BARLEY WOOD.
Great preparations were made in the Vicar's Close at Wells for
Charlotte's visit to Barley Wood. Her aunt gave her orders as to what
she was to wear every day; how she was to be sure to make a proper
curtsey at the door of the drawing-room when she entered Mrs. More's
presence; that she was to play on the piano, and exhibit the screens she
had just painted; and if Mrs. More admired them, she was to beg her to
do her the favour to accept them.
"Do not let Joyce commit herself by any rustic manners; you who have
been carefully educated, my dear Charlotte, must try to do me credit,
and give Joyce a hint--"
"Joyce is so lovely!" Charlotte exclaimed, "it scarcely matters what she
says, or wears."
"My dear, Joyce has no _style_, and is given to express herself too
freely; and, I _think_, her voice is sometimes pitched in too high a
key. Yours is gentle and well modulated; now do me credit at Barley
Wood, Charlotte; I have taken so much pains to form you on the model of
a true gentlewoman; and you must remember how many girls would think it
a great honour to pay a visit to Mrs. Hannah More."
Charlotte promised to do her best; and when her uncle called to take her
to the "Swan," where the four-wheel was waiting, she was in a flutter of
excitement.
Mr. Falconer greeted his sister in his usual frank kindly manner; and
while Charlotte ran upstairs to get ready, Miss Falconer said:
"I am glad to hear Melville is gone."
The squire sighed.
"Yes, he is gone, and his mother finds it hard to part from him."
"Hard to part from him! Really, Arthur, when one considers how much
anxiety he has caused, I wonder you should say that."
"Ah! Letitia, that is all very well; but mothers' hearts are the same,
whether their sons are good or bad. It seems to me that mothers
generally love the children best, that give them the most trouble.
However, the poor fellow is gone, bag and baggage. I went to Bath with
him, and delivered him over to Mr. Crawford, a steady-going man he
seems, and Melville will not have a chance of getting into mischief
under his care, I hope. But it is an expensive matter. I had to put a
hundred pounds into Crawford's keeping as a start; besides twenty I gave
Melville."
"You ought not to have given him more than five pounds," Miss Falconer
said. "The whole management of Melville has been a mistake."
"So you have told me before," said the squire. "My dear Letitia, single
women always think they know a great deal about the affairs of married
people, and, as experience is wanting, they commonly know nothing."
"I have long since given up arguing the point with you, Arthur; however,
let us say no more. I only hope that Melville may return a changed
character, and then you will not regret this outlay for him. I only wish
Joyce had some of the money spent on _her_."
"Joyce!" the squire exclaimed--a smile breaking over his fine face;
"Joyce! all the money in the world could not improve her. She is my joy
and comfort. I half grudge letting her go to Barley Wood, even for a
short visit."
"You ought to be glad that she has had such an invitation; and, really,
you have to thank me for it, Arthur. I take such a deep interest in
Joyce. I have often tried to put before you what she needs, and now I
have great hope that Mrs. More may suggest some plan for her."
The squire began to feel very impatient; his sister's interest in his
children was undoubted, but he did not want to have it perpetually
brought before him. Miss Falconer had an unfortunate habit of sounding
her own excellencies, especially with regard to her nieces and nephews.
Then there were often little side hits at his wife; and it is always
hard for a man like the squire, to be reminded that his sisters do not
consider his wife their equal in the social scale, and the nearer the
truth the less palatable is the assertion of it.
"Is not Charlotte ready?" he exclaimed. "Joyce will be waiting at
Draycot, where we are to pick her up. Thomas was to drive her there with
her box, as he had an errand at Farmer Scott's."
"In what did Joyce drive?"
"In the gig; and Joyce likes to pay Mrs. Scott, who is a sad cripple, a
visit sometimes, so it all fitted in very well. Come Charlotte, my
dear," he said, turning to his niece. "We shall find the four-wheel at
the 'Swan,' and I've the ostler at the Close gate waiting to take your
luggage. Two boxes! Joyce only took one."
"Charlotte was obliged to have a bonnet-box," her aunt said. "Her
Tuscan bonnet would have been ruined with the dust if she had worn it."
