HOW KITTY WENT TO LONDON.
Oppressed with this determination, which left no room for any other
thought, I urged upon Mrs. Esther the necessity of going to London at
once, as we had resolved to do before the accident. I pointed out to
her that, after the dreadful calamity which had befallen us--for which
most certainly no one could blame us--we could take no more pleasure in
the gaieties of Epsom: that we could enjoy no longer the light talk,
the music, and the dancing; that the shadow of Death had fallen over
the place, so far as we were concerned: that we could not laugh while
Nancy was weeping; and that--in short, my lord was in London and I must
needs go too.
"There are a hundred good reasons," said Mrs. Esther, "why we should go
away at once: and you have named the very best of all. But, dear child,
I would not seem to be pursuing his lordship."
"Indeed," I replied, "there will be no pursuing of him. Oh, dear madam,
I should be"--and here I burst into tears--"the happiest of women if I
were not the most anxious."
She thought I meant that I was anxious about Will's recovery; but this
was no longer the foremost thing in my thoughts, much as I hoped that
he would get better--which seemed now hopeless.
"Let us go, dear madam, and at once. Let us leave this place, which
will always be remembered by me as the scene of so much delight as well
as so much pain. I must see my lord as soon as I can. For oh! there are
obstacles in the way which I must try to remove, or be a wretched woman
for ever."
"Child," said Mrs. Esther severely, "we must not stake all our
happiness on one thing."
"But I have so staked it," I replied. "Dear madam, you do not
understand. If I get not Lord Chudleigh for my husband, I will never
have any man. If I cannot be his slave, then will I be no man's queen.
For oh! I love the ground he walks upon; the place where he lodges is
my palace, his kind looks are my paradise; I want no heaven unless I
can hold his hand in mine."
I refrain from setting down all I said, because I think I was like a
mad thing, having in my mind at once my overweening love, my repentance
and shame, and my terror in thinking of what my lord would say when he
heard the truth.
Had my case been that of more happy women, who have nothing to conceal
or to confess, such a fit of passion would have been without excuse,
but I set it down here, though with some shame, yet no self-reproach,
because the events of the last day or two had been more than I
could bear, and I must needs weep and cry, even though my tears and
lamentations went to the heart of my gentle lady, who could not bear
to see me suffer. For consider, the son of my kindest friends, to be
lying, like to die, run through the body by my lover: I could not
be suffered to see his mother, who had been almost my own mother: I
could never more bear to meet my pretty Nancy without thinking how,
unwittingly, I had enchanted this poor boy, and so lured him to his
death: that merry, saucy girl would be merry no more: all our ways of
kindly mirth and innocent happiness were gone, never to return: even
if Will recovered, how could there, any more, be friendship between
him and me? For the memory of his villainous attempt could never be
effaced. There are some things which we forgive, because we forget: but
this thing, though I might forgive, none of us would ever forget. And
at the back of all this trouble was my secret, which I was now, in some
words, I knew not what, to confess to my lord.
Poor Mrs. Esther gave way to all I wanted. She would leave Epsom on
Monday: indeed, her boxes should be packed in a couple of hours. She
kissed and soothed me, while I wept and exclaimed, in terms which she
could not understand, upon woman's perfidy and man's fond trust. When
I was recovered from this fit, which surely deserved no other name, in
which passion got the better of reason, and reason and modesty were
abandoned for the time (if Solomon Stallabras had seen me then, how
would he have been ashamed for his blind infatuation!), we were able
calmly to begin our preparation.
First we told Cicely to go order us a post-chaise for Monday morning,
for we must go to London without delay; then I folded and packed away
Mrs. Esther's things, while she laid her down to rest awhile, for
her spirits had been greatly agitated by my unreasonable behaviour.
Then Cicely came to my room to help me, and presently I saw her tears
falling upon the linen which she folded and laid in the trunk.
"Foolish Cicely!" I said, thinking of my own foolishness, "why do you
cry?"
"O Miss Kitty," she sobbed, "who would not cry to see you going away,
never to come back again? For I know you never, never could come here
any more after that dreadful carrying away, enough to frighten a maid
into her grave. And besides, they say that Epsom is going to be given
up, and the Assembly Rooms pulled down; and we should not have had this
gay season unless it had been for my lord and his party at the Durdans.
And what we shall do, mother and me, I can't even think."
Why, here was another trouble.
"Miss Kitty"--this silly girl threw herself on her knees to me and
caught my hand--"take me into your service when you marry my lord."
"How do you know I am to marry my lord, Cicely? There are many things
which may happen to prevent it."
"Oh, I know you will, because you are so beautiful and so good." I
snatched my hand away. "I haven't offended you, Miss Kitty, have I? All
the world cries out that you are as good as you are beautiful; and
haven't I seen you, for near two months, always considerate, and never
out of temper with anybody, not even with me, or your hairdresser, or
your dressmaker? Whereas, Miss Peggy Baker slaps her maid, and sticks
pins into her milliner."
"That is enough, Cicely," I said. "I have no power to take anybody into
my service, being as penniless as yourself. But if--if--that event
_should_ happen which you hope for--why--then--I do not--say----"
"It _will_ happen. Oh, I know that it will happen. I have dreamed of
it three times running, and always before midnight. I threw a piece of
apple-peel yesterday, and called it to name your husband. It first made
a G., which is Geoffrey, and then a C., which is Chudleigh. And mother
says that everything in the house points to a wedding as true as she
can read the signs. O Miss Kitty! may I be in your service?"
I laughed and cried. I know not which, for the tears were very near my
eyes all that time.
But oh! that thing did happen which she prophesied and I longed for--I
will quickly tell you how. And, as I have said before, I took Cicely
into my service, and a good and faithful maid she proved, and married
the curate. I forgot to say that when young Lord Eardesley heard the
story of her father's elopement with Jenny Medlicott, he laughed,
because his mother, Jenny's friend and far-off cousin, had taken her
away to Virginia with her, where, after (I hope) the death of Joshua
Crump, she had married again. Jenny, it appeared, was the daughter of
the same alderman whose fall in 1720 ruined my poor ladies. And it
was for this reason that his lordship afterwards, when Cicely had a
houseful of babies, took a fancy to them, and would have them, when
they were big enough, out to Virginia. Here he made them overseers,
and, in course of time, settled them on estates of their own, where
some of them prospered, and some, as happens in all large families,
wasted their substance and fell into poverty.
