VISITORS AT MOAT GRANGE.
Autumn weather lay on the world and on Netherleigh.
Things were coming to a revolt. Never were poor tenant-farmers so
ground down and oppressed as those on the estate of Moat Grange. Rents
were raised, fines imposed, expenses, properly belonging to landlords,
refused to be paid or allowed for. Oscar Dalrymple was ruling with a
hand of iron, hard and cruel.
At least, Oscar had the credit of it. In point of fact, he was perhaps
a little ashamed of the existing state of things, and would have
somewhat altered it if he could. A year ago Oscar had let the whole
estate to a sort of agent, a man named Pinnett, and Pinnett was
playing Old Gooseberry with everything.
That was the expressive phrase, whatever it might mean, the indignant
people used. They refused to lay the blame on Pinnett, utterly refused
to recognize him in the matter; arguing, perhaps rightly, that unless
he had Mr. Dalrymple's sanction to harsh measures, he could not
exercise them, and that Mr. Dalrymple was, therefore, alone to blame.
Most likely Oscar had no resource but to sanction it all, tacitly at
any rate.
As to the Grange itself, the mansion, it was now the dreariest of the
dreary. It had not been let with the estate, and Oscar and his wife
still lived in it. Two maids were kept, and a man for outdoor
work--the garden and the poultry. Most of the rooms were locked up.
Selina would unlock the doors sometimes and open the shutters; and
pace about the lonely floors, and wish she had not been guilty of the
folly which had led to these wretched retrenchments. Things indoors
and out were growing worse day by day.
One morning John Lee called at the Grange: a respectable man, whose
name you cannot have forgotten. He had rented all his life, and his
father before him, under the Dalrymples.
"Sir," he began to Oscar, without circumlocution, "I have come up
about that paper which has been sent to me by Jones, your lawyer. It's
a notice that next Michaelmas, when my lease will expire, the rent is
to be raised."
"Well?" said Mr. Dalrymple.
"A pound an acre. _A pound an acre_," repeated the farmer, with
increased emphasis. "Jones must have made a mistake, sir."
"I fancy not. But Jones is not my lawyer, you know; he is Mr.
Pinnett's."
"We don't want to have anything to do with Mr. Pinnett, or to hear his
name, sir. I have always rented under the Dalrymples; and I hope to do
it still, sir, with your leave."
"You know, Lee, that Pinnett has a lease of the whole estate. What he
proposes is no doubt fair. Your farm will well bear the increased rent
he means to put on it."
"Increased by a pound an acre!" cried the farmer, in his excitement.
"No, sir; it won't bear it, for I'll never pay it."
"I am sorry for that, Mr. Lee, because it will leave Pinnett only one
alternative: to substitute in its place a notice to quit."
"To quit! to quit the farm!" reiterated Lee, in his astonishment. "Why,
it has been my home all my life, sir, and it was my father's before
me. I was born on that farm, Mr. Dalrymple, years and years before you
ever came into the world, and I mean to die on it. I have spared
neither money nor labour to bring it to its present flourishing
condition."
"My good sir, I say as you do, that the land is flourishing:
sufficiently so to justify the advanced rent Pinnett proposes. Two of
you were here yesterday on this same errand--Watkins and Rumford."
"They have spent money on their farms, too, expecting to reap future
benefit. You see, we never thought of Mr. Dalrymple's dying young,
and----"
"Are you speaking of young Robert Dalrymple?"
"No, no, poor fellow: of his father. Mr. Dalrymple did die young, so
to say; you can't call a man under fifty old. His death, and his son's
close upon it, brought you, sir, to rule over us, and I am sorry to
say your rule's a very hard one."
"It will not be made easier," curtly replied Oscar Dalrymple, who was
getting angry. "And I will not detain you longer, Mr. Lee," he added,
rising. "Your time is valuable."
"And what is to be my answer, sir?"