The squire was already in the little lobby, and, cutting short
good-byes, he strode down the Close, while Charlotte ran back twice, to
kiss her aunt and say in a tearful voice:
"I cannot endure to leave you, sweet auntie."
"Good-bye, my treasure, good-bye," Miss Falconer repeated again and
again, and very genuine tears were on her own cheeks. They were a very
demonstrative pair, and, as we should say in these days, "gushed" over
each other, but real love did underlie the fanciful expression of it;
and Miss Falconer looked on Charlotte with the pride that a modeller in
plastic clay, looks upon the work of his hands, and remembers how
carefully every detail has been wrought out, and how, in spite of a
little flaw here and there, the result is satisfactory.
Joyce was watching for her father at the door of Mr. Scott's farm, and
came running down the garden between the lavender bushes and high
shrub-fuschias, which were glowing scarlet in the sunshine.
The squire waved his hand to the farmer's wife, who, crippled with
rheumatism, could not leave her seat in the porch to come towards him. A
farmboy lifted Joyce's box to the back seat, where she soon mounted
with a quick, alert spring, and then, with a shilling handed to the boy,
the squire drove off.
Joyce's heart sank a little when they turned in at the gates of Barley
Wood.
"Are you coming in with us, father?"
"No, no, my dear; I must get back as fast as I can. It is a good many
miles for Mavis at a stretch."
They drew up at the door, and an old servant answered the ringing of the
bell, which Joyce had jumped down to pull by a handle, made of a deer's
foot. The servant's face was not very pleasant, and a forbidding looking
woman called out:
"Company! yes, there's nothing but company. There's no rest from it."
The boxes were taken down, and the squire, unwilling to prolong the
parting, which he felt more keenly than he cared to own, waved his whip,
and saying "Good bye, my Sunshine, good-bye," drove off.
"This way," the woman said, passing across the hall and opening the door
of a low, pretty room, sweet with that scent of rose leaves and
lavender, which always belonged to the atmosphere of a country house
long ago. It was an aroma in which many scents blended, with no very
great strength--a fragrance which dwells in the memory amongst the
pleasant things of early days.
There was nothing very striking about Barley Wood; it was simply a
pretty country residence--a place to live and die in. There was an air
of tranquility about it, and an absence of anything like fashion or
show, which was very refreshing.
Miss Frowde rose to greet the two girls, and, saying that Mrs. More
would see them after dinner, she led them to two rooms at the back of
the house, near the servants' quarters.
"The house will be full next week for the Bible meeting at Wrington, so
we thought you would not object to these rooms. I hope you will be
comfortable."
The rooms opened out of each other, and were very plain in their
furniture. Joyce, accustomed to her mother's scrupulous care about every
little detail, noticed that the counterpane on her bed was a good deal
rumpled, and there were rims of dust on the bosses of the old-fashioned
round mirror. Evidently the servants at Barley Wood had not taken much
trouble about the guests.
Indeed, the shameful neglect of Mrs. More's servants, and their bad
conduct, had even then been canvassed by outsiders, though the old lady
herself was perfectly unconscious of it.
The ingratitude of her servants, whom she had spoiled with such
excessive indulgence, was a dark cloud over Hannah More's last days, and
sent her forth at last, with all the weight of her years upon her, to
seek a new home, and turn her back on Barley Wood for ever.
The girls made a quick toilette and then went down, linked arm in arm,
to the dining room, where Miss Frowde awaited them.
The beautiful valley in which Wrington lies, stretched out before the
windows, and the range of hills which enclosed it were shining in the
full light of the July afternoon.
Miss Frowde was not very conversational; she asked a few common-place
questions, to which Joyce exerted herself to reply, but Charlotte took
refuge in silence; she was far too much occupied with considering what
impression she was making, to talk easily and naturally, as her cousin
did.
"I dare say you would like a turn in the grounds, after dinner," Miss
Frowde said, "and I will inquire when dear Mrs. More would like to see
you. It will only be one at a time; she is husbanding her strength for
the Bible meeting, when seventeen or eighteen friends will dine here."
Presently one of the maid servants came into the room.