The next day, being Sunday, we spent chiefly over our devotions. It
was moving to hear the congregation invited to pray for one in grievous
danger--meaning poor Will, who would have been better at this moment
had he sometimes prayed for himself. Nancy sat beside me in our pew,
and caught my hand at the words. One could not choose but weep, poor
child! for there was no improvement in Will's fever: all night long the
doctor had sat beside his bed, while the lad, in his delirium, fancied
himself riding races, wrestling, boxing, and drinking with his boon
companions. A pitiful contrast! The pleasures of the world in his mind,
and eternity in prospect. Yet, for a man in delirium, allowance must
be made. The fever was now, in fact, at its height, and four men were
necessary to hold him down in his ravings.
We spent a gloomy Sunday indeed, Mrs. Esther being so saddened by the
anxieties of our friends that she resumed her reading of "Drelincourt
on Death," a book she had laid aside since we left the Rules. And we
observed a fast, not so much from religious motives, as because, in the
words of Mrs. Esther, roast veal and stuffing is certain to disagree
when a heart of sensibility is moved by the woes of those we love. In
the evening we had it cold, when Nancy came to sit with us, her eyes
red with her weeping, and we were fain to own that we were hungry after
crying together all day long.
"Hot meat," said Mrs. Esther, "at such a juncture, would have choked
us."
Nancy said, that after what had happened, it would certainly be
impossible for us to stay longer at Epsom, and that for herself, all
she hoped and expected now was shame and disgrace for the rest of her
life. She wished that there were convents in the country to which she
could repair for the rest of her days; go with her hair cut short, get
up in the middle of the night for service, and eat nothing but bread
and water. "For," she said, "I shall never cease to think that my own
brother tried to do such a wicked thing."
Nancy as a nun made us all laugh, and so with spirits raised a little,
we kissed, and said farewell. Nancy promised to let me know every other
day by post, whatever the letter should cost, how things went. It
seemed to me, indeed, as if, seeing that Will had not died in the first
twenty-four hours, the chance was somewhat in favour of his recovery.
And he was so strong a man, and so young. I sent a message of duty
and respect to Sir Robert--I dared not ask to have my name so much as
mentioned to Will's mother--and left Nancy in her trouble, full of mine
own.
Before we started next morning, Cicely went for news, but there was
no improvement. The stable-boy, she told me, was going about the
town, his arm bandaged up, saying that if ever a man was murdered in
cold blood it was his master, because he had never a sword, and only
a stick to defend himself with. Also, it was reported that among the
lower classes, the servants, grooms, footmen, and such, the feeling was
strong that the poor gentleman had met with foul play. Asked whether
they understood rightly what Mr. Will Levett was doing, Cicely replied
that they knew very well, and that they considered he was doing a fine
and gallant thing, one which would confer as much honour upon the lady
as upon himself, which shows that in this world there is no opinion too
monstrous to be held by rough and uneducated people; wherefore we ought
the more carefully to guard the constitution and prevent the rabble
from having any share in public business, or the control of affairs.
Our carriage took us to London in three hours, the road being tolerably
good, and so well frequented, after the first three miles, that there
was little fear of highway robbers or footpads. And so we came back to
our lodgings in Red Lion Street, after such a two months as I believe
never before fell to the lot of any girl.
Remember that I was a wife, yet a maiden; married to a man whom I had
never seen except for a brief quarter of an hour, who knew not my
name, and had never seen me at all--making allowance for the state of
drunkenness in which he was married; that I knew this man's name, but
he knew not mine; that I met him at Epsom, and that he had fallen in
love with me, and I, God help me! with him. Yet that there was no way
out of it, no escape but that before he could marry me (again) I must
needs confess the deceit of which I had been guilty. No Heaven, say the
Roman Catholics, without Purgatory. Yet suppose, after going through
Purgatory, one were to miss one's Heaven!
How could I best go to my lord and tell him?
He was in hiding, in the Rules of the Fleet, and in our old lodging
looking over the Fleet Market by one window, and over Fleet Lane by the
other--a pleasant lodging for so great a lord. Could I go down to him,
in hoops and satin, to tell him in that squalid place the whole truth?
Yet go I must.
Now, while we drove rapidly along the road, which is smooth and even
between Epsom, or at least between Streatham and London, a thought came
into my mind which wanted, after a little, nothing but the consent of
Mrs. Esther. A dozen times was I upon the point of telling her all, and
as many times did I refrain, because I reflected that, although she
knew all about the carrying away of girls from the romances which she
read, a secret marriage in the Fleet, although she had lived so long in
the Rules, and even knew my uncle and thought him the greatest of men,
was a thing outside her experience, and would therefore only terrify
her and confuse her. Therefore I resolved to tell her no more than I
was obliged.
But then my plans made it necessary that I should leave her for a
while--two or three days, perhaps, or even more.
So soon, therefore, as we had unpacked our trunks, and Mrs. Esther was
seated in an arm-chair to rest after the fatigues of the rapid journey,
I began upon the subject of getting away from her, hypocritically
pleading my duty towards the Doctor, my uncle. I said that I thought
I ought to pay him a visit, and that after my return to London he
would certainly take it unkindly if I did not; that, considering the
character of the place in which he unhappily resided, it was not to be
thought that a person of Mrs. Esther's sensibility could be exposed
to its rudeness; and that, with her permission, I would the next day
take a coach, and, unless the Doctor detained me, I would return in the
afternoon.
We had so firmly maintained our resolution to forget the past, that
Mrs. Esther only smiled when I spoke of the rudeness of the market, and
said that no doubt it was desirable for a gentlewoman to keep away from
rude and unpolished people, so that the elevation of her mind might not
be disturbed by unpleasant or harassing scenes. At the same time, she
added, there were reasons, doubtless, why I should from time to time
seek out that great and good man (now in misfortune) to whom we all
owed a debt of gratitude which never could be repaid. She therefore
gave me permission to go there, it being understood that I was to be
conveyed thither, and back again, in a coach.
In the morning, after breakfast, I dressed myself for the journey, and,
because I thought it likely that I might remain for one night at least,
and perhaps more, I took with me a bag containing my oldest and poorest
clothes, those, namely, in which I was dressed while in the market.
Then I wrapped myself in a hood which I could pull, if necessary, over
my face, and, so disguised, I stole down the stairs.
