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diff --git a/28636-0.txt b/28636-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1a75849 --- /dev/null +++ b/28636-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7803 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 28636 *** + + + + +[Illustration: + +THE GREY WOMAN +AND +OTHER TALES. + +MRS. GASKELL + + + +SMITH ELDER & Co +65 CORNHILL +1865] + + + + +THE GREY WOMAN. +AND OTHER TALES. + + +BY MRS. GASKELL, + +AUTHOR OF “MARY BARTON,” “NORTH AND SOUTH,” “SYLVIA’S +LOVERS,” “COUSIN PHILLIS,” “CRANFORD,” ETC. + + +ILLUSTRATED EDITION. + + +LONDON: +SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL. +M.DCCC.LXV. + + +[_The Right of Translation is reserved._] + + + + + +CONTENTS. PAGE + +THE GREY WOMAN 5 +CURIOUS IF TRUE 82 +SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM 105 +LIBBIE MARSH’S THREE ERAS 158 +CHRISTMAS STORMS AND SUNSHINE 197 +HAND AND HEART 213 +BESSY’S TROUBLES AT HOME 240 +DISAPPEARANCES 267 + + + + +THE GREY WOMAN. + +PORTION I. + + +There is a mill by the Neckar-side, to which many people resort for +coffee, according to the fashion which is almost national in Germany. +There is nothing particularly attractive in the situation of this mill; +it is on the Mannheim (the flat and unromantic) side of Heidelberg. +The river turns the mill-wheel with a plenteous gushing sound; the +out-buildings and the dwelling-house of the miller form a well-kept +dusty quadrangle. Again, further from the river, there is a garden +full of willows, and arbours, and flower-beds not well kept, but very +profuse in flowers and luxuriant creepers, knotting and looping the +arbours together. In each of these arbours is a stationary table of +white painted wood, and light moveable chairs of the same colour and +material. + +I went to drink coffee there with some friends in 184—. The stately old +miller came out to greet us, as some of the party were known to him of +old. He was of a grand build of a man, and his loud musical voice, with +its tone friendly and familiar, his rolling laugh of welcome, went well +with the keen bright eye, the fine cloth of his coat, and the general +look of substance about the place. Poultry of all kinds abounded in +the mill-yard, where there were ample means of livelihood for them +strewed on the ground; but not content with this, the miller took out +handfuls of corn from the sacks, and threw liberally to the cocks and +hens that ran almost under his feet in their eagerness. And all the +time he was doing this, as it were habitually, he was talking to us, +and ever and anon calling to his daughter and the serving-maids, to bid +them hasten the coffee we had ordered. He followed us to an arbour, and +saw us served to his satisfaction with the best of everything we could +ask for; and then left us to go round to the different arbours and see +that each party was properly attended to; and, as he went, this great, +prosperous, happy-looking man whistled softly one of the most plaintive +airs I ever heard. + +“His family have held this mill ever since the old Palatinate days; +or rather, I should say, have possessed the ground ever since then, +for two successive mills of theirs have been burnt down by the French. +If you want to see Scherer in a passion, just talk to him of the +possibility of a French invasion.” + +But at this moment, still whistling that mournful air, we saw the +miller going down the steps that led from the somewhat raised garden +into the mill-yard; and so I seemed to have lost my chance of putting +him in a passion. + +We had nearly finished our coffee, and our “kucken,” and our cinnamon +cake, when heavy splashes fell on our thick leafy covering; quicker and +quicker they came, coming through the tender leaves as if they were +tearing them asunder; all the people in the garden were hurrying under +shelter, or seeking for their carriages standing outside. Up the steps +the miller came hastening, with a crimson umbrella, fit to cover every +one left in the garden, and followed by his daughter, and one or two +maidens, each bearing an umbrella. + +“Come into the house—come in, I say. It is a summer-storm, and will +flood the place for an hour or two, till the river carries it away. +Here, here.” + +And we followed him back into his own house. We went into the kitchen +first. Such an array of bright copper and tin vessels I never saw; and +all the wooden things were as thoroughly scoured. The red tile floor +was spotless when we went in, but in two minutes it was all over slop +and dirt with the tread of many feet; for the kitchen was filled, and +still the worthy miller kept bringing in more people under his great +crimson umbrella. He even called the dogs in, and made them lie down +under the tables. + +His daughter said something to him in German, and he shook his head +merrily at her. Everybody laughed. + +“What did she say?” I asked. + +“She told him to bring the ducks in next; but indeed if more people +come we shall be suffocated. What with the thundery weather, and the +stove, and all these steaming clothes, I really think we must ask leave +to pass on. Perhaps we might go in and see Frau Scherer.” + +My friend asked the daughter of the house for permission to go into an +inner chamber and see her mother. It was granted, and we went into a +sort of saloon, overlooking the Neckar; very small, very bright, and +very close. The floor was slippery with polish; long narrow pieces +of looking-glass against the walls reflected the perpetual motion of +the river opposite; a white porcelain stove, with some old-fashioned +ornaments of brass about it; a sofa, covered with Utrecht velvet, a +table before it, and a piece of worsted-worked carpet under it; a +vase of artificial flowers; and, lastly, an alcove with a bed in it, +on which lay the paralysed wife of the good miller, knitting busily, +formed the furniture. I spoke as if this was all that was to be seen +in the room; but, sitting quietly, while my friend kept up a brisk +conversation in a language which I but half understood, my eye was +caught by a picture in a dark corner of the room, and I got up to +examine it more nearly. + +It was that of a young girl of extreme beauty; evidently of middle +rank. There was a sensitive refinement in her face, as if she almost +shrank from the gaze which, of necessity, the painter must have fixed +upon her. It was not over-well painted, but I felt that it must have +been a good likeness, from this strong impress of peculiar character +which I have tried to describe. From the dress, I should guess it +to have been painted in the latter half of the last century. And I +afterwards heard that I was right. + +There was a little pause in the conversation. + +“Will you ask Frau Scherer who this is?” + +My friend repeated my question, and received a long reply in German. +Then she turned round and translated it to me. + +“It is the likeness of a great-aunt of her husband’s.” (My friend was +standing by me, and looking at the picture with sympathetic curiosity.) +“See! here is the name on the open page of this Bible, ‘Anna Scherer, +1778.’ Frau Scherer says there is a tradition in the family that this +pretty girl, with her complexion of lilies and roses, lost her colour +so entirely through fright, that she was known by the name of the +Grey Woman. She speaks as if this Anna Scherer lived in some state +of life-long terror. But she does not know details; refers me to her +husband for them. She thinks he has some papers which were written by +the original of that picture for her daughter, who died in this very +house not long after our friend there was married. We can ask Herr +Scherer for the whole story if you like.” + +“Oh yes, pray do!” said I. And, as our host came in at this moment to +ask how we were faring, and to tell us that he had sent to Heidelberg +for carriages to convey us home, seeing no chance of the heavy rain +abating, my friend, after thanking him, passed on to my request. + +“Ah!” said he, his face changing, “the aunt Anna had a sad history. +It was all owing to one of those hellish Frenchmen; and her daughter +suffered for it—the cousin Ursula, as we all called her when I was a +child. To be sure, the good cousin Ursula was his child as well. The +sins of the fathers are visited on their children. The lady would +like to know all about it, would she? Well, there are papers—a kind +of apology the aunt Anna wrote for putting an end to her daughter’s +engagement—or rather facts which she revealed, that prevented cousin +Ursula from marrying the man she loved; and so she would never have +any other good fellow, else I have heard say my father would have been +thankful to have made her his wife.” All this time he was rummaging in +the drawer of an old-fashioned bureau, and now he turned round, with a +bundle of yellow MSS. in his hand, which he gave to my friend, saying, +“Take it home, take it home, and if you care to make out our crabbed +German writing, you may keep it as long as you like, and read it at +your leisure. Only I must have it back again when you have done with +it, that’s all.” + +And so we became possessed of the manuscript of the following letter, +which it was our employment, during many a long evening that ensuing +winter, to translate, and in some parts to abbreviate. The letter +began with some reference to the pain which she had already inflicted +upon her daughter by some unexplained opposition to a project of +marriage; but I doubt if, without the clue with which the good miller +had furnished us, we could have made out even this much from the +passionate, broken sentences that made us fancy that some scene between +the mother and daughter—and possibly a third person—had occurred just +before the mother had begun to write. + + +“Thou dost not love thy child, mother! Thou dost not care if her heart +is broken!” Ah, God! and these words of my heart-beloved Ursula ring in +my ears as if the sound of them would fill them when I lie a-dying. And +her poor tear-stained face comes between me and everything else. Child! +hearts do not break; life is very tough as well as very terrible. But +I will not decide for thee. I will tell thee all; and thou shalt bear +the burden of choice. I may be wrong; I have little wit left, and never +had much, I think; but an instinct serves me in place of judgment, and +that instinct tells me that thou and thy Henri must never be married. +Yet I may be in error. I would fain make my child happy. Lay this paper +before the good priest Schriesheim; if, after reading it, thou hast +doubts which make thee uncertain. Only I will tell thee all now, on +condition that no spoken word ever passes between us on the subject. It +would kill me to be questioned. I should have to see all present again. + +My father held, as thou knowest, the mill on the Neckar, where thy +new-found uncle, Scherer, now lives. Thou rememberest the surprise with +which we were received there last vintage twelvemonth. How thy uncle +disbelieved me when I said that I was his sister Anna, whom he had +long believed to be dead, and how I had to lead thee underneath the +picture, painted of me long ago, and point out, feature by feature, the +likeness between it and thee; and how, as I spoke, I recalled first to +my own mind, and then by speech to his, the details of the time when it +was painted; the merry words that passed between us then, a happy boy +and girl; the position of the articles of furniture in the room; our +father’s habits; the cherry-tree, now cut down, that shaded the window +of my bedroom, through which my brother was wont to squeeze himself, in +order to spring on to the topmost bough that would bear his weight; and +thence would pass me back his cap laden with fruit to where I sat on +the window-sill, too sick with fright for him to care much for eating +the cherries. + +And at length Fritz gave way, and believed me to be his sister Anna, +even as though I were risen from the dead. And thou rememberest how +he fetched in his wife, and told her that I was not dead, but was +come back to the old home once more, changed as I was. And she would +scarce believe him, and scanned me with a cold, distrustful eye, till +at length—for I knew her of old as Babette Müller—I said that I was +well-to-do, and needed not to seek out friends for what they had to +give. And then she asked—not me, but her husband—why I had kept silent +so long, leading all—father, brother, every one that loved me in my own +dear home—to esteem me dead. And then thine uncle (thou rememberest?) +said he cared not to know more than I cared to tell; that I was his +Anna, found again, to be a blessing to him in his old age, as I had +been in his boyhood. I thanked him in my heart for his trust; for were +the need for telling all less than it seems to me now I could not speak +of my past life. But she, who was my sister-in-law still, held back +her welcome, and, for want of that, I did not go to live in Heidelberg +as I had planned beforehand, in order to be near my brother Fritz, but +contented myself with his promise to be a father to my Ursula when I +should die and leave this weary world. + +That Babette Müller was, as I may say, the cause of all my life’s +suffering. She was a baker’s daughter in Heidelberg—a great beauty, as +people said, and, indeed, as I could see for myself. I, too—thou sawest +my picture—was reckoned a beauty, and I believe I was so. Babette +Müller looked upon me as a rival. She liked to be admired, and had no +one much to love her. I had several people to love me—thy grandfather, +Fritz, the old servant Kätchen, Karl, the head apprentice at the +mill—and I feared admiration and notice, and the being stared at as the +“Schöne Müllerin,” whenever I went to make my purchases in Heidelberg. + +Those were happy, peaceful days. I had Kätchen to help me in the +housework, and whatever we did pleased my brave old father, who was +always gentle and indulgent towards us women, though he was stern +enough with the apprentices in the mill. Karl, the oldest of these, was +his favourite; and I can see now that my father wished him to marry me, +and that Karl himself was desirous to do so. But Karl was rough-spoken, +and passionate—not with me, but with the others—and I shrank from him +in a way which, I fear, gave him pain. And then came thy uncle Fritz’s +marriage; and Babette was brought to the mill to be its mistress. Not +that I cared much for giving up my post, for, in spite of my father’s +great kindness, I always feared that I did not manage well for so +large a family (with the men, and a girl under Kätchen, we sat down +eleven each night to supper). But when Babette began to find fault with +Kätchen, I was unhappy at the blame that fell on faithful servants; +and by-and-by I began to see that Babette was egging on Karl to make +more open love to me, and, as she once said, to get done with it, and +take me off to a home of my own. My father was growing old, and did +not perceive all my daily discomfort. The more Karl advanced, the more +I disliked him. He was good in the main, but I had no notion of being +married, and could not bear any one who talked to me about it. + +Things were in this way when I had an invitation to go to Carlsruhe to +visit a schoolfellow, of whom I had been very fond. Babette was all for +my going; I don’t think I wanted to leave home, and yet I had been very +fond of Sophie Rupprecht. But I was always shy among strangers. Somehow +the affair was settled for me, but not until both Fritz and my father +had made inquiries as to the character and position of the Rupprechts. +They learned that the father had held some kind of inferior position +about the Grand-duke’s court, and was now dead, leaving a widow, a +noble lady, and two daughters, the elder of whom was Sophie, my friend. +Madame Rupprecht was not rich, but more than respectable—genteel. When +this was ascertained, my father made no opposition to my going; Babette +forwarded it by all the means in her power, and even my dear Fritz had +his word to say in its favour. Only Kätchen was against it—Kätchen +and Karl. The opposition of Karl did more to send me to Carlsruhe +than anything. For I could have objected to go; but when he took upon +himself to ask what was the good of going a-gadding, visiting strangers +of whom no one knew anything, I yielded to circumstances—to the pulling +of Sophie and the pushing of Babette. I was silently vexed, I remember, +at Babette’s inspection of my clothes; at the way in which she settled +that this gown was too old-fashioned, or that too common, to go with +me on my visit to a noble lady; and at the way in which she took upon +herself to spend the money my father had given me to buy what was +requisite for the occasion. And yet I blamed myself, for every one else +thought her so kind for doing all this; and she herself meant kindly, +too. + +At last I quitted the mill by the Neckar-side. It was a long day’s +journey, and Fritz went with me to Carlsruhe. The Rupprechts lived +on the third floor of a house a little behind one of the principal +streets, in a cramped-up court, to which we gained admittance through a +doorway in the street. I remember how pinched their rooms looked after +the large space we had at the mill, and yet they had an air of grandeur +about them which was new to me, and which gave me pleasure, faded as +some of it was. Madame Rupprecht was too formal a lady for me; I was +never at my ease with her; but Sophie was all that I had recollected +her at school: kind, affectionate, and only rather too ready with her +expressions of admiration and regard. The little sister kept out of +our way; and that was all we needed, in the first enthusiastic renewal +of our early friendship. The one great object of Madame Rupprecht’s +life was to retain her position in society; and as her means were much +diminished since her husband’s death, there was not much comfort, +though there was a great deal of show, in their way of living; just +the opposite of what it was at my father’s house. I believe that my +coming was not too much desired by Madame Rupprecht, as I brought with +me another mouth to be fed; but Sophie had spent a year or more in +entreating for permission to invite me, and her mother, having once +consented, was too well bred not to give me a stately welcome. + +The life in Carlsruhe was very different from what it was at home. The +hours were later, the coffee was weaker in the morning, the pottage was +weaker, the boiled beef less relieved by other diet, the dresses finer, +the evening engagements constant. I did not find these visits pleasant. +We might not knit, which would have relieved the tedium a little; but +we sat in a circle, talking together, only interrupted occasionally by +a gentleman, who, breaking out of the knot of men who stood near the +door, talking eagerly together, stole across the room on tiptoe, his +hat under his arm, and, bringing his feet together in the position we +called the first at the dancing-school, made a low bow to the lady he +was going to address. The first time I saw these manners I could not +help smiling; but Madame Rupprecht saw me, and spoke to me next morning +rather severely, telling me that, of course, in my country breeding I +could have seen nothing of court manners, or French fashions, but that +that was no reason for my laughing at them. Of course I tried never to +smile again in company. This visit to Carlsruhe took place in ’89, just +when every one was full of the events taking place at Paris; and yet +at Carlsruhe French fashions were more talked of than French politics. +Madame Rupprecht, especially, thought a great deal of all French +people. And this again was quite different to us at home. Fritz could +hardly bear the name of a Frenchman; and it had nearly been an obstacle +to my visit to Sophie that her mother preferred being called Madame to +her proper title of Frau. + +[Illustration p. 17: Monsieur de la Tourelle.] + +One night I was sitting next to Sophie, and longing for the time when +we might have supper and go home, so as to be able to speak together, +a thing forbidden by Madame Rupprecht’s rules of etiquette, which +strictly prohibited any but the most necessary conversation passing +between members of the same family when in society. I was sitting, I +say, scarcely keeping back my inclination to yawn, when two gentlemen +came in, one of whom was evidently a stranger to the whole party, from +the formal manner in which the host led him up, and presented him to +the hostess. I thought I had never seen any one so handsome or so +elegant. His hair was powdered, of course, but one could see from his +complexion that it was fair in its natural state. His features were as +delicate as a girl’s, and set off by two little “mouches,” as we called +patches in those days, one at the left corner of his mouth, the other +prolonging, as it were, the right eye. His dress was blue and silver. +I was so lost in admiration of this beautiful young man, that I was as +much surprised as if the angel Gabriel had spoken to me, when the lady +of the house brought him forward to present him to me. She called him +Monsieur de la Tourelle, and he began to speak to me in French; but +though I understood him perfectly, I dared not trust myself to reply to +him in that language. Then he tried German, speaking it with a kind of +soft lisp that I thought charming. But, before the end of the evening, +I became a little tired of the affected softness and effeminacy of his +manners, and the exaggerated compliments he paid me, which had the +effect of making all the company turn round and look at me. Madame +Rupprecht was, however, pleased with the precise thing that displeased +me. She liked either Sophie or me to create a sensation; of course +she would have preferred that it should have been her daughter, but +her daughter’s friend was next best. As we went away, I heard Madame +Rupprecht and Monsieur de la Tourelle reciprocating civil speeches with +might and main, from which I found out that the French gentleman was +coming to call on us the next day. I do not know whether I was more +glad or frightened, for I had been kept upon stilts of good manners all +the evening. But still I was flattered when Madame Rupprecht spoke as +if she had invited him, because he had shown pleasure in my society, +and even more gratified by Sophie’s ungrudging delight at the evident +interest I had excited in so fine and agreeable a gentleman. Yet, with +all this, they had hard work to keep me from running out of the salon +the next day, when we heard his voice inquiring at the gate on the +stairs for Madame Rupprecht. They had made me put on my Sunday gown, +and they themselves were dressed as for a reception. + +When he was gone away, Madame Rupprecht congratulated me on the +conquest I had made; for, indeed, he had scarcely spoken to any one +else, beyond what mere civility required, and had almost invited +himself to come in the evening to bring some new song, which was all +the fashion in Paris, he said. Madame Rupprecht had been out all +morning, as she told me, to glean information about Monsieur de la +Tourelle. He was a propriétaire, had a small château on the Vosges +mountains; he owned land there, but had a large income from some +sources quite independent of this property. Altogether, he was a +good match, as she emphatically observed. She never seemed to think +that I could refuse him after this account of his wealth, nor do I +believe she would have allowed Sophie a choice, even had he been as +old and ugly as he was young and handsome. I do not quite know—so many +events have come to pass since then, and blurred the clearness of my +recollections—if I loved him or not. He was very much devoted to me; he +almost frightened me by the excess of his demonstrations of love. And +he was very charming to everybody around me, who all spoke of him as +the most fascinating of men, and of me as the most fortunate of girls. +And yet I never felt quite at my ease with him. I was always relieved +when his visits were over, although I missed his presence when he did +not come. He prolonged his visit to the friend with whom he was staying +at Carlsruhe, on purpose to woo me. He loaded me with presents, which +I was unwilling to take, only Madame Rupprecht seemed to consider me +an affected prude if I refused them. Many of these presents consisted +of articles of valuable old jewellery, evidently belonging to his +family; by accepting these I doubled the ties which were formed around +me by circumstances even more than by my own consent. In those days we +did not write letters to absent friends as frequently as is done now, +and I had been unwilling to name him in the few letters that I wrote +home. At length, however, I learned from Madame Rupprecht that she had +written to my father to announce the splendid conquest I had made, and +to request his presence at my betrothal. I started with astonishment. +I had not realized that affairs had gone so far as this. But when she +asked me, in a stern, offended manner, what I had meant by my conduct +if I did not intend to marry Monsieur de la Tourelle—I had received +his visits, his presents, all his various advances without showing +any unwillingness or repugnance—(and it was all true; I had shown no +repugnance, though I did not wish to be married to him,—at least, not +so soon)—what could I do but hang my head, and silently consent to the +rapid enunciation of the only course which now remained for me if I +would not be esteemed a heartless coquette all the rest of my days? + +There was some difficulty, which I afterwards learnt that my +sister-in-law had obviated, about my betrothal taking place from home. +My father, and Fritz especially, were for having me return to the mill, +and there be betrothed, and from thence be married. But the Rupprechts +and Monsieur de la Tourelle were equally urgent on the other side; and +Babette was unwilling to have the trouble of the commotion at the mill; +and also, I think, a little disliked the idea of the contrast of my +grander marriage with her own. + +So my father and Fritz came over to the betrothal. They were to stay +at an inn in Carlsruhe for a fortnight, at the end of which time the +marriage was to take place. Monsieur de la Tourelle told me he had +business at home, which would oblige him to be absent during the +interval between the two events; and I was very glad of it, for I did +not think that he valued my father and my brother as I could have +wished him to do. He was very polite to them; put on all the soft, +grand manner, which he had rather dropped with me; and complimented us +all round, beginning with my father and Madame Rupprecht, and ending +with little Alwina. But he a little scoffed at the old-fashioned church +ceremonies which my father insisted on; and I fancy Fritz must have +taken some of his compliments as satire, for I saw certain signs of +manner by which I knew that my future husband, for all his civil words, +had irritated and annoyed my brother. But all the money arrangements +were liberal in the extreme, and more than satisfied, almost surprised, +my father. Even Fritz lifted up his eyebrows and whistled. I alone +did not care about anything. I was bewitched,—in a dream,—a kind of +despair. I had got into a net through my own timidity and weakness, and +I did not see how to get out of it. I clung to my own home-people that +fortnight as I had never done before. Their voices, their ways were all +so pleasant and familiar to me, after the constraint in which I had +been living. I might speak and do as I liked without being corrected +by Madame Rupprecht, or reproved in a delicate, complimentary way by +Monsieur de la Tourelle. One day I said to my father that I did not +want to be married, that I would rather go back to the dear old mill; +but he seemed to feel this speech of mine as a dereliction of duty +as great as if I had committed perjury; as if, after the ceremony of +betrothal, no one had any right over me but my future husband. And yet +he asked me some solemn questions; but my answers were not such as to +do me any good. + +“Dost thou know any fault or crime in this man that should prevent +God’s blessing from resting on thy marriage with him? Dost thou feel +aversion or repugnance to him in any way?” + +And to all this what could I say? I could only stammer out that I +did not think I loved him enough; and my poor old father saw in this +reluctance only the fancy of a silly girl who did not know her own +mind, but who had now gone too far to recede. + +So we were married, in the Court chapel, a privilege which Madame +Rupprecht had used no end of efforts to obtain for us, and which she +must have thought was to secure us all possible happiness, both at the +time and in recollection afterwards. + +We were married; and after two days spent in festivity at Carlsruhe, +among all our new fashionable friends there, I bade good-by for ever +to my dear old father. I had begged my husband to take me by way of +Heidelberg to his old castle in the Vosges; but I found an amount of +determination, under that effeminate appearance and manner, for which +I was not prepared, and he refused my first request so decidedly that +I dared not urge it. “Henceforth, Anna,” said he, “you will move in a +different sphere of life; and though it is possible that you may have +the power of showing favour to your relations from time to time, yet +much or familiar intercourse will be undesirable, and is what I cannot +allow.” I felt almost afraid, after this formal speech, of asking my +father and Fritz to come and see me; but, when the agony of bidding +them farewell overcame all my prudence, I did beg them to pay me a +visit ere long. But they shook their heads, and spoke of business at +home, of different kinds of life, of my being a Frenchwoman now. Only +my father broke out at last with a blessing, and said, “If my child is +unhappy—which God forbid—let her remember that her father’s house is +ever open to her.” I was on the point of crying out, “Oh! take me back +then now, my father! oh, my father!” when I felt, rather than saw, my +husband present near me. He looked on with a slightly contemptuous air; +and, taking my hand in his, he led me weeping away, saying that short +farewells were always the best when they were inevitable. + +It took us two days to reach his château in the Vosges, for the roads +were bad and the way difficult to ascertain. Nothing could be more +devoted than he was all the time of the journey. It seemed as if he +were trying in every way to make up for the separation which every +hour made me feel the more complete between my present and my former +life. I seemed as if I were only now wakening up to a full sense of +what marriage was, and I dare say I was not a cheerful companion on +the tedious journey. At length, jealousy of my regret for my father +and brother got the better of M. de la Tourelle, and he became so +much displeased with me that I thought my heart would break with the +sense of desolation. So it was in no cheerful frame of mind that we +approached Les Rochers, and I thought that perhaps it was because I was +so unhappy that the place looked so dreary. On one side, the château +looked like a raw new building, hastily run up for some immediate +purpose, without any growth of trees or underwood near it, only the +remains of the stone used for building, not yet cleared away from the +immediate neighbourhood, although weeds and lichens had been suffered +to grow near and over the heaps of rubbish; on the other, were the +great rocks from which the place took its name, and rising close +against them, as if almost a natural formation, was the old castle, +whose building dated many centuries back. + +It was not large nor grand, but it was strong and picturesque, +and I used to wish that we lived in it rather than in the smart, +half-furnished apartment in the new edifice, which had been hastily +got ready for my reception. Incongruous as the two parts were, they +were joined into a whole by means of intricate passages and unexpected +doors, the exact positions of which I never fully understood. M. de +la Tourelle led me to a suite of rooms set apart for me, and formally +installed me in them, as in a domain of which I was sovereign. He +apologised for the hasty preparation which was all he had been able +to make for me, but promised, before I asked, or even thought of +complaining, that they should be made as luxurious as heart could wish +before many weeks had elapsed. But when, in the gloom of an autumnal +evening, I caught my own face and figure reflected in all the mirrors, +which showed only a mysterious background in the dim light of the +many candles which failed to illuminate the great proportions of the +half-furnished salon, I clung to M. de la Tourelle, and begged to be +taken to the rooms he had occupied before his marriage, he seemed angry +with me, although he affected to laugh, and so decidedly put aside +the notion of my having any other rooms but these, that I trembled in +silence at the fantastic figures and shapes which my imagination called +up as peopling the background of those gloomy mirrors. There was my +boudoir, a little less dreary—my bedroom, with its grand and tarnished +furniture, which I commonly made into my sitting-room, locking up the +various doors which led into the boudoir, the salon, the passages—all +but one, through which M. de la Tourelle always entered from his own +apartments in the older part of the castle. But this preference of mine +for occupying my bedroom annoyed M. de la Tourelle, I am sure, though +he did not care to express his displeasure. He would always allure me +back into the salon, which I disliked more and more from its complete +separation from the rest of the building by the long passage into +which all the doors of my apartment opened. This passage was closed +by heavy doors and portières, through which I could not hear a sound +from the other parts of the house, and, of course, the servants could +not hear any movement or cry of mine unless expressly summoned. To a +girl brought up as I had been in a household where every individual +lived all day in the sight of every other member of the family, never +wanted either cheerful words or the sense of silent companionship, this +grand isolation of mine was very formidable; and the more so, because +M. de la Tourelle, as landed proprietor, sportsman, and what not, was +generally out of doors the greater part of every day, and sometimes for +two or three days at a time. I had no pride to keep me from associating +with the domestics; it would have been natural to me in many ways +to have sought them out for a word of sympathy in those dreary days +when I was left so entirely to myself, had they been like our kindly +German servants. But I disliked them, one and all; I could not tell +why. Some were civil, but there was a familiarity in their civility +which repelled me; others were rude, and treated me more as if I were +an intruder than their master’s chosen wife; and yet of the two sets I +liked these last the best. + +The principal male servant belonged to this latter class. I was very +much afraid of him, he had such an air of suspicious surliness about +him in all he did for me; and yet M. de la Tourelle spoke of him +as most valuable and faithful. Indeed, it sometimes struck me that +Lefebvre ruled his master in some things; and this I could not make +out. For, while M. de la Tourelle behaved towards me as if I were some +precious toy or idol, to be cherished, and fostered, and petted, and +indulged, I soon found out how little I, or, apparently, any one else, +could bend the terrible will of the man who had on first acquaintance +appeared to me too effeminate and languid to exert his will in the +slightest particular. I had learnt to know his face better now; and to +see that some vehement depth of feeling, the cause of which I could +not fathom, made his grey eye glitter with pale light, and his lips +contract, and his delicate cheek whiten on certain occasions. But all +had been so open and above board at home, that I had no experience to +help me to unravel any mysteries among those who lived under the same +roof. I understood that I had made what Madame Rupprecht and her set +would have called a great marriage, because I lived in a château with +many servants, bound ostensibly to obey me as a mistress. I understood +that M. de la Tourelle was fond enough of me in his way—proud of my +beauty, I dare say (for he often enough spoke about it to me)—but +he was also jealous, and suspicious, and uninfluenced by my wishes, +unless they tallied with his own. I felt at this time as if I could +have been fond of him too, if he would have let me; but I was timid +from my childhood, and before long my dread of his displeasure (coming +down like thunder into the midst of his love, for such slight causes +as a hesitation in reply, a wrong word, or a sigh for my father), +conquered my humorous inclination to love one who was so handsome, so +accomplished, so indulgent and devoted. But if I could not please him +when indeed I loved him, you may imagine how often I did wrong when I +was so much afraid of him as to quietly avoid his company for fear of +his outbursts of passion. One thing I remember noticing, that the more +M. de la Tourelle was displeased with me, the more Lefebvre seemed to +chuckle; and when I was restored to favour, sometimes on as sudden +an impulse as that which occasioned my disgrace, Lefebvre would look +askance at me with his cold, malicious eyes, and once or twice at such +times he spoke most disrespectfully to M. de la Tourelle. + +I have almost forgotten to say that, in the early days of my life at +Les Rochers, M. de la Tourelle, in contemptuous indulgent pity at my +weakness in disliking the dreary grandeur of the salon, wrote up to +the milliner in Paris from whom my corbeille de mariage had come, to +desire her to look out for me a maid of middle age, experienced in the +toilette, and with so much refinement that she might on occasion serve +as companion to me. + + +PORTION II. + +A Norman woman, Amante by name, was sent to Les Rochers by the Paris +milliner, to become my maid. She was tall and handsome, though upwards +of forty, and somewhat gaunt. But, on first seeing her, I liked her; +she was neither rude nor familiar in her manners, and had a pleasant +look of straightforwardness about her that I had missed in all the +inhabitants of the château, and had foolishly set down in my own +mind as a national want. Amante was directed by M. de la Tourelle +to sit in my boudoir, and to be always within call. He also gave +her many instructions as to her duties in matters which, perhaps, +strictly belonged to my department of management. But I was young and +inexperienced, and thankful to be spared any responsibility. + +I daresay it was true what M. de la Tourelle said—before many weeks had +elapsed—that, for a great lady, a lady of a castle, I became sadly too +familiar with my Norman waiting-maid. But you know that by birth we +were not very far apart in rank: Amante was the daughter of a Norman +farmer, I of a German miller; and besides that, my life was so lonely! +It almost seemed as if I could not please my husband. He had written +for some one capable of being my companion at times, and now he was +jealous of my free regard for her—angry because I could sometimes laugh +at her original tunes and amusing proverbs, while when with him I was +too much frightened to smile. + +From time to time families from a distance of some leagues drove +through the bad roads in their heavy carriages to pay us a visit, and +there was an occasional talk of our going to Paris when public affairs +should be a little more settled. These little events and plans were the +only variations in my life for the first twelve months, if I except the +alternations in M. de la Tourelle’s temper, his unreasonable anger, and +his passionate fondness. + +Perhaps one of the reasons that made me take pleasure and comfort in +Amante’s society was, that whereas I was afraid of everybody (I do not +think I was half as much afraid of things as of persons), Amante feared +no one. She would quietly beard Lefebvre, and he respected her all the +more for it; she had a knack of putting questions to M. de la Tourelle, +which respectfully informed him that she had detected the weak point, +but forebore to press him too closely upon it out of deference to his +position as her master. And with all her shrewdness to others, she +had quite tender ways with me; all the more so at this time because +she knew, what I had not yet ventured to tell M. de la Tourelle, that +by-and-by I might become a mother—that wonderful object of mysterious +interest to single women, who no longer hope to enjoy such blessedness +themselves. + +It was once more autumn; late in October. But I was reconciled to my +habitation; the walls of the new part of the building no longer looked +bare and desolate; the _débris_ had been so far cleared away by M. de +la Tourelle’s desire as to make me a little flower-garden, in which I +tried to cultivate those plants that I remembered as growing at home. +Amante and I had moved the furniture in the rooms, and adjusted it to +our liking; my husband had ordered many an article from time to time +that he thought would give me pleasure, and I was becoming tame to my +apparent imprisonment in a certain part of the great building, the +whole of which I had never yet explored. It was October, as I say, +once more. The days were lovely, though short in duration, and M. de +la Tourelle had occasion, so he said, to go to that distant estate the +superintendence of which so frequently took him away from home. He took +Lefebvre with him, and possibly some more of the lacqueys; he often +did. And my spirits rose a little at the thought of his absence; and +then the new sensation that he was the father of my unborn babe came +over me, and I tried to invest him with this fresh character. I tried +to believe that it was his passionate love for me that made him so +jealous and tyrannical, imposing, as he did, restrictions on my very +intercourse with my dear father, from whom I was so entirely separated, +as far as personal intercourse was concerned. + +I had, it is true, let myself go into a sorrowful review of all the +troubles which lay hidden beneath the seeming luxury of my life. I +knew that no one cared for me except my husband and Amante; for it was +clear enough to see that I, as his wife, and also as a _parvenue_, was +not popular among the few neighbours who surrounded us; and as for +the servants, the women were all hard and impudent-looking, treating +me with a semblance of respect that had more of mockery than reality +in it; while the men had a lurking kind of fierceness about them, +sometimes displayed even to M. de la Tourelle, who on his part, it must +be confessed, was often severe even to cruelty in his management of +them. My husband loved me, I said to myself, but I said it almost in +the form of a question. His love was shown fitfully, and more in ways +calculated to please himself than to please me. I felt that for no wish +of mine would he deviate one tittle from any predetermined course of +action. I had learnt the inflexibility of those thin, delicate lips; +I knew how anger would turn his fair complexion to deadly white, and +bring the cruel light into his pale blue eyes. The love I bore to +any one seemed to be a reason for his hating them, and so I went on +pitying myself one long dreary afternoon during that absence of his +of which I have spoken, only sometimes remembering to check myself in +my murmurings by thinking of the new unseen link between us, and then +crying afresh to think how wicked I was. Oh, how well I remember that +long October evening! Amante came in from time to time, talking away +to cheer me—talking about dress and Paris, and I hardly know what, but +from time to time looking at me keenly with her friendly dark eyes, and +with serious interest, too, though all her words were about frivolity. +At length she heaped the fire with wood, drew the heavy silken curtains +close; for I had been anxious hitherto to keep them open, so that I +might see the pale moon mounting the skies, as I used to see her—the +same moon—rise from behind the Kaiser Stuhl at Heidelberg; but the +sight made me cry, so Amante shut it out. She dictated to me as a nurse +does to a child. + +“Now, madame must have the little kitten to keep her company,” she +said, “while I go and ask Marthon for a cup of coffee.” I remember +that speech, and the way it roused me, for I did not like Amante to +think I wanted amusing by a kitten. It might be my petulance, but +this speech—such as she might have made to a child—annoyed me, and I +said that I had reason for my lowness of spirits—meaning that they +were not of so imaginary a nature that I could be diverted from them +by the gambols of a kitten. So, though I did not choose to tell her +all, I told her a part; and as I spoke, I began to suspect that the +good creature knew much of what I withheld, and that the little speech +about the kitten was more thoughtfully kind than it had seemed at +first. I said that it was so long since I had heard from my father; +that he was an old man, and so many things might happen—I might never +see him again—and I so seldom heard from him or my brother. It was a +more complete and total separation than I had ever anticipated when +I married, and something of my home and of my life previous to my +marriage I told the good Amante; for I had not been brought up as a +great lady, and the sympathy of any human being was precious to me. + +Amante listened with interest, and in return told me some of the events +and sorrows of her own life. Then, remembering her purpose, she set +out in search of the coffee, which ought to have been brought to me an +hour before; but, in my husband’s absence, my wishes were but seldom +attended to, and I never dared to give orders. + +Presently she returned, bringing the coffee and a great large cake. + +“See!” said she, setting it down. “Look at my plunder. Madame must +eat. Those who eat always laugh. And, besides, I have a little news +that will please madame.” Then she told me that, lying on a table +in the great kitchen, was a bundle of letters, come by the courier +from Strasburg that very afternoon: then, fresh from her conversation +with me, she had hastily untied the string that bound them, but had +only just traced out one that she thought was from Germany, when a +servant-man came in, and, with the start he gave her, she dropped the +letters, which he picked up, swearing at her for having untied and +disarranged them. She told him that she believed there was a letter +there for her mistress; but he only swore the more, saying, that if +there was it was no business of hers, or of his either, for that he had +the strictest orders always to take all letters that arrived during his +master’s absence into the private sitting-room of the latter—a room +into which I had never entered, although it opened out of my husband’s +dressing-room. + +I asked Amante if she had not conquered and brought me this letter. +No, indeed, she replied, it was almost as much as her life was worth +to live among such a set of servants: it was only a month ago that +Jacques had stabbed Valentin for some jesting talk. Had I never missed +Valentin—that handsome young lad who carried up the wood into my salon? +Poor fellow! he lies dead and cold now, and they said in the village +he had put an end to himself, but those of the household knew better. +Oh! I need not be afraid; Jacques was gone, no one knew where; but with +such people it was not safe to upbraid or insist. Monsieur would be at +home the next day, and it would not be long to wait. + +But I felt as if I could not exist till the next day, without the +letter. It might be to say that my father was ill, dying—he might +cry for his daughter from his death-bed! In short, there was no end +to the thoughts and fancies that haunted me. It was of no use for +Amante to say that, after all, she might be mistaken—that she did not +read writing well—that she had but a glimpse of the address; I let my +coffee cool, my food all became distasteful, and I wrung my hands with +impatience to get at the letter, and have some news of my dear ones at +home. All the time, Amante kept her imperturbable good temper, first +reasoning, then scolding. At last she said, as if wearied out, that if +I would consent to make a good supper, she would see what could be done +as to our going to monsieur’s room in search of the letter, after the +servants were all gone to bed. We agreed to go together when all was +still, and look over the letters; there could be no harm in that; and +yet, somehow, we were such cowards we dared not do it openly and in the +face of the household. + +Presently my supper came up—partridges, bread, fruits, and cream. How +well I remember that supper! We put the untouched cake away in a sort +of buffet, and poured the cold coffee out of the window, in order that +the servants might not take offence at the apparent fancifulness of +sending down for food I could not eat. I was so anxious for all to +be in bed, that I told the footman who served that he need not wait +to take away the plates and dishes, but might go to bed. Long after +I thought the house was quiet, Amante, in her caution, made me wait. +It was past eleven before we set out, with cat-like steps and veiled +light, along the passages, to go to my husband’s room and steal my own +letter, if it was indeed there; a fact about which Amante had become +very uncertain in the progress of our discussion. + +To make you understand my story, I must now try to explain to you the +plan of the château. It had been at one time a fortified place of some +strength, perched on the summit of a rock, which projected from the +side of the mountain. But additions had been made to the old building +(which must have borne a strong resemblance to the castles overhanging +the Rhine), and these new buildings were placed so as to command a +magnificent view, being on the steepest side of the rock, from which +the mountain fell away, as it were, leaving the great plain of France +in full survey. The ground-plan was something of the shape of three +sides of an oblong; my apartments in the modern edifice occupied the +narrow end, and had this grand prospect. The front of the castle was +old, and ran parallel to the road far below. In this were contained the +offices and public rooms of various descriptions, into which I never +penetrated. The back wing (considering the new building, in which my +apartments were, as the centre) consisted of many rooms, of a dark and +gloomy character, as the mountain-side shut out much of the sun, and +heavy pine woods came down within a few yards of the windows. Yet on +this side—on a projecting plateau of the rock—my husband had formed the +flower-garden of which I have spoken; for he was a great cultivator of +flowers in his leisure moments. + +Now my bedroom was the corner room of the new buildings on the part +next to the mountain. Hence I could have let myself down into the +flower-garden by my hands on the window-sill on one side, without +danger of hurting myself; while the windows at right angles with +these looked sheer down a descent of a hundred feet at least. Going +still farther along this wing, you came to the old building; in fact, +these two fragments of the ancient castle had formerly been attached +by some such connecting apartments as my husband had rebuilt. These +rooms belonged to M. de la Tourelle. His bedroom opened into mine, his +dressing-room lay beyond; and that was pretty nearly all I knew, for +the servants, as well as he himself, had a knack of turning me back, +under some pretence, if ever they found me walking about alone, as I +was inclined to do, when first I came, from a sort of curiosity to +see the whole of the place of which I found myself mistress. M. de la +Tourelle never encouraged me to go out alone, either in a carriage or +for a walk, saying always that the roads were unsafe in those disturbed +times; indeed, I have sometimes fancied since that the flower-garden, +to which the only access from the castle was through his rooms, was +designed in order to give me exercise and employment under his own eye. + +But to return to that night. I knew, as I have said, that M. de la +Tourelle’s private room opened out of his dressing-room, and this out +of his bedroom, which again opened into mine, the corner-room. But +there were other doors into all these rooms, and these doors led into +a long gallery, lighted by windows, looking into the inner court. I +do not remember our consulting much about it; we went through my room +into my husband’s apartment through the dressing-room, but the door of +communication into his study was locked, so there was nothing for it +but to turn back and go by the gallery to the other door. I recollect +noticing one or two things in these rooms, then seen by me for the +first time. I remember the sweet perfume that hung in the air, the +scent bottles of silver that decked his toilet-table, and the whole +apparatus for bathing and dressing, more luxurious even than those +which he had provided for me. But the room itself was less splendid in +its proportions than mine. In truth, the new buildings ended at the +entrance to my husband’s dressing-room. There were deep window recesses +in walls eight or nine feet thick, and even the partitions between the +chambers were three feet deep; but over all these doors or windows +there fell thick, heavy draperies, so that I should think no one could +have heard in one room what passed in another. We went back into my +room, and out into the gallery. We had to shade our candle, from a +fear that possessed us, I don’t know why, lest some of the servants +in the opposite wing might trace our progress towards the part of the +castle unused by any one except my husband. Somehow, I had always the +feeling that all the domestics, except Amante, were spies upon me, and +that I was trammelled in a web of observation and unspoken limitation +extending over all my actions. + +There was a light in the upper room; we paused, and Amante would have +again retreated, but I was chafing under the delays. What was the +harm of my seeking my father’s unopened letter to me in my husband’s +study? I, generally the coward, now blamed Amante for her unusual +timidity. But the truth was, she had far more reason for suspicion as +to the proceedings of that terrible household than I had ever known +of. I urged her on, I pressed on myself; we came to the door, locked, +but with the key in it; we turned it, we entered; the letters lay on +the table, their white oblongs catching the light in an instant, and +revealing themselves to my eager eyes, hungering after the words of +love from my peaceful, distant home. But just as I pressed forward +to examine the letters, the candle which Amante held, caught in some +draught, went out, and we were in darkness. Amante proposed that we +should carry the letters back to my salon, collecting them as well +as we could in the dark, and returning all but the expected one for +me; but I begged her to return to my room, where I kept tinder and +flint, and to strike a fresh light; and so she went, and I remained +alone in the room, of which I could only just distinguish the size, +and the principal articles of furniture: a large table, with a deep, +overhanging cloth, in the middle, escritoires and other heavy articles +against the walls; all this I could see as I stood there, my hand on +the table close by the letters, my face towards the window, which, +both from the darkness of the wood growing high up the mountain-side +and the faint light of the declining moon, seemed only like an oblong +of paler purpler black than the shadowy room. How much I remembered +from my one instantaneous glance before the candle went out, how much +I saw as my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I do not know, +but even now, in my dreams, comes up that room of horror, distinct +in its profound shadow. Amante could hardly have been gone a minute +before I felt an additional gloom before the window, and heard soft +movements outside—soft, but resolute, and continued until the end was +accomplished, and the window raised. + +In mortal terror of people forcing an entrance at such an hour, and +in such a manner as to leave no doubt of their purpose, I would have +turned to fly when first I heard the noise, only that I feared by +any quick motion to catch their attention, as I also ran the danger +of doing by opening the door, which was all but closed, and to whose +handlings I was unaccustomed. Again, quick as lightning, I bethought +me of the hiding-place between the locked door to my husband’s +dressing-room and the portière which covered it; but I gave that up, +I felt as if I could not reach it without screaming or fainting. So I +sank down softly, and crept under the table, hidden, as I hoped, by the +great, deep table-cover, with its heavy fringe. I had not recovered my +swooning senses fully, and was trying to reassure myself as to my being +in a place of comparative safety, for, above all things, I dreaded the +betrayal of fainting, and struggled hard for such courage as I might +attain by deadening myself to the danger I was in by inflicting intense +pain on myself. You have often asked me the reason of that mark on +my hand; it was where, in my agony, I bit out a piece of flesh with +my relentless teeth, thankful for the pain, which helped to numb my +terror. I say, I was but just concealed when I heard the window lifted, +and one after another stepped over the sill, and stood by me so close +that I could have touched their feet. Then they laughed and whispered; +my brain swam so that I could not tell the meaning of their words, but +I heard my husband’s laughter among the rest—low, hissing, scornful—as +he kicked something heavy that they had dragged in over the floor, and +which lay near me; so near, that my husband’s kick, in touching it, +touched me too. I don’t know why—I can’t tell how—but some feeling, and +not curiosity, prompted me to put out my hand, ever so softly, ever +so little, and feel in the darkness for what lay spurned beside me. I +stole my groping palm upon the clenched and chilly hand of a corpse! + +Strange to say, this roused me to instant vividness of thought. Till +this moment I had almost forgotten Amante; now I planned with feverish +rapidity how I could give her a warning not to return; or rather, I +should say, I tried to plan, for all my projects were utterly futile, +as I might have seen from the first. I could only hope she would hear +the voices of those who were now busy in trying to kindle a light, +swearing awful oaths at the mislaid articles which would have enabled +them to strike fire. I heard her step outside coming nearer and nearer; +I saw from my hiding-place the line of light beneath the door more and +more distinctly; close to it her footstep paused; the men inside—at +the time I thought they had been only two, but I found out afterwards +there were three—paused in their endeavours, and were quite still, as +breathless as myself, I suppose. Then she slowly pushed the door open +with gentle motion, to save her flickering candle from being again +extinguished. For a moment all was still. Then I heard my husband say, +as he advanced towards her (he wore riding-boots, the shape of which I +knew well, as I could see them in the light),— + +“Amante, may I ask what brings you here into my private room?” + +He stood between her and the dead body of a man, from which ghastly +heap I shrank away as it almost touched me, so close were we all +together. I could not tell whether she saw it or not; I could give her +no warning, nor make any dumb utterance of signs to bid her what to +say—if, indeed, I knew myself what would be best for her to say. + +Her voice was quite changed when she spoke; quite hoarse, and very low; +yet it was steady enough as she said, what was the truth, that she had +come to look for a letter which she believed had arrived for me from +Germany. Good, brave Amante! Not a word about me. M. de la Tourelle +answered with a grim blasphemy and a fearful threat. He would have no +one prying into his premises; madame should have her letters, if there +were any, when he chose to give them to her, if, indeed, he thought +it well to give them to her at all. As for Amante, this was her first +warning, but it was also her last; and, taking the candle out of her +hand, he turned her out of the room, his companions discreetly making +a screen, so as to throw the corpse into deep shadow. I heard the key +turn in the door after her—if I had ever had any thought of escape it +was gone now. I only hoped that whatever was to befal me might soon +be over, for the tension of nerve was growing more than I could bear. +The instant she could be supposed to be out of hearing, two voices +began speaking in the most angry terms to my husband, upbraiding him +for not having detained her, gagged her—nay, one was for killing her, +saying he had seen her eye fall on the face of the dead man, whom he +now kicked in his passion. Though the form of their speech was as if +they were speaking to equals, yet in their tone there was something of +fear. I am sure my husband was their superior, or captain, or somewhat. +He replied to them almost as if he were scoffing at them, saying it +was such an expenditure of labour having to do with fools; that, ten +to one, the woman was only telling the simple truth, and that she was +frightened enough by discovering her master in his room to be thankful +to escape and return to her mistress, to whom he could easily explain +on the morrow how he happened to return in the dead of night. But his +companions fell to cursing me, and saying that since M. de la Tourelle +had been married he was fit for nothing but to dress himself fine and +scent himself with perfume; that, as for me, they could have got him +twenty girls prettier, and with far more spirit in them. He quietly +answered that I suited him, and that was enough. All this time they +were doing something—I could not see what—to the corpse; sometimes they +were too busy rifling the dead body, I believe, to talk; again they let +it fall with a heavy, resistless thud, and took to quarrelling. They +taunted my husband with angry vehemence, enraged at his scoffing and +scornful replies, his mocking laughter. Yes, holding up his poor dead +victim, the better to strip him of whatever he wore that was valuable, +I heard my husband laugh just as he had done when exchanging repartees +in the little salon of the Rupprechts at Carlsruhe. I hated and dreaded +him from that moment. At length, as if to make an end of the subject, +he said, with cool determination in his voice,— + +“Now, my good friends, what is the use of all this talking, when you +know in your hearts that, if I suspected my wife of knowing more than I +chose of my affairs, she would not outlive the day? Remember Victorine. +Because she merely joked about my affairs in an imprudent manner, and +rejected my advice to keep a prudent tongue—to see what she liked, but +ask nothing and say nothing—she has gone a long journey—longer than to +Paris.” + +“But this one is different to her; we knew all that Madame Victorine +knew, she was such a chatterbox; but this one may find out a vast deal, +and never breathe a word about it, she is so sly. Some fine day we may +have the country raised, and the gendarmes down upon us from Strasburg, +and all owing to your pretty doll, with her cunning ways of coming over +you.” + +I think this roused M. de la Tourelle a little from his contemptuous +indifference, for he ground an oath through his teeth, and said, “Feel! +this dagger is sharp, Henri. If my wife breathes a word, and I am such +a fool as not to have stopped her mouth effectually before she can +bring down gendarmes upon us, just let that good steel find its way to +my heart. Let her guess but one tittle, let her have but one slight +suspicion that I am not a ‘grand propriétaire,’ much less imagine that +I am a chief of Chauffeurs, and she follows Victorine on the long +journey beyond Paris that very day.” + +“She’ll outwit you yet; or I never judged women well. Those still +silent ones are the devil. She’ll be off during some of your absences, +having picked out some secret that will break us all on the wheel.” + +“Bah!” said his voice; and then in a minute he added, “Let her go if +she will. But, where she goes, I will follow; so don’t cry before +you’re hurt.” + +By this time, they had nearly stripped the body; and the conversation +turned on what they should do with it. I learnt that the dead man was +the Sieur de Poissy, a neighbouring gentleman, whom I had often heard +of as hunting with my husband. I had never seen him, but they spoke as +if he had come upon them while they were robbing some Cologne merchant, +torturing him after the cruel practice of the Chauffeurs, by roasting +the feet of their victims in order to compel them to reveal any hidden +circumstances connected with their wealth, of which the Chauffeurs +afterwards made use; and this Sieur de Poissy coming down upon them, +and recognising M. de la Tourelle, they had killed him, and brought +him thither after nightfall. I heard him whom I called my husband, +laugh his little light laugh as he spoke of the way in which the dead +body had been strapped before one of the riders, in such a way that it +appeared to any passer-by as if, in truth, the murderer were tenderly +supporting some sick person. He repeated some mocking reply of double +meaning, which he himself had given to some one who made inquiry. He +enjoyed the play upon words, softly applauding his own wit. And all +the time the poor helpless outstretched arms of the dead lay close to +his dainty boot! Then another stooped (my heart stopped beating), and +picked up a letter lying on the ground—a letter that had dropped out +of M. de Poissy’s pocket—a letter from his wife, full of tender words +of endearment and pretty babblings of love. This was read aloud, with +coarse ribald comments on every sentence, each trying to outdo the +previous speaker. When they came to some pretty words about a sweet +Maurice, their little child away with its mother on some visit, they +laughed at M. de la Tourelle, and told him that he would be hearing +such woman’s drivelling some day. Up to that moment, I think, I had +only feared him, but his unnatural, half-ferocious reply made me hate +even more than I dreaded him. But now they grew weary of their savage +merriment; the jewels and watch had been apprised, the money and papers +examined; and apparently there was some necessity for the body being +interred quietly and before daybreak. They had not dared to leave him +where he was slain for fear lest people should come and recognise him, +and raise the hue and cry upon them. For they all along spoke as if it +was their constant endeavour to keep the immediate neighbourhood of +Les Rochers in the most orderly and tranquil condition, so as never to +give cause for visits from the gendarmes. They disputed a little as +to whether they should make their way into the castle larder through +the gallery, and satisfy their hunger before the hasty interment, or +afterwards. I listened with eager feverish interest as soon as this +meaning of their speeches reached my hot and troubled brain, for at +the time the words they uttered seemed only to stamp themselves with +terrible force on my memory, so that I could hardly keep from repeating +them aloud like a dull, miserable, unconscious echo; but my brain was +numb to the sense of what they said, unless I myself were named, and +then, I suppose, some instinct of self-preservation stirred within +me, and quickened my sense. And how I strained my ears, and nerved my +hands and limbs, beginning to twitch with convulsive movements, which I +feared might betray me! I gathered every word they spoke, not knowing +which proposal to wish for, but feeling that whatever was finally +decided upon, my only chance of escape was drawing near. I once feared +lest my husband should go to his bedroom before I had had that one +chance, in which case he would most likely have perceived my absence. +He said that his hands were soiled (I shuddered, for it might be with +life-blood), and he would go and cleanse them; but some bitter jest +turned his purpose, and he left the room with the other two—left it by +the gallery door. Left me alone in the dark with the stiffening corpse! + +Now, now was my time, if ever; and yet I could not move. It was not my +cramped and stiffened joints that crippled me, it was the sensation of +that dead man’s close presence. I almost fancied—I almost fancy still—I +heard the arm nearest to me move; lift itself up, as if once more +imploring, and fall in dead despair. At that fancy—if fancy it were—I +screamed aloud in mad terror, and the sound of my own strange voice +broke the spell. I drew myself to the side of the table farthest from +the corpse, with as much slow caution as if I really could have feared +the clutch of that poor dead arm, powerless for evermore. I softly +raised myself up, and stood sick and trembling, holding by the table, +too dizzy to know what to do next. I nearly fainted, when a low voice +spoke—when Amante, from the outside of the door, whispered, “Madame!” +The faithful creature had been on the watch, had heard my scream, and +having seen the three ruffians troop along the gallery down the stairs, +and across the court to the offices in the other wing of the castle, +she had stolen to the door of the room in which I was. The sound of her +voice gave me strength; I walked straight towards it, as one benighted +on a dreary moor, suddenly perceiving the small steady light which +tells of human dwellings, takes heart, and steers straight onward. +Where I was, where that voice was, I knew not; but go to it I must, or +die. The door once opened—I know not by which of us—I fell upon her +neck, grasping her tight, till my hands ached with the tension of their +hold. Yet she never uttered a word. Only she took me up in her vigorous +arms, and bore me to my room, and laid me on my bed. I do not know +more; as soon as I was placed there I lost sense; I came to myself with +a horrible dread lest my husband was by me, with a belief that he was +in the room, in hiding, waiting to hear my first words, watching for +the least sign of the terrible knowledge I possessed to murder me. I +dared not breathe quicker, I measured and timed each heavy inspiration; +I did not speak, nor move, nor even open my eyes, for long after I was +in my full, my miserable senses. I heard some one treading softly about +the room, as if with a purpose, not as if for curiosity, or merely to +beguile the time; some one passed in and out of the salon; and I still +lay quiet, feeling as if death were inevitable, but wishing that the +agony of death were past. Again faintness stole over me; but just as I +was sinking into the horrible feeling of nothingness, I heard Amante’s +voice close to me, saying,— + +“Drink this, madame, and let us begone. All is ready.” + +I let her put her arm under my head and raise me, and pour something +down my throat. All the time she kept talking in a quiet, measured +voice, unlike her own, so dry and authoritative; she told me that +a suit of her clothes lay ready for me, that she herself was as +much disguised as the circumstances permitted her to be, that what +provisions I had left from my supper were stowed away in her pockets, +and so she went on, dwelling on little details of the most commonplace +description, but never alluding for an instant to the fearful cause why +flight was necessary. I made no inquiry as to how she knew, or what she +knew. I never asked her either then or afterwards, I could not bear +it—we kept our dreadful secret close. But I suppose she must have been +in the dressing-room adjoining, and heard all. + +In fact, I dared not speak even to her, as if there were anything +beyond the most common event in life in our preparing thus to leave +the house of blood by stealth in the dead of night. She gave me +directions—short condensed directions, without reasons—just as you +do to a child; and like a child I obeyed her. She went often to the +door and listened; and often, too, she went to the window, and looked +anxiously out. For me, I saw nothing but her, and I dared not let my +eyes wander from her for a minute; and I heard nothing in the deep +midnight silence but her soft movements, and the heavy beating of my +own heart. At last she took my hand, and led me in the dark, through +the salon, once more into the terrible gallery, where across the black +darkness the windows admitted pale sheeted ghosts of light upon the +floor. Clinging to her I went; unquestioning—for she was human sympathy +to me after the isolation of my unspeakable terror. On we went, turning +to the left instead of to the right, past my suite of sitting-rooms +where the gilding was red with blood, into that unknown wing of the +castle that fronted the main road lying parallel far below. She guided +me along the basement passages to which we had now descended, until we +came to a little open door, through which the air blew chill and cold, +bringing for the first time a sensation of life to me. The door led +into a kind of cellar, through which we groped our way to an opening +like a window, but which, instead of being glazed, was only fenced with +iron bars, two of which were loose, as Amante evidently knew, for she +took them out with the ease of one who had performed the action often +before, and then helped me to follow her out into the free, open air. + +We stole round the end of the building, and on turning the corner—she +first—I felt her hold on me tighten for an instant, and the next step +I, too, heard distant voices, and the blows of a spade upon the heavy +soil, for the night was very warm and still. + +We had not spoken a word; we did not speak now. Touch was safer and as +expressive. She turned down towards the high road; I followed. I did +not know the path; we stumbled again and again, and I was much bruised; +so doubtless was she; but bodily pain did me good. At last, we were on +the plainer path of the high road. + +I had such faith in her that I did not venture to speak, even when she +paused, as wondering to which hand she should turn. But now, for the +first time, she spoke:— + +“Which way did you come when he brought you here first?” + +I pointed, I could not speak. + +We turned in the opposite direction; still going along the high road. +In about an hour, we struck up to the mountain-side, scrambling far +up before we even dared to rest; far up and away again before day +had fully dawned. Then we looked about for some place of rest and +concealment: and now we dared to speak in whispers. Amante told me that +she had locked the door of communication between his bedroom and mine, +and, as in a dream, I was aware that she had also locked and brought +away the key of the door between the latter and the salon. + +“He will have been too busy this night to think much about you—he will +suppose you are asleep—I shall be the first to be missed; but they will +only just now be discovering our loss.” + +I remember those last words of hers made me pray to go on; I felt as if +we were losing precious time in thinking either of rest or concealment; +but she hardly replied to me, so busy was she in seeking out some +hiding-place. At length, giving it up in despair, we proceeded onwards +a little way; the mountain-side sloped downwards rapidly, and in the +full morning light we saw ourselves in a narrow valley, made by a +stream which forced its way along it. About a mile lower down there +rose the pale blue smoke of a village, a mill-wheel was lashing up the +water close at hand, though out of sight. Keeping under the cover of +every sheltering tree or bush, we worked our way down past the mill, +down to a one-arched bridge, which doubtless formed part of the road +between the village and the mill. + +“This will do,” said she; and we crept under the space, and climbing a +little way up the rough stone-work, we seated ourselves on a projecting +ledge, and crouched in the deep damp shadow. Amante sat a little above +me, and made me lay my head on her lap. Then she fed me, and took some +food herself; and opening out her great dark cloak, she covered up +every light-coloured speck about us; and thus we sat, shivering and +shuddering, yet feeling a kind of rest through it all, simply from the +fact that motion was no longer imperative, and that during the daylight +our only chance of safety was to be still. But the damp shadow in which +we were sitting was blighting, from the circumstance of the sunlight +never penetrating there; and I dreaded lest, before night and the time +for exertion again came on, I should feel illness creeping all over me. +To add to our discomfort, it had rained the whole day long, and the +stream, fed by a thousand little mountain brooklets, began to swell +into a torrent, rushing over the stones with a perpetual and dizzying +noise. + +Every now and then I was wakened from the painful doze into which I +continually fell, by a sound of horses’ feet over our head: sometimes +lumbering heavily as if dragging a burden, sometimes rattling and +galloping, and with the sharper cry of men’s voices coming cutting +through the roar of the waters. At length, day fell. We had to drop +into the stream, which came above our knees as we waded to the bank. +There we stood, stiff and shivering. Even Amante’s courage seemed to +fail. + +“We must pass this night in shelter, somehow,” said she. For indeed the +rain was coming down pitilessly. I said nothing. I thought that surely +the end must be death in some shape; and I only hoped that to death +might not be added the terror of the cruelty of men. In a minute or so +she had resolved on her course of action. We went up the stream to the +mill. The familiar sounds, the scent of the wheat, the flour whitening +the walls—all reminded me of home, and it seemed to me as if I must +struggle out of this nightmare and waken, and find myself once more a +happy girl by the Neckar-side. They were long in unbarring the door +at which Amante had knocked: at length, an old feeble voice inquired +who was there, and what was sought? Amante answered shelter from +the storm for two women; but the old woman replied, with suspicious +hesitation, that she was sure it was a man who was asking for shelter, +and that she could not let us in. But at length she satisfied herself, +and unbarred the heavy door, and admitted us. She was not an unkindly +woman; but her thoughts all travelled in one circle, and that was, that +her master, the miller, had told her on no account to let any man into +the place during his absence, and that she did not know if he would +not think two women as bad; and yet that as we were not men, no one +could say she had disobeyed him, for it was a shame to let a dog be +out such a night as this. Amante, with ready wit, told her to let no +one know that we had taken shelter there that night, and that then her +master could not blame her; and while she was thus enjoining secrecy +as the wisest course, with a view to far other people than the miller, +she was hastily helping me to take off my wet clothes, and spreading +them, as well as the brown mantle that had covered us both, before the +great stove which warmed the room with the effectual heat that the old +woman’s failing vitality required. All this time the poor creature +was discussing with herself as to whether she had disobeyed orders, +in a kind of garrulous way that made me fear much for her capability +of retaining anything secret if she was questioned. By-and-by, she +wandered away to an unnecessary revelation of her master’s whereabouts: +gone to help in the search for his landlord, the Sieur de Poissy, who +lived at the château just above, and who had not returned from his +chase the day before; so the intendant imagined he might have met with +some accident, and had summoned the neighbours to beat the forest and +the hill-side. She told us much besides, giving us to understand that +she would fain meet with a place as housekeeper where there were more +servants and less to do, as her life here was very lonely and dull, +especially since her master’s son had gone away—gone to the wars. +She then took her supper, which was evidently apportioned out to her +with a sparing hand, as, even if the idea had come into her head, she +had not enough to offer us any. Fortunately, warmth was all that we +required, and that, thanks to Amante’s cares, was returning to our +chilled bodies. After supper, the old woman grew drowsy; but she seemed +uncomfortable at the idea of going to sleep and leaving us still in the +house. Indeed, she gave us pretty broad hints as to the propriety of +our going once more out into the bleak and stormy night; but we begged +to be allowed to stay under shelter of some kind; and, at last, a +bright idea came over her, and she bade us mount by a ladder to a kind +of loft, which went half over the lofty mill-kitchen in which we were +sitting. We obeyed her—what else could we do?