"Mrs. More wishes to see Miss _Fork_ner, and I was to say that the other
might go into the village with you, Miss Frowde, if she pleased."
"You had better go immediately," Miss Frowde said to Joyce. "Dear Mrs.
More does not like to be kept waiting."
Joyce rose at once and followed the maid to a small sitting room, where
Mrs. More was seated in a deep armchair.
A large table was near her, covered with books and papers, and a small
fire burned upon the hearth.
Joyce felt as if she were going into the presence of royalty, and far
more in awe of Mrs. More, than she had done when offering her the milk
at the carriage door, before Fair Acres.
Indeed Hannah More had a certain queenly dignity about her, and the
reflection of those palmy days when she was the admired of all admirers
in the gay London world, the friend of Garrick and the great Dr.
Johnson, did, in some degree, remain with her always.
The spiritual life in which she had lived and moved for so many years,
had lifted her far above the interests and pursuits which once she held
to be the end and aim of life. Her religion was eminently practical, and
to do good and to communicate was never forgotten. Nevertheless, the
literary efforts which had made her famous, her brilliant conversation,
her intellectual powers, had given her a certain tone and dignity, which
while attractive, might yet be called the air of superiority, which in
those days was conceded, to be as quite the proper attitude for any
woman who had made herself a name. Now, in the great crowd of authors
and craftswomen of the pen, it is hard for anyone to lift her head above
her neighbours.
A thing of the past indeed it is to remember how famous "the little
Burney," as Dr. Johnson called her, became; how flattery was poured upon
her, how no one dared to be jealous, because no one would dare to
emulate her performances. To be great in London Society in Hannah More's
early days, was to be great indeed. The author of "Percy" was presented
with a laurel crown, the stems confined within an elegant ring, and
Garrick himself read aloud the play to a select circle of admiring
listeners!
But though history repeats itself, and fashion ruled then as now, in
literature as in other things, I think there was more honest and kindly
appreciation of the work of others than we have now-a-days.
The literary field was narrower, it is true, and therefore was not
broken up into plots, each plot hedged in by various conceits--a barrier
the uninitiated cannot pass. All flowers growing outside the barrier
are called weeds; and if they are fragrant, they are pronounced sickly;
if bright and vivid in colour, common. I may be wrong, but I think this
self-sufficient, dogmatic criticism is very much on the increase, and
that the little jealousies and rivalries amongst men and women who
follow the same profession in art or literature grow more frequent.
Tongue and pen are often both too sharp; and the superficial chatter
about books and authors, pictures and music--both English and
foreign--is too often passed as the real coin of the great realm of
literature, when it is but a base imitation, stamped, it may be, on a
showy surface with the same token, but utterly worthless when the first
brilliancy is worn off.
"Come, my dear Miss Falconer," was Mrs. More's greeting to Joyce; "come
and sit near me, that we may have a pleasant chat. Tell me how you have
sped since I saw you, and whether you have studied the Book I gave you."
"Yes, madam," Joyce said, as she seated herself on a high Chippendale
chair, the seat covered with fine cross-stitch, close to Mrs. More;
"yes, madam, I have read all the passages you marked; and I had no
notion before that the Bible was so beautiful."
"Ah, my child, it is a deep mine; its treasures do not lie on the
surface; and let me tell you that I, who have drunk of the waters at
many springs, find in the Bible alone, the living fountain of water.
Your aunt told me she was anxious as to your education; she thought you
needed more than your good father found it convenient to give you."
"Father has so many boys," Joyce said, "and, of course, boarding schools
are very expensive. I have had to help mother a great deal at home, and
I never wished to go to school. I think Aunt Letitia means by education
accomplishments like Charlotte's, and I have none of them. But," Joyce
went on, "I have a very clever brother, Ralph, and, when he is at home
for the holidays, I write his Latin exercises, and he corrects them, and
I can read French with him; and then I know a good deal of natural
history--because my brother Piers is lame, and nothing amuses him like
collections of birds, and moths, and insects."
"Well," Hannah More said, smiling, "I think you have laid a very good
foundation; upon this, as you grow older, you can build up many fair
temples of knowledge, and I hope they will be ornamented by wisdom. You
know my story, I dare say."
