of each son dying in his father’s lifetime. Thus,
on the decease, in 1865, of Viscount Cranborne, eldest son of the then
Marquis of Salisbury, Lord Robert Cecil—now Marquis of Salisbury—became
Lord Cranborne. But the rule just mentioned is not absolute as to
any of its features; for it may be remembered that the eldest son
of the late Marquis—who, by the way, was also Earl—of Clanricarde,
Viscount Burke, and Lord Dunkellin—was styled by the baronial title.
On his death in the lifetime of the Marquis, the second son became
Viscount Burke, and not Lord Dunkellin. Again, in 1879, when the
Earl of Tankerville’s eldest son, Lord Ossulston, died, the latter’s
brother, the Honourable G. M. Bennet, became eldest son, not, however,
as Lord Ossulston, but as Lord Bennet; and instances of this might be
multiplied. We believe, indeed, that the practice indicated under such
circumstances to be the correct or fashionable one at the present day.
In the grant of a peerage the succession is generally limited in tail
male—that is, entailed in the male line; but there are instances of
special limitations in the grant to meet the want of heirs male of the
body; and in such cases we may have a peerage as it were wandering
about in all directions. Thus, a peerage may be limited in tail male,
with a remainder over in tail male to some other person. This was
the case with the barony of the great Lord Nelson. In 1798, he was
created Baron Nelson of the Nile, and of Burnham-Thorpe in the county
of Norfolk; and in 1801, Viscount Nelson. But these were entailed
honours; and in the same year he was created Baron Nelson of the Nile,
and of Hilborough in the county of Norfolk, with remainder—failing his
own issue male—to his father and his issue male; failing which, to
the issue male, severally and successively, of Lord Nelson’s sisters.
At the death of the hero in 1805 at Trafalgar without issue, the
first barony and the viscounty became extinct; but the second barony
descended—the father being dead—to Lord Nelson’s brother. This nobleman
was then elevated to the earldom, and the grant was again limited to
him in tail male, with remainder over, failing his own issue, to the
heirs male of his sister, Mrs Bolton; and failing them, to the issue of
another sister, Mrs Matcham. The first earl having died without issue,
was succeeded by his nephew, Mr T. Bolton, who thus became second Earl
Nelson; and the present earl is his son, and has issue. Should all the
male descendants of the latter eventually become extinct, the title
will then go in remainder to the right heir of Mrs Matcham. If there
be no such heir of that lady, then the title of Nelson will become
extinct.
But of all the curiosities of the peerage, its ‘complications’ may
justly be reckoned among the strongest and most interesting, and these
complications are numerous, peculiar, and at the same time interesting
in their way. They are attributable to various causes, of which the
following may be accounted the chief: The failure of male issue in a
family wherein exists a female peerage, the holder of which marries
a commoner, who assumes her name; the absolute extinction of a title
in one family by forfeiture or want of issue, and its subsequent
assumption or revival in the person of a stranger in blood to the
previous holders of the title; the failure of heirs to a title in tail
male—that is, one limited to heirs male of the body, while perhaps
another title held by the same person is in fee—that is, descendible
to his heirs general. In such a case, the title in tail would of
course become extinct, while the other would go to the right heir.
Again, these complications are caused by the assumption of surnames
other than those originally belonging to the persons assuming them, by
the creation of special limitations in the grant of a title; by the
confounding of names with titles, or those of peerage with those borne
by courtesy; by the growth of peerages which, as it were, sprout from
some great House already ennobled; and lastly, by the distinctions
which exist with regard to peers of the United Kingdom, of Great
Britain, of England, or of Ireland. We will endeavour to illustrate as
informally as possible some of the foregoing statements, and this we
think may be done by giving a short account of one well-known title and
some of its family ramifications. This mode of treating the subject—on
the principle of _ex uno disce omnes_—will be found to answer the
object in view, and will also disclose other matters of interest
connected therewith.
Some few years ago, there existed an amiable but weak young nobleman
known to the world as the Marquis of Hastings, and to his intimates
as Harry Hastings. Born in 1842, he succeeded his brother as fourth
marquis at the early age of nine, was married when twenty-two under
somewhat romantic circumstances, ‘plunged’ heavily on the turf,
sustained enormous losses, and died at the age of twenty-six, when the
marquisate of Hastings became extinct. It was a singularly fantastic
display of the irony of fate which caused this man ‘of noble blood and
high descent,’ the holder of a long string of proud titles, to become
the associate and the victim of blacklegs and swindlers. Yet so it
was; and when he died, society could not but heave a sigh of pity.