—and found ourselves in a +spacious floor, without any safeguard or wall, boarding, or railing, +to keep us from falling over into the kitchen in case we went too near +the edge. It was, in fact, the store-room or garret for the household. +There was bedding piled up, boxes and chests, mill sacks, the winter +store of apples and nuts, bundles of old clothes, broken furniture, +and many other things. No sooner were we up there, than the old woman +dragged the ladder, by which we had ascended, away with a chuckle, as +if she was now secure that we could do no mischief, and sat herself +down again once more, to doze and await her master’s return. We pulled +out some bedding, and gladly laid ourselves down in our dried clothes +and in some warmth, hoping to have the sleep we so much needed to +refresh us and prepare us for the next day. But I could not sleep, and +I was aware, from her breathing, that Amante was equally wakeful. We +could both see through the crevices between the boards that formed the +flooring into the kitchen below, very partially lighted by the common +lamp that hung against the wall near the stove on the opposite side to +that on which we were. + + +PORTION III. + +Far on in the night there were voices outside reached us in our +hiding-place; an angry knocking at the door, and we saw through the +chinks the old woman rouse herself up to go and open it for her master, +who came in, evidently half drunk. To my sick horror, he was followed +by Lefebvre, apparently as sober and wily as ever. They were talking +together as they came in, disputing about something; but the miller +stopped the conversation to swear at the old woman for having fallen +asleep, and, with tipsy anger, and even with blows, drove the poor +old creature out of the kitchen to bed. Then he and Lefebvre went on +talking—about the Sieur de Poissy’s disappearance. It seemed that +Lefebvre had been out all day, along with other of my husband’s men, +ostensibly assisting in the search; in all probability trying to blind +the Sieur de Poissy’s followers by putting them on a wrong scent, and +also, I fancied, from one or two of Lefebvre’s sly questions, combining +the hidden purpose of discovering us. + +Although the miller was tenant and vassal to the Sieur de Poissy, he +seemed to me to be much more in league with the people of M. de la +Tourelle. He was evidently aware, in part, of the life which Lefebvre +and the others led; although, again, I do not suppose he knew or +imagined one-half of their crimes; and also, I think, he was seriously +interested in discovering the fate of his master, little suspecting +Lefebvre of murder or violence. He kept talking himself, and letting +out all sorts of thoughts and opinions; watched by the keen eyes of +Lefebvre gleaming out below his shaggy eyebrows. It was evidently not +the cue of the latter to let out that his master’s wife had escaped +from that vile and terrible den; but though he never breathed a word +relating to us, not the less was I certain he was thirsting for our +blood, and lying in wait for us at every turn of events. Presently he +got up and took his leave; and the miller bolted him out, and stumbled +off to bed. Then we fell asleep, and slept sound and long. + +The next morning, when I awoke, I saw Amante, half raised, resting on +one hand, and eagerly gazing, with straining eyes, into the kitchen +below. I looked too, and both heard and saw the miller and two of +his men eagerly and loudly talking about the old woman, who had not +appeared as usual to make the fire in the stove, and prepare her +master’s breakfast, and who now, late on in the morning, had been +found dead in her bed; whether from the effect of her master’s blows +the night before, or from natural causes, who can tell? The miller’s +conscience upbraided him a little, I should say, for he was eagerly +declaring his value for his housekeeper, and repeating how often she +had spoken of the happy life she led with him. The men might have their +doubts, but they did not wish to offend the miller, and all agreed +that the necessary steps should be taken for a speedy funeral. And +so they went out, leaving us in our loft, but so much alone, that, +for the first time almost, we ventured to speak freely, though still +in a hushed voice, pausing to listen continually. Amante took a more +cheerful view of the whole occurrence than I did. She said that, had +the old woman lived, we should have had to depart that morning, and +that this quiet departure would have been the best thing we could have +had to hope for, as, in all probability, the housekeeper would have +told her master of us and of our resting-place, and this fact would, +sooner or later, have been brought to the knowledge of those from whom +we most desired to keep it concealed; but that now we had time to rest, +and a shelter to rest in, during the first hot pursuit, which we knew +to a fatal certainty was being carried on. The remnants of our food, +and the stored-up fruit, would supply us with provision; the only thing +to be feared was, that something might be required from the loft, and +the miller or some one else mount up in search of it. But even then, +with a little arrangement of boxes and chests, one part might be so +kept in shadow that we might yet escape observation. All this comforted +me a little; but, I asked, how were we ever to escape? The ladder was +taken away, which was our only means of descent. But Amante replied +that she could make a sufficient ladder of the rope lying coiled among +other things, to drop us down the ten feet or so—with the advantage of +its being portable, so that we might carry it away, and thus avoid all +betrayal of the fact that any one had ever been hidden in the loft. + +During the two days that intervened before we did escape, Amante made +good use of her time. She looked into every box and chest during the +man’s absence at his mill; and finding in one box an old suit of man’s +clothes, which had probably belonged to the miller’s absent son, she +put them on to see if they would fit her; and, when she found that they +did, she cut her own hair to the shortness of a man’s, made me clip her +black eyebrows as close as though they had been shaved, and by cutting +up old corks into pieces such as would go into her cheeks, she altered +both the shape of her face and her voice to a degree which I should not +have believed possible. + +All this time I lay like one stunned; my body resting, and renewing +its strength, but I myself in an almost idiotic state—else surely I +could not have taken the stupid interest which I remember I did in all +Amante’s energetic preparations for disguise. I absolutely recollect +once the feeling of a smile coming over my stiff face as some new +exercise of her cleverness proved a success. + +But towards the second day, she required me, too, to exert myself; and +then all my heavy despair returned. I let her dye my fair hair and +complexion with the decaying shells of the stored-up walnuts, I let her +blacken my teeth, and even voluntarily broke a front tooth the better +to effect my disguise. But through it all I had no hope of evading my +terrible husband. The third night the funeral was over, the drinking +ended, the guests gone; the miller put to bed by his men, being too +drunk to help himself. They stopped a little while in the kitchen, +talking and laughing about the new housekeeper likely to come; and +they, too, went off, shutting, but not locking the door. Everything +favoured us. Amante had tried her ladder on one of the two previous +nights, and could, by a dexterous throw from beneath, unfasten it from +the hook to which it was fixed, when it had served its office; she +made up a bundle of worthless old clothes in order that we might the +better preserve our characters of a travelling pedlar and his wife; +she stuffed a hump on her back, she thickened my figure, she left her +own clothes deep down beneath a heap of others in the chest from which +she had taken the man’s dress which she wore; and with a few francs +in her pocket—the sole money we had either of us had about us when we +escaped—we let ourselves down the ladder, unhooked it, and passed into +the cold darkness of night again. + +We had discussed the route which it would be well for us to take while +we lay perdues in our loft. Amante had told me then that her reason for +inquiring, when we first left Les Rochers, by which way I had first +been brought to it, was to avoid the pursuit which she was sure would +first be made in the direction of Germany; but that now she thought we +might return to that district of country where my German fashion of +speaking French would excite least observation. I thought that Amante +herself had something peculiar in her accent, which I had heard M. de +la Tourelle sneer at as Norman patois; but I said not a word beyond +agreeing to her proposal that we should bend our steps towards Germany. +Once there, we should, I thought, be safe. Alas! I forgot the unruly +time that was overspreading all Europe, overturning all law, and all +the protection which law gives. + +How we wandered—not daring to ask our way—how we lived, how we +struggled through many a danger and still more terrors of danger, I +shall not tell you now. I will only relate two of our adventures before +we reached Frankfort. The first, although fatal to an innocent lady, +was yet, I believe, the cause of my safety; the second I shall tell +you, that you may understand why I did not return to my former home, as +I had hoped to do when we lay in the miller’s loft, and I first became +capable of groping after an idea of what my future life might be. I +cannot tell you how much in these doubtings and wanderings I became +attached to Amante. I have sometimes feared since, lest I cared for +her only because she was so necessary to my own safety; but, no! it +was not so; or not so only, or principally. She said once that she was +flying for her own life as well as for mine; but we dared not speak +much on our danger, or on the horrors that had gone before. We planned +a little what was to be our future course; but even for that we did +not look forward long; how could we, when every day we scarcely knew +if we should see the sun go down? For Amante knew or conjectured far +more than I did of the atrocity of the gang to which M. de la Tourelle +belonged; and every now and then, just as we seemed to be sinking into +the calm of security, we fell upon traces of a pursuit after us in +all directions. Once I remember—we must have been nearly three weeks +wearily walking through unfrequented ways, day after day, not daring +to make inquiry as to our whereabouts, nor yet to seem purposeless +in our wanderings—we came to a kind of lonely roadside farrier’s and +blacksmith’s. I was so tired, that Amante declared that, come what +might, we would stay there all night; and accordingly she entered the +house, and boldly announced herself as a travelling tailor, ready to +do any odd jobs of work that might be required, for a night’s lodging +and food for herself and wife. She had adopted this plan once or +twice before, and with good success; for her father had been a tailor +in Rouen, and as a girl she had often helped him with his work, and +knew the tailors’ slang and habits, down to the particular whistle +and cry which in France tells so much to those of a trade. At this +blacksmith’s, as at most other solitary houses far away from a town, +there was not only a store of men’s clothes laid by as wanting mending +when the housewife could afford time, but there was a natural craving +after news from a distance, such news as a wandering tailor is bound +to furnish. The early November afternoon was closing into evening, as +we sat down, she cross-legged on the great table in the blacksmith’s +kitchen, drawn close to the window, I close behind her, sewing at +another part of the same garment, and from time to time well scolded by +my seeming husband. All at once she turned round to speak to me. It was +only one word, “Courage!” I had seen nothing; I sat out of the light; +but I turned sick for an instant, and then I braced myself up into a +strange strength of endurance to go through I knew not what. + +The blacksmith’s forge was in a shed beside the house, and fronting +the road. I heard the hammers stop plying their continual rhythmical +beat. She had seen why they ceased. A rider had come up to the forge +and dismounted, leading his horse in to be re-shod. The broad red light +of the forge-fire had revealed the face of the rider to Amante, and she +apprehended the consequence that really ensued. + +The rider, after some words with the blacksmith, was ushered in by him +into the house-place where we sat. + +“Here, good wife, a cup of wine and some galette for this gentleman.” + +“Anything, anything, madame, that I can eat and drink in my hand while +my horse is being shod. I am in haste, and must get on to Forbach +to-night.” + +The blacksmith’s wife lighted her lamp; Amante had asked her for +it five minutes before. How thankful we were that she had not more +speedily complied with our request! As it was, we sat in dusk shadow, +pretending to stitch away, but scarcely able to see. The lamp was +placed on the stove, near which my husband, for it was he, stood and +warmed himself. By-and-by he turned round, and looked all over the +room, taking us in with about the same degree of interest as the +inanimate furniture. Amante, cross-legged, fronting him, stooped over +her work, whistling softly all the while. He turned again to the stove, +impatiently rubbing his hands. He had finished his wine and galette, +and wanted to be off. + +“I am in haste, my good woman. Ask thy husband to get on more quickly. +I will pay him double if he makes haste.” + +The woman went out to do his bidding; and he once more turned round to +face us. Amante went on to the second part of the tune. He took it up, +whistled a second for an instant or so, and then the blacksmith’s wife +re-entering, he moved towards her, as if to receive her answer the more +speedily. + +“One moment, monsieur—only one moment. There was a nail out of the +off-foreshoe which my husband is replacing; it would delay monsieur +again if that shoe also came off.” + +“Madame is right,” said he, “but my haste is urgent. If madame knew +my reasons, she would pardon my impatience. Once a happy husband, now +a deserted and betrayed man, I pursue a wife on whom I lavished all +my love, but who has abused my confidence, and fled from my house, +doubtless to some paramour; carrying off with her all the jewels and +money on which she could lay her hands. It is possible madame may have +heard or seen something of her; she was accompanied in her flight by +a base, profligate woman from Paris, whom I, unhappy man, had myself +engaged for my wife’s waiting-maid, little dreaming what corruption I +was bringing into my house!” + +“Is it possible?” said the good woman, throwing up her hands. + +Amante went on whistling a little lower, out of respect to the +conversation. + +“However, I am tracing the wicked fugitives; I am on their track” (and +the handsome, effeminate face looked as ferocious as any demon’s). +“They will not escape me; but every minute is a minute of misery to me, +till I meet my wife. Madame has sympathy, has she not?” + +He drew his face into a hard, unnatural smile, and then both went out +to the forge, as if once more to hasten the blacksmith over his work. + +Amante stopped her whistling for one instant. + +“Go on as you are, without change of an eyelid even; in a few minutes +he will be gone, and it will be over!” + +It was a necessary caution, for I was on the point of giving way, and +throwing myself weakly upon her neck. We went on; she whistling and +stitching, I making semblance to sew. And it was well we did so; for +almost directly he came back for his whip, which he had laid down and +forgotten; and again I felt one of those sharp, quick-scanning glances, +sent all round the room, and taking in all. + +Then we heard him ride away; and then, it had been long too dark to see +well, I dropped my work, and gave way to my trembling and shuddering. +The blacksmith’s wife returned. She was a good creature. Amante told +her I was cold and weary, and she insisted on my stopping my work, +and going to sit near the stove; hastening, at the same time, her +preparations for supper, which, in honour of us, and of monsieur’s +liberal payment, was to be a little less frugal than ordinary. It +was well for me that she made me taste a little of the cider-soup +she was preparing, or I could not have held up, in spite of Amante’s +warning look, and the remembrance of her frequent exhortations to +act resolutely up to the characters we had assumed, whatever befel. +To cover my agitation, Amante stopped her whistling, and began to +talk; and, by the time the blacksmith came in, she and the good woman +of the house were in full flow. He began at once upon the handsome +gentleman, who had paid him so well; all his sympathy was with him, +and both he and his wife only wished he might overtake his wicked +wife, and punish her as she deserved. And then the conversation took +a turn, not uncommon to those whose lives are quiet and monotonous; +every one seemed to vie with each other in telling about some horror; +and the savage and mysterious band of robbers called the Chauffeurs, +who infested all the roads leading to the Rhine, with Schinderhannes +at their head, furnished many a tale which made the very marrow of my +bones run cold, and quenched even Amante’s power of talking. Her eyes +grew large and wild, her cheeks blanched, and for once she sought by +her looks help from me. The new call upon me roused me. I rose and +said, with their permission my husband and I would seek our bed, for +that we had travelled far and were early risers. I added that we would +get up betimes, and finish our piece of work. The blacksmith said we +should be early birds if we rose before him; and the good wife seconded +my proposal with kindly bustle. One other such story as those they had +been relating, and I do believe Amante would have fainted. + +As it was, a night’s rest set her up; we arose and finished our work +betimes, and shared the plentiful breakfast of the family. Then we had +to set forth again; only knowing that to Forbach we must not go, yet +believing, as was indeed the case, that Forbach lay between us and +that Germany to which we were directing our course. Two days more we +wandered on, making a round, I suspect, and returning upon the road +to Forbach, a league or two nearer to that town than the blacksmith’s +house. But as we never made inquiries I hardly knew where we were, +when we came one night to a small town, with a good large rambling +inn in the very centre of the principal street. We had begun to feel +as if there were more safety in towns than in the loneliness of the +country. As we had parted with a ring of mine not many days before to a +travelling jeweller, who was too glad to purchase it far below its real +value to make many inquiries as to how it came into the possession of a +poor working tailor, such as Amante seemed to be, we resolved to stay +at this inn all night, and gather such particulars and information as +we could by which to direct our onward course. + +We took our supper in the darkest corner of the _salle-à-manger_, +having previously bargained for a small bedroom across the court, and +over the stables. We needed food sorely; but we hurried on our meal +from dread of any one entering that public room who might recognize us. +Just in the middle of our meal, the public diligence drove lumbering +up under the _porte-cochère_, and disgorged its passengers. Most of +them turned into the room where we sat, cowering and fearful, for the +door was opposite to the porter’s lodge, and both opened on to the +wide-covered entrance from the street. Among the passengers came in a +young, fair-haired lady, attended by an elderly French maid. The poor +young creature tossed her head, and shrank away from the common room, +full of evil smells and promiscuous company, and demanded, in German +French, to be taken to some private apartment. We heard that she and +her maid had come in the coupé, and, probably from pride, poor young +lady! she had avoided all association with her fellow-passengers, +thereby exciting their dislike and ridicule. All these little pieces of +hearsay had a significance to us afterwards, though, at the time, the +only remark made that bore upon the future was Amante’s whisper to me +that the young lady’s hair was exactly the colour of mine, which she +had cut off and burnt in the stove in the miller’s kitchen in one of +her descents from our hiding-place in the loft. + +As soon as we could, we struck round in the shadow, leaving the +boisterous and merry fellow-passengers to their supper. We crossed the +court, borrowed a lantern from the ostler, and scrambled up the rude +steps to our chamber above the stable. There was no door into it; the +entrance was the hole into which the ladder fitted. The window looked +into the court. We were tired and soon fell asleep. I was wakened by +a noise in the stable below. One instant of listening, and I wakened +Amante, placing my hand on her mouth, to prevent any exclamation in +her half-roused state. We heard my husband speaking about his horse +to the ostler. It was his voice. I am sure of it. Amante said so too. +We durst not move to rise and satisfy ourselves. For five minutes or +so he went on giving directions. Then he left the stable, and, softly +stealing to our window, we saw him cross the court and re-enter the +inn. We consulted as to what we should do. We feared to excite remark +or suspicion by descending and leaving our chamber, or else immediate +escape was our strongest idea. Then the ostler left the stable, locking +the door on the outside. + +“We must try and drop through the window—if, indeed, it is well to go +at all,” said Amante. + +With reflection came wisdom. We should excite suspicion by leaving +without paying our bill. We were on foot, and might easily be pursued. +So we sat on our bed’s edge, talking and shivering, while from across +the court the laughter rang merrily, and the company slowly dispersed +one by one, their lights flitting past the windows as they went +upstairs and settled each one to his rest. + +We crept into our bed, holding each other tight, and listening to every +sound, as if we thought we were tracked, and might meet our death +at any moment. In the dead of night, just at the profound stillness +preceding the turn into another day, we heard a soft, cautious step +crossing the yard. The key into the stable was turned—some one came +into the stable—we felt rather than heard him there. A horse started +a little, and made a restless movement with his feet, then whinnied +recognition. He who had entered made two or three low sounds to the +animal, and then led him into the court. Amante sprang to the window +with the noiseless activity of a cat. She looked out, but dared not +speak a word. We heard the great door into the street open—a pause for +mounting, and the horse’s footsteps were lost in distance. + +Then Amante came back to me. “It was he! he is gone!” said she, and +once more we lay down, trembling and shaking. + +This time we fell sound asleep. We slept long and late. We were wakened +by many hurrying feet, and many confused voices; all the world seemed +awake and astir. We rose and dressed ourselves, and coming down we +looked around among the crowd collected in the court-yard, in order to +assure ourselves _he_ was not there before we left the shelter of the +stable. + +The instant we were seen, two or three people rushed to us. + +“Have you heard?—Do you know?—That poor young lady—oh, come and see!” +and so we were hurried, almost in spite of ourselves, across the court, +and up the great open stairs of the main building of the inn, into a +bed-chamber, where lay the beautiful young German lady, so full of +graceful pride the night before, now white and still in death. By her +stood the French maid, crying and gesticulating. + +“Oh, madame! if you had but suffered me to stay with you! Oh! the +baron, what will he say?” and so she went on. Her state had but just +been discovered; it had been supposed that she was fatigued, and was +sleeping late, until a few minutes before. The surgeon of the town had +been sent for, and the landlord of the inn was trying vainly to enforce +order until he came, and, from time to time, drinking little cups of +brandy, and offering them to the guests, who were all assembled there, +pretty much as the servants were doing in the court-yard. + +At last the surgeon came. All fell back, and hung on the words that +were to fall from his lips. + +“See!” said the landlord. “This lady came last night by the diligence +with her maid. Doubtless a great lady, for she must have a private +sitting-room——” + +“She was Madame the Baroness de Roeder,” said the French maid. + +—“And was difficult to please in the matter of supper, and a +sleeping-room. She went to bed well, though fatigued. Her maid left +her——” + +“I begged to be allowed to sleep in her room, as we were in a strange +inn, of the character of which we knew nothing; but she would not let +me, my mistress was such a great lady.” + +—“And slept with my servants,” continued the landlord. “This morning +we thought madame was still slumbering; but when eight, nine, ten, and +near eleven o’clock came, I bade her maid use my pass-key, and enter +her room——” + +“The door was not locked, only closed. And here she was found—dead is +she not, monsieur?—with her face down on her pillow, and her beautiful +hair all scattered wild; she never would let me tie it up, saying it +made her head ache. Such hair!” said the waiting-maid, lifting up a +long golden tress, and letting it fall again. + +I remembered Amante’s words the night before, and crept close up to her. + +Meanwhile, the doctor was examining the body underneath the +bed-clothes, which the landlord, until now, had not allowed to be +disarranged. The surgeon drew out his hand, all bathed and stained +with blood; and holding up a short, sharp knife, with a piece of paper +fastened round it. + +“Here has been foul play,” he said. “The deceased lady has been +murdered. This dagger was aimed straight at her heart.” Then, putting +on his spectacles, he read the writing on the bloody paper, dimmed and +horribly obscured as it was:— + + NUMÉRO UN. + Ainsi les Chauffeurs se vengent. + +“Let us go!” said I to Amante. “Oh, let us leave this horrible place!” + +“Wait a little,” said she. “Only a few minutes more. It will be better.” + +Immediately the voices of all proclaimed their suspicions of the +cavalier who had arrived last the night before. He had, they said, made +so many inquiries about the young lady, whose supercilious conduct all +in the _salle-à-manger_ had been discussing on his entrance. They were +talking about her as we left the room; he must have come in directly +afterwards, and not until he had learnt all about her, had he spoken +of the business which necessitated his departure at dawn of day, and +made his arrangements with both landlord and ostler for the possession +of the keys of the stable and _porte-cochère_. In short, there was +no doubt as to the murderer, even before the arrival of the legal +functionary who had been sent for by the surgeon; but the word on the +paper chilled every one with terror. Les Chauffeurs, who were they? No +one knew, some of the gang might even then be in the room overhearing, +and noting down fresh objects for vengeance. In Germany, I had heard +little of this terrible gang, and I had paid no greater heed to the +stories related once or twice about them in Carlsruhe than one does to +tales about ogres. But here in their very haunts, I learnt the full +amount of the terror they inspired. No one would be legally responsible +for any evidence criminating the murderer. The public prosecutor shrank +from the duties of his office. What do I say? Neither Amante nor I, +knowing far more of the actual guilt of the man who had killed that +poor sleeping young lady, durst breathe a word. We appeared to be +wholly ignorant of everything: we, who might have told so much. But +how could we? we were broken down with terrific anxiety and fatigue, +with the knowledge that we, above all, were doomed victims; and that +the blood, heavily dripping from the bed-clothes on to the floor, was +dripping thus out of the poor dead body, because, when living, she had +been mistaken for me. + +At length Amante went up to the landlord, and asked permission to +leave his inn, doing all openly and humbly, so as to excite neither +ill-will nor suspicion. Indeed, suspicion was otherwise directed, and +he willingly gave us leave to depart. A few days afterwards we were +across the Rhine, in Germany, making our way towards Frankfort, but +still keeping our disguises, and Amante still working at her trade. + +On the way, we met a young man, a wandering journeyman from Heidelberg. +I knew him, although I did not choose that he should know me. I asked +him, as carelessly as I could, how the old miller was now? He told me +he was dead. This realization of the worst apprehensions caused by his +long silence shocked me inexpressibly. It seemed as though every prop +gave way from under me. I had been talking to Amante only that very day +of the safety and comfort of the home that awaited her in my father’s +house; of the gratitude which the old man would feel towards her; and +how there, in that peaceful dwelling, far away from the terrible land +of France, she should find ease and security for all the rest of her +life. All this I thought I had to promise, and even yet more had I +looked for, for myself. I looked to the unburdening of my heart and +conscience by telling all I knew to my best and wisest friend. I looked +to his love as a sure guidance as well as a comforting stay, and, +behold, he was gone away from me for ever! + +I had left the room hastily on hearing of this sad news from the +Heidelberger. Presently, Amante followed: + +“Poor madame,” said she, consoling me to the best of her ability. And +then she told me by degrees what more she had learned respecting my +home, about which she knew almost as much as I did, from my frequent +talks on the subject both at Les Rochers and on the dreary, doleful +road we had come along. She had continued the conversation after I +left, by asking about my brother and his wife. Of course, they lived +on at the mill, but the man said (with what truth I know not, but I +believed it firmly at the time) that Babette had completely got the +upper hand of my brother, who only saw through her eyes and heard with +her ears. That there had been much Heidelberg gossip of late days about +her sudden intimacy with a grand French gentleman who had appeared at +the mill—a relation, by marriage—married, in fact, to the miller’s +sister, who, by all accounts, had behaved abominably and ungratefully. +But that was no reason for Babette’s extreme and sudden intimacy with +him, going about everywhere with the French gentleman; and since he +left (as the Heidelberger said he knew for a fact) corresponding with +him constantly. Yet her husband saw no harm in it all, seemingly; +though, to be sure, he was so out of spirits, what with his father’s +death and the news of his sister’s infamy, that he hardly knew how to +hold up his head. + +“Now,” said Amante, “all this proves that M. de la Tourelle has +suspected that you would go back to the nest in which you were +reared, and that he has been there, and found that you have not yet +returned; but probably he still imagines that you will do so, and has +accordingly engaged your sister-in-law as a kind of informant. Madame +has said that her sister-in-law bore her no extreme good-will; and the +defamatory story he has got the start of us in spreading, will not +tend to increase the favour in which your sister-in-law holds you. +No doubt the assassin was retracing his steps when we met him near +Forbach, and having heard of the poor German lady, with her French +maid, and her pretty blonde complexion, he followed her. If madame +will still be guided by me—and, my child, I beg of you still to trust +me,” said Amante, breaking out of her respectful formality into the +way of talking more natural to those who had