Joyce hesitated, "I know you write plays and books. We have 'Christian
Morals,' and 'Village Politics.' But----"
"Oh," Hannah More said, "those are my published works. I was alluding to
the story of my own life. I always like to bring it before the young,
because I can say to them, I have tasted all the world can give, and
found it vanity. My dear, if I were now depending on the favours of the
great for happiness, or the showering upon me of the fame which my
literary work brought me, where should I be? An old woman in her
eightieth year, can no longer dine with bishops and princes of the land.
She can take no part in routs, and theatres would be a weariness; but,
thank God, and I beg you, my child, to mark this, I turned from those
vanities to strive to serve the living God when I was in my heyday. And
why? Because I felt them then to be _but_ vanity, often vexation of
spirit, and the higher part of me loathed the false lustre of the gay
world."
Joyce listened attentively to every word Mrs. More said, and her young
heart gave in its allegiance to the beautiful old lady who, in her own
brilliant style, told her of the days of her youth, and of many little
incidents connected with the names of distinguished men and women who
had passed away.
"I expected opposition," she said with a sigh, "but we were a fourfold
band of sisters then, and we could meet a legion of objectors with a
bright face. Now, I alone am left, and can no longer give personal care
to the work. But I have kindled the spark, with God's help, and I do
trust the light will shine over the hills of Somersetshire when I am
laid in yonder churchyard. The Mendip miners give me the most
uneasiness; they are so rough, and wild, and lawless."
"Yes," Joyce said. "We, that is, Mr. Arundel and I, met the man who had
been brought before the magistrates at Wells, and he knocked down Mr.
Arundel, and----"
"I heard of that. Poor Susan Priday, the man's daughter, has been a good
girl, and has had a sad life indeed."
"I felt so sorry for her," Joyce said, "and I should like to help her.
She must be so unhappy with a bad father. If mother would let me, I
should like to have her in the kitchen; but I know she would not allow
it."
Mrs. More smiled.
"I suppose your good mother thinks the education in our school has
spoiled Susan for service.
"Mother is a good mistress," Joyce ventured to say, "and cares for the
maids, as maids, but she has a notion that people who have to earn their
bread, ought not to be able to read."
"Ah! that is a notion many have shared with your mother. Why, when the
great Edward Colston first proposed to begin the good work of education
in Bristol, he was voted by the Mayor and Aldermen as a dangerous
person, likely to turn the sons of the poor into vipers, who should
sting the rich when once they were raised out of ignorance. All that
feeling has passed away in Bristol, as it will pass away in time in the
country districts. Edward Colston's name is held now in honour; his
school sends out useful members of society year by year. Then there is
Robert Raikes at Gloucester, how his work has taken root. So I comfort
myself with thinking that before this century has counted out its last
year, Hannah More's schools for the sons of the soil under Mendip, will
have won their way humbly but steadily to swell the great tide of
progress which is bearing us on its breast. It is a wonderful age!" she
continued. "God has shown us marvellous things. Steam has become our
servant, and its concentrated force seems likely to move kingdoms, and
verify the prophecy that men shall go to and fro on the earth. Then in
our cities coal-gas is captured, and turns night into day. Who shall say
what hidden forces yet lie undiscovered, needing only the brain to
conceive, and the hand of some Watt to demonstrate the power, lying
concealed in the mysteries of God's natural kingdom. Who was with you
on Mendip when the rough fellow attacked you?"
"Mr. Arundel," Joyce said, in a low voice, the colour rising to her
face.
Hannah More smiled, and said:
"Was he your _preux chevalier_?"
Joyce blushed a still rosier red.
"I don't understand," she said, simply.
"Your devoted knight!"
"Of course, how stupid; but I so seldom hear French spoken; and I expect
Ralph and I have a strange pronunciation."
"French pronunciation can only be acquired by much speaking; and now
finish the story of your knight."
"Oh, it was only that the man, Susan's father, was angry, and wanted to
force me to give him money; and Mr. Arundel made him move out of the
way, and then, of course, the man was furious, and hurled him down upon
the heather and gorse. We had lost our way, and father had to come out
with two men, and lanthorns to look for us."