In Burke’s _Peerage_ of the time, the Marquis of Hastings is thus
described: ‘Sir Henry-Weysford-Charles-Plantagenet Rawdon-Hastings,
Earl of Rawdon, and Viscount Loudoun in the peerage of the United
Kingdom; Baron Rawdon of Rawdon, Co. York, in the peerage of Great
Britain; Baron Grey de Ruthyn, Baron Hastings, Hungerford, Newmarch,
Botreaux, Molines, and Moels, in the peerage of England; Earl of
Loudoun and Baron Campbell of Loudoun, Tarrinyeane and Mauchline, in
the peerage of Scotland; Earl of Moira and Baron Rawdon in the peerage
of Ireland; a Baronet of England, and one of the co-heirs[1] to the
barony of Montague.’
Now, from the extract just cited it will be seen that Hastings is not
only a title but a name. As a matter of fact, however, Hastings is not
the original patronymic of those who held the title as a marquisate.
Their real name was Rawdon, and the Rawdons are an important Yorkshire
family, established in that county at least since the Conquest. In
1665, one of them was created a Baronet; and we shall see that this
was the baronetcy held by the late Marquis of Hastings. In 1750, a
great-grandson of the Baronet was raised to the Irish peerage as Baron
Rawdon; and in 1761 was promoted to an earldom, taking the title of
Moira. This nobleman was thrice married, his last wife—by whom alone
he had male issue—having been Lady Elizabeth Hastings, eldest daughter
of the ninth Earl of Huntingdon.[2] Hastings, then, was the family
name of the Earls of Huntingdon; and it is that of the present earl,
who is the only peer entitled to it as an original surname. The eldest
son of the above-mentioned marriage was Francis, second Earl of Moira,
who achieved an historical reputation as a soldier, a statesman,
and an accomplished gentleman. He is well remembered as an able
governor-general of India; and he it was who became the first Marquis
of Hastings; but we need hardly say that he was connected with his
great predecessor, Warren Hastings of Daylesford, only by reason of the
marriage above mentioned. It may be observed that during the suspension
of the earldom of Huntingdon, the then proprietors of Daylesford
claimed to represent the chief branch of the Hastings family.
Having traced the connection between the families of Rawdon and
Hastings, it now remains to discover how the baronies of the latter
became attached to the former family. The ninth Earl of Huntingdon,
father of the first Countess of Moira, died in 1746, and was succeeded
by his son, brother of the Lady Moira. The tenth earl, however,
died without issue in 1789; whereupon the earldom became suspended,
and so continued for thirty years, a fact involving matters of very
deep interest, but of no importance so far as present purposes are
concerned. The tenth Earl of Huntingdon’s heir was his sister, Lady
Moira, and upon her descended the ancient baronies of the Huntingdon
earldom—namely, Hastings, Hungerford, Botreaux, and Molines. Her
husband, the first Earl of Moira, died in 1793, and, as just stated,
was succeeded as such by his son Francis, who, in 1804, married Flora,
Baroness Campbell and Countess of Loudoun in her own right. Elizabeth,
Countess-Dowager of Moira, died in 1808; Francis, her son, was promoted
to the English peerage so far as the barony of Rawdon was concerned.
Then came his assumption of his mother’s maiden name of Hastings, his
successful claims to the Huntingdon baronies, and lastly, in 1816
we find him Viscount Loudoun, Earl of Rawdon, &c., and Marquis of
Hastings—all in the peerage of the United Kingdom. It is thus shown
how a Rawdon was the founder of the Hastings marquisate; how Elizabeth
Hastings brought the old baronies previously mentioned into the Rawdon
family; and how the Scotch earldom of Loudoun and the United Kingdom
viscounty were held by the same family.
There are two more titles to account for—the ancient baronies in fee
of Hastings, created in 1264, and Grey de Ruthyn, created in 1324.
These titles were originally in the De Hastings family, one of whom
married, some time in the seventeenth century, Sir Henry Yelverton,
Bart., of Norfolk, since which time, Yelverton—not to be confounded
with Lord Avonmore’s family name—has been the patronymic of the Lords
and Ladies Grey de Ruthyn. On the death of the nineteenth lord in 1831,
the title descended to his daughter, who married the second Marquis of
Hastings. This is how these two titles of Hastings, as a barony, and
Grey de Ruthyn came to be held by the late marquis, whose mother was
the twentieth holder of the latter title.
We have said that on his death in 1868 the marquisate became extinct;
but what, it may be asked, became of the other titles? The answer to
that question, though simple, will reveal yet further complications,
caused by the assumption of surnames, &c. In the first place, all of
what may be called the Rawdon honours necessarily became extinct.