London streets are safe for a young woman in the morning, when the
throng of people to and fro keeps rogues honest. I walked through
Fetter Lane, remembering that here Solomon Stallabras was born--indeed,
I passed a little shop over which the name was painted on a swinging
sign of the Silver Garter, so that one of his relatives still carried
on the business. Then I walked along Fleet Street, crowded with chairs,
carriages, waggons, and porters. The Templars were lounging about the
gates of their Inns; the windows of the many vintners' houses were wide
open, and within them were gentlemen, drinking wine, early as it was;
the coffee-houses were full of tradesmen who would have been better at
home behind their counters; ladies were crowding into the shops, having
things turned over for them; 'prentices jostled each other behind the
posts; grave gentlemen walked slowly along, carrying their canes before
them, like wands of office; swaggering young fellows took the wall of
every one, except of each other; the street was full of the shouting,
noise, and quarrelling which I remembered so well. At the end was the
bridge with its quacks bawling their wares which they warranted to
cure everything, and its women selling hot furmety, oysters, and fish.
Beyond the bridge rose before me the old gate of Lud, which has since
been pulled down, and on the left was the Fleet Market, at sight of
which, as of an old friend, I could have burst into tears.
The touters and runners for the Fleet parsons were driving their trade
as merrily as ever. Among them I recognised my old friend Roger, who
did not see me. By the blackness of one eye, and the brown paper
sticking to his forehead, one could guess that competition among the
brethren of his craft had been more than usually severe of late.
Prosperity, I thought to myself, works speedy changes with us. Was
it really possible that I had spent six long months and more in this
stinking, noisy, and intolerable place? Why, could I have had one
moment of happiness when not only was I surrounded by infamy in every
shape, but I had no hope or prospect of being rescued? In eight short
months these things had grown to seem impossible. Death itself, I
thought, would be preferable to living among such people and in the
midst of such scenes.
I recognised them all: it gave me pain to feel how familiar they were:
the mean, scowling faces, stamped with the seal of wicked lives and
wicked thoughts--such faces must those souls wear who are lost beyond
redemption: and the deformed men and boys who seemed to select this
market as their favourite haunt. There are many more deformed among
the poor than with the better sort, by reason of the accidents which
befall their neglected children and maim them for life. That would
account for the presence of many of these monsters, but not of all; I
suppose some of them come to the market because the labour of handling
and carrying the fruit and vegetables is light, though poorly paid.
There were hunchbacks in great plenty; those whose feet were clubbed,
whose legs were knock-kneed, whose feet were turned inward, whose eyes
squinted. I looked about me for--but did not see--a certain dreadful
woman whom I remembered, who sold shell-fish at a stall and had fingers
webbed like a duck; but there was the other dreadful woman still in
her place, whose upper lip was horrid to look at for hair; there was
the cobbler who refused to shave because he said it was unscriptural,
and so sat like one of the ancients with a long white beard; there
were, alas! the little children, pale, hungry-looking, with eager,
sharp eyes, in training for the whip, the gallows, or the plantation.
They ran about among the baskets; they sat or stood among the stalls
waiting for odd jobs, messages and parcels to carry; they prowled about
looking for a chance to steal: it was all as I remembered it, yet had
forgotten so quickly. On the right the long wall of the Fleet Prison;
beyond that, the Doctor's house, his name painted on the door. I pulled
my hood closer over my face and passed it by, because before paying
my respects to my uncle I was going to make inquiries about the man I
loved.
He was, as I knew, in our old lodgings. He slept, unconscious, in my
room; he sat where I had so often sat; the place ought to have reminded
him of me. But he knew nothing; the name of Kitty Pleydell was not yet
associated in his mind with the Rules of the Fleet.
When we went away, one of those who bade us God-speed and shed tears
over our departure was Mrs. Dunquerque, who, as I have told, lived
above us with her husband, Captain Dunquerque, and her two little
girls. The captain, who was not a good man or a kind man, drank and
gambled when he got any money, and left his poor wife and children to
starve. It was to her that I meant to go. She was a kind-hearted woman,
and fond of me for certain favours I had been able to show her little
girls. I was sure to find her in the same lodgings, because in the
Rules no one ever changes.
I came to the house: I pulled the hood so close about my face that
had my lord met me he would not have known me. The door was standing
wide open, as usual. I entered and mounted the stairs. The door of the
room--our old room, on the first-floor--was half open. Within--oh, my
heart!--I saw my lord sitting at the table, with paper before him, pen
in hand. I dared not wait, lest he might discover me, but hastened
upstairs to Mrs. Dunquerque's room.
I was fortunate enough to find her at home. The captain was gone
abroad, and had taken the children with him for a morning's walk. She
sat at home, as usual, darning, mending, and making. But oh! the cry
of pleasure and surprise when she saw me, and the kisses she gave
me, and the praise at my appearance, and the questions after Mrs.
Esther! I told her of all, including Sir Miles Lackington and Solomon
Stallabras's good fortune. Then she began to tell me of herself.
They were as poor as when we went away; but their circumstances had
improved in one important particular; for though the captain was no
more considerate (as I guessed from a word she dropped), and drank and
gambled whenever he could, they had a friend who sent them without
fail what was more useful to them than money--food and clothes for the
children and their mother. She did not know who the friend was, but
the supplies never failed, being as regular as those brought by the
prophet's ravens.
I did not need to be told the name of this friend, for, in truth, I had
myself begged the Doctor to extend his charity to this poor family, and
asked him to send them beef and pudding, which the children could eat,
rather than money, which the captain would drink. This he promised to
do. Truly, charity, in his case, ought to have covered a multitude
of sins, for he had a hand ever open to give, and a heart to pity;
moreover, he gave in secret, and never did his right hand know what his
left hand was doing.
Then I opened my business to Mrs. Dunquerque, but only partially.
I told her that on the first-floor, in the rooms formerly occupied
by ourselves, there was a young gentleman, well known to Sir Miles
Lackington, who had reason to be out of sight for a short time; that
he was also known to myself--here I blushed, and my friend nodded and
laughed, being interested, as all women are, in the discovery of a love
secret; that I was anxious for his welfare; that I had made the excuse
of paying a visit to the Doctor in order to be near him: that, in fact,
I would be about him, wait upon him, and watch over him, without his
knowledge of my presence.
"But he will most certainly know thee, child," she cried. "Tell me, my
dear, is he in love with thee?"
"He says so," I replied. "Perhaps he tells the truth."
"And you? O Kitty! to think of you only a year ago!"