All the time Joyce was speaking she felt those dark eyes were fixed on
her, and she hurried on to the end of her story. Hannah More was too
keen an observer of faces not to read what was written on Joyce's; but
she only stroked the fair, rounded cheek gently, and said; "We shall be
friends, I hope; there is only a short space in earth left for me, but,
long or short, you may reckon on my sympathy. We will talk about
education to-morrow. I have some letters demanding attention. That pile
is yet unread; many are begging letters, some are even less pleasant
than that;" and the old lady sighed. Even then the dishonesty and
extravagance of her household were beginning to be noticed outside
Barley Wood. Although her own eyes were blinded as to the cause, she
felt the results keenly.
This first day at Barley Wood was the beginning of a new life to Joyce.
While Charlotte in her secret heart found the country dull, and almost
wished herself back in Wells, a new world opened for Joyce. Mrs. More
would recite passages from Milton's "Paradise Lost," and fill Joyce's
mind with the beauties of the Garden of Eden, till she had thoughts for
nothing else. Mrs. More told her she reminded her of a great man who on
reading Milton for the first time, said he forgot that there was anyone
else in the world but himself and Adam and Eve!
Charlotte dawdled over a bit of fancy work, which her aunt had hoped
would awake Mrs. More's admiration, but as it met with but faint praise,
Charlotte felt herself aggrieved, and made various uncomplimentary
remarks, in private, upon the coarse aprons which Miss Frowde produced
as needlework which was _really_ wanted. But the stories of London life
pleased Charlotte, and she would wake up to interest when Mrs. More
described the grand routs where the elite of London were gathered; of
Johnson and his witty speeches; of Garrick, and of the continual round
of gaiety which she had led, till she awoke from a dream to realities,
and from those vanities to serve the living God.
The Bible meeting at Wrington was the great event of the year, and the
village was in holiday trim. The bells rang from the noble church tower;
the school children, in clean white tippets and blue cotton frocks,
walked in procession to Barley Wood, where tea was provided for parents
and teachers, and several of those who had come to the meeting addressed
them in simple words. Sir Thomas Acland had brought with him the Bishop
of Ohio, and the good old man looked upon the scene before him, with
eyes dim with emotion. Here in this Somersetshire village, lying under
the range of low hills, had the influence of a good woman been felt. She
had borne bitter scoffs and rudeness from her enemies; she had been
laughed at even by her friends, and yet she had carried the banner of
the Lord onward, and now in her old age the victory was won. The people
loved her, and though there were malcontents in Wrington, as in every
other place, still the feeling for the good work the four sisters had
done, was stronger than that which was against it, and the Bible had
become a treasure in many humble homes. No longer like that of which
Joyce had spoken at Fair Acres--rarely opened and seldom read--nor like
the one described by Hannah More herself as the only one she found at
Cheddar, used to prop up a flower-pot in the window!
There was a large dinner-party of seventeen at Barley Wood after the
meeting, and this was a novelty to the two girls, who had never before
sat down with so many at a table. Charlotte was in good spirits, having
captured a pale-faced young clergyman, to whom she talked in her
sentimental fashion, and who seemed almost as much fascinated by her, as
she intended he should be.
Joyce, on the contrary, had no time to think of herself. She was
intently listening to all that was said, and the conversation of those
refined and educated gentlemen charmed her. It was impossible not to be
struck with her beautiful face, glowing with interest and, though silent
herself, showing that she was drinking in all that was said around her.
It was the same afterwards in Mrs. More's sitting-room, where all the
guests gathered to sip fragrant tea and coffee, and talk over the
burning questions of the day.
The good Bishop of Ohio, who had laboured long in the field abroad, as
Hannah More had laboured at home, knew well how rough was the road,
which those who desire the highest good of others, must ever tread.
Hannah More was speaking of the deep anxiety that the condition of the
Mendip miners caused her, and how, of all her work, that seemed to be
bringing forth the least fruit.
"An ear here and there is gathered," she said; "but the harvest is scant
indeed."
