XI

‘Miss Grey knows, of course, everything about them. Miss Grey knows the

whole story. She has been the longest here.’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Grey, ‘I know, I suppose, all the outs and ins of it;

or, if not all, a great part; all is a big word to say. I don’t suppose

anybody knows all--about the simplest of us--except the Almighty who

made us, and understands all our curious ways.’

‘That is a true speech,’ said the old General, ‘for curious are our

ways, and strange are the devices we have to hide ourselves from

ourselves.’

‘Come, Stephen,’ said Mrs. FitzStephen, ‘let us have none of your

philosophising. You like a story, or gossip, if you like to call it so,

just as well as any of us; draw your chair nearer the fire, and listen

to what Miss Grey has got to tell us, for I can read a whole story in

her eye.’

It was General FitzStephen’s drawing-room in which this conversation was

taking place, in the March afternoon, when evening was falling. It had

been cold and boisterous all day, with the March wind, which the farmer

loves, drying and parching everything outside; the roads all gray and

dusty; the fields looking as if every drop of sap in every green blade

or leaf had retired to the heart of the plant. The wind had blown itself

out, and fallen a little before the darkening, and Miss Grey, out, like

all the rest of the world, for a little walk, had been met and

apprehended by the General and his wife, and brought in for tea. How

much this was on Miss Grey’s account and how much for their own, I would

not undertake to say. They were fond of Miss Grey, and so was everybody

at Watcham: and people had a way of thinking that she was lonely and

wanted cheering up--which, in most cases, only meant that they wanted

cheering up themselves, and that there was nobody in the village who

knew so well how to do this as the little lonely spinster. The

FitzStephens’ house was exceedingly cosy, and though it was not large,

it was much larger than Lady William’s, and more pleasantly built; with

cheerful irregularities in the shape of bow-windows, which gave more

light, and agreeable little recesses and corners to talk in. It was not

so plain in any way. It was almost richly furnished with warm Persian

carpets and thick curtains, and a great deal of wadding and cushioning.

The General and his wife had, indeed, reached a proficiency in the art

of making each other comfortable, which only an elderly pair, without

children, can attain, and which, in their hands becomes a fine art.

There were no rough corners in their house; nothing that was not padded

and made soft. The draughts, which Lady William could only faintly

struggle against, they shut out by curtains, artistically-planned, to

the arrangement of which they had given their whole mind, two together,

which everybody knows is better than one, and each for the other, which

is better still: for not a suspicion, nor even a sensation, of

selfishness can be in the man who is afraid of a chill for his wife, or

the woman whose whole soul is bent on keeping her husband comfortable.

The candles had not been lighted, but the firelight was shining brightly

through the room, giving a brightness which no other artificial light

possesses: and, through the windows, the yellow glow of a spring sunset,

with a little pink in it, but none of winter’s violent and frosty red,

came in. Thus, between the day and the night, with the sweetness of the

western light outside like a picture, and the warm domestic glow within,

Mrs. FitzStephen’s pretty tea-table was the most pleasant thing one

could see on an evening while it was still cold. They had generally some

one to share that darkening hour with them, and make it more cheerful;

and on this particular evening there were two, Miss Grey, as has been

said, and the wife of the Archdeacon, Mrs. Kendal, as quiet a meek woman

as ever was, not capable of doing much in the way of addition to the

mirth, but quietly receptive of it, which is the next best thing.