Not so, however, all those acquired by their marriages, &c. Thus,
the Scotch earldom of Loudoun survived, and of this we will trace
the devolution from the death of the last Marquis of Hastings. That
nobleman left a sister, married to a commoner, Mr C. F. Clifton; and
she, by her brother’s death without issue, became Countess of Loudoun
in her own right, and succeeded to some of the family property. Mr
Clifton took the family name of his wife; and at her death some time
since, her son became Earl of Loudoun, Baron Hastings, Botreaux,
&c., and by the last-named title now sits in the House of Lords. The
other baronies transferred to the Rawdon family by the Lady Elizabeth
Hastings, Grey de Ruthyn, &c., are in abeyance; but the Earl of Loudoun
is the eldest co-heir to them. (The terms ‘abeyance’ and ‘co-heir’ will
be explained later on.) Mr Clifton himself, the earl’s father, has been
raised to the peerage as Lord Donington, the name of the Hastings’
seat in Leicestershire. We see that the Earl of Loudoun is also Baron
Hastings, and by that title he may also vote; but, for the following
reasons, Botreaux is a preferable title whereby to sit. The fact is,
there is another Lord Hastings, whose family name is Astley. He is a
peer of the United Kingdom, and his title is one of great antiquity,
created in 1289. The present baron is the twenty-sixth in order of
succession; but it will be found that this barony is not so ancient as
the oldest of those which came to the Rawdons through Lady Elizabeth
Hastings, daughter of the Earl of Huntingdon. Thus, while a higher
title may absorb all those of a lower rank existing in the same family,
the latter may nevertheless as it were attract the higher one to them,
and a nobleman of the highest rank may be heir to a title of a less
exalted character than his own. Thus, the Marquis of Lansdowne is heir
to the titles of his mother, who is second Baroness Keith and seventh
Baroness Nairne. It may be observed in passing that there are about
ninety Scotch and Irish peers in parliament who sit and vote by titles
other than those by which they are commonly known and addressed.
The story of the present great House of Northumberland also furnishes a
remarkable instance of the vicissitudes of a peerage, and the strange
results of changing or adopting surnames by titled families. The
present name of the Dukes of Northumberland is Percy, and their table
of lineage connects them with the family to which the renowned Harry
Hotspur belonged. But supposing this connection to be real, which we do
not dispute, such of the blood of that renowned soldier as now flows
through the veins of the Percies of to-day must certainly be in an
extremely diluted condition. Unless we are mistaken, the actual family
name of the Northumberland family is Smithson, and that of Percy is an
assumed name. Hence the following lines to a Duke of Northumberland, by
no less a person than George Canning:
No drop of princely Percy’s blood
Through those cold veins doth run;
With Hotspur’s blazon, castles, arms,
I still am poor Smithson.
The fact is, the present Northumberlands are the issue[3] of a marriage
which took place in 1657 between an heiress of the real Percies and
one Sir Hugh Smithson, a Yorkshire baronet; and the whole narrative
may be read in Burke’s _Peerage_ under the title of ‘Northumberland.’
It does not, however, mention the reply of George III. to one of the
dukes of this house who complained to him that he was the first Duke
of Northumberland who did not possess the Garter. ‘Quite so,’ said the
king snappishly, ‘and the first Smithson who ever asked for it!’
It appears that the lady just alluded to was a daughter of Marmaduke,
second Lord Langdale; and this fact introduces us to a notable
curiosity of the peerage—namely, the extinction and resuscitation
of titles. The latter circumstance may occur not only in the family
originally holding the extinct title, but, as already intimated, in
some other family in no way connected with the former. We will shortly
give a few instances of this feature of the peerage, and the title of
Langdale may first be noticed.
The first peer was a Mr Marmaduke Langdale, who in 1658 was created
Baron Langdale, title and family name being the same. There were in all
five holders of this title, all bearing the single Christian name of
Marmaduke. The last died without issue in 1777, and the title became
extinct. In the year 1836, an eminent King’s Counsel—still remembered
by some persons—named Henry Bickersteth became Master of the Rolls, and
was raised to the peerage as Lord Langdale, but so far as we know he
was in no way connected with the Langdale family, and there is no Lord
Langdale now. The wife of this peer, who was Master of the Rolls, was
Lady Jane Harley, daughter of the Earl of Oxford; and this celebrated
title will furnish another instance of the loss of titular honours by
one family, and their resumption by another. The peerage of Oxford—an
earldom from beginning to end—was originally held by the illustrious
family of De Vere, one of whom was created Earl of Oxford by the
Empress Maud, an honour confirmed by Henry II. in 1155. The ninth
earl was Robert, who was created Marquis of Dublin in 1386 by Richard
II., and, as stated in ‘What is a Peer?’ was the first marquis in the
English peerage. He was banished and attainted in 1388, whereupon his
honours became forfeited. Four years afterwards, however, the earldom
was regranted to his uncle Aubrey, and subsequently the attainder of
Robert was annulled. In 1464, we find the twelfth earl beheaded, and
another attainder created; but after a lapse of three years, his son
John is reinstated, only, however, to enjoy his honours for ten years,
at the end of which period he also is attainted and suffers forfeiture.
In 1513, all is right again; his nephew becomes the fourteenth earl;
and from his time down to 1702, there is no break in the succession.