"There is no doubt about me," I said; "for, oh! dear Mrs. Dunquerque,
I am head over ears in love with him. Yet I will so contrive that he
shall not know me, if you will help."
"And what can I do?"
"Make his acquaintance; go and see him; tell him that he must want some
one to do for him; offer to send him your maid Phoebe--yes, Phoebe.
Then I will go, and, if he speaks to me, which is not likely, I will
answer in a feigned voice. Go, now, Mrs. Dunquerque. I will dress for
Phoebe."
She laughed and went away.
My lord lifted his head as she knocked at the door.
"I ask your pardon, sir," she said, "for this intrusion. I live above
you, upon the second-floor, with my husband and children. I suppose,
sir, that, like the rest of us in this place, you come here because
you cannot help it, and a pity it is to find so young a gentleman thus
early shipwrecked."
"I thank you, madam," said my lord, bowing, "for this goodwill."
"The will is nothing, sir, because people in misfortune ought to help
each other when they can. Therefore, sir, and because I perceive that
your room is not what a gentleman's should be, being inch thick with
dust, I will, with your permission, send down my maid when you go out,
who may make you clean and tidy."
"I shall not go out," replied my lord; "but I thank you for the offer
of the girl. I dare say the place might be cleaner."
"She is a girl, sir," replied Mrs. Dunquerque, "who will not disturb
you by any idle chatter. Phoebe!" Here she stepped out upon the
stairs. "Phoebe! Come downstairs this minute, and bring a duster."
When Phoebe came, she was a girl whose hair was pulled over her
eyes, and she had the corner of her apron in her mouth; she wore a
brown stuff frock, not down to her ankles; her hands where whiter
than is generally found in a servant; her apron was of the kind which
servant-maids use to protect their frocks, and she wore a great cap
tied under the chin and awry, as happens to maids in the course of
their work; in one respect, beside her hands, Phoebe was different
from the ordinary run of maidservants--her shoes and stockings were so
fine that she feared his lordship would notice them.
But he noticed her not at all--neither shoes, nor hands, nor cap, nor
apron, which, though it was foolish, made this servant-girl feel a
little pained.
"Phoebe," said Mrs. Dunquerque, "you will wait upon this gentleman,
and fetch him what he wants. And now do but look at the dust
everywhere. Saw one ever such untidiness? Quick, girl, with the duster,
and make things clean. Dear me! to think of this poor gentleman
sitting up to his eyes, as one may say, in a peck of dust!"
She stood in the room, with her work in her hand, rattling on about
the furniture and the fineness of the day, and the brightness of the
room, which had two windows, and the noise of the market, which, she
said, the young gentleman would mind, more than nothing at all, after a
while. As for the dreadful language of the porters and fishwives, that,
she said, was not pleasant at first, but after a little one got, so to
say, used to it, and you no more expected that one of these wretches
should speak without breaking the third commandment and shocking ears
used to words of purity and piety, than you would expect his Grace the
Archbishop of Canterbury himself to use the language of the market.
She advised the young gentleman, further, for his own good, not to sit
alone and mope, but to go abroad and ruffle it with the rest, to keep
a stout heart, to remember that Fortune frowns one day and smiles the
next, being a deity quite capricious and untrustworthy; therefore that
it behoved a young man to have hope; and she exhorted him in this end
to seek out cheerful company, such as that of the great Doctor Shovel,
the only Chaplain of the Fleet, as learned as a bishop and as merry as
a monk: or even to repair to the prison and play tennis and racquets
with the gentlemen therein confined: but, above all, not to sit alone
and brood. Why, had he never a sweetheart to whom he could write, and
send sweet words of love, whereby the heart of the poor thing would be
lightened, and her affections fixed?
So she rattled on, while I, nothing loth, plied duster, and cleaned up
furniture with a zeal surpassing that of any housemaid. Yet, because
men never observe what is under their eyes, he observed nothing of all
this activity. If I had crawled as slowly as possible over the work, it
would have been all one to him.
Presently I came to the table at which he was sitting. This, too, was
covered with dust. (It had been our table formerly, and had grown old
in the service of the Pimpernel ladies.) I brushed away the dust with
great care, and in so doing, I saw that he had a letter before him,
just begun. It commenced with these enchanting words--
"Love of my soul! My goddess Kitty----"
Oh that I could have fallen at his feet, then and there, and told him
all! But I could not; I was afraid.
He had, as yet, written nothing more. But on a piece of paper beside
the letter he had traced the outlines of a woman's head. Whose head
should it be, I ask you, but Kitty's?
I was amazed at the sight. My colour came and went.
"Phoebe," cried Mrs. Dunquerque warningly, "be careful how you touch
the papers! There, sir, we have your room straight for you. It looks a
little cleaner than it did awhile since."
"Surely," he replied, without looking around. "Yes, I am truly
obliged to you, madam. As for this girl"--still he would not look at
me--"perhaps----"
He placed a whole crown-piece in my hand. A crown-piece for such a
simple piece of work! Enough to make the best of housemaids grasping!
This is how men spoil servants.
"Can I get you anything, sir?" I asked, in a feigned voice.
"Nothing, child, nothing. Stay--yes. One must eat a little, sometimes.
Get me some dinner by-and-by."
This was all for that time. We went away, and we spent the rest of the
morning in making him such a little dinner as we thought must please
him. First we got from the market a breast of veal, which we roasted
with a little stuffing, and dished with a slice or two of bacon, nicely
broiled, some melted butter made with care, and a lemon. This, to my
mind, forms a dish fit for a prince. We added to this some haricot
beans, with butter and sweet herbs, and a dish of young potatoes. Then
we made a little fruit pudding and a custard, nicely browned, and, at
two o'clock, put all upon a tray, and I carried it downstairs, still
with my hair over my eyes, my cap still awry, and the corner of the
apron still in my teeth.
I set the food before him and waited to serve him. But he would not let
me.
Ah! had he known how I longed to do something for him, and what a
happiness it was simply to make his dinner, to prepare his vegetables
for him, and to boil his pudding! But how should he guess?
I found Sir Miles's bottle of wine untouched in the cupboard, and
placed it on the table. Then I left him to his meal. When I returned, I
found he had eaten next to nothing. One could have cried with vexation.
"Lord, sir," I said, still in my feigned voice, "if you do not eat you
will be ill. Is there never a body that loves you?"
He started, but hardly looked at me.