shared and escaped from +common dangers—more natural, too, where the speaker was conscious of a +power of protection which the other did not possess—“we will go on to +Frankfort, and lose ourselves, for a time, at least, in the numbers of +people who throng a great town; and you have told me that Frankfort is +a great town. We will still be husband and wife; we will take a small +lodging, and you shall housekeep and live in-doors. I, as the rougher +and the more alert, will continue my father’s trade, and seek work at +the tailors’ shops.” + +I could think of no better plan, so we followed this out. In a back +street at Frankfort we found two furnished rooms to let on a sixth +story. The one we entered had no light from day; a dingy lamp swung +perpetually from the ceiling, and from that, or from the open door +leading into the bedroom beyond, came our only light. The bedroom was +more cheerful, but very small. Such as it was, it almost exceeded +our possible means. The money from the sale of my ring was almost +exhausted, and Amante was a stranger in the place, speaking only +French, moreover, and the good Germans were hating the French people +right heartily. However, we succeeded better than our hopes, and even +laid by a little against the time of my confinement. I never stirred +abroad, and saw no one, and Amante’s want of knowledge of German kept +her in a state of comparative isolation. + +At length my child was born—my poor worse than fatherless child. It +was a girl, as I had prayed for. I had feared lest a boy might have +something of the tiger nature of its father, but a girl seemed all my +own. And yet not all my own, for the faithful Amante’s delight and +glory in the babe almost exceeded mine; in outward show it certainly +did. + +We had not been able to afford any attendance beyond what a +neighbouring sage-femme could give, and she came frequently, bringing +in with her a little store of gossip, and wonderful tales culled out +of her own experience, every time. One day she began to tell me about +a great lady in whose service her daughter had lived as scullion, or +some such thing. Such a beautiful lady! with such a handsome husband. +But grief comes to the palace as well as to the garret, and why or +wherefore no one knew, but somehow the Baron de Roeder must have +incurred the vengeance of the terrible Chauffeurs; for not many months +ago, as madame was going to see her relations in Alsace, she was +stabbed dead as she lay in bed at some hotel on the road. Had I not +seen it in the _Gazette_? Had I not heard? Why, she had been told that +as far off as Lyons there were placards offering a heavy reward on the +part of the Baron de Roeder for information respecting the murderer of +his wife. But no one could help him, for all who could bear evidence +were in such terror of the Chauffeurs; there were hundreds of them she +had been told, rich and poor, great gentlemen and peasants, all leagued +together by most frightful oaths to hunt to the death any one who bore +witness against them; so that even they who survived the tortures to +which the Chauffeurs subjected many of the people whom they plundered, +dared not to recognise them again, would not dare, even did they see +them at the bar of a court of justice; for, if one were condemned, were +there not hundreds sworn to avenge his death? + +I told all this to Amante, and we began to fear that if M. de la +Tourelle, or Lefebvre, or any of the gang at Les Rochers, had seen +these placards, they would know that the poor lady stabbed by the +former was the Baroness de Roeder, and that they would set forth again +in search of me. + +This fresh apprehension told on my health and impeded my recovery. We +had so little money we could not call in a physician, at least, not +one in established practice. But Amante found out a young doctor for +whom, indeed, she had sometimes worked; and offering to pay him in +kind, she brought him to see me, her sick wife. He was very gentle +and thoughtful, though, like ourselves, very poor. But he gave much +time and consideration to the case, saying once to Amante that he saw +my constitution had experienced some severe shock from which it was +probable that my nerves would never entirely recover. By-and-by I shall +name this doctor, and then you will know, better than I can describe, +his character. + +I grew strong in time—stronger, at least. I was able to work a little +at home, and to sun myself and my baby at the garret-window in the +roof. It was all the air I dared to take. I constantly wore the +disguise I had first set out with; as constantly had I renewed the +disfiguring dye which changed my hair and complexion. But the perpetual +state of terror in which I had been during the whole months succeeding +my escape from Les Rochers made me loathe the idea of ever again +walking in the open daylight, exposed to the sight and recognition of +every passer-by. In vain Amante reasoned—in vain the doctor urged. +Docile in every other thing, in this I was obstinate. I would not stir +out. One day Amante returned from her work, full of news—some of it +good, some such as to cause us apprehension. The good news was this; +the master for whom she worked as journeyman was going to send her with +some others to a great house at the other side of Frankfort, where +there were to be private theatricals, and where many new dresses and +much alteration of old ones would be required. The tailors employed +were all to stay at this house until the day of representation was +over, as it was at some distance from the town, and no one could tell +when their work would be ended. But the pay was to be proportionately +good. + +The other thing she had to say was this: she had that day met the +travelling jeweller to whom she and I had sold my ring. It was rather +a peculiar one, given to me by my husband; we had felt at the time +that it might be the means of tracing us, but we were penniless and +starving, and what else could we do? She had seen that this Frenchman +had recognised her at the same instant that she did him, and she +thought at the same time that there was a gleam of more than common +intelligence on his face as he did so. This idea had been confirmed +by his following her for some way on the other side of the street; +but she had evaded him with her better knowledge of the town, and the +increasing darkness of the night. Still it was well that she was going +to such a distance from our dwelling on the next day; and she had +brought me in a stock of provisions, begging me to keep within doors, +with a strange kind of fearful oblivion of the fact that I had never +set foot beyond the threshold of the house since I had first entered +it—scarce ever ventured down the stairs. But, although my poor, my +dear, very faithful Amante was like one possessed that last night, she +spoke continually of the dead, which is a bad sign for the living. +She kissed you—yes! it was you, my daughter, my darling, whom I bore +beneath my bosom away from the fearful castle of your father—I call +him so for the first time, I must call him so once again before I have +done—Amante kissed you, sweet baby, blessed little comforter, as if she +never could leave off. And then she went away, alive. + +Two days, three days passed away. That third evening I was sitting +within my bolted doors—you asleep on your pillow by my side—when a +step came up the stair, and I knew it must be for me; for ours were +the topmost rooms. Some one knocked; I held my very breath. But some +one spoke, and I knew it was the good Doctor Voss. Then I crept to the +door, and answered. + +“Are you alone?” asked I. + +“Yes,” said he, in a still lower voice. “Let me in.” I let him in, and +he was as alert as I in bolting and barring the door. Then he came and +whispered to me his doleful tale. He had come from the hospital in +the opposite quarter of the town, the hospital which he visited; he +should have been with me sooner, but he had feared lest he should be +watched. He had come from Amante’s death-bed. Her fears of the jeweller +were too well founded. She had left the house where she was employed +that morning, to transact some errand connected with her work in the +town; she must have been followed, and dogged on her way back through +solitary wood-paths, for some of the wood-rangers belonging to the +great house had found her lying there, stabbed to death, but not dead; +with the poniard again plunged through the fatal writing, once more; +but this time with the word “un” underlined, so as to show that the +assassin was aware of his previous mistake. + + Numéro _Un_. + Ainsi les Chauffeurs se vengent. + +They had carried her to the house, and given her restoratives till she +had recovered the feeble use of her speech. But, oh, faithful, dear +friend and sister! even then she remembered me, and refused to tell +(what no one else among her fellow workmen knew), where she lived or +with whom. Life was ebbing away fast, and they had no resource but to +carry her to the nearest hospital, where, of course, the fact of her +sex was made known. Fortunately both for her and for me, the doctor in +attendance was the very Doctor Voss whom we already knew. To him, while +awaiting her confessor, she told enough to enable him to understand the +position in which I was left; before the priest had heard half her tale +Amante was dead. + +Doctor Voss told me he had made all sorts of _détours_, and waited +thus, late at night, for fear of being watched and followed. But I do +not think he was. At any rate, as I afterwards learnt from him, the +Baron Roeder, on hearing of the similitude of this murder with that of +his wife in every particular, made such a search after the assassins, +that, although they were not discovered, they were compelled to take to +flight for the time. + +I can hardly tell you now by what arguments Dr. Voss, at first merely +my benefactor, sparing me a portion of his small modicum, at length +persuaded me to become his wife. His wife he called it, I called +it; for we went through the religious ceremony too much slighted at +the time, and as we were both Lutherans, and M. de la Tourelle had +pretended to be of the reformed religion, a divorce from the latter +would have been easily procurable by German law both ecclesiastical and +legal, could we have summoned so fearful a man into any court. + +The good doctor took me and my child by stealth to his modest dwelling; +and there I lived in the same deep retirement, never seeing the full +light of day, although when the dye had once passed away from my face +my husband did not wish me to renew it. There was no need; my yellow +hair was grey, my complexion was ashen-coloured, no creature could have +recognized the fresh-coloured, bright-haired young woman of eighteen +months before. The few people whom I saw knew me only as Madame Voss; a +widow much older than himself, whom Dr. Voss had secretly married. They +called me the Grey Woman. + +He made me give you his surname. Till now you have known no other +father—while he lived you needed no father’s love. Once only, only once +more, did the old terror come upon me. For some reason which I forget, +I broke through my usual custom, and went to the window of my room for +some purpose, either to shut or to open it. Looking out into the street +for an instant, I was fascinated by the sight of M. de la Tourelle, +gay, young, elegant as ever, walking along on the opposite side of the +street. The noise I had made with the window caused him to look up; he +saw me, an old grey woman, and he did not recognize me! Yet it was not +three years since we had parted, and his eyes were keen and dreadful +like those of the lynx. + +I told M. Voss, on his return home, and he tried to cheer me, but the +shock of seeing M. de la Tourelle had been too terrible for me. I was +ill for long months afterwards. + +Once again I saw him. Dead. He and Lefebvre were at last caught; hunted +down by the Baron de Roeder in some of their crimes. Dr. Voss had heard +of their arrest; their condemnation, their death; but he never said a +word to me, until one day he bade me show him that I loved him by my +obedience and my trust. He took me a long carriage journey, where to +I know not, for we never spoke of that day again; I was led through a +prison, into a closed court-yard, where, decently draped in the last +robes of death, concealing the marks of decapitation, lay M. de la +Tourelle, and two or three others, whom I had known at Les Rochers. + +After that conviction Dr. Voss tried to persuade me to return to a more +natural mode of life, and to go out more. But although I sometimes +complied with his wish, yet the old terror was ever strong upon me, and +he, seeing what an effort it was, gave up urging me at last. + +You know all the rest. How we both mourned bitterly the loss of that +dear husband and father—for such I will call him ever—and as such you +must consider him, my child, after this one revelation is over. + +Why has it been made, you ask. For this reason, my child. The lover, +whom you have only known as M. Lebrun, a French artist, told me but +yesterday his real name, dropped because the blood-thirsty republicans +might consider it as too aristocratic. It is Maurice de Poissy. + + + + +CURIOUS IF TRUE. + +(EXTRACT FROM A LETTER FROM RICHARD WHITTINGHAM, ESQ.) + + +You were formerly so much amused at my pride in my descent from that +sister of Calvin’s, who married a Whittingham, Dean of Durham, that I +doubt if you will be able to enter into the regard for my distinguished +relation that has led me to France, in order to examine registers and +archives, which, I thought, might enable me to discover collateral +descendants of the great reformer, with whom I might call cousins. I +shall not tell you of my troubles and adventures in this research; you +are not worthy to hear of them; but something so curious befel me one +evening last August, that if I had not been perfectly certain I was +wide awake, I might have taken it for a dream. + +For the purpose I have named, it was necessary that I should make Tours +my head-quarters for a time. I had traced descendants of the Calvin +family out of Normandy into the centre of France; but I found it was +necessary to have a kind of permission from the bishop of the diocese +before I could see certain family papers, which had fallen into the +possession of the Church; and, as I had several English friends at +Tours, I awaited the answer to my request to Monseigneur de ——, at +that town. I was ready to accept any invitation; but I received very +few; and was sometimes a little at a loss what to do with my evenings. +The _table d’hôte_ was at five o’clock; I did not wish to go to the +expense of a private sitting-room, disliked the dinnery atmosphere +of the _salle à manger_, could not play either at pool or billiards, +and the aspect of my fellow guests was unprepossessing enough to make +me unwilling to enter into any _tête-à-tête_ gamblings with them. +So I usually rose from table early, and tried to make the most of +the remaining light of the August evenings in walking briskly off to +explore the surrounding country; the middle of the day was too hot +for this purpose, and better employed in lounging on a bench in the +Boulevards, lazily listening to the distant band, and noticing with +equal laziness the faces and figures of the women who passed by. + +One Thursday evening, the 18th of August it was, I think, I had gone +further than usual in my walk, and I found that it was later than I had +imagined when I paused to turn back. I fancied I could make a round; +I had enough notion of the direction in which I was, to see that by +turning up a narrow straight lane to my left I should shorten my way +back to Tours. And so I believe I should have done, could I have found +an outlet at the right place, but field-paths are almost unknown in +that part of France, and my lane, stiff and straight as any street, +and marked into terribly vanishing perspective by the regular row of +poplars on each side, seemed interminable. Of course night came on, and +I was in darkness. In England I might have had a chance of seeing a +light in some cottage only a field or two off, and asking my way from +the inhabitants; but here I could see no such welcome sight; indeed, I +believe French peasants go to bed with the summer daylight, so if there +were any habitations in the neighbourhood I never saw them. At last—I +believe I must have walked two hours in the darkness,—I saw the dusky +outline of a wood on one side of the weariful lane, and, impatiently +careless of all forest laws and penalties for trespassers, I made my +way to it, thinking that if the worst came to the worst, I could find +some covert—some shelter where I could lie down and rest, until the +morning light gave me a chance of finding my way back to Tours. But +the plantation, on the outskirts of what appeared to me a dense wood, +was of young trees, too closely planted to be more than slender stems +growing up to a good height, with scanty foliage on their summits. +On I went towards the thicker forest, and once there I slackened my +pace, and began to look about me for a good lair. I was as dainty as +Lochiel’s grandchild, who made his grandsire indignant at the luxury of +his pillow of snow: this brake was too full of brambles, that felt damp +with dew; there was no hurry, since I had given up all hope of passing +the night between four walls; and I went leisurely groping about, and +trusting that there were no wolves to be poked up out of their summer +drowsiness by my stick, when all at once I saw a château before me, not +a quarter of a mile off, at the end of what seemed to be an ancient +avenue (now overgrown and irregular), which I happened to be crossing, +when I looked to my right, and saw the welcome sight. Large, stately, +and dark was its outline against the dusky night-sky; there were +pepper-boxes and tourelles and what-not fantastically going up into the +dim starlight. And more to the purpose still, though I could not see +the details of the building that I was now facing, it was plain enough +that there were lights in many windows, as if some great entertainment +was going on. + +“They are hospitable people, at any rate,” thought I. “Perhaps they +will give me a bed. I don’t suppose French propriétaires have traps and +horses quite as plentiful as English gentlemen; but they are evidently +having a large party, and some of their guests may be from Tours, and +will give me a cast back to the Lion d’Or. I am not proud, and I am +dog-tired. I am not above hanging on behind, if need be.” + +So, putting a little briskness and spirit into my walk, I went up to +the door, which was standing open, most hospitably, and showing a large +lighted hall, all hung round with spoils of the chase, armour, &c, the +details of which I had not time to notice, for the instant I stood +on the threshold a huge porter appeared, in a strange, old-fashioned +dress, a kind of livery which well befitted the general appearance +of the house. He asked me, in French (so curiously pronounced that I +thought I had hit upon a new kind of _patois_), my name, and whence I +came. I thought he would not be much the wiser, still it was but civil +to give it before I made my request for assistance; so, in reply, I +said— + +“My name is Whittingham—Richard Whittingham, an English gentleman, +staying at ——.” To my infinite surprise, a light of pleased +intelligence came over the giant’s face; he made me a low bow, and said +(still in the same curious dialect) that I was welcome, that I was long +expected. + +“Long expected!” What could the fellow mean? Had I stumbled on a nest +of relations by John Calvin’s side, who had heard of my genealogical +inquiries, and were gratified and interested by them? But I was too +much pleased to be under shelter for the night to think it necessary to +account for my agreeable reception before I enjoyed it. Just as he was +opening the great heavy _battants_ of the door that led from the hall +to the interior, he turned round and said,— + +“Apparently Monsieur le Géanquilleur is not come with you.” + +“No! I am all alone; I have lost my way,”—and I was going on with my +explanation, when he, as if quite indifferent to it, led the way up +a great stone staircase, as wide as many rooms, and having on each +landing-place massive iron wickets, in a heavy framework; these the +porter unlocked with the solemn slowness of age. Indeed, a strange, +mysterious awe of the centuries that had passed away since this château +was built, came over me as I waited for the turning of the ponderous +keys in the ancient locks. I could almost have fancied that I heard +a mighty rushing murmur (like the ceaseless sound of a distant sea, +ebbing and flowing for ever and for ever), coming forth from the great +vacant galleries that opened out on each side of the broad staircase, +and were to be dimly perceived in the darkness above us. It was as if +the voices of generations of men yet echoed and eddied in the silent +air. It was strange, too, that my friend the porter going before me, +ponderously infirm, with his feeble old hands striving in vain to keep +the tall flambeau he held steadily before him,—strange, I say, that he +was the only domestic I saw in the vast halls and passages, or met with +on the grand staircase. At length we stood before the gilded doors that +led into the saloon where the family—or it might be the company, so +great was the buzz of voices—was assembled. I would have remonstrated +when I found he was going to introduce me, dusty and travel-smeared, in +a morning costume that was not even my best, into this grand _salon_, +with nobody knew how many ladies and gentlemen assembled; but the +obstinate old man was evidently bent upon taking me straight to his +master, and paid no heed to my words. + +The doors flew open, and I was ushered into a saloon curiously full of +pale light, which did not culminate on any spot, nor proceed from any +centre, nor flicker with any motion of the air, but filled every nook +and corner, making all things deliciously distinct; different from our +light of gas or candle, as is the difference between a clear southern +atmosphere and that of our misty England. + +At the first moment, my arrival excited no attention, the apartment +was so full of people, all intent on their own conversation. But my +friend the porter went up to a handsome lady of middle age, richly +attired in that antique manner which fashion has brought round again of +late years, and, waiting first in an attitude of deep respect till her +attention fell upon him, told her my name and something about me, as +far as I could guess from the gestures of the one and the sudden glance +of the eye of the other. + +She immediately came towards me with the most friendly actions of +greeting, even before she had advanced near enough to speak. Then,—and +was it not strange?—her words and accent were that of the commonest +peasant of the country. Yet she herself looked high-bred, and would +have been dignified had she been a shade less restless, had her +countenance worn a little less lively and inquisitive expression. I +had been poking a good deal about the old parts of Tours, and had had +to understand the dialect of the people who dwelt in the Marché au +Vendredi and similar places, or I really should not have understood +my handsome hostess, as she offered to present me to her husband, a +henpecked, gentlemanly man, who was more quaintly attired than she in +the very extreme of that style of dress. I thought to myself that in +France, as in England, it is the provincials who carry fashion to such +an excess as to become ridiculous. + +However, he spoke (still in the _patois_) of his pleasure in making +my acquaintance, and led me to a strange uneasy easy-chair, much of a +piece with the rest of the furniture, which might have taken its place +without any anachronism by the side of that in the Hôtel Cluny. Then +again began the clatter of French voices, which my arrival had for an +instant interrupted, and I had leisure to look about me. Opposite to +me sat a very sweet-looking lady, who must have been a great beauty in +her youth, I should think, and would be charming in old age, from the +sweetness of her countenance. She was, however, extremely fat, and on +seeing her feet laid up before her on a cushion, I at once perceived +that they were so swollen as to render her incapable of walking, which +probably brought on her excessive _embonpoint_. Her hands were plump +and small, but rather coarse-grained in texture, not quite so clean as +they might have been, and altogether not so aristocratic-looking as the +charming face. Her dress was of superb black velvet, ermine-trimmed, +with diamonds thrown all abroad over it. + +Not far from her stood the least little man I had ever seen; of such +admirable proportions no one could call him a dwarf, because with that +word we usually associate something of deformity; but yet with an +elfin look of shrewd, hard, worldly wisdom in his face that marred the +impression which his delicate regular little features would otherwise +have conveyed. Indeed, I do not think he was quite of equal rank +with the rest of the company, for his dress was inappropriate to the +occasion (and he apparently was an invited, while I was an involuntary +guest); and one or two of his gestures and actions were more like +the tricks of an uneducated rustic than anything else. To explain +what I mean: his boots had evidently seen much service, and had been +re-topped, re-heeled, re-soled to the extent of cobbler’s powers. Why +should he have come in them if they were not his best—his only pair? +And what can be more ungenteel than poverty? Then again he had an +uneasy trick of putting his hand up to his throat, as if he expected to +find something the matter with it; and he had the awkward habit—which +I do not think he could have copied from Dr. Johnson, because most +probably he had never heard of him—of trying always to retrace his +steps on the exact boards on which he had trodden to arrive at any +particular part of the room. Besides, to settle the question, I once +heard him addressed as Monsieur Poucet, without any aristocratic “de” +for a prefix; and nearly every one else in the room was a marquis, at +any rate. + +I say, “nearly every one;” for some strange people had the entrée; +unless, indeed, they were, like me, benighted. One of the guests I +should have taken for a servant, but for the extraordinary influence he +seemed to have over the man I took for his master, and who never did +anything without, apparently, being urged thereto by this follower. +The master, magnificently dressed, but ill at ease in his clothes, as +if they had been made for some one else, was a weak-looking, handsome +man, continually sauntering about, and I almost guessed an object of +suspicion to some of the gentlemen present, which, perhaps, drove him +on the companionship of his follower, who was dressed something in the +style of an ambassador’s chasseur; yet it was not a chasseur’s dress +after all; it was something more thoroughly old-world; boots half way +up his ridiculously small legs, which clattered as he walked along, as +if they were too large for his little feet; and a great quantity of +grey fur, as trimming to coat, court-mantle, boots, cap—everything. You +know the way in which certain countenances remind you perpetually of +some animal, be it bird or beast! Well, this chasseur (as I will call +him for want of a better name) was exceedingly like the great Tom-cat +that you have seen so often in my chambers, and laughed at almost +as often for his uncanny gravity of demeanour. Grey whiskers has my +Tom—grey whiskers had the chasseur: grey hair overshadows the upper +lip of my Tom—grey mustachios hid that of the chasseur. The pupils of +Tom’s eyes dilate and contract as I had thought cats’ pupils only could +do, until I saw those of the chasseur. To be sure, canny as Tom is, +the chasseur had the advantage in the more intelligent expression. He +seemed to have obtained most complete sway over his master or patron, +whose looks he watched, and whose steps he followed, with a kind of +distrustful interest that puzzled me greatly. + +There were several other groups in the more distant part of the saloon, +all of the stately old school, all grand and noble, I conjectured from +their bearing. They seemed perfectly well acquainted with each other, +as if they were in the habit of meeting. But I was interrupted in my +observations by the tiny little gentleman on the opposite side of the +room coming across to take a place beside me. It is no difficult matter +to a Frenchman to slide into conversation, and so gracefully did my +pigmy friend keep up the character of the nation, that we were almost +confidential before ten minutes had elapsed. + +Now I was quite aware that the welcome which all had extended to me, +from the porter up to the vivacious lady and meek lord of the castle, +was intended for some other person. But it required either a degree +of moral courage, of which I cannot boast, or the self-reliance and +conversational powers of a bolder and cleverer man than I, to undeceive +people who had fallen into so fortunate a mistake for me. Yet the +little man by my side insinuated himself so much into my confidence, +that I had half a mind to tell him of my exact situation, and to turn +him into a friend and an ally. + +“Madame is perceptibly growing older,” said he, in the midst of my +perplexity, glancing at our hostess. + +“Madame is still a very fine woman,” replied I. + +“Now, is it not strange,” continued he, lowering his voice, “how +women almost invariably praise the absent, or departed, as if they +were angels of light, while as for the present, or the living”—here +he shrugged up his little shoulders, and made an expressive pause. +“Would you believe it! Madame is always praising her late husband to +monsieur’s face; till, in fact, we guests are quite perplexed how +to look: for, you know, the late M. de Retz’s character was quite +notorious,—everybody has heard of him.” All the world of Touraine, +thought I, but I made an assenting noise. + +At this instant, monsieur our host came up to me, and with a civil +look of tender interest (such as some people put on when they inquire +after your mother, about whom they do not care one straw), asked if I +had heard lately how my cat was? “How my cat was!” What could the man +mean? My cat! Could he mean the tailless Tom, born in the Isle of Man, +and now supposed to be keeping guard against the incursions of rats +and mice into my chambers in London? Tom is, as you know, on pretty +good terms with some of my friends, using their legs for rubbing-posts +without scruple, and highly esteemed by them for his gravity of +demeanour, and wise manner of winking his eyes. But could his fame have +reached across the Channel? However, an answer must be returned to the +inquiry, as monsieur’s face was bent down to mine with a look of polite +anxiety; so I, in my turn, assumed an expression of gratitude, and +assured him that, to the best of my belief, my cat was in remarkably +good health. + +“And the climate agrees with her?” + +“Perfectly,” said I, in a maze of wonder at this deep solicitude in a +tailless cat who had lost one foot and half an ear in some cruel trap. +My host smiled a sweet smile, and, addressing a few words to my little +neighbour, passed on. + +“How wearisome those aristocrats are!” quoth my neighbour, with a +slight sneer. “Monsieur’s conversation rarely extends to more than two +sentences to any one. By that time his faculties are exhausted, and +he needs the refreshment of silence. You and I, monsieur, are, at any +rate, indebted to our own wits for our rise in the world!” + +Here again I was bewildered! As you know, I am rather proud of my +descent from families which, if not noble themselves, are allied to +nobility,—and as to my “rise in the world”—if I had risen, it would +have been rather for balloon-like qualities than for mother-wit, to +being unencumbered with heavy ballast either in my head or my pockets. +However, it was my cue to agree: so I smiled again. + +“For my part,” said he, “if a man does not stick at trifles, if +he knows how to judiciously add to, or withhold facts, and is not +sentimental in his parade of humanity, he is sure to do well; sure to +affix a _de_ or _von_ to his name, and end his days in comfort. There +is an example of what I am saying”—and he glanced furtively at the +weak-looking master of the sharp, intelligent servant, whom I have +called the chasseur. + +“Monsieur le Marquis would never have been anything but a miller’s son, +if it had not been for the talents of his servant. Of course you know +his antecedents?” + +I was going to make some remarks on the changes in the order of the +peerage since the days of Louis XVI.