But in that year, Aubrey, the twentieth earl, dies without male issue;
and from that time to the present, we hear no more of the ancient
and noble family of De Vere as Earls of Oxford. Perhaps the most
distinguished of them was Edward, seventeenth earl (1540-1604); while
another member of the family was Sir Francis de Vere, a celebrated
soldier in the time of Queen Elizabeth. The title of Oxford was revived
in 1711 by a stranger in blood to the De Veres—Robert Harley, Queen
Anne’s celebrated Tory statesman, who in that year became Earl of
Oxford and Mortimer. The second of these earls was the founder of the
Harleian Library. The first earl had been a great collector of books,
and it is said that he was so much attached to them, that although
his library contained about one hundred thousand volumes, he knew the
precise position of each on the shelves! The honours of the Harley
family continued until 1853, when Alfred, the sixth earl, died without
issue, and the earldom of Oxford once more ceased to exist.
These are but representative instances of the creation, forfeiture,
extinction, and revival of titles. We could, of course, considerably
increase the list of them, but to do so, would fill a volume. We will,
however, just glance at five lines of the well-known speech of Henry
V. to his soldiers in Shakspeare’s play of _Henry V._ (act iv., scene
3), and inquire how many of the great personages there mentioned are
represented in blood at the present time by those who hold the very
same titles:
Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household words—
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo’ster—
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
These words are supposed to be uttered on the eve of the battle of
Agincourt, in 1415, and the Bedford of that day was John Plantagenet,
third son of Henry IV. There were only three of these Dukes of Bedford,
the last of whom died in 1495; and it was not until 1550 that the first
Russell, the ancestor of the present Duke of Bedford, was ennobled.
To him the existing great House owes its origin; and there has been
an unbroken continuity in the succession from his time until now,
according to the limitations in the grants of the various honours
bestowed on the family of Russell.
The peerage of Exeter is extremely singular. Therein we find four
dukes, starting from John Holland, the first of them, in 1397. Between
the first and the last duke there were two forfeitures and one
extinction of the title; moreover, only three of them were Hollands,
the second having been a Beaufort, a natural son of John of Gaunt; and
this must have been the Exeter mentioned by Shakspeare; but the poet
and dates are not quite reconcilable here. Then came two Marquises of
Exeter, both of whom were Courtenays; and the present Marquis is a
Cecil, the originator of the now existing marquisate having been the
second Lord Burleigh or Burghley, who became Earl of Exeter in 1605.
The present marquisate of the title dates from 1793.
The history of the peerage or title of Warwick is one of the most
extraordinary to be found on the rolls. It was commenced in the reign
of the Conqueror, comprises, in the first place, fourteen earls, mostly
of the name of De Newburgh and De Beauchamp, a duke, and a countess. It
has been extinct four times, and forfeited five times; has been borne
by royalty, by the noblest of the noble, by traitors, and by no less
than thirty-three persons of various families. After becoming extinct
in the family of Rich by the decease of the eighth earl without issue
in 1759, it was revived in that of Greville, and the present earl is
the fourth in succession since then. The first of these holders of the
title was Francis Greville, a descendant of William de Beauchamp, the
tenth of the first set of earls, who died in 1298. The fifth and last
of the De Beauchamps as Earls of Warwick must have been Shakspeare’s
Warwick; so that while clearly the Bedfords and Exeters of to-day are
not the representatives of those mentioned in _Henry V._, the Earl of
Warwick who fought at Agincourt has a living descendant. The same may
be said as to Talbot. The person alluded to by Shakspeare was the sixth
baron of that title, and was the greatest soldier of his time. He was
created Earl of Shrewsbury in 1442, and the present earl—who is the
twentieth from him, and premier Earl of England—is also Earl and Baron
Talbot, and accordingly is a blood-relative of Shakspeare’s fourth
hero. Salisbury comes next; but the present marquis being descended
from Robert Cecil, created Earl of Salisbury in 1605, is therefore not
connected with Henry V.th’s Salisbury, who was Thomas de Montacute.
The Marquisate of Salisbury was created in 1780, every other previous
holder of a Salisbury title having been an earl, and the honour first
arose in the reign of Stephen.
With regard to the last of the personages introduced by Shakspeare,
Glo’ster, it may be observed that the title of Gloucester appears from
its very beginning to have been appropriated to personages of unusually
exalted birth. It commenced with a natural son of Henry I., and went
through eleven earldoms to 1337. From that time we have only dukes;
and Shakspeare evidently alludes to Humphry Plantagenet, youngest son
of Henry IV., and therefore brother of Henry V., whom the poet, with
strict regard to the rules of courtesy, makes the last to be named by
the gallant king. With him the dukedom of Gloucester became extinct;
but it was revived in 1461, and conferred on Richard, brother of
Edward IV., commonly known as ‘Crookback.’ At his death at Bosworth
in 1485, the title merged in the Crown; and the last who held it was
the uncle of our present gracious Queen, William-Frederick, Duke of
Gloucester and Edinburgh. Seeing that Shakspeare’s Glo’ster was the son
of Henry IV., and that our present royal family trace their descent
through all the previous sovereigns of England, we may conclude that
while the ‘Bedford and Exeter’ and Salisbury of Agincourt fame have
no representatives at the present day connected with them by any ties
of sanguinity, yet that ‘Harry the King,’ ‘Warwick and Talbot’ and
Glo’ster are so represented, and in the manner just intimated.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] This indicates that the barony mentioned is in abeyance, a term
which will be explained afterwards.