"A trick of voice," he said. "Yet it reminded me--Is there anybody who
loves me, child? I think there is. To be sure, there is some one whom I
love."
"Then, sir, you ought to eat, if only to please her, by keeping well
and strong."
"Well, well! I dare say I shall be hungry to-morrow. You can take away
the things, Phoebe, if that is what they call you."
I could say no more, but was fain to obey. Then as I could do no more
for him, I took up the tray and resolved to go and see the Doctor, with
whom I had much to say. Therefore I put off my servant's garb, with the
apron and cap, and drew the hood over my face again.
The Doctor's busy time was in the morning. In the afternoon, after
dinner, he mostly slept in his arm-chair, over a pipe of tobacco. I
found him alone thus enjoying himself. I know not whether he slept or
meditated, for the tobacco was still burning, though his eyes were
closed.
There is this peculiarity about noise in London, that people who live
in it and sleep in it do not notice it. Thus while there was a horrible
altercation outside his very windows--a thing which happened every day,
and all day long--the Doctor regarded it not at all. Yet he heard me
open and shut the door, and was awake instantly.
"Kitty!" he cried. "Why, child, what dost thou here?"
"I hope, sir," I said, "that I find you in good health and spirits."
"Reasonable good, Kitty. A man of my years, be he never so temperate
and regular in his habits, finds the slow tooth of time gnawing upon
him. Let me look at thy face. Humph! one would say that the air of
Epsom is good for young maids' cheeks. But why in Fleet Market, child?"
"Partly, sir, I came to see you, and partly----"
"To see some one else, of whose lodging in the Rules I have been told
by Sir Miles Lackington. Tell me--the young man whom he wounded, is he
dead?"
"Nay, sir, not dead, but grievously wounded, and in a high fever."
"So. A man in early manhood, who has been wounded by a sword running
through his vitals, who four days after the event is still living,
though in a high fever--that man, methinks, is likely to recover,
unless his physician, as is generally the case, is an ass. For, my
dear, there are as many incompetent physicians as there are incapable
preachers. Their name is Legion. Well, Kitty, you came about Lord
Chudleigh. Have you seen him?"
"Yes; but, sir, he does not know that I am here. I saw him"--here I
blushed again--"in disguise as a housemaid."
"Ho! ho! ho!" laughed the Doctor. "Why, girl, thou hast more spirit
than I gave thee credit for. Thou deservest him, and shalt have him,
too. The time is come." He rose and folded his gown about him, and put
on his wig, which for coolness' sake he had laid aside. "I will go to
him and say, 'My lord, the person to whom you were married is no other
than----'"
"Oh! no, sir. I pray you do not speak to him in such fashion. Pray hear
me first."
"Well--well. Let us hear this little baggage." The Doctor was in
very good spirits, and eager to unfold this tale. He sat down again,
however, and took up his pipe. "Go on, then, Kitty; go on--I am
listening."
This was, indeed, a very critical moment of my life. For on this moment
depended, I foresaw, all my happiness. I therefore hesitated a little,
thinking what to say and how to say it. Then I began.
I reminded my uncle that, when I first came under his protection, I
was a young girl fresh from the country, who knew but little evil,
suspected none, and in all things had been taught to respect and fear
my betters. I then reminded him how, while in this discipline of mind,
I was one morning called away by him, and ordered to go through a
certain form which (granting that I well knew it to be the English
form of marriage service) I could not really believe to mean that I
was married. And though my uncle assured me afterwards that such was
the case, I so little comprehended that it could be possible, that
I had almost forgotten the whole event. Then, I said, we had gone
away from the Rules of the Fleet, and found ourselves under happier
circumstances, where new duties made me still more forget this strange
thing. Presently we went to Epsom, whither, in the strangest way,
repaired the very man I had married.
After this, I told him, the most wonderful thing in the world happened
to me. For not only did my lord fall in love with me, his legal wife,
but he gave me to understand that the only obstacle to his marrying me
was that business in the Fleet, of which he informed me at length.
"Very good," said the Doctor. "Things could not go better. If the man
has fallen in love with the girl, he ought to be pleased that she is
his wife."
Nay: that would not do either; for here another thing of which the
Doctor had no experience, being a man. For when a woman falls in love
with a man she must needs make herself as virtuous and pure in mind as
she is brave in her dress, in order the more to please him and fix his
affection. And what sort of love would that be where a woman should
glory, as it were, in deception?
Why, his love would be changed, if not into loathing, then into a
lower kind of love, in which admiration of a woman's beauty forms the
whole part. Now, if beauty is everything, even Helen of Troy would be
a miserable woman, a month after marriage, when her husband would grow
tired of her.
"Alas!" I cried, "I love him. If you tell him, as he must now be told,
that I was the woman who took a part in that shameful business--yes,
sir, even to your face I must needs call it shameful--you may tell him
at once that I release him so far as I can. I will not acknowledge the
marriage. I will go into no court of law, nor will I give any evidence
to establish my rights----"
"Whom God hath joined----" the Doctor began.
"Oh! I know--I know. And you are a clergyman of the Church, with power
and authority by laying on of hands. Yet I cannot think, I cannot feel
that any blessing of heaven could rest upon a union performed in such
a place. Is this room, nightly desecrated by revellers, a church? Is
your profligate wretch Roger a clerk? Where were the banns put up? What
bells were rung?"
"Banns are no longer fashionable," he replied. "But let me think." He
was not angry with my plainness of speech, but rather the contrary.
"Let me think." He went to his cupboard, took out his great register,
and turned over the leaves. "Ay! here it is, having a page to itself:
Geoffrey Lord Chudleigh to Catherine Pleydell. Your ladyship is as
truly Lady Chudleigh as his mother was before him. But if you _will_
give up that title and dignity"--here he smiled and tore out the page,
but carefully--"I will not baulk thee, child. Here is the register,
and here the certificate of the wedding." He put both together, and
laid them carefully aside. "Come to me to-morrow, and I will then go
with you to his lordship and give him these papers to deal with as he
pleases."
CHAPTER THE LAST.
HOW LORD CHUDLEIGH RECEIVED HIS FREEDOM.
I returned to my lodging, there to await the event of the next morning.
My lord would learn that he was free--so far good. But with his freedom
would come the news that the woman who restored it to him was the same
who had taken it away, and the same whom he had professed to love.
Alas! poor Kitty!