It is a curious fact, which I don’t seem to have seen commented on, how

well and easily a kind old man who has fallen into quiet society along

with his wife in the evening of his days, takes to the feminine element

which is apt to preponderate in it. An old lady rarely makes herself at

home with men in the same way, or if she does it is perhaps with the

young friends of her sons who look up to her as a mother. But old

soldiers as well as old parsons, to whom that might seem more natural,

fall into ladies’ society with a relish and satisfaction that is

amazing. Pride of sex, which is rarely wanting, takes refuge, we may

suppose, in the little superiority so willingly accorded, the deferences

and flatteries with which he is surrounded, and which he repays with

little gallantries and pretty speeches with which the ladies on their

side are amused and pleased. General FitzStephen was a great hero among

all the ladies at Watcham, and he took his place among them with little

sense of incongruity, with a pleasant ease and simplicity, not sighing

for anything better, not wasting, or so it seemed, a thought upon his

club or his men. He liked Miss Grey to come in to tea as well as his

wife did, and was as pleased with Mrs. Kendal as with her husband--more

so, indeed, for he thought and said that the Archdeacon was an old

woman, an expression which he never employed to any lady. For Lady

William he had a sort of devotion, but that was not remarkable, for Lady

William was of a different species, and not unlikely to secure the

homage of any age or kind of man.

It was therefore a very cheerful old party that was assembled round the

FitzStephen fire, none among them under fifty-five, the General within

easy sight of three-score and ten, but all very well, with the exception

of Mrs. Kendal, who had been more or less of an invalid all her life,

but enjoyed her ill-health on the whole, and was as likely to live now

as at thirty. She sat lost in the deepest of easy-chairs on the side of

the fire opposite the window and where there was least light. Miss Grey

was on the sofa in the full light of the fire, which sparkled in a pair

of beautiful brown eyes she had, which looked none the worse for the

number of years which had passed over their possessor. Miss Grey was

very small, a little bit of a woman, with scarcely body enough to lodge

a soul which was not little at all: at least the part of it which was

heart, if there are any divisions in our spiritual being, was so big as

to rim over continually. She was very dark, with hair that had been

black before it became iron-gray, and a gipsy complexion of olive and

cherry. Her feet and hands were not so small as would have become her

tiny person, but as they were feet that were always in motion for the

good of her poor fellow-creatures, and hands that were noted in their

service, these things are the less necessary to look into.

Mrs. FitzStephen was remarkable for little more than the neatness of her

cap, and the trimness of her dress and person generally. She had been

what people call a pretty little woman, and on that character she lived.

She was a pretty little woman still according to the limitations of her

age, and her husband was still proud of her simple and somewhat faded

beauty. He had always been pleased to hear it said what a pretty little

woman Mrs. FitzStephen was, and he was still pleased with the thought.

She had not changed for him. She was seated in front of the low

tea-table, on a low chair, making the tea. The General, who was tall,

looked taller than ever moving about in the little glowing room between

the firelight and the dark, handing to the ladies their cake and tea.

‘We are all quite new people in the place in comparison with Miss Grey,’

said Mrs. Kendal, in her little invalid voice, ‘though we used to come

here, the Archdeacon and I, long ago, before he was the Archdeacon or I

was delicate: dear me, we used to go on the water! he was a great

boating man once----’

‘I remember,’ said Miss Grey, ‘he once took the duty for old Mr.

Plowden, before the present Rector left College. I remember you very

well--you were the bride--and there were ever so many little parties

made----’

‘To be sure,’ said the Archdeacon’s wife, sitting up in her chair--‘dear

me--it is so strange to think of the time when one was young----’

‘Emily was a little thing who was about everywhere--the child of the

parish I used to call her. A girl who has lost her mother is so often

like that, everybody’s child. I don’t say it’s not very nice as long as

they’re children. One gets more used to them. She was always dancing

about through everybody’s house--thank you, General, I couldn’t take any

more cake--there wasn’t a house in the parish, rich or poor, but Emily

was dancing out and in----’

‘Very bad for the child,’ said Mrs. FitzStephen.

‘Do you think so?’ said Miss Grey; ‘well, I don’t know, as long as she

was a child.’

‘If it was bad for the child, my dear, the woman has come handsomely out

of it,’ said the General, carrying the cake into the dark corner to Mrs.

Kendal. ‘My dear lady, one morsel more--to keep me company.’