"It no longer lies with me to give an answer, Lee, and I must request
that you do not refer to me again. Pinnett's answer will no doubt be
that you must renew the lease at the additional rent demanded, or else
give up the farm."
Farmer Lee swung away in a passion. In turning out of the first field
he met two ladies: one young and very pretty, the other getting to
look old; her thin features were white and her hair was grey. They
were Mrs. Dalrymple and Mary Lynn. Close upon Mrs. Dalrymple's
recovery from her accident, which turned out to have been not at all
formidable, she caught a violent cold; it laid her up longer than a
cold had ever laid her up before, and seemed to have tried her
greatly. Mary Lynn had now just come again to Netherleigh to stay a
week or two with her.
"Is it you, ma'am!" cried the farmer, touching his hat. "I'm glad to
see you out again."
"At one time I thought I never should be out again," she answered; "I
am very weak still. And how are you, Mr. Lee?"
"Middling, ma'am. Anything but well just now, in temper." And the
farmer touched upon his grievances, spoke of the interview he had just
held at the Grange, and of its master's harshness.
"_Is_ it right to us, ma'am?" he wound up with. "_Is_ it just, Miss
Lynn?" turning to that young lady. "Ah, if poor young Mr. Robert had
but lived! We should have had no oppression then."
Mary turned away her face, blushing almost to tears with unhappy
remembrances. Robert! Robert!
"I do believe it will come to a revolt!" said the farmer to Mrs.
Dalrymple. "Not with us tenants; you know better than to think that
likely, ma'am; but with those people at the cottages. They are getting
ripe for it."
"Ay," she answered, in a low, grieved tone. "And the worst of it, Mr.
Lee, the worst to me is, that I am powerless for help or remedy."
"We cannot quite think--it is impossible to think or believe, that Mr.
Oscar Dalrymple should have put all control out of his power.
Therefore, his refusing to interfere with Pinnett seems all the more
harsh. You must see that, ma'am."
"I have no comfort, no advice to give," she whispered, putting her
hand into Mr. Lee's as she turned away. For Mrs. Dalrymple could not
bear to speak of the existing state of things, the trouble that had
come of Selina's folly and Oscar's rule.
Yet Oscar was kind to her. Continuously so. In no way would he allow
her income, that which he allowed her, to be in the slightest degree
diminished. He pinched himself, but he would not pinch poor Mrs.
Dalrymple. Over and over again had she wished Reuben to leave her, but
Oscar would not hear of it. Neither, for the matter of that, would
Reuben. He did not want wages, he said, but he would not desert his
mistress in her premature old age, her sickness, and her sorrow. A
small maid only was kept in addition to Reuben; and the man had
degenerated (as he might have called it but for his loyalty) to little
better than a man-of-all-work. He stood behind the ladies now at a
respectful distance, having stopped when they stopped.
The grievance alluded to by Mr. Lee, ready to ripen into open revolt,
had nothing to do with the tenant-farmers. It was this. In a very
favourable position on the estate, as regarded situation, stood a
cluster of small dwellings. They were for the most part very poor,
some of them little better than huts, but they commanded a lovely
view. They were inhabited by labourers employed on the land, and were
called the Mill Cottages: a mill, done away with now, having formerly
stood close by.
One fine day it had struck the new man, Pinnett--looking about here
and there to discover some means of adding to the profits he meant to
make off the land--that if these cottages were taken down and handsome
dwellings erected in their place, it would be a great improvement,
pecuniarily and artistically, for such houses would let directly in
this picturesque locality. No sooner thought of than resolved upon.
Miles Pinnett was not a man to linger over his plans, and he gave
these small tenants notice to quit.
It was rebelled against. Some of the men had been in the cottages as
long as Farmer Lee had been in his farm, and to be ordered to leave
seemed a terrible hardship. It no doubt increased the difficulty that
there were no other small dwellings on the estate the men could go
into: all others were already occupied: and, if they left these, they
must go to a distance whence they would have a two or three miles'
walk to their day's work. And so, encouraged perhaps by the feeling
pervading the neighbourhood, of sympathy with them and opposition to
Pinnett, the men, one and all, refused to go out. The next step would
be ejectment; and it was looked for day by day.