Now was I like unto a man sentenced to death, yet allowed to choose the
form of his execution, whether he would be hanged, poisoned, beheaded,
stabbed, shot, drowned, or pushed violently and suddenly out of life in
some other manner which he might prefer. As the time approaches, his
anxiety grows the greater until the fatal moment arrives when he must
choose at once; then, in trouble and confusion, he very likely chooses
that very method which is most painful in the contemplation and the
endurance. So with me. I might choose the manner of telling my lover
all, but tell him I must. "Pray Heaven," I said, "to direct me into the
best way." In the afternoon I became once more Phoebe.
Phoebe carried a dish of tea; would the gentleman choose to taste it?
He took it from Phoebe's hand, drank it, and returned to his writing,
which was, I believe, a continuation of that letter, the commencement
of which I had seen.
In the evening Sir Miles paid him a visit of consolation. He drank up
what was left of the bottle, and, after staying an hour or so, went
away, noisily promising himself a jovial night with the Doctor.
At eight o'clock Phoebe brought a tray with cold meat upon it, but my
lord would take none, only bidding her to set it down and leave him.
"Can I do nothing more for you, sir?" asked the maid.
He started again.
"Your voice, child," he said (although I had disguised my voice),
"reminds of one whose voice----"
"La, sir!" she asked. "Is it the voice of your sweetheart?"
He only sighed and sat down again. Phoebe lingered as long as she
could, and then she went away.
Then we all went to bed. Captain Dunquerque had by this time brought
home the little girls and gone to the Doctor's, where, with Sir Miles
and the rest, he was making a night of it.
It was a hot night; the window was open; the noise of the brawling and
fighting below was intolerable; the smell from the market was worse
than anything I remembered, and the bed was a strange one. Added to all
this, my cares were so great that I could not sleep. Presently I arose
and looked out, just as I had done a year before when first I came
to my uncle for protection. Everything was the same; there was light
enough to see the groups of those who talked and the forms of those who
slept. I remembered the old and the young, as I had seen them in the
bright light of a July dawn: poor wretches, destined from their birth
to be soldiers of the devil; elected for disgrace and shame; born for
Newgate and Bridewell; brought into the world for the whipping post,
the cart-tail, and the gallows. Just the same; and I alone changed.
For beneath me, all unconscious, was one whom I might call my husband.
Then my thoughts went wholly out to him; then I could neither sit nor
rest, nor stand still with thinking of the next day, and what I had to
say and how to say it. Oh, my love--my dear--could I bear to give him
up? could I bear to see him turn away those eyes which had never looked
upon me save with kindness and affection? Could I endure to think that
his love was gone from me altogether? Death was better, if death would
come.
Then, crazed, I think, with trouble, I crept slowly from the room, and
went down the stair till I reached the door of the room where my lord
was lying. And here I went on like a mad thing, having just enough
sense to keep silence, yet weeping without restraint, wringing my
hands, praying, offering to Heaven the sacrifice of my life, if only my
lover would not harden his heart to me, and kissing the while the very
senseless wood of the door.
Within the room he was sleeping unconscious; without I was silently
crying and weeping, full of shame and anxiety, not daring to hope, yet
knowing full well his noble heart. Why, had I, weeks before, dared to
tell him all, forgiveness would have been mine; I knew it well. Yet
now, in such a place, when he was reminded of the companions, or at
least the creatures, who had surrounded her, would he not harden his
heart and refuse to believe that any virtue, any purity, could survive?
All this was of no avail. When I was calmed a little I returned to
my own room and sat upon the bed, wondering whether any woman was so
miserable in her shame as myself.
The long minutes crept on slowly: the daylight was dawning: the night
had passed away: Captain Dunquerque had rolled up the stairs noisily,
singing a drunken song: the revellers below were quiet, but the morning
carts had begun when I fell asleep for weariness, and when I awoke the
sun was high. So I arose, dressed, and hastened downstairs, hoping to
see the Doctor before he sallied forth.
There had been, Roger told me with a smile, a great night. He meant
that the Doctor's guests had been many, and their calls for punch
numerous. Sir Miles had been carried away to some place in the
neighbourhood. The Doctor was still abed.
While we talked he appeared, no whit the worse for his night's
potations. Yet I thought his face was of a deeper purple than of old,
and his neck thicker. That was very likely an idle fancy, because a few
months could make but little difference in a man of his fixed habits.
"Well, Kitty"--he was in good humour, and apparently satisfied with the
position of things--"I have thought over thy discourse of yesterday,
which, I confess, greatly moved me: first, because I did not know thee
to be a girl of such spirit, courage, and dignity; and second, because
I now perceive that the marriage, performed in thy interest, was
perhaps, as things have now turned out (which is surely providential),
a mistake. Yet was it done for the best, and I repent me not. Come,
then, to my lord, and let me talk to him."
"First, sir," I begged, "tell him not my name."
He promised this; though, as he said, the name was on the register; and
it was agreed between us that we should speak to my lord privately,
and then that he was to call me, when I should play my part as best I
could.
The Doctor led the way. When he entered the room I ran upstairs, and
with trembling hands made myself as fine as I could; that is, I was
but in morning dishabille, but I dressed my hair, and put those little
touches to my frock and ribbons which every woman understands. And then
I put on my hood, which I pulled quite over my face, and waited.
My lord rose angrily when he saw the Doctor.
"Sir," he said, "this visit is an intrusion. I have no business with
you; I do not desire to see you. Leave the room immediately!"
"First," said Doctor Shovel, "I have business with your lordship."
"I can have no business with you," replied Lord Chudleigh. "I have
already had too much business with you. Go, sir: your intrusion is an
insult."
"Dear, dear!" the Doctor replied. "This it is to be young and
hot-headed and to jump at conclusions. Whereas, did the young gentleman
know the things I have to say, he would welcome me with open arms."
"You come, I suppose, to remind me of a thing of which you ought to be
truly ashamed, so wicked was it."
"Nay, nay; not so wicked as your lordship thinks." The Doctor would not
be put out of temper. "What a benefactor is he who makes young people
happy, with the blessing of the Church!"
"I cannot, I suppose, use violence to this man," said the other. "He
is a clergyman, and, for the sake of his cloth, must be tolerated.
Would you kindly, sir, proceed at once to the business you have in hand
and then begone? If you come to laugh over the misfortune caused by
yourself, laugh and go your way. If you come for money for the wretched
accomplice in your conspiracy, ask it and go. In any case, sir, make
haste."