[2] It may interest some readers to be reminded that the widow of this
earl, Selina, was the founder of the religious body known as ‘Lady
Huntingdon’s Connection.’
[3] It may be instructive to the non-legal reader to be told that the
word ‘issue’ in law signifies lineal descendants _ad infinitum_, and
therefore has a more extensive signification than ‘children.’ The two
terms are often confounded; but while of course ‘issue’ will include
children, it may include more than children.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER XXVIII.—‘THE LITTLE RIFT.’
Uncle Dick was for some time busy with his meal and with the details of
the scare he had got in the morning.
‘I tell you, Philip, it a’most took away my appetite—and that’s saying
something. Seemed to me that the bullock had nearly all the signs of
foot-and-mouth; and the vet. thought so too; when along comes Beecham,
and shows us it was nothing of the kind, but that the brute had somehow
swallowed a poisonous herb. Clever chap that. Never thought he knew
anything about cattle.... You see what it would have been to me? I
would not have been allowed to exhibit at Smithfield at all this
year—I, who have some of the finest stock in the county or in Norfolk
either, and I won’t even bar that of His Royal Highness, although he
has a prime breed—managed as well as my own too. I set my heart on
getting a prize at the show this year; and it was hard lines to think
that I was to be shut out at the last moment a’most, all owing to them
foreigners bringing the disease amongst us.’
‘But you are at rest on that score now,’ said Philip, rousing himself
to say something.
‘O yes; it’s right enough now; but it _was_ a scare; and if it had
not been for Beecham, the vet. would have gone off and reported me.
I couldn’t have said nay; for bad as it would be to get the disease
amongst my own stock, I’d feel it a heap worse if I carried it to
somebody else’s. Don’t know how to be thankful enough to Beecham.’
The repetition of the name awakened some association of sounds in
Philip’s ears; and whilst one division of his thoughts was entirely
occupied with Madge, there seemed to be another whispering the
question: ‘Was not that voice I heard behind me at the “dancing
beeches” like the stranger’s?’
Uncle Dick went on describing the merits of the cattle he was to
exhibit at Smithfield; but when he had pushed away his plate, he
suddenly became aware that he was speaking to an inattentive audience.
‘Got the toothache, Philip?—or lost anything?’ he asked.
‘No, no.—I beg your pardon, Uncle Dick,’ replied Philip, a little
confused, but frankly admitting his inattention. ‘Madge did not seem to
be quite well when she came in just now, and I was thinking about her.’
‘Wool-gathering,’ said Uncle Dick with a hearty laugh. ‘Well, never
mind. I ought to have known better. What’s the use of talking about
prime fat cattle to a lad when he is sweethearting! I forgive you.’
Philip made an attempt to respond to the laugh; but it was not very
successful, and he was glad of the relief which the entrance of the
dame afforded him. In her quiet eyes, he fancied that there were signs
of disturbed thought.
‘What ails Madge?’ inquired Uncle Dick. ‘Here is Philip in a way about
her. She was well enough at dinner-time.’
‘She is out of sorts a bit, and wants to see Philip in the other room.’
‘Go to her lad; and if you have been amusing yourselves with a
tiff—why, buss and make it up.’
Philip scarcely heard the whole of this wise counsel, for he had darted
off the moment he heard that Madge wanted him.
But she was not in the room yet. So he stood watching the door, and
wondering what could be the meaning of this conduct, which would
have been singular on the part of any girl, but was most singular in
his eyes when it was the conduct of Madge. A headache was _not_ a
sufficient explanation of that frightened look on her face, and it was
still less a satisfactory explanation of her eager desire to get away
from him, when he had expected to be chidden for his long absence. What
could have happened, to account for it?
In all this wondering and questioning there was not the remotest shade
of jealousy. He loved her. She loved him; he trusted her absolutely.
His was the nature which gives absolute trust, and is incapable of
thinking that it might be betrayed. But this absolute trust is in a
keen-eyed, passionate nature a sort of windbag; and with the first
pin-prick of suspicion it collapses: all trust changes to all doubt. He
was still untouched by this demon. So he only wondered, and was sorry
for her.
Then she came in, looking so pale—haggard almost—and quite unlike
herself. She had made no attempt to conceal the fact that she had been
crying. She closed the door, held out her hands to him, avoiding his
eyes, and rested her head on his shoulder.