Joyce, who had been listening earnestly, said:
"Susan Priday is an 'ear,' I am sure. She seemed to try to do all she
could, and--"
The Bishop turned quickly. Joyce almost thought she ought not to have
spoken, and that the Bishop and Mrs. More would think her forward, but
the good old man said:
"That is right, my dear young lady. It is well to remind our dear friend
that the grains she has scattered are not all in vain. Some will fall on
the good ground, and by God's blessing spring up and bear fruit. Who is
Susan Priday?"
"Come nearer the Bishop, Joyce," Mrs. More said, kindly, "and tell him
your experience of Mendip miners, and of Susan also."
Joyce did as she was told, and soon forgot her nervousness at being
called upon to talk to so great a person as a Bishop, as she narrated
with sweet simplicity, and yet with dramatic power, the story which we
already know.
By degrees the voices of people in other parts of the room ceased, and
Joyce found herself the centre of interest as she told her story.
"Who is she?" Sir Thomas Acland asked, as Joyce finished her story, and
answered a summons from Miss Frowde at the further end of the room.
Failing a little in the good manners, on which Miss Falconer put so high
a value, Charlotte answered a question _not_ addressed to her.
"She is my cousin, sir--Joyce Falconer. She has led a very retired life
at Fair Acres."
"There are many flowers that bloom unseen, and she is one of the fairest
I ever saw. If a retired life produces such good effect, it strikes me,
Mrs. More, we had all better go into retirement. But--"
He stopped, for Joyce, with a white face from which every vestige of
colour had vanished, came back to her position by Mrs. More's chair. Her
hands were clasped tightly together, her whole attitude one of
repressed emotion.
"If you please, Mrs. More, I must beg you to excuse me. I am sent for to
go home, for my father--Oh! my father!--is dying."
Miss Frowde was close behind Joyce.
"You must not agitate dear Mrs. More," she said. "I will take care of
Miss Falconer," she added. "The gig is waiting."
"Do you know any particulars?"
Miss Frowde shook her head, and was leading Joyce away, when she
suddenly turned back.
"Dear madam, dear Mrs. More, please pray for me;" and, unable to resist
the impulse, she threw her arms round the old lady's neck.
"Miss Falconer, indeed you must restrain your emotion; you will agitate
dear Mrs. More."
But Hannah More held the trembling form of the poor stricken child
close.
"My dear," she whispered, "many are the sorrows through which I have
passed, and He whom I trust has never forsaken me. Trust in Him, and to
His loving kindness I commend you."
Joyce raised herself from the old lady's arms, and the Bishop, deeply
moved, laid his hand upon her head.
"The Lord bless you and keep you, my child, now and evermore."
Joyce did not weep or make any outward sign of great distress. She left
all tears and cries to Charlotte, who, sincerely grieved, took care that
every one should know it.
"Shall I come? Shall I come with you? Oh, Joyce--my darling Joyce! Oh
dear! Oh dear!"
"No, Charlotte; don't come; don't come. Help me to fasten my cloak. I--I
can't find the clasp."
Miss Frowde thrust Charlotte aside, and fastening Joyce's cloak, seemed
only anxious to get her off as speedily as possible. It was a very
inconvenient episode; and if Mrs. More were the worse for the excitement
it would be very disastrous. Secretly Miss Frowde wished she could get
rid of Charlotte too, but as she only wept and moaned, and made no
attempt to put her things together, Miss Frowde refrained from urging
her to do so. Miss Frowde was not unkind or unfeeling, she was simply
and absolutely devoted to Mrs. More; and, indeed, it was well that she
was always at hand to perform the hundred and one kindly offices, which
the spoiled and pampered domestics neglected.
Joyce was soon ready, Charlotte clinging to her to the last, and
following her to the hall, with sobs and tears.
Nevertheless, as the gig drove off, and the wheels crunched the gravel
on the drive, Charlotte returned to her room to bathe her eyes and
smooth her hair, and soon returned with a woe-begone face to the
sitting-room, and received, with some complacency, the condolences of
the pale-faced curate in the corner, sharing his hymn-book when the
family service of praise and prayer began, with which all gatherings
closed at Barley Wood.
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