—going, in fact, to be very +sensible and historical—when there was a slight commotion among the +people at the other end of the room. Lacqueys in quaint liveries +must have come in from behind the tapestry, I suppose (for I never +saw them enter, though I sate right opposite to the doors), and were +handing about the slight beverages and slighter viands which are +considered sufficient refreshments, but which looked rather meagre +to my hungry appetite. These footmen were standing solemnly opposite +to a lady,—beautiful, splendid as the dawn, but—sound asleep in a +magnificent settee. A gentleman who showed so much irritation at her +ill-timed slumbers, that I think he must have been her husband, was +trying to awaken her with actions not far removed from shakings. All +in vain; she was quite unconscious of his annoyance, or the smiles of +the company, or the automatic solemnity of the waiting footman, or the +perplexed anxiety of monsieur and madame. + +My little friend sat down with a sneer, as if his curiosity was +quenched in contempt. + +“Moralists would make an infinity of wise remarks on that scene,” said +he. “In the first place, note the ridiculous position into which their +superstitious reverence for rank and title puts all these people. +Because monsieur is a reigning prince over some minute principality, +the exact situation of which no one has as yet discovered, no one must +venture to take their glass of eau sucré till Madame la Princesse +awakens; and, judging from past experience, those poor lacqueys may +have to stand for a century before that happens. Next—always speaking +as a moralist, you will observe—note how difficult it is to break off +bad habits acquired in youth!” + +Just then the prince succeeded, by what means I did not see, in awaking +the beautiful sleeper. But at first she did not remember where she was, +and looking up at her husband with loving eyes, she smiled and said: + +“Is it you, my prince?” + +But he was too conscious of the suppressed amusement of the spectators +and his own consequent annoyance, to be reciprocally tender, and turned +away with some little French expression, best rendered into English by +“Pooh, pooh, my dear!” + +After I had had a glass of delicious wine of some unknown quality, my +courage was in rather better plight than before, and I told my cynical +little neighbour—whom I must say I was beginning to dislike—that I +had lost my way in the wood, and had arrived at the château quite by +mistake. + +He seemed mightily amused at my story; said that the same thing had +happened to himself more than once; and told me that I had better luck +than he had on one of these occasions, when, from his account, he must +have been in considerable danger of his life. He ended his story by +making me admire his boots, which he said he still wore, patched though +they were, and all their excellent quality lost by patching, because +they were of such a first-rate make for long pedestrian excursions. +“Though, indeed,” he wound up by saying, “the new fashion of railroads +would seem to supersede the necessity for this description of boots.” + +When I consulted him as to whether I ought to make myself known to +my host and hostess as a benighted traveller, instead of the guest +whom they had taken me for, he exclaimed, “By no means! I hate such +squeamish morality.” And he seemed much offended by my innocent +question, as if it seemed by implication to condemn something in +himself. He was offended and silent; and just at this moment I caught +the sweet, attractive eyes of the lady opposite—that lady whom I +named at first as being no longer in the bloom of youth, but as being +somewhat infirm about the feet, which were supported on a raised +cushion before her. Her looks seemed to say, “Come here, and let us +have some conversation together;” and, with a bow of silent excuse +to my little companion, I went across to the lame old lady. She +acknowledged my coming with the prettiest gesture of thanks possible; +and, half apologetically, said, “It is a little dull to be unable to +move about on such evenings as this; but it is a just punishment to +me for my early vanities. My poor feet, that were by nature so small, +are now taking their revenge for my cruelty in forcing them into such +little slippers.... Besides, monsieur,” with a pleasant smile, “I +thought it was possible you might be weary of the malicious sayings +of your little neighbour. He has not borne the best character in his +youth, and such men are sure to be cynical in their old age.” + +“Who is he?” asked I, with English abruptness. + +“His name is Poucet, and his father was, I believe, a wood-cutter, or +charcoal burner, or something of the sort. They do tell sad stories +of connivance at murder, ingratitude, and obtaining money on false +pretences—but you will think me as bad as he if I go on with my +slanders. Rather let us admire the lovely lady coming up towards us, +with the roses in her hand—I never see her without roses, they are so +closely connected with her past history, as you are doubtless aware. +Ah, beauty!” said my companion to the lady drawing near to us, “it +is like you to come to me, now that I can no longer go to you.” Then +turning to me, and gracefully drawing me into the conversation, she +said, “You must know that, although we never met until we were both +married, we have been almost like sisters ever since. There have been +so many points of resemblance in our circumstances, and I think I may +say in our characters. We had each two elder sisters—mine were but +half-sisters, though—who were not so kind to us as they might have +been.” + +“But have been sorry for it since,” put in the other lady. + +“Since we have married princes,” continued the same lady, with an arch +smile that had nothing of unkindness in it, “for we both have married +far above our original stations in life; we are both unpunctual in our +habits, and, in consequence of this failing of ours, we have both had +to suffer mortification and pain.” + +“And both are charming,” said a whisper close behind me. “My lord the +marquis, say it—say, ‘And both are charming.’” + +“And both are charming,” was spoken aloud by another voice. I turned, +and saw the wily cat-like chasseur, prompting his master to make civil +speeches. + +The ladies bowed with that kind of haughty acknowledgment which shows +that compliments from such a source are distasteful. But our trio of +conversation was broken up, and I was sorry for it. The marquis looked +as if he had been stirred up to make that one speech, and hoped that he +would not be expected to say more; while behind him stood the chasseur, +half impertinent and half servile in his ways and attitudes. The +ladies, who were real ladies, seemed to be sorry for the awkwardness +of the marquis, and addressed some trifling questions to him, adapting +themselves to the subjects on which he could have no trouble in +answering. The chasseur, meanwhile, was talking to himself in a +growling tone of voice. I had fallen a little into the background at +this interruption in a conversation which promised to be so pleasant, +and I could not help hearing his words. + +“Really, De Carabas grows more stupid every day. I have a great mind to +throw off his boots, and leave him to his fate. I was intended for a +court, and to a court I will go, and make my own fortune as I have made +his. The emperor will appreciate my talents.” + +And such are the habits of the French, or such his forgetfulness +of good manners in his anger, that he spat right and left on the +parquetted floor. + +Just then a very ugly, very pleasant-looking man, came towards the +two ladies to whom I had lately been speaking, leading up to them a +delicate, fair woman, dressed all in the softest white, as if she were +_vouée au blanc_. I do not think there was a bit of colour about her. +I thought I heard her making, as she came along, a little noise of +pleasure, not exactly like the singing of a tea-kettle, nor yet like +the cooing of a dove, but reminding me of each sound. + +“Madame de Mioumiou was anxious to see you,” said he, addressing +the lady with the roses, “so I have brought her across to give you +a pleasure!” What an honest, good face! but oh! how ugly! And yet I +liked his ugliness better than most persons’ beauty. There was a look +of pathetic acknowledgment of his ugliness, and a deprecation of your +too hasty judgment, in his countenance that was positively winning. +The soft, white lady kept glancing at my neighbour the chasseur, as if +they had had some former acquaintance, which puzzled me very much, as +they were of such different rank. However, their nerves were evidently +strung to the same tune, for at a sound behind the tapestry, which was +more like the scuttering of rats and mice than anything else, both +Madame de Mioumiou and the chasseur started with the most eager look of +anxiety on their countenances, and by their restless movements—madame’s +panting, and the fiery dilation of his eyes—one might see that +commonplace sounds affected them both in a manner very different to the +rest of the company. The ugly husband of the lovely lady with the roses +now addressed himself to me. + +“We are much disappointed,” he said, “in finding that monsieur is not +accompanied by his countryman—le grand Jean d’Angleterre; I cannot +pronounce his name rightly”—and he looked at me to help him out. + +“Le grand Jean d’Angleterre!” now who was le grand Jean d’Angleterre? +John Bull? John Russell? John Bright? + +“Jean—Jean”—continued the gentleman, seeing my embarrassment. “Ah, +these terrible English names—‘Jean de Géanquilleur!’” + +I was as wise as ever. And yet the name struck me as familiar, but +slightly disguised. I repeated it to myself. It was mighty like John +the Giant-killer, only his friends always call that worthy “Jack.” I +said the name aloud. + +“Ah, that is it!” said he. “But why has he not accompanied you to our +little reunion to-night?” + +I had been rather puzzled once or twice before, but this serious +question added considerably to my perplexity. Jack the Giant-killer had +once, it is true, been rather an intimate friend of mine, as far as +(printer’s) ink and paper can keep up a friendship, but I had not heard +his name mentioned for years; and for aught I knew he lay enchanted +with King Arthur’s knights, who lie entranced until the blast of the +trumpets of four mighty kings shall call them to help at England’s +need. But the question had been asked in serious earnest by that +gentleman, whom I more wished to think well of me than I did any other +person in the room. So I answered respectfully that it was long since I +had heard anything of my countryman; but that I was sure it would have +given him as much pleasure as it was doing myself to have been present +at such an agreeable gathering of friends. He bowed, and then the lame +lady took up the word. + +“To-night is the night when, of all the year, this great old forest +surrounding the castle is said to be haunted by the phantom of a little +peasant girl who once lived hereabouts; the tradition is that she was +devoured by a wolf. In former days I have seen her on this night out +of yonder window at the end of the gallery. Will you, ma belle, take +monsieur to see the view outside by the moonlight (you may possibly see +the phantom-child); and leave me to a little _tête-à-tête_ with your +husband?” + +With a gentle movement the lady with the roses complied with the +other’s request, and we went to a great window, looking down on the +forest, in which I had lost my way. The tops of the far-spreading and +leafy trees lay motionless beneath us in that pale, wan light, which +shows objects almost as distinct in form, though not in colour, as by +day. We looked down on the countless avenues, which seemed to converge +from all quarters to the great old castle; and suddenly across one, +quite near to us, there passed the figure of a little girl, with the +“capuchon” on, that takes the place of a peasant girl’s bonnet in +France. She had a basket on one arm, and by her, on the side to which +her head was turned, there went a wolf. I could almost have said it was +licking her hand, as if in penitent love, if either penitence or love +had ever been a quality of wolves,—but though not of living, perhaps it +may be of phantom wolves. + +“There, we have seen her!” exclaimed my beautiful companion. “Though +so long dead, her simple story of household goodness and trustful +simplicity still lingers in the hearts of all who have ever heard +of her; and the country-people about here say that seeing that +phantom-child on this anniversary brings good luck for the year. Let us +hope that we shall share in the traditionary good fortune. Ah! here is +Madame de Retz—she retains the name of her first husband, you know, as +he was of higher rank than the present.” We were joined by our hostess. + +“If monsieur is fond of the beauties of nature and art,” said she, +perceiving that I had been looking at the view from the great window, +“he will perhaps take pleasure in seeing the picture.” Here she sighed, +with a little affectation of grief. “You know the picture I allude +to,” addressing my companion, who bowed assent, and smiled a little +maliciously, as I followed the lead of madame. + +I went after her to the other end of the saloon, noting by the way with +what keen curiosity she caught up what was passing either in word or +action on each side of her. When we stood opposite to the end wall, I +perceived a full-length picture of a handsome, peculiar-looking man, +with—in spite of his good looks—a very fierce and scowling expression. +My hostess clasped her hands together as her arms hung down in front, +and sighed once more. Then, half in soliloquy, she said— + +“He was the love of my youth; his stern yet manly character first +touched this heart of mine. When—when shall I cease to deplore his +loss!” + +Not being acquainted with her enough to answer this question (if, +indeed, it were not sufficiently answered by the fact of her second +marriage), I felt awkward; and, by way of saying something, I remarked,— + +“The countenance strikes me as resembling something I have seen +before—in an engraving from an historical picture, I think; only, it +is there the principal figure in a group: he is holding a lady by her +hair, and threatening her with his scimitar, while two cavaliers are +rushing up the stairs, apparently only just in time to save her life.” + +“Alas, alas!” said she, “you too accurately describe a miserable +passage in my life, which has often been represented in a false light. +The best of husbands”—here she sobbed, and became slightly inarticulate +with her grief—“will sometimes be displeased. I was young and curious, +he was justly angry with my disobedience—my brothers were too hasty—the +consequence is, I became a widow!” + +After due respect for her tears, I ventured to suggest some commonplace +consolation. She turned round sharply:— + +“No, monsieur: my only comfort is that I have never forgiven the +brothers who interfered so cruelly, in such an uncalled-for manner, +between my dear husband and myself. To quote my friend Monsieur +Sganarelle—‘Ce sont petites choses qui sont de temps en temps +necessaires dans l’amitié; et cinq ou six coups d’épée entre gens +qui s’aiment ne font que ragaillardir l’affection.’ You observe the +colouring is not quite what it should be?” + +“In this light the beard is of rather a peculiar tint,” said I. + +“Yes: the painter did not do it justice. It was most lovely, and gave +him such a distinguished air, quite different from the common herd. +Stay, I will show you the exact colour, if you will come near this +flambeau!” And going near the light, she took off a bracelet of hair, +with a magnificent clasp of pearls. It was peculiar, certainly. I did +not know what to say. “His precious lovely beard!” said she. “And the +pearls go so well with the delicate blue!” + +Her husband, who had come up to us, and waited till her eye fell upon +him before venturing to speak, now said, “It is strange Monsieur Ogre +is not yet arrived!” + +“Not at all strange,” said she, tartly. “He was always very stupid, +and constantly falls into mistakes, in which he comes worse off; and +it is very well he does, for he is a credulous and cowardly fellow. +Not at all strange! If you will”—turning to her husband, so that I +hardly heard her words, until I caught—“Then everybody would have their +rights, and we should have no more trouble. Is it not, monsieur?” +addressing me. + +“If I were in England, I should imagine madame was speaking of the +reform bill, or the millennium,—but I am in ignorance.” + +And just as I spoke, the great folding-doors were thrown open wide, and +every one started to their feet to greet a little old lady, leaning on +a thin black wand—and— + +“Madame la Féemarraine,” was announced by a chorus of sweet shrill +voices. + +And in a moment I was lying in the grass close by a hollow oak-tree, +with the slanting glory of the dawning day shining full in my face, and +thousands of little birds and delicate insects piping and warbling out +their welcome to the ruddy splendour. + + + + +SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM. + + +After I left Oxford, I determined to spend some months in travel +before settling down in life. My father had left me a few thousands, +the income arising from which would be enough to provide for all the +necessary requirements of a lawyer’s education; such as lodgings in a +quiet part of London, fees and payment to the distinguished barrister +with whom I was to read; but there would be small surplus left over for +luxuries or amusements; and as I was rather in debt on leaving college, +since I had forestalled my income, and the expenses of my travelling +would have to be defrayed out of my capital, I determined that they +should not exceed fifty pounds. As long as that sum would last me I +would remain abroad; when it was spent my holiday should be over, and I +would return and settle down somewhere in the neighbourhood of Russell +Square, in order to be near Mr. ——’s chambers in Lincoln’s-inn. I had +to wait in London for one day while my passport was being made out, and +I went to examine the streets in which I purposed to live; I had picked +them out, from studying a map, as desirable; and so they were, if +judged entirely by my reason; but their aspect was very depressing to +one country-bred, and just fresh from the beautiful street-architecture +of Oxford. The thought of living in such a monotonous gray district for +years made me all the more anxious to prolong my holiday by all the +economy which could eke out my fifty pounds. I thought I could make it +last for one hundred days at least. I was a good walker, and had no +very luxurious tastes in the matter of accommodation or food; I had as +fair a knowledge of German and French as any untravelled Englishman +can have; and I resolved to avoid expensive hotels such as my own +countrymen frequented. + +I have stated this much about myself to explain how I fell in with the +little story that I am going to record, but with which I had not much +to do,—my part in it being little more than that of a sympathizing +spectator. I had been through France into Switzerland, where I had +gone beyond my strength in the way of walking, and I was on my way +home, when one evening I came to the village of Heppenheim, on the +Berg-Strasse. I had strolled about the dirty town of Worms all morning, +and dined in a filthy hotel; and after that I had crossed the Rhine, +and walked through Lorsch to Heppenheim. I was unnaturally tired and +languid as I dragged myself up the rough-paved and irregular village +street to the inn recommended to me. It was a large building, with a +green court before it. A cross-looking but scrupulously clean hostess +received me, and showed me into a large room with a dinner-table in it, +which, though it might have accommodated thirty or forty guests, only +stretched down half the length of the eating-room. There were windows +at each end of the room; two looked to the front of the house, on which +the evening shadows had already fallen; the opposite two were partly +doors, opening into a large garden full of trained fruit-trees and beds +of vegetables, amongst which rose-bushes and other flowers seemed to +grow by permission, not by original intention. There was a stove at +each end of the room, which, I suspect, had originally been divided +into two. The door by which I had entered was exactly in the middle, +and opposite to it was another, leading to a great bed-chamber, which +my hostess showed me as my sleeping quarters for the night. + +If the place had been much less clean and inviting, I should have +remained there; I was almost surprised myself at my vis inertiæ; once +seated in the last warm rays of the slanting sun by the garden window, +I was disinclined to move, or even to speak. My hostess had taken my +orders as to my evening meal, and had left me. The sun went down, and I +grew shivery. The vast room looked cold and bare; the darkness brought +out shadows that perplexed me, because I could not fully make out the +objects that produced them after dazzling my eyes by gazing out into +the crimson light. + +Some one came in; it was the maiden to prepare for my supper. She began +to lay the cloth at one end of the large table. There was a smaller one +close by me. I mustered up my voice, which seemed a little as if it was +getting beyond my control, and called to her,— + +“Will you let me have my supper here on this table?” + +She came near; the light fell on her while I was in shadow. She was +a tall young woman, with a fine strong figure, a pleasant face, +expressive of goodness and sense, and with a good deal of comeliness +about it, too, although the fair complexion was bronzed and reddened +by weather, so as to have lost much of its delicacy, and the features, +as I had afterwards opportunity enough of observing, were anything +but regular. She had white teeth, however, and well-opened blue +eyes—grave-looking eyes which had shed tears for past sorrow—plenty of +light-brown hair, rather elaborately plaited, and fastened up by two +great silver pins. That was all—perhaps more than all—I noticed that +first night. She began to lay the cloth where I had directed. A shiver +passed over me: she looked at me, and then said,— + +“The gentleman is cold: shall I light the stove?” + +Something vexed me—I am not usually so impatient: it was the coming-on +of serious illness—I did not like to be noticed so closely; I believed +that food would restore me, and I did not want to have my meal delayed, +as I feared it might be by the lighting of the stove; and most of all I +was feverishly annoyed by movement. I answered sharply and abruptly,— + +“No; bring supper quickly; that is all I want.” + +Her quiet, sad eyes met mine for a moment; but I saw no change in their +expression, as if I had vexed her by my rudeness: her countenance did +not for an instant lose its look of patient sense, and that is pretty +nearly all I can remember of Thekla that first evening at Heppenheim. + +I suppose I ate my supper, or tried to do so, at any rate; and I must +have gone to bed, for days after I became conscious of lying there, +weak as a new-born babe, and with a sense of past pain in all my weary +limbs. As is the case in recovering from fever, one does not care to +connect facts, much less to reason upon them; so how I came to be +lying in that strange bed, in that large, half-furnished room; in what +house that room was; in what town, in what country, I did not take +the trouble to recal. It was of much more consequence to me then to +discover what was the well-known herb that gave the scent to the clean, +coarse sheets in which I lay. Gradually I extended my observations, +always confining myself to the present. I must have been well cared-for +by some one, and that lately, too, for the window was shaded, so as +to prevent the morning sun from coming in upon the bed; there was the +crackling of fresh wood in the great white china stove, which must have +been newly replenished within a short time. + +By-and-by the door opened slowly. I cannot tell why, but my impulse +was to shut my eyes as if I were still asleep. But I could see through +my apparently closed eyelids. In came, walking on tip-toe, with a +slow care that defeated its object, two men. The first was aged from +thirty to forty, in the dress of a Black Forest peasant,—old-fashioned +coat and knee-breeches of strong blue cloth, but of a thoroughly +good quality; he was followed by an older man, whose dress, of more +pretension as to cut and colour (it was all black), was, nevertheless, +as I had often the opportunity of observing afterwards, worn threadbare. + +Their first sentences, in whispered German, told me who they were: the +landlord of the inn where I was lying a helpless log, and the village +doctor who had been called in. The latter felt my pulse, and nodded his +head repeatedly in approbation. I had instinctively known that I was +getting better, and hardly cared for this confirmation; but it seemed +to give the truest pleasure to the landlord, who shook the hand of the +doctor, in a pantomime expressive of as much thankfulness as if I had +been his brother. Some low-spoken remarks were made, and then some +question was asked, to which, apparently, my host was unable to reply. +He left the room, and in a minute or two returned, followed by Thekla, +who was questioned by the doctor, and replied with a quiet clearness, +showing how carefully the details of my illness had been observed +by her. Then she left the room, and, as if every minute had served +to restore to my brain its power of combining facts, I was suddenly +prompted to open my eyes, and ask in the best German I could muster +what day of the month it was; not that I clearly remembered the date +of my arrival at Heppenheim, but I knew it was about the beginning of +September. + +Again the doctor conveyed his sense of extreme satisfaction in a series +of rapid pantomimic nods, and then replied in deliberate but tolerable +English, to my great surprise,— + +“It is the 29th of September, my dear sir. You must thank the dear God. +Your fever has made its course of twenty-one days. Now patience and +care must be practised. The good host and his household will have the +care; you must have the patience. If you have relations in England, I +will do my endeavours to tell them the state of your health.” + +“I have no near relations,” said I, beginning in my weakness to cry, as +I remembered, as if it had been a dream, the days when I had father, +mother, sister. + +“Chut, chut!” said he; then, turning to the landlord, he told him in +German to make Thekla bring me one of her good bouillons; after which +I was to have certain medicines, and to sleep as undisturbedly as +possible. For days, he went on, I should require constant watching and +careful feeding; every twenty minutes I was to have something, either +wine or soup, in small quantities. + +A dim notion came into my hazy mind that my previous husbandry of my +fifty pounds, by taking long walks and scanty diet, would prove in the +end very bad economy; but I sank into dozing unconsciousness before I +could quite follow out my idea. I was roused by the touch of a spoon on +my lips; it was Thekla feeding me. Her sweet, grave face had something +approaching to a mother’s look of tenderness upon it, as she gave me +spoonful after spoonful with gentle patience and dainty care: and then +I fell asleep once more. When next I wakened it was night; the stove +was lighted, and the burning wood made a pleasant crackle, though I +could only see the outlines and edges of red flame through the crevices +of the small iron door. The uncurtained window on my left looked into +the purple, solemn night. Turning a little, I saw Thekla sitting near +a table, sewing diligently at some great white piece of household +work. Every now and then she stopped to snuff the candle; sometimes +she began to ply her needle again immediately; but once or twice she +let her busy hands lie idly in her lap, and looked into the darkness, +and thought deeply for a moment or two; these pauses always ended in +a kind of sobbing sigh, the sound of which seemed to restore her to +self-consciousness, and she took to her sewing even more diligently +than before. Watching her had a sort of dreamy interest for me; this +diligence of hers was a pleasant contrast to my repose; it seemed to +enhance the flavour of my rest. I was too much of an animal just then +to have my sympathy, or even my curiosity, strongly excited by her look +of sad remembrance, or by her sighs. + +After a while she gave a little start, looked at a watch lying by her +on the table, and came, shading the candle by her hand, softly to my +bedside. When she saw my open eyes she went to a porringer placed at +the top of the stove, and fed me with soup. She did not speak while +doing this. I was half aware that she had done it many times since +the doctor’s visit, although this seemed to be the first time that I +was fully awake. She passed her arm under the pillow on which my head +rested, and raised me a very little; her support was as firm as a man’s +could have been. Again back to her work, and I to my slumbers, without +a word being exchanged. + +It was broad daylight when I wakened again; I could see the sunny +atmosphere of the garden outside stealing in through the nicks at the +side of the shawl hung up to darken the room—a shawl which I was sure +had not been there when I had observed the window in the night. How +gently my nurse must have moved about while doing her thoughtful act! + +My breakfast was brought me by the hostess; she who had received me on +my first arrival at this hospitable inn. She meant to do everything +kindly, I am sure; but a sick room was not her place; by a thousand +little mal-adroitnesses she fidgeted me past bearing; her shoes +creaked, her dress rustled; she asked me questions about myself which +it irritated me to answer; she congratulated me on being so much +better, while I was faint for want of the food which she delayed giving +me in order to talk. My host had more sense in him when he came in, +although his shoes creaked as well as hers. By this time I was somewhat +revived, and could talk a little; besides, it seemed churlish to be +longer without acknowledging so much kindness received. + +“I am afraid I have been a great trouble,” said I. “I can only say that +I am truly grateful.” + +His good broad face reddened, and he moved a little uneasily. + +“I don’t see how I could have done otherwise than I——than we, did,” +replied he, in the soft German of the district. “We were all glad +enough to do what we could; I don’t say it was a pleasure, because +it is our busiest time of year,—but then,” said he, laughing a +little awkwardly, as if he feared his expression might have been +misunderstood, “I don’t suppose it has been a pleasure to you either, +sir, to be laid up so far from home.” + +“No, indeed.” + +“I may as well tell you now, sir, that we had to look over your papers +and clothes. In the first place, when you were so ill I would fain have +let your kinsfolk know, if I could have found a clue; and besides, you +needed linen.” + +“I am wearing a shirt of yours though,” said I, touching my sleeve. + +“Yes, sir!” said he again, reddening a little. “I told Thekla to take +the finest out of the chest; but I am afraid you find it coarser than +your own.” + +For all answer I could only lay my weak hand on the great brown paw +resting on the bed-side. He gave me a sudden squeeze in return that I +thought would have crushed my bones. + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” said he, misinterpreting the sudden look of +pain which I could not repress; “but watching a man come out of the +shadow of death into life makes one feel very friendly towards him.” + +“No old or true friend that I have had could have done more for me than +you, and your wife, and Thekla, and the good doctor.” + +“I am a widower,” said he, turning round the great wedding-ring that +decked his third finger. “My sister keeps house for me, and takes care +of the children,—that is to say, she does it with the help of Thekla, +the house-maiden. But I have other servants,” he continued. “I am well +to do, the good God be thanked! I have land, and cattle, and vineyards. +It will soon be our vintage-time, and then you must go and see my +grapes as they come into the village. I have a ‘_chasse_,’ too, in the +Odenwald; perhaps one day you will be strong enough to go and shoot the +‘_chevreuil_’ with me.” + +His good, true heart was trying to make me feel like a welcome guest. +Some time afterwards I learnt from the doctor that—my poor fifty +pounds being nearly all expended—my host and he had been brought to +believe in my poverty, as the necessary examination of my clothes and +papers showed so little evidence of wealth. But I myself have but +little to do with my story; I only name these things, and repeat these +conversations, to show what a true, kind, honest man my host was. By +the way, I may as well call him by his name henceforward, Fritz Müller. +The doctor’s name, Wiedermann. + +I was tired enough with this interview with Fritz Müller; but when Dr. +Wiedermann came he pronounced me to be much better; and through the day +much the same course was pursued as on the previous one: being fed, +lying still, and sleeping, were my passive and active occupations. +It was a hot, sunshiny day, and I craved for air. Fresh air does +not enter into the pharmacopoeia of a German doctor; but somehow I +obtained my wish. During the morning hours the window through which +the sun streamed—the window looking on to the front court—was opened a +little; and through it I heard the sounds of active life, which gave +me pleasure and interest enough. The hen’s cackle, the cock’s exultant +call when he had found the treasure of a grain of corn,—the movements +of a tethered donkey, and the cooing and whirring of the pigeons which +lighted on the window-sill, gave me just subjects enough for interest. +Now and then a cart or carriage drove up,—I could hear them ascending +the rough village street long before they stopped at the “Halbmond,” +the village inn. Then there came a sound of running and haste in the +house; and Thekla was always called for in sharp, imperative tones. I +heard little children’s footsteps, too, from time to time; and once +there must have been some childish accident or hurt, for a shrill, +plaintive little voice kept calling out, “Thekla, Thekla, liebe +Thekla.” Yet, after the first early morning hours, when my hostess +attended on my wants, it was always Thekla who came to give me my food +or my medicine; who redded up my room; who arranged the degree of +light, shifting the temporary curtain with the shifting sun; and always +as quietly and deliberately as though her attendance upon me were her +sole work. Once or twice my hostess came into the large eating-room +(out of which my room opened), and called Thekla away from whatever was +her occupation in my room at the time, in a sharp, injured, imperative +whisper. Once I remember it was to say that sheets were wanted for some +stranger’s bed, and to ask where she, the speaker, could have put the +keys, in a tone of irritation, as though Thekla were responsible for +Fräulein Müller’s own forgetfulness. + +Night came on; the sounds of daily life died away into silence; the +children’s voices were no more heard; the poultry were all gone to +roost; the beasts of burden to their stables; and travellers were +housed. Then Thekla came in softly and quietly, and took up her +appointed place, after she had done all in her power for my comfort. +I felt that I was in no state to be left all those weary hours which +intervened between sunset and sunrise; but I did feel ashamed that +this young woman, who had watched by me all the previous night, and +for aught I knew, for many before, and had worked hard, been run off +her legs, as English servants would say, all day long, should come and +take up her care of me again; and it was with a feeling of relief that +I saw her head bend forwards, and finally rest on her arms, which had +fallen on the white piece of sewing spread before her on the table. She +slept; and I slept. When I wakened dawn was stealing into the room, +and making pale the lamplight. Thekla was standing by the stove, where +she had been preparing the bouillon I should require on wakening. But +she did not notice my half-open eyes, although her face was turned +towards the bed. She was reading a letter slowly, as if its words were +familiar to her, yet as though she were trying afresh to extract some +fuller or some different meaning from their construction. She folded +it up softly and slowly, and replaced it in her pocket with the quiet +movement habitual to her. Then she looked before her, not at me, but +at vacancy filled up by memories; and as the enchanter brought up the +scenes and people which she saw, but I could not, her eyes filled with +tears—tears that gathered almost imperceptibly to herself as it would +seem—for when one large drop fell on her hands (held slightly together +before her as she stood) she started a little, and brushed her eyes +with the back of her hand, and then came towards the bed to see if I +was awake. If I had not witnessed her previous emotion, I could never +have guessed that she had any hidden sorrow or pain from her manner; +tranquil, self-restrained as usual. The thought of this letter haunted +me, especially as more than once I, wakeful or watchful during the +ensuing nights, either saw it in her hands, or suspected that she had +been recurring to it from noticing the same sorrowful, dreamy look +upon her face when she thought herself unobserved. Most likely every +one has noticed how inconsistently out of proportion some ideas become +when one is shut up in any place without change of scene or thought. I +really grew quite irritated about this letter. If I did not see it, I +suspected it lay _perdu_ in her pocket. What was in it? Of course it +was a love-letter; but if so, what was going wrong in the course of her +love? I became like a spoilt child in my recovery; every one whom I saw +for the time being was thinking only of me, so it was perhaps no wonder +that I became my sole object of thought; and at last the gratification +of my curiosity about this letter seemed to me a duty that I owed to +myself. As long as my fidgety inquisitiveness remained ungratified, I +felt as if I could not get well. But to do myself justice, it was more +than inquisitiveness. Thekla had tended me with the gentle, thoughtful +care of a sister, in the midst of her busy life. I could often hear +the Fräulein’s sharp voice outside blaming her for something that had +gone wrong; but I never heard much from Thekla in reply. Her name was +called in various tones by different people, more frequently than I +could count, as if her services were in perpetual requisition, yet I +was never neglected, or even long uncared-for. The doctor was kind and +attentive; my host friendly and really generous; his sister subdued +her acerbity of manner when in my room, but Thekla was the one of all +to whom I owed my comforts, if not my life. If I could do anything to +smooth her path (and a little money goes a great way in these primitive +parts of Germany), how willingly would I give it? So one night I +began—she was no longer needed to watch by my bedside, but she was +arranging my room before leaving me for the night— + +“Thekla,” said I, “you don’t belong to Heppenheim, do you?” + +She looked at me, and reddened a little. + +“No. Why do you ask?” + +“You have been so good to me that I cannot help wanting to know more +about you. I must needs feel interested in one who has been by my side +through my illness as you have. Where do your friends live? Are your +parents alive?” + +All this time I was driving at the letter. + +“I was born at Altenahr. My father is an innkeeper there. He owns the +‘Golden Stag.’ My mother is dead, and he has married again, and has +many children.” + +“And your stepmother is unkind to you,” said I, jumping to a conclusion. + +“Who said so?” asked she, with a shade of indignation in her tone. “She +is a right good woman, and makes my father a good wife.” + +“Then why are you here living so far from home?” + +Now the look came back to her face which I had seen upon it during the +night hours when I had watched her by stealth; a dimming of the grave +frankness of her eyes, a light quiver at the corners of her mouth. But +all she said was, “It was better.” + +Somehow, I persisted with the wilfulness of an invalid. I am half +ashamed of it now. + +“But why better, Thekla? Was there——” How should I put it? I stopped a +little, and then rushed blindfold at my object: “Has not that letter +which you read so often something to do with your being here?” + +She fixed me with her serious eyes till I believe I reddened far +more than she; and I hastened to pour out, incoherently enough, my +conviction that she had some secret care, and my desire to help her if +she was in any trouble. + +“You cannot help me,” said she, a little softened by my explanation, +though some shade of resentment at having been thus surreptitiously +watched yet lingered in her manner. “It is an old story; a sorrow gone +by, past, at least it ought to be, only sometimes I am foolish”—her +tones were softening now—“and it is punishment enough that you have +seen my folly.” + +“If you had a brother here, Thekla, you would let him give you his +sympathy if he could not give you his help, and you would not blame +yourself if you had shown him your sorrow, should you? I tell you +again, let me be as a brother to you.” + +“In the first place, sir”—this “sir” was to mark the distinction +between me and the imaginary brother—“I should have been ashamed to +have shown even a brother my sorrow, which is also my reproach and my +disgrace.” These were strong words; and I suppose my face showed that +I attributed to them a still stronger meaning than they warranted; +but _honi soit qui mal y pense_—for she went on dropping her eyes and +speaking hurriedly. + +“My shame and my reproach is this: I have loved a man who has not loved +me”—she grasped her hands together till the fingers made deep white +dents in the rosy flesh—“and I can’t make out whether he ever did, or +whether he did once and is changed now; if only he did once love me, I +could forgive myself.” + +With hasty, trembling hands she began to rearrange the tisane and +medicines for the night on the little table at my bed-side. But, having +got thus far, I was determined to persevere. + +“Thekla,” said I, “tell me all about it, as you would to your mother, +if she were alive. There are often misunderstandings which, never set +to rights, make the misery and desolation of a life-time.” + +She did not speak at first. Then she pulled out the letter, and said, +in a quiet, hopeless tone of voice:— + +“You can read German writing? Read that, and see if I have any reason +for misunderstanding.” + +The letter was signed “Franz Weber,” and dated from some small town in +Switzerland—I forget what—about a month previous to the time when I +read it. It began with acknowledging the receipt of some money which +had evidently been requested by the writer, and for which the thanks +were almost fulsome; and then, by the quietest transition in the world, +he went on to consult her as to the desirability of his marrying +some girl in the place from which he wrote, saying that this Anna +Somebody was only eighteen and very pretty, and her father a well-to-do +shopkeeper, and adding, with coarse coxcombry, his belief that he was +not indifferent to the maiden herself. He wound up by saying that, if +this marriage did take place, he should certainly repay the various +sums of money which Thekla had lent him at different times. + +I was some time in making out all this. Thekla held the candle for me +to read it; held it patiently and steadily, not speaking a word till I +had folded up the letter again, and given it back to her. Then our eyes +met. + +“There is no misunderstanding possible, is there, sir?” asked she, with +a faint smile. + +“No,” I replied; “but you are well rid of such a fellow.” + +She shook her head a little. “It shows his bad side, sir. We have all +our bad sides. You must not judge him harshly; at least, I cannot. But +then we were brought up together.” + +“At Altenahr?” + +“Yes; his father kept the other inn, and our parents, instead of being +rivals, were great friends. Franz is a little younger than I, and was a +delicate child. I had to take him to school, and I used to be so proud +of it and of my charge. Then he grew strong, and was the handsomest +lad in the village. Our fathers used to sit and smoke together, and +talk of our marriage, and Franz must have heard as much as I. Whenever +he was in trouble, he would come to me for what advice I could give +him; and he danced twice as often with me as with any other girl at +all the dances, and always brought his nosegay to me. Then his father +wished him to travel, and learn the ways at the great hotels on the +Rhine before he settled down in Altenahr. You know that is the custom +in Germany, sir. They go from town to town as journeymen, learning +something fresh everywhere, they say.” + +“I knew that was done in trades,” I replied. + +“Oh, yes; and among inn-keepers, too,” she said. “Most of the waiters +at the great hotels in Frankfort, and Heidelberg, and Mayence, and, I +daresay, at all the other places, are the sons of innkeepers in small +towns, who go out into the world to learn new ways, and perhaps to pick +up a little English and French; otherwise, they say, they should never +get on. Franz went off from Altenahr on his journeyings four years ago +next May-day; and before he went, he brought me back a ring from Bonn, +where he bought his new clothes. I don’t wear it now; but I have got +it upstairs, and it comforts me to see something that shows me it was +not all my silly fancy. I suppose he fell among bad people, for he soon +began to play for money,—and then he lost more than he could always +pay—and sometimes I could help him a little, for we wrote to each other +from time to time, as we knew each other’s addresses; for the little +ones grew around my father’s hearth, and I thought that I, too, would +go forth into the world and earn my own living, so that——well, I will +tell the truth—I thought that by going into service, I could lay by +enough for buying a handsome stock of household linen, and plenty of +pans and kettles against—against what will never come to pass now.” + +“Do the German women buy the pots and kettles, as you call them, +when they are married?” asked I, awkwardly, laying hold of a trivial +question to conceal the indignant sympathy with her wrongs which I did +not like to express. + +“Oh, yes; the bride furnishes all that is wanted in the kitchen, and +all the store of house-linen. If my mother had lived, it would have +been laid by for me, as she could have afforded to buy it, but my +stepmother will have hard enough work to provide for her own four +little girls. However,” she continued, brightening up, “I can help her, +for now I shall never marry; and my master here is just and liberal, +and pays me sixty florins a year, which is high wages.” (Sixty florins +are about five pounds sterling.) “And now, good-night, sir. This cup to +the left holds the tisane, that to the right the acorn-tea.” She shaded +the candle, and was leaving the room. I raised myself on my elbow, and +called her back. + +“Don’t go on thinking about this man,” said I. “He was not good enough +for you. You are much better unmarried.” + +“Perhaps so,” she answered gravely. “But you cannot do him justice; you +do not know him.” + +A few minutes after, I heard her soft and cautious return; she had +taken her shoes off, and came in her stockinged feet up to my bedside, +shading the light with her hand. When she saw that my eyes were open, +she laid down two letters on the table, close by my night-lamp. + +“Perhaps, some time, sir, you would take the trouble to read these +letters; you would then see how noble and clever Franz really is. It is +I who ought to be blamed, not he.” + +No more was said that night. + +Some time the next morning I read the letters. They were filled with +vague, inflated, sentimental descriptions of his inner life and +feelings; entirely egotistical, and intermixed with quotations from +second-rate philosophers and poets. There was, it must be said, nothing +in them offensive to good principle or good feeling, however much they +might be opposed to good taste. I was to go into the next room that +afternoon for the first time of leaving my sick chamber. All morning +I lay and ruminated. From time to time I thought of Thekla and Franz +Weber. She was the strong, good, helpful character, he the weak and +vain; how strange it seemed that she should have cared for one so +dissimilar; and then I remembered the various happy marriages when to +an outsider it seemed as if one was so inferior to the other that their +union would have appeared a subject for despair if it had been looked +at prospectively. My host came in, in the midst of these meditations, +bringing a great flowered dressing-gown, lined with flannel, and the +embroidered smoking-cap which he evidently considered as belonging +to this Indian-looking robe. They had been his father’s, he told me; +and as he helped me to dress, he went on with his communications on +small family matters. His inn was flourishing; the numbers increased +every year of those who came to see the church at Heppenheim: the +church which was the pride of the place, but which I had never yet +seen. It was built by the great Kaiser Karl. And there was the Castle +of Starkenburg, too, which the Abbots of Lorsch had often defended, +stalwart churchmen as they were, against the temporal power of the +emperors. And Melibocus was not beyond a walk either. In fact, it was +the work of one person to superintend the inn alone; but he had his +farm and his vineyards beyond, which of themselves gave him enough +to do. And his sister was oppressed with the perpetual calls made +upon her patience and her nerves in an inn; and would rather go back +and live at Worms. And his children wanted so much looking after. By +the time he had placed himself in a condition for requiring my full +sympathy, I had finished my slow toilette; and I had to interrupt his +confidences, and accept the help of his good strong arm to lead me +into the great eating-room, out of which my chamber opened. I had a +dreamy recollection of the vast apartment. But how pleasantly it was +changed! There was the bare half of the room, it is true, looking as +it had done on that first afternoon, sunless and cheerless, with the +long, unoccupied table, and the necessary chairs for the possible +visitors; but round the windows that opened on the garden a part of +the room was enclosed by the household clothes’-horses hung with great +pieces of the blue homespun cloth of which the dress of the Black +Forest peasant is made. This shut-in space was warmed by the lighted +stove, as well as by the lowering rays of the October sun. There was +a little round walnut table with some flowers upon it, and a great +cushioned armchair placed so as to look out upon the garden and the +hills beyond. I felt sure that this was all Thekla’s arrangement; I +had rather wondered that I had seen so little of her this day. She had +come once or twice on necessary errands into my room in the morning, +but had appeared to be in great haste, and had avoided meeting my eye. +Even when I had returned the letters, which she had entrusted to me +with so evident a purpose of placing the writer in my good opinion, she +had never inquired as to how far they had answered her design; she had +merely taken them with some low word of thanks, and put them hurriedly +into her pocket. I suppose she shrank from remembering how fully she +had given me her confidence the night before, now that daylight and +actual life pressed close around her. Besides, there surely never +was anyone in such constant request as Thekla. I did not like this +estrangement, though it was the natural consequence of my improved +health, which would daily make me less and less require services which +seemed so urgently claimed by others. And, moreover, after my host +left me—I fear I had cut him a little short in the recapitulation of +his domestic difficulties, but he was too thorough and good-hearted a +man to bear malice—I wanted to be amused or interested. So I rang my +little hand-bell, hoping that Thekla would answer it, when I could have +fallen into conversation with her, without specifying any decided want. +Instead of Thekla the Fräulein came, and I had to invent a wish; for I +could not act as a baby, and say that I wanted my nurse. However, the +Fräulein was better than no one, so I asked her if I could have some +grapes, which had been provided for me on every day but this, and which +were especially grateful to my feverish palate. She was a good, kind +woman, although, perhaps, her temper was not the best in the world; +and she expressed the sincerest regret as she told me that there were +no more in the house. Like an invalid I fretted at my wish not being +granted, and spoke out. + +“But Thekla told me the vintage was not till the fourteenth; and you +have a vineyard close beyond the garden on the slope of the hill out +there, have you not?” + +“Yes; and grapes for the gathering. But perhaps the gentleman does not +know our laws. Until the vintage—(the day of beginning the vintage is +fixed by the Grand Duke, and advertised in the public papers)—until +the vintage, all owners of vineyards may only go on two appointed days +in every week to gather their grapes; on those two days (Tuesdays and +Fridays this year) they must gather enough for the wants of their +families; and if they do not reckon rightly, and gather short measure, +why they have to go without. And these two last days the Half-Moon has +been besieged with visitors, all of whom have asked for grapes. But +to-morrow the gentleman can have as many as he will; it is the day for +gathering them.” + +“What a strange kind of paternal law,” I grumbled out. “Why is it so +ordained? Is it to secure the owners against pilfering from their +unfenced vineyards?” + +“I am sure I cannot tell,” she replied. “Country people in these +villages have strange customs in many ways, as I daresay the English +gentleman has perceived. If he would come to Worms he would see a +different kind of life.” + +“But not a view like this,” I replied, caught by a sudden change of +light—some cloud passing away from the sun, or something. Right outside +of the windows was, as I have so often said, the garden. Trained +plum-trees with golden leaves, great bushes of purple, Michaelmas +daisy, late flowering roses, apple-trees partly stripped of their rosy +fruit, but still with enough left on their boughs to require the props +set to support the luxuriant burden; to the left an arbour covered +over with honeysuckle and other sweet-smelling creepers—all bounded by +a low gray stone wall which opened out upon the steep vineyard, that +stretched up the hill beyond, one hill of a series rising higher and +higher into the purple distance. “Why is there a rope with a bunch of +straw tied in it stretched across the opening of the garden into the +vineyard?” I inquired, as my eye suddenly caught upon the object. + +“It is the country way of showing that no one must pass along that +path. To-morrow the gentleman will see it removed; and then he shall +have the grapes. Now I will go and prepare his coffee.” With a +curtsey, after the fashion of Worms gentility, she withdrew. But an +under-servant brought me my coffee; and with her I could not exchange +a word: she spoke in such an execrable patois. I went to bed early, +weary, and depressed. I must have fallen asleep immediately, for I +never heard any one come to arrange my bed-side table; yet in the +morning I found that every usual want or wish of mine had been attended +to. + +I was wakened by a tap at my door, and a pretty piping child’s voice +asking, in broken German, to come in. On giving the usual permission, +Thekla entered, carrying a great lovely boy of two years old, or +thereabouts, who had only his little night-shirt on, and was all +flushed with sleep. He held tight in his hands a great cluster of +muscatel and noble grapes. He seemed like a little Bacchus, as she +carried him towards me with an expression of pretty loving pride upon +her face as she looked at him. But when he came close to me—the grim, +wasted, unshorn—he turned quick away, and hid his face in her neck, +still grasping tight his bunch of grapes. She spoke to him rapidly and +softly, coaxing him as I could tell full well, although I could not +follow her words; and in a minute or two the little fellow obeyed her, +and turned and stretched himself almost to overbalancing out of her +arms, and half-dropped the fruit on the bed by me. Then he clutched at +her again, burying his face in her kerchief, and fastening his little +fists in her luxuriant hair. + +[Illustration p. 129: He seemed like a little Bacchus.] + +“It is my master’s only boy,” said she, disentangling his fingers with +quiet patience, only to have them grasp her braids afresh. “He is my +little Max, my heart’s delight, only he must not pull so hard. Say +his ‘to-meet-again,’ and kiss his hand lovingly, and we will go.” The +promise of a speedy departure from my dusky room proved irresistible; +he babbled out his Aufwiedersehen, and kissing his chubby hand, he was +borne away joyful and chattering fast in his infantile half-language. I +did not see Thekla again until late afternoon, when she brought me in +my coffee. She was not like the same creature as the blooming, cheerful +maiden whom I had seen in the morning; she looked wan and careworn, +older by several years. + +“What is the matter, Thekla?” said I, with true anxiety as to what +might have befallen my good, faithful nurse. + +She looked round before answering. “I have seen him,” she said. “He has +been here, and the Fräulein has been so angry! She says she will tell +my master. Oh, it has been such a day!” The poor young woman, who was +usually so composed and self-restrained, was on the point of bursting +into tears; but by a strong effort she checked herself, and tried to +busy herself with rearranging the white china cup, so as to place it +more conveniently to my hand. + +“Come, Thekla,” said I, “tell me all about it. I have heard loud voices +talking, and I fancied something had put the Fräulein out; and Lottchen +looked flurried when she brought me my dinner. Is Franz here? How has +he found you out?” + +“He is here. Yes, I am sure it is he; but four years makes such a +difference in a man; his whole look and manner seemed so strange to me; +but he knew me at once, and called me all the old names which we used +to call each other when we were children; and he must needs tell me how +it had come to pass that he had not married that Swiss Anna. He said he +had never loved her; and that now he was going home to settle, and he +hoped that I would come too, and——” There she stopped short. + +“And marry him, and live at the inn at Altenahr,” said I, smiling, to +reassure her, though I felt rather disappointed about the whole affair. + +“No,” she replied. “Old Weber, his father, is dead; he died in debt, +and Franz will have no money. And he was always one that needed money. +Some are, you know; and while I was thinking, and he was standing near +me, the Fräulein came in; and—and—I don’t wonder—for poor Franz is +not a pleasant-looking man now-a-days—she was very angry, and called +me a bold, bad girl, and said she could have no such goings on at the +‘Halbmond,’ but would tell my master when he came home from the forest.” + +“But you could have told her that you were old friends.” I hesitated, +before saying the word lovers, but, after a pause, out it came. + +“Franz might have said so,” she replied, a little stiffly. “I could +not; but he went off as soon as she bade him. He went to the ‘Adler’ +over the way, only saying he would come for my answer to-morrow +morning. I think it was he that should have told her what we +were—neighbours’ children and early friends—not have left it all to me. +Oh,” said she, clasping her hands tight together, “she will make such a +story of it to my master.” + +“Never mind,” said I, “tell the master I want to see him, as soon as +he comes in from the forest, and trust me to set him right before the +Fräulein has the chance to set him wrong.” + +She looked up at me gratefully, and went away without any more words. +Presently the fine burly figure of my host stood at the opening to +my enclosed sitting-room. He was there, three-cornered hat in hand, +looking tired and heated as a man does after a hard day’s work, but as +kindly and genial as ever, which is not what every man is who is called +to business after such a day, before he has had the necessary food and +rest. + +I had been reflecting a good deal on Thekla’s story; I could not quite +interpret her manner to-day to my full satisfaction; but yet the love +which had grown with her growth, must assuredly have been called forth +by her lover’s sudden reappearance; and I was inclined to give him +some credit for having broken off an engagement to Swiss Anna, which +had promised so many worldly advantages; and, again, I had considered +that if he was a little weak and sentimental, it was Thekla, who would +marry him by her own free will, and perhaps she had sense and quiet +resolution enough for both. So I gave the heads of the little history I +have told you to my good friend and host, adding that I should like to +have a man’s opinion of this man; but that if he were not an absolute +good-for-nothing, and if Thekla still loved him, as I believed, I +would try and advance them the requisite money towards establishing +themselves in the hereditary inn at Altenahr. + +Such was the romantic ending to Thekla’s sorrows, I had been planning +and brooding over for the last hour. As I narrated my tale, and hinted +at the possible happy conclusion that might be in store, my host’s +face changed. The ruddy colour faded, and his look became almost +stern—certainly very grave in expression. It was so unsympathetic, +that I instinctively cut my words short. When I had done, he paused a +little, and then said: “You would wish me to learn all I can respecting +this stranger now at the ‘Adler,’ and give you the impression I receive +of the fellow.” + +“Exactly so,” said I; “I want to learn all I can about him for Thekla’s +sake.” + +“For Thekla’s sake I will do it,” he gravely repeated. + +“And come to me to-night, even if I am gone to bed?” + +“Not so,” he replied. “You must give me all the time you can in a +matter like this.” + +“But he will come for Thekla’s answer in the morning.” + +“Before he comes you shall know all I can learn.” + +I was resting during the fatigues of dressing the next day, when my +host tapped at my door. He looked graver and sterner than I had ever +seen him do before; he sat down almost before I had begged him to do so. + +“He is not worthy of her,” he said. “He drinks brandy right hard; he +boasts of his success at play, and”—here he set his teeth hard—“he +boasts of the women who have loved him. In a village like this, sir, +there are always those who spend their evenings in the gardens of the +inns; and this man, after he had drank his fill, made no secrets; it +needed no spying to find out what he was, else I should not have been +the one to do it.” + +“Thekla must be told of this,” said I. “She is not the woman to love +any one whom she cannot respect.” + +Herr Müller laughed a low bitter laugh, quite unlike himself. Then he +replied,— + +“As for that matter, sir, you are young; you have had no great +experience of women. From what my sister tells me there can be little +doubt of Thekla’s feeling towards him. She found them standing together +by the window; his arm round Thekla’s waist, and whispering in her +ear—and to do the maiden justice she is not the one to suffer such +familiarities from every one. No”—continued he, still in the same +contemptuous tone—“you’ll find she will make excuses for his faults and +vices; or else, which is perhaps more likely, she will not believe your +story, though I who tell it you can vouch for the truth of every word +I say.” He turned short away and left the room. Presently I saw his +stalwart figure in the hill-side vineyard, before my windows, scaling +the steep ascent with long regular steps, going to the forest beyond. +I was otherwise occupied than in watching his progress during the next +hour; at the end of that time he re-entered my room, looking heated and +slightly tired, as if he had been walking fast, or labouring hard; but +with the cloud off his brows, and the kindly light shining once again +out of his honest eyes. + +“I ask your pardon, sir,” he began, “for troubling you afresh. I +believe I was possessed by the devil this morning. I have been thinking +it over. One has perhaps no right to rule for another person’s +happiness. To have such a”—here the honest fellow choked a little—“such +a woman as Thekla to love him ought to raise any man. Besides, I am no +judge for him or for her. I have found out this morning that I love her +myself, and so the end of it is, that if you, sir, who are so kind as +to interest yourself in the matter, and if you think it is really her +heart’s desire to marry this man—which ought to be his salvation both +for earth and heaven—I shall be very glad to go halves with you in any +place for setting them up in the inn at Altenahr; only allow me to see +that whatever money we advance is well and legally tied up, so that it +is secured to her. And be so kind as to take no notice of what I have +said about my having found out that I have loved her; I named it as a +kind of apology for my hard words this morning, and as a reason why I +was not a fit judge of what was best.” He had hurried on, so that I +could not have stopped his eager speaking even had I wished to do so; +but I was too much interested in the revelation of what was passing in +his brave tender heart to desire to stop him. Now, however, his rapid +words tripped each other up, and his speech ended in an unconscious +sigh. + +“But,” I said, “since you were here Thekla has come to me, and we +have had a long talk. She speaks now as openly to me as she would if +I were her brother; with sensible frankness, where frankness is wise, +with modest reticence, where confidence would be unbecoming. She came +to ask me, if I thought it her duty to marry this fellow, whose very +appearance, changed for the worse, as she says it is, since she last +saw him four years ago, seemed to have repelled her.” + +“She could let him put his arm round her waist yesterday,” said Herr +Müller, with a return of his morning’s surliness. + +“And she would marry him now if she could believe it to be her duty. +For some reason of his own, this Franz Weber has tried to work upon +this feeling of hers. He says it would be the saving of him.” + +“As if a man had not strength enough in him—a man who is good for +aught—to save himself, but needed a woman to pull him through life!” + +“Nay,” I replied, hardly able to keep from smiling. “You yourself said, +not five minutes ago, that her marrying him might be his salvation both +for earth and heaven.” + +“That was when I thought she loved the fellow,” he answered quick. +“Now——but what did you say to her, sir?” + +“I told her, what I believe to be as true as gospel, that as she owned +she did not love him any longer now his real self had come to displace +his remembrance, that she would be sinning in marrying him; doing evil +that possible good might come. I was clear myself on this point, though +I should have been perplexed how to advise, if her love had still +continued.” + +“And what answer did she make?” + +“She went over the history of their lives; she was pleading against her +wishes to satisfy her conscience. She said that all along through their +childhood she had been his strength; that while under her personal +influence he had been negatively good; away from her, he had fallen +into mischief—” + +“Not to say vice,” put in Herr Müller. + +“And now he came to her penitent, in sorrow, desirous of amendment, +asking her for the love she seems to have considered as tacitly +plighted to him in years gone by—” + +“And which he has slighted and insulted. I hope you told her of his +words and conduct last night in the ‘Adler’ gardens?” + +“No. I kept myself to the general principle, which, I am sure, is a +true one. I repeated it in different forms; for the idea of the duty +of self-sacrifice had taken strong possession of her fancy. Perhaps, +if I had failed in setting her notion of her duty in the right aspect, +I might have had recourse to the statement of facts, which would have +pained her severely, but would have proved to her how little his words +of penitence and promises of amendment were to be trusted to.” + +“And it ended?” + +“Ended by her being quite convinced that she would be doing wrong +instead of right if she married a man whom she had entirely ceased to +love, and that no real good could come from a course of action based on +wrong-doing.” + +“That is right and true,” he replied, his face broadening into +happiness again. + +“But she says she must leave your service, and go elsewhere.” + +“Leave my service she shall; go elsewhere she shall not.” + +“I cannot tell what you may have the power of inducing her to do; but +she seems to me very resolute.” + +“Why?” said he, firing round at me, as if I had made her resolute. + +“She says your sister spoke to her before the maids of the household, +and before some of the townspeople, in a way that she could not stand; +and that you yourself by your manner to her last night showed how she +had lost your respect. She added, with her face of pure maidenly truth, +that he had come into such close contact with her only the instant +before your sister had entered the room.” + +“With your leave, sir,” said Herr Müller, turning towards the door, “I +will go and set all that right at once.” + +It was easier said than done. When I next saw Thekla, her eyes were +swollen up with crying, but she was silent, almost defiant towards +me. A look of resolute determination had settled down upon her face. +I learnt afterwards that parts of my conversation with Herr Müller +had been injudiciously quoted by him in the talk he had had with her. +I thought I would leave her to herself, and wait till she unburdened +herself of the feeling of unjust resentment towards me. But it was days +before she spoke to me with anything like her former frankness. I had +heard all about it from my host long before. + +He had gone to her straight on leaving me; and like a foolish, +impetuous lover, had spoken out his mind and his wishes to her in +the presence of his sister, who, it must be remembered, had heard no +explanation of the conduct which had given her propriety so great a +shock the day before. Herr Müller thought to re-instate Thekla in his +sister’s good opinion by giving her in the Fräulein’s very presence +the highest possible mark of his own love and esteem. And there in +the kitchen, where the Fräulein was deeply engaged in the hot work +of making some delicate preserve on the stove, and ordering Thekla +about with short, sharp displeasure in her tones, the master had come +in, and possessing himself of the maiden’s hand, had, to her infinite +surprise—to his sister’s infinite indignation—made her the offer of +his heart, his wealth, his life; had begged of her to marry him. I +could gather from his account that she had been in a state of trembling +discomfiture at first; she had not spoken, but had twisted her hand out +of his, and had covered her face with her apron. And then the Fräulein +had burst forth—“accursed words” he called her speech. Thekla uncovered +her face to listen; to listen to the end; to listen to the passionate +recrimination between the brother and the sister. And then she went +up, close up to the angry Fräulein, and had said quite quietly, but +with a manner of final determination which had evidently sunk deep +into her suitor’s heart, and depressed him into hopelessness, that the +Fräulein had no need to disturb herself; that on this very day she had +been thinking of marrying another man, and that her heart was not like +a room to let, into which as one tenant went out another might enter. +Nevertheless, she felt the master’s goodness. He had always treated her +well from the time when she had entered the house as his servant. And +she should be sorry to leave him; sorry to leave the children; very +sorry to leave little Max: yes, she should even be sorry to leave the +Fräulein, who was a good woman, only a little too apt to be hard on +other women. But she had already been that very day and deposited her +warning at the police office; the busy time would be soon over, and +she should be glad to leave their service on All Saints’ Day. Then (he +thought) she had felt inclined to cry, for she suddenly braced herself +up, and said, yes, she should be very glad; for somehow, though they +had been kind to her, she had been very unhappy at Heppenheim; and she +would go back to her home for a time, and see her old father and kind +stepmother, and her nursling half-sister Ida, and be among her own +people again. + +I could see it was this last part that most of all rankled in Herr +Müller’s mind. In all probability Franz Weber was making his way back +to Heppenheim too; and the bad suspicion would keep welling up that +some lingering feeling for her old lover and disgraced playmate was +making her so resolute to leave and return to Altenahr. + +For some days after this I was the confidant of the whole household, +excepting Thekla. She, poor creature, looked miserable enough; but +the hardy, defiant expression was always on her face. Lottchen spoke +out freely enough; the place would not be worth having if Thekla left +it; it was she who had the head for everything, the patience for +everything; who stood between all the under-servants and the Fräulein’s +tempers. As for the children, poor motherless children! Lottchen was +sure that the master did not know what he was doing when he allowed +his sister to turn Thekla away—and all for what? for having a lover, +as every girl had who could get one. Why, the little boy Max slept in +the room which Lottchen shared with Thekla; and she heard him in the +night as quickly as if she was his mother; when she had been sitting up +with me, when I was so ill, Lottchen had had to attend to him; and it +was weary work after a hard day to have to get up and soothe a teething +child; she knew she had been cross enough sometimes; but Thekla was +always good and gentle with him, however tired he was. And as Lottchen +left the room I could hear her repeating that she thought she should +leave when Thekla went, for that her place would not be worth having. + +Even the Fräulein had her word of regret—regret mingled with +self-justification. She thought she had been quite right in speaking to +Thekla for allowing such familiarities; how was she to know that the +man was an old friend and playmate? He looked like a right profligate +good-for-nothing. And to have a servant take up her scolding as an +unpardonable offence, and persist in quitting her place, just when +she had learnt all her work, and was so useful in the household—so +useful that the Fräulein could never put up with any fresh, stupid +house-maiden, but, sooner than take the trouble of teaching the new +servant where everything was, and how to give out the stores if she was +busy, she would go back to Worms. For, after all, housekeeping for a +brother was thankless work; there was no satisfying men; and Heppenheim +was but a poor ignorant village compared to Worms. + +She must have spoken to her brother about her intention of leaving him, +and returning to her former home; indeed a feeling of coolness had +evidently grown up between the brother and sister during these latter +days. When one evening Herr Müller brought in his pipe, and, as his +custom had sometimes been, sat down by my stove to smoke, he looked +gloomy and annoyed. I let him puff away, and take his own time. At +length he began,— + +“I have rid the village of him at last. I could not bear to have him +here disgracing Thekla with speaking to her whenever she went to the +vineyard or the fountain. I don’t believe she likes him a bit.” + +“No more do I,” I said. He turned on me. + +“Then why did she speak to him at all? Why cannot she like an honest +man who likes her? Why is she so bent on going home to Altenahr?” + +“She speaks to him because she has known him from a child, and has a +faithful pity for one whom she has known so innocent, and who is now so +lost in all good men’s regard. As for not liking an honest man—(though +I may have my own opinion about that)—liking goes by fancy, as we +say in English; and Altenahr is her home; her father’s house is at +Altenahr, as you know.” + +“I wonder if he will go there,” quoth Herr Müller, after two or three +more puffs. “He was fast at the ‘Adler;’ he could not pay his score, so +he kept on staying here, saying that he should receive a letter from a +friend with money in a day or two; lying in wait, too, for Thekla, who +is well-known and respected all through Heppenheim: so his being an old +friend of hers made him have a kind of standing. I went in this morning +and paid his score, on condition that he left the place this day; and +he left the village as merrily as a cricket, caring no more for Thekla +than for the Kaiser who built our church: for he never looked back at +the ‘Halbmond,’ but went whistling down the road.” + +“That is a good riddance,” said I. + +“Yes. But my sister says she must return to Worms. And Lottchen has +given notice; she says the place will not be worth having when Thekla +leaves. I wish I could give notice too.” + +“Try Thekla again.” + +“Not I,” said he, reddening. “It would seem now as if I only wanted +her for a housekeeper. Besides, she avoids me at every turn, and will +not even look at me. I am sure she bears me some ill-will about that +ne’er-do-well.” + +There was silence between us for some time, which he at length broke. + +“The pastor has a good and comely daughter. Her mother is a famous +housewife. They often have asked me to come to the parsonage and smoke +a pipe. When the vintage is over, and I am less busy, I think I will go +there, and look about me.” + +“When is the vintage?” asked I. “I hope it will take place soon, for I +am growing so well and strong I fear I must leave you shortly; but I +should like to see the vintage first.” + +“Oh, never fear! you must not travel yet awhile; and Government has +fixed the grape-gathering to begin on the fourteenth.” + +“What a paternal Government! How does it know when the grapes will +be ripe? Why cannot every man fix his own time for gathering his own +grapes?” + +“That has never been our way in Germany. There are people employed by +the Government to examine the vines, and report when the grapes are +ripe. It is necessary to make laws about it; for, as you must have +seen, there is nothing but the fear of the law to protect our vineyards +and fruit-trees; there are no enclosures along the Berg-Strasse, as you +tell me you have in England; but, as people are only allowed to go into +the vineyards on stated days, no one, under pretence of gathering his +own produce, can stray into his neighbour’s grounds and help himself, +without some of the duke’s foresters seeing him.” + +“Well,” said I, “to each country its own laws.” + +I think it was on that very evening that Thekla came in for something. +She stopped arranging the tablecloth and the flowers, as if she had +something to say, yet did not know how to begin. At length I found that +her sore, hot heart, wanted some sympathy; her hand was against every +one’s, and she fancied every one had turned against her. She looked up +at me, and said, a little abruptly,— + +“Does the gentleman know that I go on the fifteenth?” + +“So soon?” said I, with surprise. “I thought you were to remain here +till All Saints’ Day.” + +“So I should have done—so I must have done—if the Fräulein had not +kindly given me leave to accept of a place—a very good place too—of +housekeeper to a widow lady at Frankfort. It is just the sort of +situation I have always wished for. I expect I shall be so happy and +comfortable there.” + +“Methinks the lady doth profess too much,” came into my mind. I saw she +expected me to doubt the probability of her happiness, and was in