THE SIGNOR’S HOUSEHOLD.
The Despard family became a great centre of interest to many people both
within and without the Abbey precincts at this period of their history.
Without any doing, so to speak, of theirs, Fate mixed them up both with
the great and the small, so that their proceedings moved a great many
circles of thought and feeling beyond that in which they themselves
stood. We have said without any doing of theirs--but this, perhaps, is
true only in respect to Lottie, who took no steps consciously to produce
the _rapprochement_ which had taken place so strangely between the
heaven of the Deanery and the earth of the Lodges. She had not done
anything to recommend herself to Lady Caroline or Lady Caroline’s
nephew. And yet with both she had become an important “factor,” to use a
fashionable term, in the immediate concerns of life. The Captain was not
so innocent of purpose in the commotion he had begun to make. But still
he had not calculated upon the interest that would be excited by his
proceedings. The community at St. Michael’s was quiet and had little to
rouse its interest. Sometimes a Canon would be translated to a higher
and a better stall--sometimes an old Chevalier would die and be replaced
by another veteran not much less old than he--sometimes a son would “go
wrong” and create a great deal of whispered communication and shaking of
heads. At the present time there were no daughters to marry except
Lottie, so that the pleasanter strain of possibility was little thought
of. All this made it very inspiring, very agitating to the dwellers
round the Abbey, when a family within the precincts gave them so much to
think about. A girl likely to make a very good match in a romantic way:
a man likely to make a very bad one, in a way which might have been
quite as romantic had it not been on the wrong side, such as would
debase, not exalt his class; these two probabilities coming together had
a great effect upon the popular mind. In the Chevaliers’ Lodges there
was very little else talked about. Captain Temple, the most respected of
all the Chevaliers, could not keep still, so excited was he. He had
spoken to “the father,” he told his wife, to put him on his guard, and
to show him how necessary it was to take proper care of his child. That
was all he could do: but he could not content himself with thus doing
what he could. He paced about his little sitting-room, disturbing Mrs.
Temple at her wool-work. She was not like her husband. She was a still,
composed, almost stern woman, with a passionate heart, to which she gave
very little expression. She could not talk of her daughter as Captain
Temple could. The remembrance of the years during which her child was
separated from her was terrible to her. When her husband talked as he
was accustomed to do of this great grief of theirs, she never stopped
him, but she herself was dumb. She closed all her windows, as it were,
and retired into a fortress of silent anguish, out of which no cry came;
but she listened to him all the same. This was what she did now, though
it pained her to hear of this other girl who stood between life and
death, between good and evil, as once her child had stood. She would
have helped Lottie with all her heart, but she could not bear to hear
her talked of--though this was precisely what she had to bear.
“I told him it was his duty to look after his daughter,” said Captain
Temple, pacing--three steps one way, four the other--about the room.
“But he won’t--you will see he won’t. A beautiful girl, far too good for
him, a girl who deserves a better fate. She puts me in mind of our own
dear girl, Lucy. I have told you so before.”
To this Mrs. Temple made no reply. He had told her so a great many times
before. She selected a new shade of her Berlin wool, and set her elbow
rigidly against the arm of her chair, that she might thread her needle
without trembling, but she made no reply.
“She puts me constantly in mind of her. The way she holds her head, and
her walk, and---- I beg your pardon, my dear. I know you don’t like this
kind of talk; but if you knew how I seem to see her wherever I
go--wherever I go! I wonder if she is permitted to come and walk by her
old father’s side, God bless her. Ah! well, it was Despard’s daughter we
were talking of. To think _he_ should have this girl who takes no care
of her--and we to whom ours was everything!”
The poor woman made a spasmodic movement, and turned her eyes upon him
dumbly. She could not bear it. The needle fell out of her hands, and she
stooped to hunt for it on the carpet. She would not stop him to whom it
was so great a relief to talk; but it was death to her.
“But I told him,” said Captain Temple. “I showed him his duty, Lucy. I
told him he ought to be thankful he had such a daughter to watch over.
And what more could I do? I set the whole thing before him. There was
nothing more that I could do?”