That was all right: she was not angry with him. He kissed the wet eyes
gratefully, and the lips. But she did not look at him or speak; and
although he wanted to say something soothing, he did not know how to
begin.
Presently he was startled by a low sobbing, and words came to him: ‘For
goodness’ sake, Madge, tell me what is the meaning of all this. Have I
done anything to vex you?’
She pressed his hands, to assure him that he had not; but she did not
speak.
‘Then what is it, my poor Madge? What can have upset you in this way?
Uncle Dick and Aunt Hessy are all right: I am all right; but I shall be
all wrong in a minute, if you will not show me how I am to make you
all right, like the rest of us.’
She raised her head slowly, wiped her eyes, and went to a chair by the
fire. No smile, no sign of relief, but a frown at the laughing flame
which rose from the burning log of wood. (That was one of Madge’s own
conceits, to have a homely log of wood for the evening fires.) Suddenly
she lay back on the chair with hands clasped on the top of her head.
‘I don’t know what to say to you, Philip.’
‘What about?’
‘About being so foolish.’
‘Tell me why you are so foolish, and then maybe some good fairy will
help me to tell you what you ought to say.’
He rested his elbow on the back of her chair and passed his hand
tenderly over her hot brow. Her lips tightened, then relaxed, and she
seemed to be on the point of crying again. With an effort, she overcame
this hysterical emotion.
‘Sit down, Philip, there, where I can see your face,’ she said; and the
voice was steady, although there were pauses between some of the words.
‘Will that do?’
He seated himself so that he could look at her face in the full light
of the fire.
‘No; turn to the fire, so that I can see you.’
He drew a hassock close to her chair, sat down on it, and looked up to
her so that the full reflection of the fire fell upon him.
‘Will that please you?’
She passed her hand timidly through his hair without looking at him.
‘I am half ashamed to tell you,’ she said huskily, ‘because I have done
something that you will be angry about.’
‘Come on with it, then, and let us get the angry part over as quickly
as possible, so that we may have the more time for enjoying ourselves.’
‘I always thought that I should never listen to anything which I might
not repeat to you, Philip,’ she said hesitatingly.
‘Well?’
‘This afternoon, I have listened to something which I have ... I _have_
promised not to tell you—yet.’
That little word ‘yet’ seemed to come in as a peacemaker; and Philip
felt that it was so. But he looked gravely at the merry fire for a few
minutes before he answered, and she now gazed anxiously into his face.
Then, he:
‘I don’t like the idea, Madge, and it would be nonsense to pretend that
I did. I should feel myself—well, we won’t say what; but my notion is
that our lives should be so much one that our acts should be clear to
each other, and our thoughts should be the same, as far as possible. I
am not so stupid as to imagine that we can always control our thoughts,
and think only what we _ought_ to think (what a weary world it would be
if we could!); but I believe that a man and woman who love each other
can, and ought to be honest in their thoughts, and should not keep one
which cannot be confided to the twin—twin—what shall I call it?—twin
spirit. There; that will do. Funny that I should be talking this way to
you, Madge—you have taught it to me.’
His upturned face still wore the frank, boyish expression which it
always assumed when he was with her.
Madge took her hand from his head and clasped it with the other round
her knees, whilst she stared into the fire.
‘It is Aunt Hessy who has taught us both that rule. I, too, believe in
it, and mean to follow it. But’——
She stopped, and the fright showed itself in her eyes again by the
clear light of the cheerful fire.
‘Why don’t you go on?’ he asked, after a moment of thoughtful silence.
‘Why are you so distressed? Does this confidence, or secret, concern
any of us?’
‘It concerns YOU—and I may not tell you what it is. That is why I am
troubled.’
And again she clasped hands over her head, as if to subdue its
throbbing.
He was thoughtful; and an expression appeared on his face, so like the
one often seen on his father’s, that Madge, whose nerves were quickened
by her pain, was startled. But he spoke kindly:
‘Have you told—or are you to tell—Aunt Hessy and Uncle Dick?’
‘No ... no ... no’ (this was like a moan). ‘I am not to tell them
either—not now, that is. By-and-by, you shall all know—you first,
Philip.... Don’t ask me any more questions. I wish I could have held
my tongue altogether—it would have spared you pain, perhaps. But I
could not do that. I thought you might blame me afterwards, and maybe
misunderstand many things that I may do. There is no wrong meant to any
one—no harm. You will see that, when it is explained.’
He rose slowly, and stood with his back to the fire, gazing at her.
‘Is not this foolish, Madge?’ he said sadly. ‘You see what a state
you have got into already over a matter which I have no doubt appears
to you innocent enough, and is very likely quite trifling in its
consequences to me or any one, except yourself. I can see you are going
to worry about it—I shall not—and I cannot guess why you should. At the
same time, it does not please me to think that you should accept any
confidence which you may not share with Aunt Hessy, if not with me.’