"My lord," the Doctor replied, "I am a messenger--from one who
conceives that she hath done you grievous wrong, is very sorry for the
past, which she alone can undo, and begs your forgiveness."
"Who is that person, then?" His curiosity was roused, and he waited in
patience to hear what the Doctor might have to say.
"It is, my lord, the lady who may, if she chooses, call herself your
wife."
My lord stood confused.
"Does she wish to see me?"
"She wishes to place in your hands"--here the Doctor's voice became
deeper and more musical, like the low notes of a great organ--"the
proofs of her marriage with you. Does your lordship comprehend? She
will stand before you, bringing with her the only papers which exist
to prove the fact. She will put them in your own hands, if you wish;
she will destroy them before your eyes if you wish; and she will then
retire from your presence, and you shall never know, unless you wish
it, the name of the woman you married."
"But.... This is wonderful.... How shall I know that the papers are the
only proof of the ceremony?"
"Your lordship has my word--my word of a Christian priest. I break the
laws of God and of man daily. I am, however, a sinner who still guards
those rags and tatters of a conscience which most sinners hasten to
throw away--wherefore must my repentance be some day greater. Yet, my
lord, my word I never brake, nor ever looked to hear it questioned.
You shall have all the proofs. You shall be free if you please, from
this moment. You shall never be molested, reproached, threatened, or
reminded of the past."
"Free!" my lord repeated, looking the Doctor in the face. "I cannot
but believe, sir, what you solemnly aver to be the truth. Yet what am
I to think of this generosity? how interpret it? By what acts have I
deserved it? What am I to do in return? Is there any pitfall or snare
for me?"
"In return, you will grant her your forgiveness. That is a pitfall, if
you please. You will also expect a surprise."
"Strange!" said Lord Chudleigh. "Kitty asked me, too, to forgive this
woman. My forgiveness! Does she ask for no money?"
"My lord, you are utterly deceived in your belief as to this woman and
her conduct. By your leave I will tell you the exact truth.
"You know, because I told you, that the wrong inflicted upon me by your
father was my justification, from a worldly point of view, for the
advantage which I took of your condition. You think, I suppose, that
some miserable drab was brought in from the market to play the part of
dummy wife, and threaten you and persecute you for money. You are wrong.
"There was living in this place at the time, with a lady of ruined
fortunes, a young woman of gentle birth (by her father's side), though
penniless. She was beautiful exceedingly, well educated, a God-fearing
damsel, and a good girl. By her mother's side she was my niece, that
branch of her family being of obscure origin. On the death of her
father she became for a time my ward, which was the reason why she
lived here--no fit place for a girl of good reputation, I own, though
at the time I could do no better for her. She was not only all that I
have described her in appearance, carriage, and virtues, but she was,
as well, very much afraid of me, her guardian. She had been brought up
to obey without questioning her spiritual pastors and masters and all
who might be placed in authority over her. This girl it was whom you
married."
The Doctor paused, to let his words have due effect.
"When I designed the treachery, you being then sound asleep, it first
seemed to me that the fitting person for such a revenge as I at first
proposed to myself would be one of those women who are confined to the
Fleet for life, unless by hook or crook they can get them a husband.
Such a one I sent for. I did not disclose the name of the man I
proposed, because I found her only too eager to marry any one upon whom
she could saddle her debts, and so make him either pay them or change
places with her. But while I talked with the woman I thought how cruel
a thing it would be for your lordship to be mated with such a wife,
and I resolved, if I did give you a wife against your knowledge, that
she should be worthy to bear your name. Accordingly I despatched this
person, who is still, I suppose, languishing in the prison hard by, and
sent for the young lady.
"She came unsuspiciously. I told her with a frown which made her
tremble, that she was to obey me in all that I ordered her to do; and I
bade her, then, take her place at the table, and repeat such words as I
should command. She obeyed. Your lordship knows the rest."
"But she knew--she must have known--that she was actually married?"
"She could not understand. She had seen marriages performed; but then
it was in a church, with regular forms. She did not know until I told
her. Besides, I ordered her; and, had my command been to throw herself
from a high tower, she would have obeyed. She was not yet seventeen;
she was country-bred, and she was innocence itself."
"Poor child," said my lord.
"She has left the Rules of the Fleet for some time. She knows that
at any time she might claim the name and the honours of your wife,
but she has refrained, though she has had hundreds of opportunities.
Now, however, she declares that she will be no longer a party to the
conspiracy, and she is desirous of restoring, into your own hands, the
papers of the marriage. Will your lordship, first, forgive her?"
"Tell her," said my lord, "that I forgive her freely. Where is she?"
"She waits without."
Then he called me, but not by name.
My knees trembled and shook beneath me as I rose, pulled the hood
tighter over my face, and followed the Doctor into the room. In my hand
I held the papers.
"This," said the Doctor, "is the young gentlewoman of whom we spoke.
The papers are in her hands. Child, give his lordship the papers."
I held them out, and he took them. All this time he never ceased gazing
at me; but he could see nothing, not even my eyes.
"Are we playing a comedy?" he asked. "Doctor Shovel, are we dreaming,
all of us?"
"Everything, my lord is real. You hold in your hands the certificate
of marriage and the register. Not copies--the actual documents. Before
you read the papers and learn the lady's name, tell her, in my hearing,
that you forgive her. She bids me tell you, for her, that since she
learned the thing that she had done, what it meant, and whose happiness
it threatened, she has had no happy day."
"Forgiveness!" said my lord, in a voice strangely moved, while his eyes
softened. "Forgiveness, madam, is a poor word to express what I feel in
return for this most generous deed. It is a thing for which I can find
no word sufficient to let you know how great is my gratitude. Learn,
madam, that my heart is bestowed upon a woman whose perfections, to my
mind, are such that no man is worthy of her; but she hath graciously
been pleased to accept, and even to return my affection. Now by this
act, because I cannot think that we are bound together in the eyes of
the Church by that form of marriage service----"
"It is a question," said the Doctor, "which it would task the learning
of the whole country to decide. By ecclesiastical law--but let us leave
this question unconsidered. Nothing need ever be said about the matter.
Your lordship is free."
"Then"--he still held the papers in his hand, and seemed in no way
anxious to satisfy his curiosity as to the name of the woman who had
caused so much anxiety--"before we part, perhaps never to meet again,
may I ask to be allowed to see the face of the lady who has performed
this wonderful act of generosity?"
I trembled, but made no answer.