For all this, Oscar Dalrymple suffered in opinion. Pinnett could not
go to such lengths, oppress them as he was oppressing, against the
will of the owner, Mr. Dalrymple, argued the community, rich and poor.
Perhaps he could not. But how it really was, no one knew, or what
power Mr. Dalrymple had put out of his own hands, and into Pinnett's,
when he leased him the demesne.
Farmer Lee's visit to Moat Grange was paid in the morning. In the
afternoon the Grange had another visitor--Lady Adela Netherleigh.
Adela had not lingered long at her mother's in London. After a few
weeks' sojourn she came down to Netherleigh Rectory, invited by the
Rector and his wife, her sister Mary. They had gone to London for a
day, had been struck with compassion at Adela's evident state of
mental suffering, and they asked her to return with them for a little
change.
"It is not change I want," she had answered, speaking to Lady Mary.
"What I want is peace. Perhaps I shall find it with you, Mary, at the
Rectory."
Lady Mary Cleveland hesitated. Peace? The word posed her.
"Adela," she said, "we should be very glad to have you, and there is
plenty of room for you and Darvy. But, as to peace--I don't know about
that. The Rectory is full of children great and small, and I'm afraid
it is noisy and bustling from morning till night."
Adela smiled faintly. The peace her heart craved for was not that
imparted by the absence of noise. She might feel all the better for
having the bustle of children about her; it might draw her at moments
out of her own sorrow. But another thought struck her.
"My----" husband, she had been about to say, but changed the words.
"Sir Francis is not staying at Court Netherleigh? Is he?"
"No. It is said he means to take up his abode there later; he is not
there yet."
"Then I will come to you, Mary. And I will stay with you for months
and months if I like it--and you must allow me to contribute towards
your housekeeping as Sir Sandy and Harriet did."
Lady Mary winced a little at that, but she did not say no. With all
those children--she had two of her own now--and the Rector's moderate
income, they could not be rich.
So Adela and Darvy went down with them to Netherleigh. That was in
summer, now it was autumn: and, so far as could be seen or judged, the
change had not as yet effected much for her. Adela seemed just as
before; wan, weary, sick, and sorry.
And yet, there was a change in a certain degree. The bitter rebellion
at her fate had partly passed from her mind, and therefore its traces
had left her face. The active repining in which her days had been
spent was giving place to a sort of hopeless resignation. She strove
to accept her punishment, strove to bear it, to be patient and gentle
always, hardly ever ceasing day or night to beseech God to blot out
the past from the book of the Recording Angel. The sense of shame,
entailed by her conduct of long years, had not lifted itself in the
least degree; nay, it seemed to grow of a deeper scarlet as time went
on. Sometimes she would think if she could trample upon herself and
annihilate all power of remembrance, she would do it gladly; but that
would not stamp it out of her ever-living soul. Adela had erred;
wilfully, cruelly, persistently; and if ever retribution came home to
a woman, it surely had come to her.
On this same day, when the sky was blue and the afternoon sun lay on
the green fields at Netherleigh, Lady Adela went out, and turned her
languid steps towards Moat Grange. Selina had called to see her at the
Rectory several times; each time Adela had promised to pay return
visits, and had not yet done so. The direct road lay, as the reader
may perhaps remember, through the village and past Court Netherleigh.
Lingeringly would her eyes look on the house whenever this happened,
lingeringly they rested on it now. The home, in which she had spent so
many happy days with Aunt Margery, was closed to her for ever. Of all
people in the living world, she was the only one debarred from
entering it. Very rarely indeed was Sir Francis at Netherleigh. It had
been supposed that he meant to take up his abode in it for the autumn
months; but this appeared to be a mistake; when he did come it was but
for a flying visit of a few hours. Mr. Cleveland privately told his
wife that he believed Sir Francis stayed away from the place because
Adela was in it.