“Then you must be satisfied, William, and perhaps it will have some
effect; we must wait and see,” said Mrs. Temple, coming to the surface
again with her needle, which she had found, in her hand. She managed to
get it threaded this time with great exertion, while her husband set off
again upon his restricted promenade, shaking his white head. Captain
Temple, it may be recollected, had not said so much to Captain Despard
as he thought he had said--but if he had said everything that man could
say it is not probable that it would have made much difference. The kind
old Chevalier shook his white head. His eyes were full of moisture and
his heart of tenderness. He did not feel willing to wait and see, as his
wife suggested. He wanted to do something there and then for Lottie, to
go to her and warn her, to keep watch at her door, and prevent the
entrance of the wolf--anything, he did not mind what it was so long as
he could secure her safety.
The other subject was discussed that same evening in another and very
different scene, when Mrs. Purcell, the Signor’s housekeeper, asked her
old fellow-servant, Pickering, what news there was in the precincts, and
if anything was stirring. It was the most delicious moment for a gossip,
when tea was over in the kitchen, and dinner upstairs, and twilight was
beginning to drop over the country, bringing quiet and coolness after
the blaze of the day. Mrs. Purcell sat by the open window, which was cut
in the very boundary wall of the Abbey precincts, as in the side of a
precipice. It was not safe for anyone of uncertain nerves to look
straight down upon the slope of St. Michael’s Hill, on which the walls
were founded, and on the steep street winding below. But Mrs. Purcell
had her nerves in the most steady and well-regulated condition. She was
not afraid to sit at the head of the precipice, and even to look out and
look down when the shop windows began to be lighted. She liked to see
the lights coming out below. It was cheerful and felt like “company”
when she sat alone. Old Pickering had just come in after an errand into
the town. He was the man-servant, while she was the housekeeper, but the
work of the establishment was chiefly done by a sturdy young woman who
was under the orders of both.
“News--I don’t know much about news,” said old Pick. “It wants young
folks to make news; and there ain’t many of that sort about here.”
“Dear!” said Mrs. Purcell (but it must not be supposed that this
exclamation meant any special expression of affection to old Pickering).
“There’s heaps of young folks! There’s the Signor, and there’s my
John----”
“Master? you may call him young, if it don’t go again your
conscience--my notion is as he never was no younger than he is now. So
you may put what name to it you please. But you don’t ask me for news of
master, nor Mr. John neither--him, oh ah, there’ll be news of him one of
these days. He’ll get a cathedral, or he’ll be had up to London. We’ll
see him, with his baton in his hand, afore the biggest chorus as can be
got together; and won’t he lead ’em grand!” said old Pick. “When he was
but a little thing in his white surplice I seen it in his eye.”
“You were always one that did my John justice,” said the housekeeper,
warmly. “Just to think of it, Pick--one day a bit of a mite in his
surplice, and the next, as you may say, with his baton, leading the
chief in the land! We bring children into the world, but we can’t tell
what’s to come of them,” she added, with pious melancholy. “Them as is
fortunate shouldn’t be proud. The young men as I’ve seen go to the bad
since I’ve been here!”
“That should be a real comfort to you,” said Pickering, and they paused
both, to take full advantage of this consolation. Then, drawing a long
breath, Mrs. Purcell resumed--
“And so it should, Pick--when I see my boy that respectable, and as good
as any gentleman’s son, and reflect on what I’ve seen! But pride’s not
for the like of us--seeing the Lord can bring us low as fast as He’s set
us up.” The good woman dropped her voice, with that curious dread lest
envious fate should take her satisfaction amiss, which seems inherent in
humanity. As for old Pick, sentiment was not in his way. He took up a
little old-fashioned silver salver which stood on the table with some
notes upon it, waiting the sound of the Signer’s bell, and began to
polish it with his handkerchief. “Them girls,” he said, “there’s no
trust to be put in them. The times I’ve told her to be careful with my
plate. She says she haven’t the time, but you and me knows better than
that. What is there to do in this house? We gives no trouble, and as for
master, he’s dining out half his time.”
“She’ll find the difference,” said Mrs. Purcell, “when she’s under a
lady. There’s many a thing I does myself. Instead of calling Maryanne
till I’m hoarse, I takes and does it myself; but a lady will never do
that. Ah, Pick, it’s experience as teaches. They don’t put any faith in
what we tell them; and her head full of soldiers, and I don’t know
what--as if a soldier ever brought anything but harm to a servant girl.”
“They are all alike,” said old Pick. “There’s them Despards in the
Lodges--all the Abbey’s talking of them. The Captain--you know the
Captain? the one as sings out as if it all belonged to him--though he’s
neither tenor, nor alto, nor bass, but a kind of a jumble, and as often
as not sings the air!” said the old chorister, with contempt which was
beyond words. Mrs. Purcell looked upon the Captain from another point of
view.
