LADY ONGAR TAKES POSSESSION.
I do not know that there is in England a more complete gentleman's
residence than Ongar Park, nor could there be one in better repair,
or more fit for immediate habitation than was that house when it came
into the hands of the young widow. The park was not large, containing
about sixty or seventy acres. But there was a home-farm attached to
the place, which also now belonged to Lady Ongar for her life, and
which gave to the park itself an appearance of extent which it would
otherwise have wanted. The house, regarded as a nobleman's mansion,
was moderate in size, but it was ample for the requirements of any
ordinarily wealthy family. The dining-room, library, drawing-rooms,
and breakfast-room, were all large and well-arranged. The hall was
handsome and spacious, and the bed-rooms were sufficiently numerous
to make an auctioneer's mouth water. But the great charm of Ongar
Park lay in the grounds immediately round the house, which sloped
down from the terrace before the windows to a fast-running stream
which was almost hidden,--but was not hidden,--by the shrubs on its
bank. Though the domain itself was small, the shrubberies and walks
were extensive. It was a place costly to maintain in its present
perfect condition, but when that was said against it, all was said
against it which its bitterest enemies could allege.
But Lady Ongar, with her large jointure, and with no external
expenses whatever, could afford this delight without imprudence.
Everything in and about the place was her own, and she might live
there happily, even in the face of the world's frowns, if she could
teach herself to find happiness in rural luxuries. On her immediate
return to England, her lawyer had told her that he found there would
be opposition to her claim, and that an attempt would be made to keep
the house out of her hands. Lord Ongar's people would, he said, bribe
her to submit to this by immediate acquiescence as to her income.
But she had declared that she would not submit,--that she would
have house and income and all; and she had been successful. "Why
should I surrender what is my own?" she had said, looking the lawyer
full in the face. The lawyer had not dared to tell her that her
opponents,--Lord Ongar's heirs,--had calculated on her anxiety to
avoid exposure; but she knew that that was meant. "I have nothing to
fear from them," she said, "and mean to claim what is my own by my
settlement." There had, in truth, been no ground for disputing her
right, and the place was given up to her before she had been three
months in England. She at once went down and took possession, and
there she was, alone, when her sister was communicating to Harry
Clavering her plan about Captain Archie.
She had never seen the place till she reached it on this occasion;
nor had she ever seen, nor would she now probably ever see, Lord
Ongar's larger house, Courton Castle. She had gone abroad with him
immediately on their marriage, and now she had returned a widow to
take possession of his house. There she was in possession of it all.
The furniture in the rooms, the books in the cases, the gilded clocks
and grand mirrors about the house, all the implements of wealthy
care about the gardens, the corn in the granaries and the ricks
in the hay-yard, the horses in the stable, and the cows lowing in
the fields,--they were all hers. She had performed her part of the
bargain, and now the price was paid to her into her hands. When she
arrived she did not know what was the extent of her riches in this
world's goods; nor, in truth, had she at once the courage to ask
questions on the subject. She saw cows, and was told of horses; and
words came to her gradually of sheep and oxen, of poultry, pigs, and
growing calves. It was as though a new world had opened itself before
her eyes, full of interest, and as though all that world were her
own. She looked at it, and knew that it was the price of her bargain.
Upon the whole she had been very lucky. She had, indeed, passed
through a sharp agony,--an agony sharp almost to death; but the agony
had been short, and the price was in her hand.
A close carriage had met her at the station, and taken her with her
maid to the house. She had so arranged that she had reached the
station after dark, and even then had felt that the eyes of many were
upon her as she went out to her carriage, with her face covered by
a veil. She was all alone, and there would be no one at the house
to whom she could speak;--but the knowledge that the carriage was
her own perhaps consoled her. The housekeeper who received her was a
stout, elderly, comfortable body, to whom she could perhaps say a few
words beyond those which might be spoken to an ordinary servant; but
she fancied at once that the housekeeper was cold to her, and solemn
in her demeanour. "I hope you have good fires, Mrs. Button." "Yes,
my lady." "I think I will have some tea; I don't want anything else
to-night." "Very well, my lady." Mrs. Button, maintaining a solemn
countenance, would not go beyond this; and yet Mrs. Button looked
like a woman who could have enjoyed a gossip, had the lady been a
lady to her mind. Perhaps Mrs. Button did not like serving a lady as
to whom such sad stories were told. Lady Ongar, as she thought of
this, drew herself up unconsciously, and sent Mrs. Button away from
her.
The next morning, after an early breakfast, Lady Ongar went out. She
was determined that she would work hard; that she would understand
the farm; that she would know the labourers; that she would assist
the poor; that she would have a school; and, above all, that she
would make all the privileges of ownership her own. Was not the price
in her hand, and would she not use it? She felt that it was very good
that something of the price had come to her thus in the shape of
land, and beeves, and wide, heavy outside garniture. From them she
would pluck an interest which mere money could not have given her.