a +defiant mood. + +“Of course,” said I, “you would hardly have wished to leave Heppenheim +if you had been happy here; and every new place always promises fair, +whatever its performance may be. But wherever you go, remember you have +always a friend in me.” + +“Yes,” she replied, “I think you are to be trusted. Though, from my +experience, I should say that of very few men.” + +“You have been unfortunate,” I answered; “many men would say the same +of women.” + +She thought a moment, and then said, in a changed tone of voice, “The +Fräulein here has been much more friendly and helpful of these late +days than her brother; yet I have served him faithfully, and have cared +for his little Max as though he were my own brother. But this morning +he spoke to me for the first time for many days,—he met me in the +passage, and, suddenly stopping, he said he was glad I had met with so +comfortable a place, and that I was at full liberty to go whenever I +liked: and then he went quickly on, never waiting for my answer.” + +“And what was wrong in that? It seems to me he was trying to make you +feel entirely at your ease, to do as you thought best, without regard +to his own interests.” + +“Perhaps so. It is silly, I know,” she continued, turning full on me +her grave, innocent eyes; “but one’s vanity suffers a little when every +one is so willing to part with one.” + +“Thekla! I owe you a great debt—let me speak to you openly. I know +that your master wanted to marry you, and that you refused him. Do not +deceive yourself. You are sorry for that refusal now?” + +She kept her serious look fixed upon me; but her face and throat +reddened all over. + +“No,” said she, at length; “I am not sorry. What can you think I am +made of; having loved one man ever since I was a little child until a +fortnight ago, and now just as ready to love another? I know you do not +rightly consider what you say, or I should take it as an insult.” + +“You loved an ideal man; he disappointed you, and you clung to your +remembrance of him. He came, and the reality dispelled all illusions.” + +“I do not understand philosophy,” said she. “I only know that I think +that Herr Müller had lost all respect for me from what his sister had +told him; and I know that I am going away; and I trust I shall be +happier in Frankfort than I have been here of late days.” So saying, +she left the room. + +I was wakened up on the morning of the fourteenth by the merry ringing +of church bells, and the perpetual firing and popping off of guns +and pistols. But all this was over by the time I was up and dressed, +and seated at breakfast in my partitioned room. It was a perfect +October day; the dew not yet off the blades of grass, glistening on +the delicate gossamer webs, which stretched from flower to flower +in the garden, lying in the morning shadow of the house. But beyond +the garden, on the sunny hill-side, men, women, and children were +clambering up the vineyards like ants,—busy, irregular in movement, +clustering together, spreading wide apart,—I could hear the shrill +merry voices as I sat,—and all along the valley, as far as I could +see, it was much the same; for every one filled his house for the day +of the vintage, that great annual festival. Lottchen, who had brought +in my breakfast, was all in her Sunday best, having risen early to get +her work done and go abroad to gather grapes. Bright colours seemed to +abound; I could see dots of scarlet, and crimson, and orange through +the fading leaves; it was not a day to languish in the house; and I +was on the point of going out by myself, when Herr Müller came in to +offer me his sturdy arm, and help me in walking to the vineyard. We +crept through the garden scented with late flowers and sunny fruit,—we +passed through the gate I had so often gazed at from the easy-chair, +and were in the busy vineyard; great baskets lay on the grass already +piled nearly full of purple and yellow grapes. The wine made from +these was far from pleasant to my taste; for the best Rhine wine is +made from a smaller grape, growing in closer, harder clusters; but the +larger and less profitable grape is by far the most picturesque in its +mode of growth, and far the best to eat into the bargain. Wherever we +trod, it was on fragrant, crushed vine-leaves; every one we saw had +his hands and face stained with the purple juice. Presently I sat down +on a sunny bit of grass, and my host left me to go farther afield, to +look after the more distant vineyards. I watched his progress. After +he left me, he took off coat and waistcoat, displaying his snowy shirt +and gaily-worked braces; and presently he was as busy as any one. I +looked down on the village; the gray and orange and crimson roofs lay +glowing in the noonday sun. I could see down into the streets; but they +were all empty—even the old people came toiling up the hill-side to +share in the general festivity. Lottchen had brought up cold dinners +for a regiment of men; every one came and helped himself. Thekla was +there, leading the little Karoline, and helping the toddling steps +of Max; but she kept aloof from me; for I knew, or suspected, or had +probed too much. She alone looked sad and grave, and spoke so little, +even to her friends, that it was evident to see that she was trying +to wean herself finally from the place. But I could see that she had +lost her short, defiant manner. What she did say was kindly and gently +spoken. The Fräulein came out late in the morning, dressed, I suppose, +in the latest Worms fashion—quite different to anything I had ever seen +before. She came up to me, and talked very graciously to me for some +time. + +“Here comes the proprietor (squire) and his lady, and their dear +children. See, the vintagers have tied bunches of the finest grapes on +to a stick, heavier than the children or even the lady can carry. Look! +look! how he bows!—one can tell he has been an _attaché_ at Vienna. +That is the court way of bowing there—holding the hat right down before +them, and bending the back at right angles. How graceful! And here +is the doctor! I thought he would spare time to come up here. Well, +doctor, you will go all the more cheerfully to your next patient for +having been up into the vineyards. Nonsense, about grapes making other +patients for you. Ah, here is the pastor and his wife, and the Fräulein +Anna. Now, where is my brother, I wonder? Up in the far vineyard, I +make no doubt. Mr. Pastor, the view up above is far finer than what +it is here, and the best grapes grow there; shall I accompany you and +madame, and the dear Fräulein? The gentleman will excuse me.” + +I was left alone. Presently I thought I would walk a little farther, +or at any rate change my position. I rounded a corner in the pathway, +and there I found Thekla, watching by little sleeping Max. He lay on +her shawl; and over his head she had made an arching canopy of broken +vine-branches, so that the great leaves threw their cool, flickering +shadows on his face. He was smeared all over with grape-juice, his +sturdy fingers grasped a half-eaten bunch even in his sleep. Thekla was +keeping Lina quiet by teaching her how to weave a garland for her head +out of field-flowers and autumn-tinted leaves. The maiden sat on the +ground, with her back to the valley beyond, the child kneeling by her, +watching the busy fingers with eager intentness. Both looked up as I +drew near, and we exchanged a few words. + +“Where is the master?” I asked. “I promised to await his return; he +wished to give me his arm down the wooden steps; but I do not see him.” + +“He is in the higher vineyard,” said Thekla, quietly, but not looking +round in that direction. “He will be some time there, I should think. +He went with the pastor and his wife; he will have to speak to his +labourers and his friends. My arm is strong, and I can leave Max in +Lina’s care for five minutes. If you are tired, and want to go back, +let me help you down the steps; they are steep and slippery.” + +I had turned to look up the valley. Three or four hundred yards off, +in the higher vineyard, walked the dignified pastor, and his homely, +decorous wife. Behind came the Fräulein Anna, in her short-sleeved +Sunday gown, daintily holding a parasol over her luxuriant brown +hair. Close behind her came Herr Müller, stopping now to speak to his +men,—again, to cull out a bunch of grapes to tie on to the Fräulein’s +stick; and by my feet sate the proud serving-maid in her country dress, +waiting for my answer, with serious, up-turned eyes, and sad, composed +face. + +“No, I am much obliged to you, Thekla; and if I did not feel so strong +I would have thankfully taken your arm. But I only wanted to leave a +message for the master, just to say that I have gone home.” + +“Lina will give it to the father when he comes down,” said Thekla. + +I went slowly down into the garden. The great labour of the day was +over, and the younger part of the population had returned to the +village, and were preparing the fireworks and pistol-shootings for the +evening. Already one or two of those well-known German carts (in the +shape of a V) were standing near the vineyard gates, the patient oxen +meekly waiting while basketful after basketful of grapes were being +emptied into the leaf-lined receptacle. + +As I sat down in my easy-chair close to the open window through which I +had entered, I could see the men and women on the hill-side drawing to +a centre, and all stand round the pastor, bareheaded, for a minute or +so. I guessed that some words of holy thanksgiving were being said, and +I wished that I had stayed to hear them, and mark my especial gratitude +for having been spared to see that day. Then I heard the distant +voices, the deep tones of the men, the shriller pipes of women and +children, join in the German harvest-hymn, which is generally sung on +such occasions;[1] then silence, while I concluded that a blessing was +spoken by the pastor, with outstretched arms; and then they once more +dispersed, some to the village, some to finish their labours for the +day among the vines. I saw Thekla coming through the garden with Max in +her arms, and Lina clinging to her woollen skirts. Thekla made for my +open window; it was rather a shorter passage into the house than round +by the door. “I may come through, may I not?” she asked, softly. “I +fear Max is not well; I cannot understand his look, and he wakened up +so strange!” She paused to let me see the child’s face; it was flushed +almost to a crimson look of heat, and his breathing was laboured and +uneasy, his eyes half-open and filmy. + +“Something is wrong, I am sure,” said I. “I don’t know anything about +children, but he is not in the least like himself.” + +She bent down and kissed the cheek so tenderly that she would not +have bruised the petal of a rose. “Heart’s darling,” she murmured. He +quivered all over at her touch, working his fingers in an unnatural +kind of way, and ending with a convulsive twitching all over his body. +Lina began to cry at the grave, anxious look on our faces. + +“You had better call the Fräulein to look at him,” said I. “I feel sure +he ought to have a doctor; I should say he was going to have a fit.” + +“The Fräulein and the master are gone to the pastor’s for coffee, and +Lottchen is in the higher vineyard, taking the men their bread and +beer. Could you find the kitchen girl, or old Karl? he will be in the +stables, I think. I must lose no time.” Almost without waiting for my +reply, she had passed through the room, and in the empty house I could +hear her firm, careful footsteps going up the stair; Lina’s pattering +beside her; and the one voice wailing, the other speaking low comfort. + +I was tired enough, but this good family had treated me too much like +one of their own for me not to do what I could in such a case as this. +I made my way out into the street, for the first time since I had come +to the house on that memorable evening six weeks ago. I bribed the +first person I met to guide me to the doctor’s, and send him straight +down to the “Halbmond,” not staying to listen to the thorough scolding +he fell to giving me; then on to the parsonage, to tell the master and +the Fräulein of the state of things at home. + +I was sorry to be the bearer of bad news into such a festive chamber +as the pastor’s. There they sat, resting after heat and fatigue, +each in their best gala dress, the table spread with “Dicker-milch,” +potato-salad, cakes of various shapes and kinds—all the dainty cates +dear to the German palate. The pastor was talking to Herr Müller, +who stood near the pretty young Fräulein Anna, in her fresh white +chemisette, with her round white arms, and her youthful coquettish +airs, as she prepared to pour out the coffee; our Fräulein was talking +busily to the Frau Mama; the younger boys and girls of the family +filling up the room. A ghost would have startled the assembled party +less than I did, and would probably have been more welcome, considering +the news I brought. As he listened, the master caught up his hat and +went forth, without apology or farewell. Our Fräulein made up for +both, and questioned me fully; but now she, I could see, was in haste +to go, although restrained by her manners, and the kind-hearted Frau +Pastorin soon set her at liberty to follow her inclination. As for me +I was dead-beat, and only too glad to avail myself of the hospitable +couple’s pressing request that I would stop and share their meal. Other +magnates of the village came in presently, and relieved me of the +strain of keeping up a German conversation about nothing at all with +entire strangers. The pretty Fräulein’s face had clouded over a little +at Herr Müller’s sudden departure; but she was soon as bright as could +be, giving private chase and sudden little scoldings to her brothers, +as they made raids upon the dainties under her charge. After I was +duly rested and refreshed, I took my leave; for I, too, had my quieter +anxieties about the sorrow in the Müller family. + +The only person I could see at the “Halbmond” was Lottchen; every one +else was busy about the poor little Max, who was passing from one fit +into another. I told Lottchen to ask the doctor to come in and see me +before he took his leave for the night, and tired as I was, I kept up +till after his visit, though it was very late before he came; I could +see from his face how anxious he was. He would give me no opinion as to +the child’s chances of recovery, from which I guessed that he had not +much hope. But when I expressed my fear he cut me very short. + +“The truth is, you know nothing about it; no more do I, for that +matter. It is enough to try any man, much less a father, to hear his +perpetual moans—not that he is conscious of pain, poor little worm; but +if she stops for a moment in her perpetual carrying him backwards and +forwards, he plains so piteously it is enough to—enough to make a man +bless the Lord who never led him into the pit of matrimony. To see the +father up there, following her as she walks up and down the room, the +child’s head over her shoulder, and Müller trying to make the heavy +eyes recognize the old familiar ways of play, and the chirruping sounds +which he can scarce make for crying——I shall be here to-morrow early, +though before that either life or death will have come without the old +doctor’s help.” + +All night long I dreamt my feverish dream—of the vineyard—the carts, +which held little coffins instead of baskets of grapes—of the pastor’s +daughter, who would pull the dying child out of Thekla’s arms; it was +a bad, weary night! I slept long into the morning; the broad daylight +filled my room, and yet no one had been near to waken me! Did that +mean life or death? I got up and dressed as fast as I could; for I +was aching all over with the fatigue of the day before. Out into the +sitting-room; the table was laid for breakfast, but no one was there. +I passed into the house beyond, up the stairs, blindly seeking for the +room where I might know whether it was life or death. At the door of a +room I found Lottchen crying; at the sight of me in that unwonted place +she started, and began some kind of apology, broken both by tears and +smiles, as she told me that the doctor said the danger was over—past, +and that Max was sleeping a gentle peaceful slumber in Thekla’s +arms—arms that had held him all through the livelong night. + +“Look at him, sir; only go in softly; it is a pleasure to see the child +to-day; tread softly, sir.” + +She opened the chamber-door. I could see Thekla sitting, propped up by +cushions and stools, holding her heavy burden, and bending over him +with a look of tenderest love. Not far off stood the Fräulein, all +disordered and tearful, stirring or seasoning some hot soup, while the +master stood by her impatient. As soon as it was cooled or seasoned +enough he took the basin and went to Thekla, and said something very +low; she lifted up her head, and I could see her face; pale, weary with +watching, but with a soft peaceful look upon it, which it had not worn +for weeks. Fritz Müller began to feed her, for her hands were occupied +in holding his child; I could not help remembering Mrs. Inchbald’s +pretty description of Dorriforth’s anxiety in feeding Miss Milner; she +compares it, if I remember rightly, to that of a tender-hearted boy, +caring for his darling bird, the loss of which would embitter all the +joys of his holidays. We closed the door without noise, so as not to +waken the sleeping child. Lottchen brought me my coffee and bread; she +was ready either to laugh or to weep on the slightest occasion. I could +not tell if it was in innocence or mischief. She asked me the following +question,— + +“Do you think Thekla will leave to-day, sir?” + +In the afternoon I heard Thekla’s step behind my extemporary screen. I +knew it quite well. She stopped for a moment before emerging into my +view. + +She was trying to look as composed as usual, but, perhaps because her +steady nerves had been shaken by her night’s watching, she could not +help faint touches of dimples at the corners of her mouth, and her eyes +were veiled from any inquisitive look by their drooping lids. + +“I thought you would like to know that the doctor says Max is quite out +of danger now. He will only require care.” + +“Thank you, Thekla; Doctor —— has been in already this afternoon to +tell me so, and I am truly glad.” + +She went to the window, and looked out for a moment. Many people were +in the vineyards again to-day; although we, in our household anxiety, +had paid them but little heed. Suddenly she turned round into the room, +and I saw that her face was crimson with blushes. In another instant +Herr Müller entered by the window. + +“Has she told you, sir?” said he, possessing himself of her hand, and +looking all a-glow with happiness. “Hast thou told our good friend?” +addressing her. + +“No. I was going to tell him, but I did not know how to begin.” + +“Then I will prompt thee. Say after me—‘I have been a wilful, foolish +woman——’” + +She wrenched her hand out of his, half-laughing—“I am a foolish woman, +for I have promised to marry him. But he is a still more foolish man, +for he wishes to marry me. That is what I say.” + +“And I have sent Babette to Frankfort with the pastor. He is going +there, and will explain all to Frau v. Schmidt; and Babette will serve +her for a time. When Max is well enough to have the change of air the +doctor prescribes for him, thou shalt take him to Altenahr, and thither +will I also go; and become known to thy people and thy father. And +before Christmas the gentleman here shall dance at our wedding.” + +“I must go home to England, dear friends, before many days are over. +Perhaps we may travel together as far as Remagen. Another year I will +come back to Heppenheim and see you.” + +As I planned it, so it was. We left Heppenheim all together on a lovely +All-Saints’ Day. The day before—the day of All-Souls—I had watched +Fritz and Thekla lead little Lina up to the Acre of God, the Field of +Rest, to hang the wreath of immortelles on her mother’s grave. Peace be +with the dead and the living. + + + + +LIBBIE MARSH’S THREE ERAS. + +ERA I. + +VALENTINE’S DAY. + + +Last November but one, there was a flitting in our neighbourhood; +hardly a flitting, after all, for it was only a single person changing +her place of abode from one lodging to another; and instead of a +cartload of drawers and baskets, dressers and beds, with old king +clock at the top of all, it was only one large wooden chest to be +carried after the girl, who moved slowly and heavily along the streets, +listless and depressed, more from the state of her mind than of her +body. It was Libbie Marsh, who had been obliged to quit her room in +Dean Street, because the acquaintances whom she had been living with +were leaving Manchester. She tried to think herself fortunate in having +met with lodgings rather more out of the town, and with those who were +known to be respectable; she did indeed try to be contented, but in +spite of her reason, the old feeling of desolation came over her, as +she was now about to be thrown again entirely among strangers. + +No. 2, —— Court, Albemarle Street, was reached at last, and the pace, +slow as it was, slackened as she drew near the spot where she was to be +left by the man who carried her box, for, trivial as her acquaintance +with him was, he was not quite a stranger, as every one else was, +peering out of their open doors, and satisfying themselves it was only +“Dixon’s new lodger.” + +Dixon’s house was the last on the left-hand side of the court. A high +dead brick wall connected it with its opposite neighbour. All the +dwellings were of the same monotonous pattern, and one side of the +court looked at its exact likeness opposite, as if it were seeing +itself in a looking-glass. + +Dixon’s house was shut up, and the key left next door; but the woman +in whose charge it was left knew that Libbie was expected, and came +forward to say a few explanatory words, to unlock the door, and stir +the dull grey ashes that were lazily burning in the grate: and then she +returned to her own house, leaving poor Libbie standing alone with the +great big chest in the middle of the house-place floor, with no one to +say a word to (even a common-place remark would have been better than +this dull silence), that could help her to repel the fast-coming tears. + +Dixon and his wife, and their eldest girl, worked in factories, and +were absent all day from the house: the youngest child, also a little +girl, was boarded out on the week-days at the neighbour’s where the +door-key was deposited, but although busy making dirt-pies, at the +entrance to the court, when Libbie came in, she was too young to care +much about her parents’ new lodger. Libbie knew that she was to sleep +with the elder girl in the front bedroom, but, as you may fancy, it +seemed a liberty even to go upstairs to take off her things, when no +one was at home to marshal the way up the ladder-like steps. So she +could only take off her bonnet, and sit down, and gaze at the now +blazing fire, and think sadly on the past, and on the lonely creature +she was in this wide world—father and mother gone, her little brother +long since dead—he would have been more than nineteen had he been +alive, but she only thought of him as the darling baby; her only +friends (to call friends) living far away at their new house; her +employers, kind enough people in their way, but too rapidly twirling +round on this bustling earth to have leisure to think of the little +work-woman, excepting when they wanted gowns turned, carpets mended, +or household linen darned; and hardly even the natural though hidden +hope of a young girl’s heart, to cheer her on with the bright visions +of a home of her own at some future day, where, loving and beloved, she +might fulfil a woman’s dearest duties. + +For Libbie was very plain, as she had known so long that the +consciousness of it had ceased to mortify her. You can hardly live in +Manchester without having some idea of your personal appearance: the +factory lads and lasses take good care of that; and if you meet them +at the hours when they are pouring out of the mills, you are sure to +hear a good number of truths, some of them combined with such a spirit +of impudent fun, that you can scarcely keep from laughing, even at the +joke against yourself. Libbie had often and often been greeted by such +questions as—“How long is it since you were a beauty?”—“What would you +take a day to stand in the fields to scare away the birds?” &c., for +her to linger under any impression as to her looks. + +While she was thus musing, and quietly crying, under the pictures her +fancy had conjured up, the Dixons came dropping in, and surprised her +with her wet cheeks and quivering lips. + +She almost wished to have the stillness again that had so oppressed her +an hour ago, they talked and laughed so loudly and so much, and bustled +about so noisily over everything they did. Dixon took hold of one +iron handle of her box, and helped her to bump it upstairs, while his +daughter Anne followed to see the unpacking, and what sort of clothes +“little sewing body had gotten.” Mrs. Dixon rattled out her tea-things, +and put the kettle on, fetched home her youngest child, which added to +the commotion. Then she called Anne downstairs, and sent her for this +thing and that: eggs to put to the cream, it was so thin; ham, to give +a relish to the bread and butter; some new bread, hot, if she could get +it. Libbie heard all these orders, given at full pitch of Mrs. Dixon’s +voice, and wondered at their extravagance, so different from the habits +of the place where she had last lodged. But they were fine spinners, +in the receipt of good wages; and confined all day in an atmosphere +ranging from seventy-five to eighty degrees. They had lost all natural, +healthy appetite for simple food, and, having no higher tastes, found +their greatest enjoyment in their luxurious meals. + +When tea was ready, Libbie was called downstairs, with a rough but +hearty invitation, to share their meal; she sat mutely at the corner +of the tea-table, while they went on with their own conversation about +people and things she knew nothing about, till at length she ventured +to ask for a candle, to go and finish her unpacking before bedtime, +as she had to go out sewing for several succeeding days. But once in +the comparative peace of her bedroom, her energy failed her, and she +contented herself with locking her Noah’s ark of a chest, and put out +her candle, and went to sit by the window, and gaze out at the bright +heavens; for ever and ever “the blue sky, that bends over all,” sheds +down a feeling of sympathy with the sorrowful at the solemn hours when +the ceaseless stars are seen to pace its depths. + +By-and-by her eye fell down to gazing at the corresponding window to +her own, on the opposite side of the court. It was lighted, but the +blind was drawn down: upon the blind she saw, first unconsciously, the +constant weary motion of a little spectral shadow, a child’s hand and +arm—no more; long, thin fingers hanging down from the wrist, while the +arm moved up and down, as if keeping time to the heavy pulses of dull +pain. She could not help hoping that sleep would soon come to still +that incessant, feeble motion: and now and then it did cease, as if +the little creature had dropped into a slumber from very weariness; +but presently the arm jerked up with the fingers clenched, as if +with a sudden start of agony. When Anne came up to bed, Libbie was +still sitting, watching the shadow, and she directly asked to whom it +belonged. + +“It will be Margaret Hall’s lad. Last summer, when it was so hot, there +was no biding with the window shut at night, and theirs was open too: +and many’s the time he has waked me with his moans; they say he’s been +better sin’ cold weather came.” + +“Is he always in bed? Whatten ails him?” asked Libbie. + +“Summat’s amiss wi’ his backbone, folks say; he’s better and worse, +like. He’s a nice little chap enough, and his mother’s not that bad +either; only my mother and her had words, so now we don’t speak.” + +Libbie went on watching, and when she next spoke, to ask who and what +his mother was, Anne Dixon was fast asleep. + +Time passed away, and as usual unveiled the hidden things. Libbie +found out that Margaret Hall was a widow, who earned her living as a +washerwoman; that the little suffering lad was her only child, her +dearly beloved. That while she scolded, pretty nearly, everybody else, +“till her name was up” in the neighbourhood for a termagant, to him +she was evidently most tender and gentle. He lay alone on his little +bed, near the window, through the day, while she was away toiling for +a livelihood. But when Libbie had plain sewing to do at her lodgings, +instead of going out to sew, she used to watch from her bedroom window +for the time when the shadows opposite, by their mute gestures, told +that the mother had returned to bend over her child, to smooth his +pillow, to alter his position, to get him his nightly cup of tea. And +often in the night Libbie could not help rising gently from bed, to see +if the little arm was waving up and down, as was his accustomed habit +when sleepless from pain. + +Libbie had a good deal of sewing to do at home that winter, and +whenever it was not so cold as to benumb her fingers, she took it +upstairs, in order to watch the little lad in her few odd moments of +pause. On his better days he could sit up enough to peep out of his +window, and she found he liked to look at her. Presently she ventured +to nod to him across the court; and his faint smile, and ready nod back +again, showed that this gave him pleasure. I think she would have been +encouraged by this smile to have proceeded to a speaking acquaintance, +if it had not been for his terrible mother, to whom it seemed to be +irritation enough to know that Libbie was a lodger at the Dixons’ for +her to talk at her whenever they encountered each other, and to live +evidently in wait for some good opportunity of abuse. + +With her constant interest in him, Libbie soon discovered his great +want of an object on which to occupy his thoughts, and which might +distract his attention, when alone through the long day, from the pain +he endured. He was very fond of flowers. It was November when she had +first removed to her lodgings, but it had been very mild weather, and +a few flowers yet lingered in the gardens, which the country people +gathered into nosegays, and brought on market-days into Manchester. +His mother had brought him a bunch of Michaelmas daisies the very day +Libbie had become a neighbour, and she watched their history. He put +them first in an old teapot, of which the spout was broken off and the +lid lost; and he daily replenished the teapot from the jug of water +his mother left near him to quench his feverish thirst. By-and-by, one +or two of the constellation of lilac stars faded, and then the time he +had hitherto spent in admiring, almost caressing them, was devoted to +cutting off those flowers whose decay marred the beauty of the nosegay. +It took him half the morning, with his feeble, languid motions, and +his cumbrous old scissors, to trim up his diminished darlings. Then at +last he seemed to think he had better preserve the few that remained +by drying them; so they were carefully put between the leaves of the +old Bible; and then, whenever a better day came, when he had strength +enough to lift the ponderous book, he used to open the pages to look at +his flower friends. In winter he could have no more living flowers to +tend. + +Libbie thought and thought, till at last an idea flashed upon her mind, +that often made a happy smile steal over her face as she stitched +away, and that cheered her through the solitary winter—for solitary +it continued to be, though the Dixons were very good sort of people, +never pressed her for payment, if she had had but little work to do +that week; never grudged her a share of their extravagant meals, which +were far more luxurious than she could have met with anywhere else, +for her previously agreed payment in case of working at home; and they +would fain have taught her to drink rum in her tea, assuring her that +she should have it for nothing and welcome. But they were too touchy, +too prosperous, too much absorbed in themselves, to take off Libbie’s +feeling of solitariness; not half as much as the little face by day, +and the shadow by night, of him with whom she had never yet exchanged a +word. + +Her idea was this: her mother came from the east of England, where, as +perhaps you know, they have the pretty custom of sending presents on +St. Valentine’s day, with the donor’s name unknown, and, of course, the +mystery constitutes half the enjoyment. The fourteenth of February was +Libbie’s birthday too, and many a year, in the happy days of old, had +her mother delighted to surprise her with some little gift, of which +she more than half-guessed the giver, although each Valentine’s day the +manner of its arrival was varied. Since then the fourteenth of February +had been the dreariest of all the year, because the most haunted by +memory of departed happiness. But now, this year, if she could not have +the old gladness of heart herself, she would try and brighten the life +of another. She would save, and she would screw, but she would buy a +canary and a cage for that poor little laddie opposite, who wore out +his monotonous life with so few pleasures, and so much pain. + +I doubt I may not tell you here of the anxieties and the fears, of +the hopes and the self-sacrifices—all, perhaps small in the tangible +effect as the widow’s mite, yet not the less marked by the viewless +angels who go about continually among us—which varied Libbie’s life +before she accomplished her purpose. It is enough to say it was +accomplished. The very day before the fourteenth she found time to go +with her half-guinea to a barber’s who lived near Albemarle Street, and +who was famous for his stock of singing-birds. There are enthusiasts +about all sorts of things, both good and bad, and many of the weavers +in Manchester know and care more about birds than any one would easily +credit. Stubborn, silent, reserved men on many things, you have only to +touch on the subject of birds to light up their faces with brightness. +They will tell you who won the prizes at the last canary show, where +the prize birds may be seen, and give you all the details of those +funny, but pretty and interesting mimicries of great people’s cattle +shows. Among these amateurs, Emanuel Morris the barber was an oracle. + +He took Libbie into his little back room, used for private shaving of +modest men, who did not care to be exhibited in the front shop decked +out in the full glories of lather; and which was hung round with birds +in rude wicker cages, with the exception of those who had won prizes, +and were consequently honoured with gilt-wire prisons. The longer and +thinner the body of the bird was, the more admiration it received, as +far as external beauty went; and when, in addition to this, the colour +was deep and clear, and its notes strong and varied, the more did +Emanuel dwell upon its perfections. But these were all prize birds; +and, on inquiry, Libbie heard, with some little sinking at heart, that +their price ran from one to two guineas. + +“I’m not over-particular as to shape and colour,” said she, “I should +like a good singer, that’s all!” + +She dropped a little in Emanuel’s estimation. However, he showed her +his good singers, but all were above Libbie’s means. + +“After all, I don’t think I care so much about the singing very loud; +it’s but a noise after all, and sometimes noise fidgets folks.” + +“They must be nesh folks as is put out with the singing o’ birds,” +replied Emanuel, rather affronted. + +“It’s for one who is poorly,” said Libbie, deprecatingly. + +“Well,” said he, as if considering the matter, “folk that are cranky, +often take more to them as shows ’em love, than to them as is clever +and gifted. Happen yo’d rather have this’n,” opening a cage-door, +and calling to a dull-coloured bird, sitting moped up in a corner, +“Here—Jupiter, Jupiter!” + +The bird smoothed its feathers in an instant, and, uttering a little +note of delight, flew to Emanuel, putting his beak to his lips, as if +kissing him, and then, perching on his head, it began a gurgling warble +of pleasure, not by any means so varied or so clear as the song of the +others, but which pleased Libbie more; for she was always one to find +out she liked the gooseberries that were accessible, better than the +grapes that were beyond her reach. The price too was just right, so +she gladly took possession of the cage, and hid it under her cloak, +preparatory to carrying it home. Emanuel meanwhile was giving her +directions as to its food, with all the minuteness of one loving his +subject. + +“Will it soon get to know any one?” asked she. + +“Give him two days only, and you and he’ll be as thick as him and me +are now. You’ve only to open his door, and call him, and he’ll follow +you round the room; but he’ll first kiss you, and then perch on your +head. He only wants larning, which I’ve no time to give him, to do many +another accomplishment.” + +“What’s his name? I did not rightly catch it.” + +“Jupiter,—it’s not common; but the town’s o’errun with Bobbies and +Dickies, and as my birds are thought a bit out o’ the way, I like to +have better names for ’em, so I just picked a few out o’ my lad’s +school books. It’s just as ready, when you’re used to it, to say +Jupiter as Dicky.” + +“I could bring my tongue round to Peter better; would he answer to +Peter?” asked Libbie, now on the point of departing. + +“Happen he might; but I think he’d come readier to the three syllables.” + +On Valentine’s day, Jupiter’s cage was decked round with ivy leaves, +making