“He’s a fine handsome man,” she said. “He looks like a lord when he
comes marching up the aisle, not an old Methusaleh, like most of ’em.”
“Ah!” cried Pickering, with a groan, “that’s the way the women are led
away. He’s a fine fellow, he is! oh, yes, he’s like a lord, with bills
in every shop in the town, and not a penny to pay ’em.”
“Them shops!” said Mrs. Purcell. “I don’t wonder, if a gentleman’s of a
yielding disposition. They offer you this, and they offer you that, and
won’t take an answer. It’s their own fault. They didn’t ought to put
their temptations in folk’s way. It’s like dodging a bait about a poor
fish’s nose; and then swearing it will make up lovely, and be far more
becoming than what you’ve got on. I think it’s scandalous, for my part.
They deserve to lose their money now and again.”
“They say he’s going to be married,” said old Pick, stolidly.
“Married! You’re dreaming, Pick! Lord bless us,” said Mrs. Purcell,
“that’s news, that is! Married? I don’t believe a word of it; at his
age!”
“You said just now he wasn’t a Methusaleh, and no more he is; he’s a
fine handsome man. He thinks a deal of himself, and that’s what makes
other folks think a deal of him. The women’s as bad as the shops,” said
old Pick; “they bring it on themselves. Here’s a man as is never out of
mischief. I’ve seen him regularly coming home--well--none the better for
his liquor; and gamblin’ day and night, playing billiards, betting, I
don’t know what. We all know what that comes to; and a grown-up family
besides----”
“Dear!” said Mrs. Purcell, in great concern. She knew a good deal about
Miss Despard, and her feelings were very mingled in respect to her. In
the first place, to know that her John was in love with _a lady_
flattered and excited her, and had made her very curious about Lottie,
every detail of whose looks, and appearance generally, she had studied.
A Chevalier’s daughter might not be any very great thing; but it was a
wonderful rise in the world for Mrs. Purcell’s son to be able to permit
himself to fall in love with such a person. On the other hand, Miss
Despard was poor, and might interfere with John’s chance of rising in
the world. But anyhow, everything about her was deeply interesting to
John’s mother. She paused to think what effect such a change would have
upon her son before she asked any further questions. What would Miss
Despard do? It was not likely she would care for a stepmother after
being used to be mistress of the house--would she be ready to accept
anyone that asked her, in order to get “a home of her own”? And would
John insist upon marrying her? and would he be able to keep a wife?
These questions all hurried through Mrs. Purcell’s mind on receipt of
this startling news. “Dear! dear!” she said--and for a long time it was
all she could say. The interests were so mixed that she did not know
what to desire. Now or never, perhaps, was the time for John to secure
the wife he wanted; but even in that case, would it be right for him to
marry? Mrs. Purcell did not know what to think. “Did you hear who the
lady was?” she asked, in a faint voice.
“Lady?--no lady at all--a girl that works for her living. I know her
well enough by sight. One of the dressmaker’s girls in the River Lane.
Ladies is silly enough, but not so silly as that; though I don’t know
neither,” said old Pick, “what women-folks will do for a husband is
wonderful. They’ll face the world for a husband. It don’t matter what
sort he is, nor if he’s worth having----”
“They haven’t took that trouble for you, anyhow,” said Mrs. Purcell
faintly, standing up amid her preoccupations for her own side.
“I’ve never given ’em the chance,” said Pick, with a chuckle. “Lord
bless you! they’ve tried a plenty, but I’ve never given ’em the chance.
Many’s the story I could tell you. They’ve done their best, poor things.
Some has been that enterprising, I never could keep in the same room
with ’em. But I’ve kep’ single, and I’ll keep single till my dying day.
So will master, if I can judge. There’s some has the way of it, and some
hasn’t. It would be a clever one,” said old Pickering, caressing his
chin with an astute smile, “to get the better of me.”
The housekeeper threw at him a glance of mingled indignation and
derision. She gave her head a toss. It was not possible for feminine
flesh and blood to hear this unmoved. “You’re so tempting,” she said,
with angry energy. “’Andsome and well to do, and worth a woman’s while.”