Selina was in the larger of the two drawing-rooms when Adela reached
the Grange. Selina rarely used it now, her husband never, but she had
gone into it this afternoon. Opening the shutters and the window, she
sat there making herself a lace collar. The time had gone by when she
could order these articles of a Madame Damereau, and pay a fabulous
price for them.
Adela untied her bonnet strings and took off her gloves as she sat
down opposite Selina. Not strong now, the walk had greatly tired her.
Selina could but notice how fragile and delicate she looked, as the
light from the window fell upon her face. The once rounded cheeks were
wasted, their bright colour had faded to the faintest tinge of pink;
from the once lustrous eyes shone only sadness.
"Let me get you something, Adela," cried Selina, impulsively. "A cup
of tea--I will make it for you directly. Of wine--well, I am not sure,
really, that we possess any. I can ask Oscar."
"Not anything, not anything," returned Adela, "I could not take it.
Thank you all the same. As to my looks--I look as I always do."
"Ah me," sighed Selina, "it is a weary life. A weary life, Adela, for
you and for me."
"If that were all--its weariness--it might be better borne," murmured
Adela. "And yet I do try to bear," she added, pushing her pretty brown
hair from her aching brow, and for once induced to speak of her
troubles to this friend, who had suffered too--though not as she had.
"But there is the remorse as well, you see. Oh, how wrong, how
foolish, how _wicked_ we were!--at least _I_ was. Do you ever think of
our past folly, Selina?--of the ease and happiness we then held in our
hands, and flung away?"
"We have paid for it," said Selina. "Yes, I do sometimes think of the
past, Adela; and then I wonder at the folly of women. See to what
folly has reduced me!--to drag out a dead-alive existence in a
semi-prison, for the Grange is no better now, with never a friend to
stay with me, or a shilling to spend. And all for the sake of a few
fine bonnets and gowns! Would you believe it," she added, laughing,
"that the costly things have not half come to an end yet?"
"Just for _that?_" dissented Adela, in her pain, and losing sight of
Selina's trouble in her own. "If it had been for nothing more than
that!"
"Well, well, we have paid for it, I say. Bitterly and cruelly."
"_I_ have. You have not."
"No?" somewhat indifferently returned Selina, her attention partly
given to her lace again, for she was never serious long together. "How
do you make that out?"
"You have your husband still. Poverty with him, with one we love, must
carry little sting with it. But for me--my whole life is one of
never-ending loneliness, without a future, without hope. Do you know
what fanciful thought came to me the other night?" she went on, after
a pause. "I have all sorts of fanciful ideas when I sit alone in the
twilight. I thought that life might be so much happier if God gave us
a chance once of beginning it all over again from the first. Just
once, when we found out what dreadful mistakes we had been making."
"And we should make the same again, though we began it fifty times
over, Adela. Unless we could carry back with us our dearly-bought
experience."
Adela sighed. "Yes, I suppose so. God would have so ordered it had it
been well for us. He knows best. But there are some women who seem
never to make mistakes, who go on their way smoothly and happily."
"Placing themselves under God's guidance, I imagine," returned Selina.
"That's what my mother says to me, when she lectures me on the past."
Adela's eyes filled with tears. "Yes, yes," she murmured, meekly,
recalling that it was what she had been striving to do for some little
time now--to hold on her way, under submission to God.
The conversation turned into other channels, and by-and-by, when Adela
was rested, she rose to leave. Selina accompanied her into the hall.
"Won't you just say 'How d'you do' to my husband?" she cried, opening
the door of their common sitting-room. "He is here."
Adela made no objection, and followed Selina. Oscar was standing in
the bay window, facing the door. And some one else, towering nearly a
head above him, was standing at his side.