‘Oh! General, on that inducement--but only a very, very small piece----

’

‘It’s bad when the child grows into a woman,’ said little Miss Grey,

shaking her little head; ‘she was as dear a girl as ever lived--not one

of them now is fit to hold the candle to what she was. Mab?--Mab’s a

darling, the honestest little straightforward thing: and she would have

been safer than Emily--she would never have been taken in--as her mother

was.’

‘Dear Miss Grey,’ said Mrs. FitzStephen, ‘another cup of tea: and you

were going to tell us about the Swinfords--for we all know there was

something: she was a Seymour, wasn’t she, of a very good family?’

‘But foreign blood in her,’ said Miss Grey; ‘I think her mother was a

Russian; she always was fond of foreign things and foreign ways; he was

a dear, good, quiet man. It never came into his head that anything could

go wrong----’

‘No: why should it, in a quiet neighbourhood like this----?’

‘Oh! I like to hear you speak of a quiet neighbourhood. When the Hall

was in full swing it was about as quiet as--as Windsor Castle in the old

days, before Her Majesty knew what trouble was; always something going

on, the town full of visitors; entertainments that were in _The Morning

Post_, and every kind of pleasure. They used to come down in the middle

of the summer, from their town house, for a few days at a time, and

bring half the town with them; and in autumn in the time of the

partridges----’

‘There could never be much shooting,’ said the General with

satisfaction, as on a subject he knew.

‘At the other end of the estate, the forest end--I have heard there was

not very much, but it was very good; that is to say, it didn’t last very

long, but as long as it lasted--at all events the shooting might be only

a pretence: but the house was always full, that is the only thing I

know----’

‘I daresay,’ said Mrs. FitzStephen, ‘it will be so again; a young man

fond of company, like young Mr. Swinford.’

‘Oh! you may be sure it will be so again. I don’t know about him; but I

do know about Mrs. Swinford----’

‘Now, don’t be spiteful, Miss Grey; when one lady does not approve of

another it is the right thing to say that she is spiteful----’ the

General said in an explanatory way, to take away the sting of the word

which had come out unawares.

‘And it is very pleasant in a country place to see a little company,’

said Mrs. Kendal, ‘not that I care for great parties--nor the

Archdeacon; but it makes a little stir----’

‘It keeps a movement in the air,’ said Mrs. FitzStephen, retiring from

the fire.

‘Well, there will be plenty of it,’ said Miss Grey.

‘But, my dear lady, we must not have you cross--cross is what you never

were; and society don’t you know, in this paradise of Watcham is the

only thing we want.’

‘It would be very nice,’ said Mrs. FitzStephen, with a little sigh;

‘though we have all done without it nicely, with our little tea

parties, and a friend from town from Saturday to Monday, and so forth.’

‘I never wish for more,’ said Mrs. Kendal, ‘nor the Archdeacon; it is

just what we like: but dear me, when I was young--I’ve danced sometimes

all night.’

‘We’ve heard the chimes at midnight,’ said the General, rubbing his

hands; ‘so I don’t see any great occasion, my dear ladies, to be

afraid.’

Miss Grey said nothing, but there was a little twitter and thrill in

her, half visible in the firelight, as of a bird stirring on a bough;

perhaps this proceeded from a little nodding of her head, very slight,

but continued like a little protest under her breath.

‘And then think of the young ladies,’ said General FitzStephen jauntily;

‘I have always heard that Lady William met her husband there----’

‘There is not much chance for any of them to meet their husbands here: I

often try to induce the General to ask a nice young man--from Saturday

to Monday, you know--the only way we could ever induce a man from town

to come here: but he says it isn’t good enough--and asks his old fogies

instead----’

‘The old fogies are more agreeable to us, my dear,’ said the General,

‘and the young ladies must find their husbands for themselves: but when

the Hall is full of fine company as our dear friend predicts----’

Upon which Miss Grey, nodding, introduced what seemed an entirely new

and uncalled-for assertion.