“Bless you, they don’t stick at that,” said the old man with a grin. “I
could tell you of things as has happened--some to myself--some to other
folks----”
“Dear!” cried Mrs. Purcell, “and me to think you were an old stick of an
old bachelor, because nobody would have you, Pick! There’s some, as a
body reads it in their face--as dry as an east wind, and cutting like an
east wind does, that is never happy but when it’s blighting up
something. I daresay it’s all a story about Captain Despard--just like
the rest.”
“None of ’em likes it, when you speak free,” said old Pick, chuckling to
himself. “Some pretends, just to please a man; but women does hang
together, whoever says different, and they none of them likes to hear
the truth. About Captain Despard, it’s a story if you please, but it’s
true. The girl she makes no secret, she tells everybody as she’ll soon
make a difference in the house. She’ll pack off the son to do for
himself, and the daughter----”
“What of the daughter, Pick? Oh, the shameless hussy, to talk like that
of a poor motherless young girl----”
“If she wasn’t motherless, what would Polly have to do with her? It
can’t be expected as a second wife should cry her eyes out because the
first’s gone.”
“Polly!” said Mrs. Purcell, with bated breath; “and she says she’ll pack
the son about his business; and the daughter?--What is she going to do
about the daughter, when she’s got the poor misfortunate man under her
thumb? And who’s Polly, that you know so much about her? She’s a pretty
kind of acquaintance, so far as I can see, for a man as considers
himself respectable, and comes out of a gentleman’s house.”
“That’s the other side,” said Pick, still chuckling to himself. “I said
women hangs together. So they do, till you come to speak of one in
particular, and then they fly at her. I don’t know nothing against
Polly. If the Captain’s in love with her, it ain’t her fault; if she
wants to better herself, it’s no more than you or me would do in her
place. She’s as respectable as most of the folks I know. To work for
your living ain’t a disgrace.”
“It’s no disgrace; but a stepmother that is a dressmaking girl will be
something new to Miss Despard. Oh, I can’t smile! A dressmaker as----
And young, I suppose, like herself? Oh, trust a man for that; she’s sure
to be young. Poor thing, poor thing! I’m that sorry for her, I can’t
tell what to do. A lady, Pick; they may be poor, but I’ve always heard
there was no better gentlefolks anywhere to be found. And a woman that
the likes of you calls Polly. Oh, that’s enough, that’s enough for me! A
nice, good, respectable girl, that knows what’s her due--you don’t call
_her_ Polly. Polly--there’s a deal in a name.”
“Aha!” said old Pick, rubbing his hands, “I knew as soon as I named one
in particular what you would say. Fly at her, that’s what all you women
do. A name is neither here nor there. I’ve known as good women called
Polly as was ever christened Mary; eh? ain’t they the same name? I had a
sister Polly; I had a----”
“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Purcell, softly. She was paying no attention to
him; her mind was much disturbed. She turned away instinctively from the
gathering gloom of evening in which her old companion stood, and cast
her anxious eyes upon the wide landscape outside--the sky between grey
and blue, the lights beginning to twinkle far down in the steep street.
There was something in the great space and opening which seemed to give
counsel and support in her perturbation. For she did not know what to do
for the best. At such a moment would not John have a better chance than
he might ever have? And yet, if he got his heart’s desire, was it quite
certain that it would be good for John? The Signor’s housekeeper was
just as anxious about her boy as if she had been a great lady. Twinges
of maternal jealousy, no doubt, went through her mind. If John married,
he would be separated from his mother, and his wife would look down upon
her and teach him to despise her--a mother who was in service. What
could she expect if her son married a lady? All these thoughts went
through her mind as she looked out with anxiety, which drew deep lines
upon her forehead. But, on the whole, she was not selfish, and
considered it all anxiously, ready to make any sacrifice for that which
in the long run would be most good for John.
In the meantime old Pickering talked on. When he was set a-going it was
difficult to bring him to a stop. He was quite aware that at the present
moment he ought not to stay there talking; he knew he ought to be
lighting the lamps, and kept listening with expectant ear for a sharp
tinkle of the Signor’s bell, which should warn him of his retarded
duties. But for all that he talked on. Dinner was over for some time,
and Pick knew very well that he ought to carry in the notes which he had
piled again upon the salver after giving it that polish with his
handkerchief. However, though he knew his duty, he took no steps towards
performing it, but moved leisurely about, and put various articles back
into the old polished cupboard with glass doors, which showed all the
best china, and was the pride of Mrs. Purcell’s heart. When Maryanne
came in, he emptied the salver again and showed her how imperfectly she
had cleaned it. “I can’t think how folks can be so stupid,” Pickering
said. “How do you think you are ever to better yourself if you don’t
take a lesson when it’s giv’ you? and proud you should be that anyone
would take the trouble. If I see it like this again I’ll--I don’t know
what I shan’t do.” He knew very well that it was what ought to have been
his own work that he was thus criticising, and, as it happened, so did
Maryanne, whose spirit was working up to a determination not to be
longer put upon. But for all that he found fault, (always waiting to
hear the bell ringing sharply, with a quaver of impatience in it,) and
she submitted, though she was aware that she was being put upon. Mrs.