She was out early, therefore, that she might look round upon the
things that were her own.
And there came upon her a feeling that she would not empty this sweet
cup at one draught, that she would dally somewhat with the rich
banquet that was spread for her. She had many griefs to overcome,
much sorrow to conquer, perhaps a long period of desolation to
assuage, and she would not be prodigal of her resources. As she
looked around her while she walked, almost furtively, lest some
gardener as he spied her might guess her thoughts and tell how my
lady was revelling in her pride of possession,--it appeared to her
that those novelties in which she was to find her new interest were
without end. There was not a tree there, not a shrub, not a turn in
the walks, which should not become her friend. She did not go far
from the house, not even down to the water. She was husbanding her
resources. But yet she lost herself amidst the paths, and tried to
find a joy in feeling that she had done so. It was all her own. It
was the price of what she had done; and the price was even now being
paid into her hand,--paid with current coin and of full weight.
As she sat down alone to her breakfast, she declared to herself that
this should be enough for her,--that it should satisfy her. She had
made her bargain with her eyes open, and would not now ask for things
which had not been stipulated in the contract. She was alone, and all
the world was turning its back on her. The relatives of her late
husband would, as a matter of course, be her enemies. Them she had
never seen, and that they should speak evil of her seemed to be only
natural. But her own relatives were removed from her by a gulf nearly
equally wide. Of Brabazon cousins she had none nearer than the third
or fourth degree of cousinship, and of them she had never taken heed,
and expected no heed from them. Her set of friends would naturally
have been the same as her sister's, and would have been made up of
those she had known when she was one of Sir Hugh's family. But from
Sir Hugh she was divided now as widely as from the Ongar people,
and,--for any purposes of society,--from her sister also. Sir Hugh
had allowed his wife to invite her to Clavering, but to this she
would not submit after Sir Hugh's treatment to her on her return.
Though she had suffered much, her spirit was unbroken. Sir Hugh was,
in truth, responsible for her reception in England. Had he come
forward like a brother, all might have been well. But it was too late
now for Sir Hugh Clavering to remedy the evil he had done, and he
should be made to understand that Lady Ongar would not become a
suppliant to him for mercy. She was striving to think how "rich she
was in horses, how rich in broidered garments and in gold," as she
sat solitary over her breakfast; but her mind would run off to other
things, cumbering itself with unnecessary miseries and useless
indignation. Had she not her price in her hand?
Would she see the steward that morning? No,--not that morning. Things
outside could go on for a while in their course as heretofore. She
feared to seem to take possession with pride, and then there was that
conviction that it would be well to husband her resources. So she
sent for Mrs. Button, and asked Mrs. Button to walk through the rooms
with her. Mrs. Button came, but again declined to accept her lady's
condescension. Every spot about the house, every room, closet, and
wardrobe, she was ready to open with zeal; the furniture she was
prepared to describe, if Lady Ongar would listen to her; but every
word was spoken in a solemn voice, very far removed from gossiping.
Only once was Mrs. Button moved to betray any emotion. "That, my
lady, was my lord's mother's room, after my lord died,--my lord's
father that was; may God bless her." Then Lady Ongar reflected that
from her husband she had never heard a word either of his father or
his mother. She wished that she could seat herself with that woman in
some small upstairs room, and then ask question after question about
the family. But she did not dare to make the attempt. She could not
bring herself to explain to Mrs. Button that she had never known
anything of the belongings of her own husband.
When she had seen the upper part of the house, Mrs. Button offered to
convoy her through the kitchens and servants' apartments, but she
declined this for the present. She had done enough for the day. So
she dismissed Mrs. Button, and took herself to the library. How often
had she heard that books afforded the surest consolation to the
desolate. She would take to reading; not on this special day, but as
the resource for many days and months, and years to come. But this
idea had faded and become faint, before she had left the gloomy,
damp-feeling, chill room, in which some former Lord Ongar had stored
the musty volumes which he had thought fit to purchase. The library
gave her no ease, so she went out again among the lawns and shrubs.
For some time to come her best resources must be those which she
could find outside the house.
Peering about, she made her way behind the stables, which were
attached to the house, to a farmyard gate, through which the way led
to the head-quarters of the live-stock. She did not go through, but
she looked over the gate, telling herself that those barns and sheds,
that wealth of straw-yard, those sleeping pigs and idle dreaming
calves, were all her own. As she did so, her eye fell upon an old
labourer, who was sitting close to her, on a felled tree, under the
shelter of a paling, eating his dinner. A little girl, some six years
old, who had brought him his meal tied up in a handkerchief, was
crouching near his feet. They had both seen her before she had seen
them, and when she noticed them, were staring at her with all their
eyes. She and they were on the same side of the farmyard paling, and
so she could reach them and speak to them without difficulty. There
was apparently no other person near enough to listen, and it occurred
to her that she might at any rate make a friend of this old man. His
name, he said, was Enoch Gubby, and the girl was his grandchild. Her
name was Patty Gubby. Then Patty got up and had her head patted by
her ladyship and received sixpence. They neither of them, however,
knew who her ladyship was, and, as far as Lady Ongar could ascertain
without a question too direct to be asked, had never heard of her.