She looked at him with such sad eyes: no tears in them, but questioning
him, as if inspired by some distant thought, as yet only half
comprehended. Her voice, too, seemed to come from a distance.
‘I thought you would have trusted me, Philip. I hope you will, when you
know that my mother has to do with this promise I have given.’
He placed his hands on her shoulders.
‘I did not need that assurance, but am glad that you have told me so
much. I do trust you—so much, that if you had simply said you had
a secret which was not to be told to me yet a while, I should have
thought nothing about it. But when I see that this thing distresses you
and makes you ill—come, now, confess you would not have liked me to be
indifferent.’
She confessed:
‘No; I should not have liked you to be indifferent.’
‘Very well, then, you have heard—say, a riddle, about which you think
it right to hold your tongue meanwhile. I am content; for I know that
you would not hold your tongue if you thought that any harm was to come
of it to anybody. So, let it be, until you are ready to give us the
answer to this riddle.’
He stooped and kissed her.
‘Thank you, Philip. I am better now; but it did seem so terrible to
have to tell you that there was something’——
He put his hand playfully on her mouth, stopping her.
‘We are not going to say anything more about that. I have a lot of
things to tell you; and came here in fear and trembling that you would
be scolding me roundly for my long absence. But I see you have not
missed me so much.’
Something of her bright smile returned as she shook her head
disapprovingly.
‘You know that I have missed you very much, or you would not have said
that. But I knew that you were busy with the work which is to make your
name a blessed one all over the world. How I should like to be by your
side helping you!’
‘You can be, whenever you choose. Why not at once? Although Uncle
Shield says he would prefer that I should not marry for a year, I
refused to give any promise on that subject, and am free to please you
and myself.’
‘No, no; I have told you that my ideas are the same as Mr Shield’s. You
must be quite free to set your plans in good working order before you
tie yourself down to me. For you know I shall require such a heap of
attention and looking after!’
And the eyes which had been for a second clouded when he pleaded again
for their early union, opened upon him with that gentle light which
could lead him anywhere. And so he yielded, allowing the subject of
greatest import to their future to be put aside once more for matters
of the moment. He told her first with what forbearance his father had
acted, and how wisely he had dealt with his fortune.
‘I did expect to have a bad time with him; but he was kinder to me than
ever, and has done exactly what I should have asked him to do if he had
consulted me beforehand. I am proud of him, and believe that he will be
the first to hold out the hand of friendship, when I come to my grand
scene of reconciliation between him and my uncle.—What is the matter
with you? Why did you start?’
‘A chill—don’t mind it, please. I do hope you will manage to bring them
together in friendship. You know I have as much interest in it as you
now.’
‘That is as it ought to be. I am sure that the governor would give in;
but Shield passes all my powers of understanding. He won’t speak like a
sensible man to me, and yet he writes like a philosopher—at least as if
he took real interest in what I am doing, and wished me to succeed.’
‘Why do you not write to him about your father?’
‘Because I am keeping that part of my work in hand until I can pounce
upon both of them, and make them feel so ashamed, that they will not
be able to say no when I say, and you say with me—Shake hands. We will
manage it, you and I. Won’t we?’
‘I will try to do my part.’
She spoke low, and her thoughts seemed to reach into the future and the
past farther than those of her lover. She seemed to feel that her part
was a much heavier one than he imagined.
‘For that, of course, we must watch our opportunity, and be ready to
seize it when it comes. I know you will not fail, and hope I shall not.
But there is another thing I want you to do at once.’
‘What is that?’
‘To bring old Culver into a Christian frame of mind regarding Caleb
Kersey. You will manage that by proving to him what a fortune Kersey is
going to make as my foreman. I am sure he will do well, and sure too
that Pansy will be a lucky woman to have such a husband.’
‘I think she would be; and for a time believed that she thought so too.
But lately—I do not know why—I have had a suspicion that Pansy does not
care so much for Caleb as she used to do.’
‘Oh—h,’ is the simplest representation of the long-drawn sound emitted
by Philip, with many modulations before it passed into silence. It
suggested surprise, curiosity, and suspicion, combined with a degree
of uneasiness. ‘Surely it is not possible that Pansy, who has always
appeared to me the model of an innocent country girl, has been only
making fun of this sturdy fellow? Can she have taken any other man into
her mind? If she has, it will turn the poor chap topsy-turvy.’
‘Has he said anything to you about her?’
‘No; but I could see the whole thing when we were working at the church
decorations. If ever any man was ready to die for a woman, Caleb feels
that way towards Pansy. I hope she is not a fool.’
The last phrase was uttered with an excess of energy which the occasion
did not seem to demand.
‘How could you suppose that?’
‘Because she is a woman,’ he replied, with forced audacity and an
awkward smile. ‘Why do you suppose that she is changed?’