Purcell, in the window, paid no attention to them. She kept gazing out
upon the wide world of grey-blue clouds, and asking herself what would
be best for John.
They were disturbed in all these occupations by a step which came
briskly downstairs, perhaps betokening, Pickering thought, that the
Signor was going out again, and that his own delay about the lamps had
been a wise instinct. But, after all, it was not the Signor’s step; it
was young Purcell, who came along the little winding passage full of
corners, and entered the housekeeper’s room, scattering the little party
assembled there. Maryanne fled as a visitor from the outer world flies
from the chamber of a servant of the court, at the advent of the queen.
Though she would assure herself sometimes that Mrs. Purcell’s son was
“no better nor me,” yet in his presence Maryanne recognised the
difference. He was “the young master” even in Pick’s eyes, who stopped
talking, and put the notes back once more upon the salver with a great
air of business, as if in the act of hastening with them to the Signor.
Mrs. Purcell was the only one who received her son with tranquillity.
She turned her eyes upon him quietly, with a smile, with a serene pride
which would not have misbecome an empress. No one in the house, not the
Signor himself, had ascended to such a height of being as the
housekeeper; no one else had produced such a son.
“Go and light the candles in the study, Pick,” said young Purcell. “The
Signor is in the dark, and he’s composing. Quick and carry him the
lights. Don’t bother him with those letters now. He is doing something
beautiful,” he said, turning to his mother. “There’s a phrase in it I
never heard equalled. He has been sitting out on the terrace getting
inspiration. I must run back and keep old Pick from disturbing him,
making a noise----”
“Stay a moment, Johnny, my own dear----”
“What’s the matter, mother? Oh, I know; you’ve heard of this last offer.
But if I take any I’ll take St. Ermengilde’s, where I could still go on
living at home, the Signor says. It’s less money, but so long as I can
help him and see _her_ now and again, and please you----”
“Ah, John, your mother’s last; but that’s natural,” said Mrs. Purcell,
shaking her head, “quite natural. I don’t complain. Is it another organ
you’ve got the offer of? Well, to be sure! and there are folks that say
merit isn’t done justice to! John, I’ve been hearing something,” said
the housekeeper, putting out her hand to draw him to her; “something as
perhaps you ought to know.”
The young man looked at her eagerly. In this place he bore a very
different aspect from that under which he had appeared to Lottie. Here
it was he who was master of the situation, the centre of a great many
hopes and wishes. He looked at her closely in the dusk, which made it
hard to see what was in her face. He was a good son, but he was his
mother’s social superior, and there was a touch of authority, even in
the kindness of his voice.
“Something I ought to know? I know it already: that Mr. Ridsdale has
been visiting at the Lodges. That is nothing so extraordinary. If you
think a little attention from a fashionable fop will outweigh the
devotion of years!” said the young man, with a flush of high-flown
feeling. He had a great deal of sentiment and not very much education,
and naturally he was high-flown. “People may say what they like,” he
went on in an agitated voice, “but merit does carry the day. They’ve
offered me St. Ermengilde over the heads of half-a-dozen. Is it
possible, can you suppose, that she should be so blind!”
“That wasn’t it,” said Mrs. Purcell quietly; “it’s something quite
different, my dear. Shut the door, that we mayn’t have old Pick coming
in again (it was he that told me), and you shall hear.”
END OF VOL. I.
COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
VOL. 1824.
WITHIN THE PRECINCTS BY MRS. OLIPHANT.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
WITHIN
THE PRECINCTS
BY
MRS. OLIPHANT,
AUTHOR OF “THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” ETC.
_COPYRIGHT EDITION._
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1879.
_The Right of Translation is reserved._
CONTENTS
OF VOLUME II.
Page