Sir Francis Netherleigh.
They stood, the husband and wife, face to face. With a faint cry,
Adela put up her hands, as if to ward off the sight--as if to bespeak
pardon in all humility for herself, for her intrusion--and disappeared
again, whiter than death. It was rather an awkward moment for them
all. Selina disappeared after her, and shut the door.
"Is Lady Adela ill?" asked Sir Francis of Oscar, the question breaking
from him involuntarily in the moment's impulse--for she did, indeed,
look fearfully so.
"Ay," replied Oscar, "ill with remembrance. Repentance has made her
sick unto death. Remorse has told upon her."
But Sir Francis said no more.
Adela had departed across the fields with the best speed she could
command. About half-way home she came upon Mr. Cleveland, seated on a
stile and whistling softly.
"Those two young rascals of mine"--alluding to two of his little
sons--"seduced me from my study to help fly their kites," he began to
Adela. "Here I follow them, to the appointed field, and find them
nowhere, little light-headed monkeys! But, my dear, what's the matter
with you?" he added, with fatherly kindness, as he remarked her pale,
troubled face. "You look alarmed."
"I have just seen my husband," she panted, her breath painfully short.
All the old pain that she had been striving to subdue had come back
again; the sight of him, whom she now passionately loved, had stirred
distressing emotion within her.
"Well?" said Mr. Cleveland.
"Did you know he was at Netherleigh?"
"He came down today."
"He was in the bay-parlour with Oscar, and I went into it. It has
agitated me."
"But why should it agitate you?" rejoined the old Rector, who was very
matter-of-fact. "It seems to me that you ought to accustom yourself to
bear these chance meetings with equanimity, child. You can scarcely
expect to go through life without seeing him now and then."
Adela bent her head to the stile and broke into sobs. Mr. Cleveland
laid his protecting hand upon her shoulder.
"My dear! my dear! Strive to be calm. Surely a momentary sight of him
ought not to put you into this state. Is it that you still dislike him
so much?"
"Dislike him!" she exclaimed, the contrast between the word and the
truth striking her painfully, and causing her to say more than she
would have said. "I am dying for his forgiveness; dying to show him
how true is my remorse; dying because I lost him."
The Rector did not quite see what answer to make to this. He held his
tongue, and Adela resumed.
"I wish I was a Roman Catholic!"
The good man, evangelical Protestant, felt as if his gray hair were
standing on end with surprise. "Oh, hush!" said he. "You don't know
what you are saying."
"I do wish it," she sobbed. "I could then go into a convent, and find
peace."
"Peace!" echoed Mr. Cleveland. "No, child, don't let your imagination
run away with that idea. It is a false one. No woman, entering a
convent in the frame of mind you seem to be entertaining, could expect
peace, or find it."
"Any way, I should feel more at rest: I should _have_ to bear life
then, you know. And, oh, I was trying to do so: I was indeed trying!"
Thoroughly put out, the Rector made no comment. Perhaps would not
trust himself to make any.
"I suppose there are no such things as Protestant convents, or
sisterhoods," she went on, "that receive poor creatures who have no
longer any place in this world?"
"Not to my knowledge," sharply spoke Mr. Cleveland, as he jumped off
the stile. "It is time we went home, Adela."
They walked away side by side. Gaining the Rectory--a large,
straggling, red-brick building, its old walls covered with
time-honoured ivy--Adela ascended to her chamber, and shut herself in
with her grief.
How scornfully her husband must despise her!--despise her for her past
shame and sin; despise her in her present contemptible humiliation,
she reflected, a low moan escaping her--he so pure and upright in all
his ways, so good and generous and noble! Oh that she could hide to
the end from him and from the world!
Lifting her trembling hands, her despairing face, Adela breathed a
faint petition that the Most High would be pleased to vouchsafe to her
somewhat of His heavenly comfort, or take her out of the tribulation
that she could so hardly battle with.