Enoch Gubby said he worked for Mr. Giles, the steward,--that was for
my lord, and as he was old and stiff with rheumatism he only got
eight shillings a week. He had a daughter, the mother of Patty, who
worked in the fields, and got six shillings a week. Everything about
the poor Gubbys seemed to be very wretched and miserable. Sometimes
he could hardly drag himself about, he was so bad with the
rheumatics. Then she thought that she would make one person happy,
and told him that his wages should be raised to ten shillings a week.
No matter whether he earned it or not, or what Mr. Giles might say,
he should have ten shillings a week. Enoch Gubby bowed, and rubbed
his head, and stared, and was in truth thankful because of the
sixpence in ready money; but he believed nothing about the ten
shillings. He did not especially disbelieve, but simply felt
confident that he understood nothing that was said to him. That
kindness was intended, and that the sixpence was there, he did
understand.
[Illustration: Was not the price in her hand?]
But Enoch Gubby got his weekly ten shillings, though Lady Ongar
hardly realized the pleasure that she had expected from the
transaction. She sent that afternoon for Mr. Giles, the steward, and
told him what she had done. Mr. Giles did not at all approve, and
spoke his disapproval very plainly, though he garnished his rebuke
with a great many "my lady's." The old man was a hanger-on about the
place, and for years had received eight shillings a week, which he
had not half earned. "Now he will have ten, that is all," said Lady
Ongar. Mr. Giles acknowledged that if her ladyship pleased, Enoch
Gubby must have the ten shillings, but declared that the business
could not be carried on in that way. Everybody about the place would
expect an addition, and those people who did earn what they received,
would think themselves cruelly used in being worse treated than Enoch
Gubby, who, according to Mr. Giles, was by no means the most worthy
old man in the parish. And as for his daughter--oh! Mr. Giles could
not trust himself to talk about the daughter to her ladyship. Before
he left her, Lady Ongar was convinced that she had made a mistake.
Not even from charity will pleasure come, if charity be taken up
simply to appease remorse.
The price was in her hand. For a fortnight the idea clung to her,
that gradually she would realize the joys of possession; but there
was no moment in which she could tell herself that the joy was hers.
She was now mistress of the geography of the place. There was no more
losing herself amidst the shrubberies, no thought of economizing her
resources. Of Mr. Giles and his doings she still knew very little,
but the desire of knowing much had faded. The ownership of the
haystacks had become a thing tame to her, and the great cart-horses,
as to every one of which she had intended to feel an interest, were
matters of indifference to her. She observed that since her arrival a
new name in new paint,--her own name,--was attached to the carts, and
that the letters were big and glaring. She wished that this had not
been done, or, at any rate, that the letters had been smaller. Then
she began to think that it might be well for her to let the farm to
a tenant; not that she might thus get more money, but because she
felt that the farm would be a trouble. The apples had indeed quickly
turned to ashes between her teeth!
On the first Sunday that she was at Ongar Park she went to the parish
church. She had resolved strongly that she would do this, and she did
it; but when the moment for starting came, her courage almost failed
her. The church was but a few yards from her own gate, and she walked
there without any attendant. She had, however, sent word to the
sexton to say that she would be there, and the old man was ready to
show her into the family pew. She wore a thick veil, and was dressed,
of course, in all the deep ceremonious woe of widowhood. As she
walked up the centre of the church she thought of her dress, and told
herself that all there would know how it had been between her and her
husband. She was pretending to mourn for the man to whom she had sold
herself; for the man who through happy chance had died so quickly,
leaving her with the price in her hand! All of course knew that, and
all thought that they knew, moreover, that she had been foully false
to her bargain, and had not earned the price! That, also, she told
herself. But she went through it, and walked out of the church among
the village crowd with her head on high.
Three days afterwards she wrote to the clergyman, asking him to call
on her. She had come, she said, to live in the parish, and hoped to
be able, with his assistance, to be of some use among the people.
She would hardly know how to act without some counsel from him. The
schools might be all that was excellent, but if there was anything
required she hoped he would tell her. On the following morning the
clergyman called, and, with many thanks for her generosity, listened
to her plans, and accepted her subsidies. But he was a married man,
and he said nothing of his wife, nor during the next week did his
wife come to call on her. She was to be left desolate by all, because
men had told lies of her!
She had the price in her hands, but she felt herself tempted to do as
Judas did,--to go out and hang herself.