‘You cannot have noticed her lately, or you would not require to ask.
She has grown pale and nervous and forgets what she is told—blushes and
grows white without any reason.’
‘All that fits in exactly with my suspicion,’ said Philip seriously;
‘she has seen somebody else who has caught her fancy more than Kersey,
and she is either afraid or ashamed to own it.’
Madge looked surprised.
‘I never knew you to be so uncharitable, Philip. Can you not imagine
any other cause for her unhappy state?’
‘No.’ He could not bring himself to say: ‘I have seen my brother Coutts
talking to her in a way which I should call flirting if she had been
a girl with a good dowry at her back. I know that he will require
substantial compensation for the surrender of his bachelorhood.’
‘It might be so,’ said Madge reflectively; ‘but my idea was that she
had been so worried by her father, that she had come to wish Caleb
would keep away, and was too shy to tell him frankly.’
‘Perhaps it is so; and maybe it would be best that we should not
interfere. At the same time, I think old Culver should have a hint that
in standing in Kersey’s way he is doing his daughter an injury that he
may be sorry for by-and-by. You might do that without risk of hurting
anybody.’
‘Yes; and if Pansy gives me an opportunity, I shall tell her what you
think about Caleb.’
‘And about his prospects—don’t forget that with both of them. I told
her this afternoon, when passing, that there was good news coming to
her, and there could be no better angel than you to carry it.’
‘Philip!’
‘I didn’t tell her that last bit, of course; but I thought it.’
She was not angry; and he sat down on the hassock again. Then they laid
their heads together, and saw beautiful visions of the future in the
bright fire. To him the path was like one long golden sunbeam; but she
saw many motes in it—some of them big ones—although she said nothing at
all about them to him.
She was striving hard to make him forget the opening part of their
interview, and to send him away with a feeling of contentment in the
belief that she was happy, so that he might go on with his great work
undisturbed by any anxiety on her account. She felt that it was a
great work, and that she must do everything in her power to lift the
bars to its accomplishment out of the way. He had shown himself in two
characters to-night—the loving, light-hearted boy and—when he stood up
with that thoughtful face which reminded her of his father—the earnest
and sharpsighted man.
She was not clear as to which side of his character she liked most; but
they were both hers, and it was a relief to feel that if trial came to
them, he could be resolute and considerate.
So she did her best to hide the fatigue which worry had brought upon
her; and for a time she was completely successful.
Suddenly he jumped up.
‘How stupid I am, Madge!’ he exclaimed in irritation with himself.
‘What is the matter now?’
‘You—why, you are as tired as can be, and ought to have been off to bed
long ago. I began by trying to get you to think of something pleasant,
so as to drive off the blue fit that was on you, and then in my own
enjoyment forgot how weary you must be. I am going away at once.’
She relieved him with a laugh; it was a delight to feel that they had
been both inspired by the same good thought.
‘I am glad you did not go sooner, Philip,’ she said, standing up, her
hands clasped round his neck. ‘Do you know that, to-night, you have
made me feel what I thought was impossible?’
‘That must be worth knowing. What is it?’
‘That I care more for you than ever,’ she whispered, as she rested her
brow on his shoulder.
A pause, as his arms tightened round her—his heart in his throat. Then,
as people do in accepting the greatest benefactions, trying to hide
with a laugh what they, from the hard teachings of stoic philosophers,
have come to regard as the foolish weakness of tears of joy.
‘I was not sure for a minute whether to be glad or sorry for that,
Madge. But of course it is right. What is it Othello says—or wishes?
Something about love growing as years go on. That’s how it will be with
us.’
‘I think so—I believe so. But you must not quote Othello. He killed his
love because he had no true faith in it.’
‘But then he was a nigger, and I am not. All right. I won’t mention the
gentleman again. I shall be here to-morrow.’
‘Very well. Go to Uncle Dick now and help him in my place. He has some
papers to fill up, and I intended to do them to-night. He will be
disappointed if they are not done.’
‘Now, there is a real good girl,’ said Philip, delighted. ‘I like you
best when you are asking me to do something for you.’
* * * * *
When he entered the oak parlour, Aunt Hessy was at one side of the
fire, knitting. Uncle Dick was at the other, puffing with the vigour
of impatience unusually large clouds from his churchwarden, whilst he
stared at a blue foolscap paper. On the table were a mass of other
papers, which were tossed about as if somebody had been trying to get
them into as confused a mass as possible.
‘Where’s Madge?’ he ejaculated as soon as Philip appeared. ‘You’ve kept
her long enough for once in a way, Philip. I am getting into a regular
passion with all these rules and restrictions.’
‘Let me fill a pipe, and I shall be ready to take Madge’s place.’
‘You!’ was the mirthfully contemptuous exclamation. ‘You don’t know
anything about the things, and nobody can take her place.’