‘James Plowden,’ she said, ‘though he is the Rector, is not a wise man

any more than his father was before him----’

‘My dear lady!’ cried the General.

‘Miss Grey!’ said Mrs. Kendal mildly, out of the dark.

‘Nelly, Nelly!’ cried Mrs. FitzStephen, who was the one most intimate

with the culprit.

‘James Plowden,’ repeated Miss Grey, ‘is no Solomon, as you all very

well know. I am saying nothing against him--he’s a very good man: but

though he hasn’t very much wisdom, if he thought one of his girls was to

get a prince for her husband in the same way as his sister got hers, he

is not the man I think him, if he ever let one of them put a foot inside

that door.’

They all said ‘Lady William!’ with a joint cry, which, though it was

very quietly uttered by each individual, rose into quite an outcry when

uttered by the whole.

‘Poor little Emily!’ said Miss Grey, putting up her handkerchief to her

eyes, ‘that’s how I think of her--though if she gets any pleasure out

of her title, poor child, if you can call that a title----’

‘Of course it is a title--she takes precedence of all of us,’ said Mrs.

FitzStephen.

‘A courtesy title,’ said the General.

‘Dear, I never knew there was anything against it,’ said Mrs. Kendal.

‘I hope she gets some pleasure out of it, poor dear,’ said Miss Grey;

‘little else has she ever got. A horrible man, who never, I believe,

made himself pleasant to her, never for one day: and a horrible life for

I don’t know how many years. If there had been a mother, or if he hadn’t

been---- well, I won’t call him names now he’s in his grave--such a

sacrifice would never have been made.’

‘But I suppose she liked him at the time,’ said one of the ladies.

‘And no doubt he was in love with her,’ said another; ‘Lord Portcullis’

son, and she a country clergyman’s daughter.’

‘Oh, as for that, God knows: she was perhaps dazzled with the miserable

title, and her father of course, who was only a silly old man--and then

she was besought and persuaded, God knows how, by those who did it for

their own sake, not hers----’

‘But what reason could any one have?’ said Mrs. FitzStephen; ‘my dear

Nelly Grey, you must be making up a story in your head; what cause could

any one have, unless to satisfy the man who was in love with a girl, or

to help forward the girl to a match above her? These are the only two

reasons possible, and there’s no harm in them; we would, any of us, do

it,’ she said.

‘Not if the man was of bad character,’ said the General.

‘And if the girl was not in love with him? Oh, I don’t call that

romantic at all,’ Mrs. Kendal said.

Miss Grey shook her head again, shook it till her little bonnet, and all

that could twitter and tremble about her, shook too.

‘You’re all good people,’ she said; ‘you don’t know the mystery of a

wicked woman’s heart--or for that matter of a man’s either.’

‘Nelly,’ said Mrs. FitzStephen, almost sharply, ‘what can you know, a

little single woman, about mysteries and wicked persons? A soldier’s

wife like me, that has been knocked about the world----’

‘Or, oh, dear me, a clergyman’s!’ said Mrs. Kendal, ‘and they are told

everything----’

‘Whatever you may know, you don’t know Mrs. Swinford,’ said Miss Grey,

hastily tying her bonnet-strings--‘No, I must go home, thank you; I want

to be in before it’s quite dark. And really there’s not much to tell;

nothing that I’ve seen with my eyes, as you may have, my dear, knocking

about as a soldier’s wife; or as a clergyman’s wife may have heard

dreadful things trickling out through her husband. No, I’ve no husband.

I haven’t knocked about the world. I may have fancied things, being

always so quiet here. But good-night, for I must go; it’s nearly dark,

and my little maid is always frightened if I’m not in before dark----’

‘The General will step round with you, Nelly dear--General, you’ll put

on your greatcoat----’

‘Of course I am going,’ said the General. It was a duty he never was

negligent of, to see a lady who came by herself to tea safely home.