"Stay a moment," he said. "Remember that you have given up a goodly
estate, with a large fortune and an ancient name--things which all
women rightly prize. These things you have given away. Do you repent?"
I shook my head.
"Then let me never know"--he tore the papers into a thousand
fragments--"let me never know the name of the woman to whom I owe this
gift. Let me think of her as of an angel!"
The Doctor took me by the arm as if to lead me away.
"Since you do not want to know her name, my lord, I do not see any
reason why you should. Let us go, child."
"May I only see her face?" he asked.
"Come, child," urged the Doctor; "come away. There is no need, my lord."
But those words about myself, his nobleness, had touched me to the
heart. I could deceive him no longer. I threw back the hood, put up my
hands to my face, and fell at his feet, crying and sobbing.
"It is I, my lord! It was Kitty Pleydell herself--the woman whom you
thought so good. Oh, forgive me! forgive me! Have pity!"
Now I seem to have no words to tell how he raised me in his strong
arms, how he held me by the waist and kissed me, crying that indeed
there was nothing in his heart towards me but love and tenderness.
Would it not be a sin to write down those words of love and endearment
with which, when the Doctor left us alone, he consoled and soothed me?
I hid nothing from him. I told him how I had well-nigh forgotten the
dreadful thing I had done until I saw him again at the Assembly; how
from day to day my conscience smote me more and more, and yet I dared
not tell him all--for fear of losing his respect.
Let us pass this over.
The story of Kitty is nearly told.
We forgot all about poor Will and the reason why my lord should for a
while lie close. We agreed that we would be married quietly, in due
form, and of course at church, as soon as arrangements could be made.
And then nothing would do but my lord must carry me to Mrs. Esther, and
formally ask her permission to the engagement.
You may think how happy was I to step into the coach which brought me
back to my dear lady, with such a companion.
He led me into her presence with a stately bow.
"Madam," he said, "I have the honour to ask your permission to take
the hand of your ward, Miss Kitty, who hath been pleased to lend a
favourable ear to my proposals. Be assured, dear madam, that we have
seriously weighed and considered the gravity of the step which we
propose to take, and the inclination of our hearts. And I beg you,
madam, to believe that my whole life, whether it be long or short,
shall be devoted to making this dear girl as happy as it is in the
power of one human creature to make another."
Mrs. Esther was perfectly equal to the proper ceremonies demanded
for the occasion, although, as she confessed, she was a great deal
surprised at the suddenness of the thing, which, notwithstanding that
she had expected it for many weeks, came upon her with a shock. She
said that his lordship's proposal was one which the world would no
doubt consider a great condescension, seeing that her dear Kitty,
though of good family, had no other prospects than the inheritance of
the few hundreds which made her own income: but, for her own part,
knowing this child as she did--and here she spoke in terms of unmerited
praise of beauty and goodness and such qualities as I could lay but
small claim to possess, yet resolved to aim at them.
Finally, she held out her own hand to his lordship, saying--
"Therefore, my lord, as I consider Kitty my daughter, so henceforth
will I consider you my son. And may God keep and bless you both, and
give you all that the heart of a good man may desire, with children
good and dutiful, long and peaceful lives, and in the end, to sit
together for ever in happy heaven."
Whereupon she wept, falling on my neck.
Now, while we were thus weeping and crying, came Sir Miles, who
immediately guessed the cause, and wished my lord joy, shaking him by
the hand. Then he must needs kiss my hand.
"The Doctor," he explained, "told me where I should most likely find
you. The Doctor's knowledge of the human heart is most extensive. I
would I had the Doctor's head for punch. My lord, this is a lucky day.
Will Levett is out of his fever, and hath signed a written confession
that your sword was drawn in self-defence, and that had he not been
run through, his cudgel would have beaten out your brains. Therefore
there is no more to keep us in hiding, and we may go about joyfully in
the open, as gentlemen should. And as for Will, he may die or live, as
seemeth him best."
"Nay, Sir Miles," I said. "Pray that the poor lad live and lead a
better life."
* * * * *
This is the story of Kitty Pleydell: how she came to London, and lived
in the Rules of the Fleet: how she was made to go through the form of a
marriage: how she left the dreadful, noisy, wicked place: how she went
to Epsom: how Lord Chudleigh fell in love with her, to her unspeakable
happiness; and how she told him her great secret. The rest, which is
the history of a great and noble man married to a wife whose weakness
was guided and led by him in the paths of virtue, discretion and
godliness, cannot be told.
I have told what befell some of the actors in this story--Solomon
Stallabras, I have explained, married the brewer's widow: Will Levett
recovered and did not repent, but lived a worse life after his narrow
escape than before. As for the rest, Mrs. Esther remained with us,
either at Chudleigh Court or our town house: Harry Temple was wise
enough to give up pining after what he could not get, and married
Nancy, so that she, too, had her heart's desire: Sir Miles went on
alternately gaming and drinking, till he died of an apoplexy at forty.
* * * * *
There remains to be told the fate of the Chaplain of the Fleet.
When they passed the Marriage Act of 1753, the Fleet weddings were
suddenly stopped. They had been a scandal to the town for more than
forty years, so that it was high time they should be ended. But
when the end actually came, the Doctor, who had saved no money, was
penniless. Nor could he earn money in any way whatever, nor had he any
friends, although there were hundreds of grateful hearts among the
poor creatures around him. Who could contribute to his support except
ourselves?
Mrs. Esther, on learning his sad condition, instantly wrote to offer
him half her income. My husband, for his part, sent a lawyer among his
creditors, found out for what sum he could effect a release, paid this
money, which was no great amount, and sent him his discharge. Then,
because the Doctor would have been unhappy out of London, he made him
a weekly allowance of five guineas, reckoning that he would live on
one guinea, drink two guineas, and give away two. He lived to enjoy
this allowance for ten years more, going every night to a coffee-house,
where he met his friends, drank punch, told stories, sang songs, and
was the oracle of the company. He took great pride in the position
which he had once occupied in the Rules of the Fleet, and was never
tired of boasting how many couples he had made into man and wife.
I know that his life was disreputable and his pleasures coarse, yet
when I think of the Doctor and of his many acts of kindness and
charity, I remember certain texts, and I think we have reasonable
ground for a Christian's hope as regards his deathbed repentance, which
was as sincere as it was edifying.
* * * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Spelling, punctuation, hyphenation etc have been made consistent though
not modernised.