quite a pretty wreath on the wicker work; and to one of them +was pinned a slip of paper, with these words, written in Libbie’s best +round hand:— + +“From your faithful Valentine. Please take notice his name is Peter, +and he’ll come if you call him, after a bit.” + +But little work did Libbie do that afternoon, she was so engaged in +watching for the messenger who was to bear her present to her little +valentine, and run away as soon as he had delivered up the canary, and +explained to whom it was sent. + +At last he came; then there was a pause before the woman of the house +was at liberty to take it upstairs. Then Libbie saw the little face +flush up into a bright colour, the feeble hands tremble with delighted +eagerness, the head bent down to try and make out the writing (beyond +his power, poor lad, to read), the rapturous turning round of the +cage in order to see the canary in every point of view, head, tail, +wings, and feet; an intention in which Jupiter, in his uneasiness at +being again among strangers, did not second, for he hopped round so, +as continually to present a full front to the boy. It was a source of +never wearying delight to the little fellow, till daylight closed in; +he evidently forgot to wonder who had sent it him, in his gladness at +his possession of such a treasure; and when the shadow of his mother +darkened on the blind, and the bird had been exhibited, Libbie saw her +do what, with all her tenderness, seemed rarely to have entered into +her thoughts—she bent down and kissed her boy, in a mother’s sympathy +with the joy of her child. + +The canary was placed for the night between the little bed and window; +and when Libbie rose once, to take her accustomed peep, she saw the +little arm put fondly round the cage, as if embracing his new treasure +even in his sleep. How Jupiter slept this first night is quite another +thing. + +So ended the first day in Libbie’s three eras in last year. + + +ERA II. + +WHITSUNTIDE. + +The brightest, fullest daylight poured down into No. 2, —— Court, +Albemarle Street, and the heat, even at the early hour of five, as at +the noontide on the June days of many years past. + +The court seemed alive, and merry with voices and laughter. The bedroom +windows were open wide, and had been so all night, on account of +the heat; and every now and then you might see a head and a pair of +shoulders, simply encased in shirt sleeves, popped out, and you might +hear the inquiry passed from one to the other,—“Well, Jack, and where +art thee bound for?” + +“Dunham!” + +“Why, what an old-fashioned chap thou be’st. Thy grandad afore +thee went to Dunham: but thou wert always a slow coach. I’m off to +Alderley,—me and my missis.” + +“Ay, that’s because there’s only thee and thy missis. Wait till thou +hast gotten four childer, like me, and thou’lt be glad enough to take +’em to Dunham, oud-fashioned way, for fourpence apiece.” + +“I’d still go to Alderley; I’d not be bothered with my children; they +should keep house at home.” + +A pair of hands, the person to whom they belonged invisible, boxed his +ears on this last speech, in a very spirited, though playful, manner, +and the neighbours all laughed at the surprised look of the speaker, +at this assault from an unseen foe. The man who had been holding +conversation with him cried out,— + +“Sarved him right, Mrs. Slater: he knows nought about it yet; but +when he gets them he’ll be as loth to leave the babbies at home on a +Whitsuntide as any on us. We shall live to see him in Dunham Park yet, +wi’ twins in his arms, and another pair on ’em clutching at daddy’s +coat-tails, let alone your share of youngsters, missis.” + +At this moment our friend Libbie appeared at her window, and Mrs. +Slater, who had taken her discomfited husband’s place, called out,— + +“Elizabeth Marsh, where are Dixons and you bound to?” + +“Dixons are not up yet; he said last night he’d take his holiday out in +lying in bed. I’m going to the old-fashioned place, Dunham.” + +“Thou art never going by thyself, moping!” + +“No. I’m going with Margaret Hall and her lad,” replied Libbie, hastily +withdrawing from the window, in order to avoid hearing any remarks on +the associates she had chosen for her day of pleasure—the scold of the +neighbourhood, and her sickly, ailing child! + +But Jupiter might have been a dove, and his ivy leaves an olive branch, +for the peace he had brought, the happiness he had caused, to three +individuals at least. For of course it could not long be a mystery +who had sent little Frank Hall his valentine; nor could his mother +long entertain her hard manner towards one who had given her child a +new pleasure. She was shy, and she was proud, and for some time she +struggled against the natural desire of manifesting her gratitude; but +one evening, when Libbie was returning home, with a bundle of work half +as large as herself, as she dragged herself along through the heated +streets, she was overtaken by Margaret Hall, her burden gently pulled +from her, and her way home shortened, and her weary spirits soothed +and cheered, by the outpourings of Margaret’s heart; for the barrier +of reserve once broken down, she had much to say, to thank her for +days of amusement and happy employment for her lad, to speak of his +gratitude, to tell of her hopes and fears,—the hopes and fears that +made up the dates of her life. From that time, Libbie lost her awe of +the termagant in interest for the mother, whose all was ventured in so +frail a bark. From this time, Libbie was a fast friend with both mother +and son, planning mitigations for the sorrowful days of the latter as +eagerly as poor Margaret Hall, and with far more success. His life had +flickered up under the charm and excitement of the last few months. He +even seemed strong enough to undertake the journey to Dunham, which +Libbie had arranged as a Whitsuntide treat, and for which she and his +mother had been hoarding up for several weeks. The canal boat left +Knott-mill at six, and it was now past five; so Libbie let herself out +very gently, and went across to her friends. She knocked at the door of +their lodging-room, and, without waiting for an answer, entered. + +Franky’s face was flushed, and he was trembling with excitement,—partly +with pleasure, but partly with some eager wish not yet granted. + +“He wants sore to take Peter with him,” said his mother to Libbie, as +if referring the matter to her. The boy looked imploringly at her. + +“He would like it, I know; for one thing, he’d miss me sadly, and +chirrup for me all day long, he’d be so lonely. I could not be half so +happy a-thinking on him, left alone here by himself. Then, Libbie, he’s +just like a Christian, so fond of flowers and green leaves, and them +sort of things. He chirrups to me so when mother brings me a pennyworth +of wall-flowers to put round his cage. He would talk if he could, you +know; but I can tell what he means quite as one as if he spoke. Do let +Peter go, Libbie; I’ll carry him in my own arms.” + +So Jupiter was allowed to be of the party. Now Libbie had overcome the +great difficulty of conveying Franky to the boat, by offering to “slay” +for a coach, and the shouts and exclamations of the neighbours told +them that their conveyance awaited them at the bottom of the court. His +mother carried Franky, light in weight, though heavy in helplessness, +and he would hold the cage, believing that he was thus redeeming his +pledge, that Peter should be a trouble to no one. Libbie proceeded +to arrange the bundle containing their dinner, as a support in the +corner of the coach. The neighbours came out with many blunt speeches, +and more kindly wishes, and one or two of them would have relieved +Margaret of her burden, if she would have allowed it. The presence of +that little crippled fellow seemed to obliterate all the angry feelings +which had existed between his mother and her neighbours, and which had +formed the politics of that little court for many a day. + +And now they were fairly off! Franky bit his lips in attempted +endurance of the pain the motion caused him; he winced and shrank, +until they were fairly on a Macadamized thoroughfare, when he closed +his eyes, and seemed desirous of a few minutes’ rest. Libbie felt very +shy, and very much afraid of being seen by her employers, “set up in a +coach!” and so she hid herself in a corner, and made herself as small +as possible; while Mrs. Hall had exactly the opposite feeling, and was +delighted to stand up, stretching out of the window, and nodding to +pretty nearly every one they met or passed on the foot-paths; and they +were not a few, for the streets were quite gay, even at that early +hour, with parties going to this or that railway station, or to the +boats which crowded the canals on this bright holiday week; and almost +every one they met seemed to enter into Mrs. Hall’s exhilaration of +feeling, and had a smile or nod in return. At last she plumped down by +Libbie, and exclaimed, “I never was in a coach but once afore, and that +was when I was a-going to be married. It’s like heaven; and all done +over with such beautiful gimp, too!” continued she, admiring the lining +of the vehicle. Jupiter did not enjoy it so much. + +As if the holiday time, the lovely weather, and the “sweet hour of +prime” had a genial influence, as no doubt they have, everybody’s +heart seemed softened towards poor Franky. The driver lifted him out +with the tenderness of strength, and bore him carefully down to the +boat; the people then made way, and gave him the best seat in their +power,—or rather I should call it a couch, for they saw he was weary, +and insisted on his lying down,—an attitude he would have been ashamed +to assume without the protection of his mother and Libbie, who now +appeared, bearing their baskets and carrying Peter. + +Away the boat went, to make room for others, for every conveyance, +both by land and water, is in requisition in Whitsun-week, to give +the hard-worked crowds the opportunity of enjoying the charms of the +country. Even every standing-place in the canal packets was occupied, +and as they glided along, the banks were lined with people, who seemed +to find it object enough to watch the boats go by, packed close +and full with happy beings brimming with anticipations of a day’s +pleasure. The country through which they passed is as uninteresting +as can well be imagined; but still it is the country: and the screams +of delight from the children, and the low laughs of pleasure from the +parents, at every blossoming tree that trailed its wreath against some +cottage wall, or at the tufts of late primroses which lingered in the +cool depths of grass along the canal banks, the thorough relish of +everything, as if dreading to let the least circumstance of this happy +day pass over without its due appreciation, made the time seem all too +short, although it took two hours to arrive at a place only eight miles +from Manchester. Even Franky, with all his impatience to see Dunham +woods (which I think he confused with London, believing both to be +paved with gold), enjoyed the easy motion of the boat so much, floating +along, while pictures moved before him, that he regretted when the time +came for landing among the soft, green meadows, that came sloping down +to the dancing water’s brim. His fellow-passengers carried him to the +park, and refused all payment, although his mother had laid by sixpence +on purpose, as a recompense for this service. + +“Oh, Libbie, how beautiful! Oh, mother, mother! is the whole world out +of Manchester as beautiful as this? I did not know trees were like +this! Such green homes for birds! Look, Peter! would not you like to be +there, up among those boughs? But I can’t let you go, you know, because +you’re my little bird brother, and I should be quite lost without you.” + +They spread a shawl upon the fine mossy turf, at the root of a +beech-tree, which made a sort of natural couch, and there they laid +him, and bade him rest, in spite of the delight which made him believe +himself capable of any exertion. Where he lay,—always holding Jupiter’s +cage, and often talking to him as to a playfellow,—he was on the verge +of a green area, shut in by magnificent trees, in all the glory of +their early foliage, before the summer heats had deepened their verdure +into one rich, monotonous tint. And hither came party after party; +old men and maidens, young men and children,—whole families trooped +along after the guiding fathers, who bore the youngest in their arms, +or astride upon their backs, while they turned round occasionally to +the wives, with whom they shared some fond local remembrance. For +years has Dunham Park been the favourite resort of the Manchester +work-people; for more years than I can tell; probably ever since “the +Duke,” by his canals, opened out the system of cheap travelling. Its +scenery, too, which presents such a complete contrast to the whirl +and turmoil of Manchester; so thoroughly woodland, with its ancestral +trees (here and there lightning blanched); its “verdurous walls;” its +grassy walks, leading far away into some glade, where you start at the +rabbit rustling among the last year’s fern, and where the wood-pigeon’s +call seems the only fitting and accordant sound. Depend upon it, this +complete sylvan repose, this accessible quiet, this lapping the soul +in green images of the country, forms the most complete contrast to a +town’s-person, and consequently has over such the greatest power to +charm. + +Presently Libbie found out she was very hungry. Now they were but +provided with dinner, which was, of course, to be eaten as near twelve +o’clock as might be; and Margaret Hall, in her prudence, asked a +working-man near to tell her what o’clock it was. + +“Nay,” said he, “I’ll ne’er look at clock or watch to-day. I’ll not +spoil my pleasure by finding out how fast it’s going away. If thou’rt +hungry, eat. I make my own dinner hour, and I have eaten mine an hour +ago.” + +So they had their veal pies, and then found out it was only about +half-past ten o’clock; by so many pleasurable events had that morning +been marked. But such was their buoyancy of spirits, that they only +enjoyed their mistake, and joined in the general laugh against the man +who had eaten his dinner somewhere about nine. He laughed most heartily +of all, till, suddenly stopping, he said,— + +“I must not go on at this rate; laughing gives one such an appetite.” + +“Oh! if that’s all,” said a merry-looking man, lying at full length, +and brushing the fresh scent out of the grass, while two or three +little children tumbled over him, and crept about him, as kittens +or puppies frolic with their parents, “if that’s all, we’ll have a +subscription of eatables for them improvident folk as have eaten their +dinner for their breakfast. Here’s a sausage pasty and a handful of +nuts for my share. Bring round a hat, Bob, and see what the company +will give.” + +Bob carried out the joke, much to little Franky’s amusement; and no one +was so churlish as to refuse, although the contributions varied from a +peppermint drop up to a veal pie and a sausage pasty. + +“It’s a thriving trade,” said Bob, as he emptied his hatful of +provisions on the grass by Libbie’s side. “Besides, it’s tiptop, too, +to live on the public. Hark! what is that?” + +The laughter and the chat were suddenly hushed, and mothers told their +little ones to listen,—as, far away in the distance, now sinking and +falling, now swelling and clear, came a ringing peal of children’s +voices, blended together in one of those psalm tunes which we are all +of us familiar with, and which bring to mind the old, old days, when +we, as wondering children, were first led to worship “Our Father,” by +those beloved ones who have since gone to the more perfect worship. +Holy was that distant choral praise, even to the most thoughtless; and +when it, in fact, was ended, in the instant’s pause, during which the +ear awaits the repetition of the air, they caught the noontide hum +and buzz of the myriads of insects who danced away their lives in the +glorious day; they heard the swaying of the mighty woods in the soft +but resistless breeze, and then again once more burst forth the merry +jests and the shouts of childhood; and again the elder ones resumed +their happy talk, as they lay or sat “under the greenwood tree.” Fresh +parties came dropping in; some laden with wild flowers—almost with +branches of hawthorn, indeed; while one or two had made prizes of the +earliest dog-roses, and had cast away campion, stitchwort, ragged +robin, all to keep the lady of the hedges from being obscured or hidden +by the community. + +One after another drew near to Franky, and looked on with interest +as he lay sorting the flowers given to him. Happy parents stood by, +with their household bands around them, in health and comeliness, and +felt the sad prophecy of those shrivelled limbs, those wasted fingers, +those lamp-like eyes, with their bright, dark lustre. His mother was +too eagerly watching his happiness to read the meaning of those grave +looks, but Libbie saw them and understood them; and a chill shudder +went through her, even on that day, as she thought on the future. + +“Ay! I thought we should give you a start!” + +A start they did give, with their terrible slap on Libbie’s back, +as she sat idly grouping flowers, and following out her sorrowful +thoughts. It was the Dixons. Instead of keeping their holiday by +lying in bed, they and their children had roused themselves, and had +come by the omnibus to the nearest point. For an instant the meeting +was an awkward one, on account of the feud between Margaret Hall and +Mrs. Dixon, but there was no long resisting of kindly mother Nature’s +soothings, at that holiday time, and in that lonely tranquil spot; +or if they could have been unheeded, the sight of Franky would have +awed every angry feeling into rest, so changed was he since the Dixons +had last seen him; and since he had been the Puck or Robin Goodfellow +of the neighbourhood, whose marbles were always rolling under other +people’s feet, and whose top-strings were always hanging in nooses to +catch the unwary. Yes, he, the feeble, mild, almost girlish-looking +lad, had once been a merry, happy rogue, and as such often cuffed by +Mrs. Dixon, the very Mrs. Dixon who now stood gazing with the tears in +her eyes. Could she, in sight of him, the changed, the fading, keep up +a quarrel with his mother? + +“How long hast thou been here?” asked Dixon. + +“Welly on for all day,” answered Libbie. + +“Hast never been to see the deer, or the king and queen oaks? Lord, how +stupid.” + +His wife pinched his arm, to remind him of Franky’s helpless condition, +which of course tethered the otherwise willing feet. But Dixon had a +remedy. He called Bob, and one or two others, and each taking a corner +of the strong plaid shawl, they slung Franky as in a hammock, and thus +carried him merrily along, down the wood paths, over the smooth, grassy +turf, while the glimmering shine and shadow fell on his upturned face. +The women walked behind, talking, loitering along, always in sight of +the hammock; now picking up some green treasure from the ground, now +catching at the low hanging branches of the horse-chestnut. The soul +grew much on this day, and in these woods, and all unconsciously, as +souls do grow. They followed Franky’s hammock-bearers up a grassy +knoll, on the top of which stood a group of pine trees, whose stems +looked like dark red gold in the sunbeams. They had taken Franky there +to show him Manchester, far away in the blue plain, against which the +woodland foreground cut with a soft clear line. Far, far away in the +distance on that flat plain, you might see the motionless cloud of +smoke hanging over a great town, and that was Manchester,—ugly, smoky +Manchester, dear, busy, earnest, noble-working Manchester; where their +children had been born, and where, perhaps, some lay buried; where +their homes were, and where God had cast their lives, and told them to +work out their destiny. + +“Hurrah! for oud smoke-jack!” cried Bob, putting Franky softly down on +the grass, before he whirled his hat round, preparatory to a shout. +“Hurrah! hurrah!” from all the men. “There’s the rim of my hat lying +like a quoit yonder,” observed Bob quietly, as he replaced his brimless +hat on his head with the gravity of a judge. + +“Here’s the Sunday-school children a-coming to sit on this shady side, +and have their buns and milk. Hark! they’re singing the infant-school +grace.” + +They sat close at hand, so that Franky could hear the words they sang, +in rings of children, making, in their gay summer prints, newly donned +for that week, garlands of little faces, all happy and bright upon +that green hill-side. One little “Dot” of a girl came shily behind +Franky, whom she had long been watching, and threw her half-bun at +his side, and then ran away and hid herself, in very shame at the +boldness of her own sweet impulse. She kept peeping from her screen at +Franky all the time; and he meanwhile was almost too much pleased and +happy to eat; the world was so beautiful, and men, women, and children +all so tender and kind; so softened, in fact, by the beauty of this +earth, so unconsciously touched by the spirit of love, which was the +Creator of this lovely earth. But the day drew to an end; the heat +declined; the birds once more began their warblings; the fresh scents +again hung about plant, and tree, and grass, betokening the fragrant +presence of the reviving dew, and—the boat time was near. As they trod +the meadow-path once more, they were joined by many a party they had +encountered during the day, all abounding in happiness, all full of +the day’s adventures. Long-cherished quarrels had been forgotten, new +friendships formed. Fresh tastes and higher delights had been imparted +that day. We have all of us our look, now and then, called up by some +noble or loving thought (our highest on earth), which will be our +likeness in heaven. I can catch the glance on many a face, the glancing +light of the cloud of glory from heaven, “which is our home.” That look +was present on many a hard-worked, wrinkled countenance, as they turned +backwards to catch a longing, lingering look at Dunham woods, fast +deepening into blackness of night, but whose memory was to haunt, in +greenness and freshness, many a loom, and workshop, and factory, with +images of peace and beauty. + +That night, as Libbie lay awake, revolving the incidents of the day, +she caught Franky’s voice through the open windows. Instead of the +frequent moan of pain, he was trying to recall the burden of one of the +children’s hymns,— + + Here we suffer grief and pain, + Here we meet to part again; + In Heaven we part no more. + Oh! that will be joyful, &c. + +She recalled his question, the whispered question, to her, in the +happiest part of the day. He asked Libbie, “Is Dunham like heaven? the +people here are as kind as angels, and I don’t want heaven to be more +beautiful than this place. If you and mother would but die with me, I +should like to die, and live always there!” She had checked him, for +she feared he was impious; but now the young child’s craving for some +definite idea of the land to which his inner wisdom told him he was +hastening, had nothing in it wrong, or even sorrowful, for— + + In Heaven we part no more. + + +ERA III. + +MICHAELMAS. + +The church clocks had struck three; the crowds of gentlemen returning +to business, after their early dinners, had disappeared within offices +and warehouses; the streets were clear and quiet, and ladies were +venturing to sally forth for their afternoon shoppings and their +afternoon calls. + +Slowly, slowly, along the streets, elbowed by life at every turn, a +little funeral wound its quiet way. Four men bore along a child’s +coffin; two women with bowed heads followed meekly. + +I need not tell you whose coffin it was, or who were those two +mourners. All was now over with little Frank Hall: his romps, his +games, his sickening, his suffering, his death. All was now over, but +the Resurrection and the Life. + +His mother walked as in a stupor. Could it be that he was dead! If he +had been less of an object of her thoughts, less of a motive for her +labours, she could sooner have realized it. As it was, she followed +his poor, cast-off, worn-out body as if she were borne along by some +oppressive dream. If he were really dead, how could she be still alive? + +Libbie’s mind was far less stunned, and consequently far more active, +than Margaret Hall’s. Visions, as in a phantasmagoria, came rapidly +passing before her—recollections of the time (which seemed now so +long ago) when the shadow of the feebly-waving arm first caught her +attention; of the bright, strangely isolated day at Dunham Park, where +the world had seemed so full of enjoyment, and beauty, and life; of +the long-continued heat, through which poor Franky had panted away his +strength in the little close room, where there was no escaping the hot +rays of the afternoon sun; of the long nights when his mother and she +had watched by his side, as he moaned continually, whether awake or +asleep; of the fevered moaning slumber of exhaustion; of the pitiful +little self-upbraidings for his own impatience of suffering, only +impatient in his own eyes—most true and holy patience in the sight +of others; and then the fading away of life, the loss of power, the +increased unconsciousness, the lovely look of angelic peace, which +followed the dark shadow on the countenance, where was he—what was he +now? + +And so they laid him in his grave, and heard the solemn funeral words; +but far off in the distance, as if not addressed to them. + +Margaret Hall bent over the grave to catch one last glance—she had not +spoken, nor sobbed, nor done aught but shiver now and then, since the +morning; but now her weight bore more heavily on Libbie’s arm, and +without sigh or sound she fell an unconscious heap on the piled-up +gravel. They helped Libbie to bring her round; but long after her +half-opened eyes and altered breathing showed that her senses were +restored, she lay, speechless and motionless, without attempting to +rise from her strange bed, as if the earth contained nothing worth even +that trifling exertion. + +At last Libbie and she left that holy, consecrated spot, and bent their +steps back to the only place more consecrated still; where he had +rendered up his spirit; and where memories of him haunted each common, +rude piece of furniture that their eyes fell upon. As the woman of the +house opened the door, she pulled Libbie on one side, and said— + +“Anne Dixon has been across to see you; she wants to have a word with +you.” + +“I cannot go now,” replied Libbie, as she pushed hastily along, in +order to enter the room (_his_ room), at the same time with the +childless mother: for, as she had anticipated, the sight of that empty +spot, the glance at the uncurtained open window, letting in the fresh +air, and the broad, rejoicing light of day, where all had so long been +darkened and subdued, unlocked the waters of the fountain, and long and +shrill were the cries for her boy that the poor woman uttered. + +“Oh! dear Mrs. Hall,” said Libbie, herself drenched in tears, “do not +take on so badly; I’m sure it would grieve _him_ sore if he were alive, +and you know he is—Bible tells us so; and may be he’s here watching how +we go on without him, and hoping we don’t fret over much.” + +Mrs. Hall’s sobs grew worse and more hysterical. + +“Oh! listen,” said Libbie, once more struggling against her own +increasing agitation. “Listen! there’s Peter chirping as he always does +when he’s put about, frightened like; and you know he that’s gone could +never abide to hear the canary chirp in that shrill way.” + +Margaret Hall did check herself, and curb her expressions of agony, +in order not to frighten the little creature he had loved; and as her +outward grief subsided, Libbie took up the large old Bible, which fell +open at the never-failing comfort of the fourteenth chapter of St. +John’s Gospel. + +How often these large family Bibles do open at that chapter! as if, +unused in more joyous and prosperous times, the soul went home to its +words of loving sympathy when weary and sorrowful, just as the little +child seeks the tender comfort of its mother in all its griefs and +cares. + +And Margaret put back her wet, ruffled, grey hair from her heated, +tear-stained, woeful face, and listened with such earnest eyes, trying +to form some idea of the “Father’s house,” where her boy had gone to +dwell. + +They were interrupted by a low tap at the door. Libbie went. “Anne +Dixon has watched you home, and wants to have a word with you,” said +the woman of the house, in a whisper. Libbie went back and closed +the book, with a word of explanation to Margaret Hall, and then ran +downstairs, to learn the reason of Anne’s anxiety to see her. + +“Oh, Libbie!” she burst out with, and then, checking herself with the +remembrance of Libbie’s last solemn duty, “how’s Margaret Hall? But, +of course, poor thing, she’ll fret a bit at first; she’ll be some time +coming round, mother says, seeing it’s as well that poor lad is taken; +for he’d always ha’ been a cripple, and a trouble to her—he was a fine +lad once, too.” + +She had come full of another and a different subject; but the sight of +Libbie’s sad, weeping face, and the quiet, subdued tone of her manner, +made her feel it awkward to begin on any other theme than the one which +filled up her companion’s mind. To her last speech Libbie answered +sorrowfully— + +“No doubt, Anne, it’s ordered for the best; but oh! don’t call him, +don’t think he could ever ha’ been, a trouble to his mother, though he +were a cripple. She loved him all the more for each thing she had to do +for him—I am sure I did.” Libbie cried a little behind her apron. Anne +Dixon felt still more awkward in introducing the discordant subject. + +“Well! ‘flesh is grass,’ Bible says,” and having fulfilled the +etiquette of quoting a text if possible, if not of making a moral +observation on the fleeting nature of earthly things, she thought she +was at liberty to pass on to her real errand. + +“You must not go on moping yourself, Libbie Marsh. What I wanted +special for to see you this afternoon, was to tell you, you must come +to my wedding to-morrow. Nanny Dawson has fallen sick, and there’s none +as I should like to have bridesmaid in her place as well as you.” + +“To-morrow! Oh, I cannot!—indeed I cannot!” + +“Why not?” + +Libbie did not answer, and Anne Dixon grew impatient. + +“Surely, in the name o’ goodness, you’re never going to baulk yourself +of a day’s pleasure for the sake of yon little cripple that’s dead and +gone!” + +“No,—it’s not baulking myself of—don’t be angry, Anne Dixon, with him, +please; but I don’t think it would be a pleasure to me,—I don’t feel as +if I could enjoy it; thank you all the same. But I did love that little +lad very dearly—I did,” sobbing a little, “and I can’t forget him and +make merry so soon.” + +“Well—I never!” exclaimed Anne, almost angrily. + +“Indeed, Anne, I feel your kindness, and you and Bob have my best +wishes,—that’s what you have; but even if I went, I should be thinking +all day of him, and of his poor, poor mother, and they say it’s bad to +think very much on them that’s dead, at a wedding.” + +“Nonsense,” said Anne, “I’ll take the risk of the ill-luck. After +all, what is marrying? Just a spree, Bob says. He often says he does +not think I shall make him a good wife, for I know nought about house +matters, wi’ working in a factory; but he says he’d rather be uneasy +wi’ me than easy wi’ anybody else. There’s love for you! And I tell him +I’d rather have him tipsy than any one else sober.” + +“Oh! Anne Dixon, hush! you don’t know yet what it is to have a drunken +husband. I have seen something of it: father used to get fuddled, and, +in the long run, it killed mother, let alone—oh! Anne, God above only +knows what the wife of a drunken man has to bear. Don’t tell,” said +she, lowering her voice, “but father killed our little baby in one of +his bouts; mother never looked up again, nor father either, for that +matter, only his was in a different way. Mother will have gotten to +little Jemmie now, and they’ll be so happy together,—and perhaps Franky +too. Oh!” said she, recovering herself from her train of thought, +“never say aught lightly of the wife’s lot whose husband is given to +drink!” + +“Dear, what a preachment. I tell you what, Libbie, you’re as born an +old maid as ever I saw. You’ll never be married to either drunken or +sober.” + +Libbie’s face went rather red, but without losing its meek expression. + +“I know that as well as you can tell me; and more reason, therefore, as +God has seen fit to keep me out of woman’s natural work, I should try +and find work for myself. I mean,” seeing Anne Dixon’s puzzled look, +“that as I know I’m never likely to have a home of my own, or a husband +that would look to me to make all straight, or children to watch over +or care for, all which I take to be woman’s natural work, I must not +lose time in fretting and fidgetting after marriage, but just look +about me for somewhat else to do. I can see many a one misses it in +this. They will hanker after what is ne’er likely to be theirs, instead +of facing it out, and settling down to be old maids; and, as old maids, +just looking round for the odd jobs God leaves in the world for such as +old maids to do. There’s plenty of such work, and there’s the blessing +of God on them as does it.” Libbie was almost out of breath at this +outpouring of what had long been her inner thoughts. + +“That’s all very true, I make no doubt, for them as is to be old maids; +but as I’m not, please God to-morrow comes, you might have spared your +breath to cool your porridge. What I want to know is, whether you’ll be +bridesmaid to-morrow or not. Come, now do; it will do you good, after +all your working, and watching, and slaving yourself for that poor +Franky Hall.” + +“It was one of my odd jobs,” said Libbie, smiling, though her eyes +were brimming over with tears; “but, dear Anne,” said she, recovering +itself, “I could not do it to-morrow, indeed I could not.” + +“And I can’t wait,” said Anne Dixon, almost sulkily, “Bob and I put +it off from to-day, because of the funeral, and Bob had set his heart +on its being on Michaelmas-day; and mother says the goose won’t keep +beyond to-morrow. Do come: father finds eatables, and Bob finds drink, +and we shall be so jolly! and after we’ve been to church, we’re to +walk round the town in pairs, white satin ribbon in our bonnets, and +refreshments at any public-house we like, Bob says. And after dinner +there’s to be a dance. Don’t be a fool; you can do no good by staying. +Margaret Hall will have to go out washing, I’ll be bound.” + +“Yes, she must go to Mrs. Wilkinson’s, and, for that matter, I must go +working too. Mrs. Williams has been after me to make her girl’s winter +things ready; only I could not leave Franky, he clung so to me.” + +“Then you won’t be bridesmaid! is that your last word?” + +“It is; you must not be angry with me, Anne Dixon,” said Libbie, +deprecatingly. + +But Anne was gone without a reply. + +With a heavy heart Libbie mounted the little staircase, for she felt +how ungracious her refusal of Anne’s kindness must appear, to one who +understood so little the feelings which rendered her acceptance of it a +moral impossibility. + +On opening the door she saw Margaret Hall, with the Bible open on the +table before her. For she had puzzled out the place where Libbie was +reading, and, with her finger under the line, was spelling out the +words of consolation, piecing the syllables together aloud, with the +earnest anxiety of comprehension with which a child first learns to +read. So Libbie took the stool by her side, before she was aware that +any one had entered the room. + +“What did she want you for?” asked Margaret. “But I can guess; she +wanted you to be at th’ wedding that is to come off this week, they +say. Ay, they’ll marry, and laugh, and dance, all as one as if my boy +was alive,” said she, bitterly. “Well, he was neither kith nor kin of +yours, so I maun try and be thankful for what you’ve done for him, and +not wonder at your forgetting him afore he’s well settled in his grave.” + +“I never can forget him, and I’m not going to the wedding,” said +Libbie, quietly, for she understood the mother’s jealousy of her dead +child’s claims. + +“I must go work at Mrs. Williams’ to-morrow,” she said, in explanation, +for she was unwilling to boast of her tender, fond regret, which had +been her principal motive for declining Anne’s invitation. + +“And I mun go washing, just as if nothing had happened,” sighed forth +Mrs. Hall, “and I mun come home at night, and find his place empty, +and all still where I used to be sure of hearing his voice ere ever +I got up the stair: no one will ever call me mother again.” She fell +crying pitifully, and Libbie could not speak for her own emotion for +some time. But during this silence she put the keystone in the arch of +thoughts she had been building up for many days; and when Margaret was +again calm in her sorrow, Libbie said, “Mrs. Hall, I should like—would +you like me to come for to live here altogether?” + +Margaret Hall looked up with a sudden light in her countenance, which +encouraged Libbie to go on. + +“I could sleep with you, and pay half, you know; and we should be +together in the evenings; and her as was home first would watch for the +other, and” (dropping her voice) “we could talk of him at nights, you +know.” + +She was going on, but Mrs. Hall interrupted her. + +“Oh, Libbie Marsh! and can you really think of coming to live wi’ me. I +should like it above—but no! it must not be; you’ve no notion on what +a creature I am, at times; more like a mad one when I’m in a rage, +and I cannot keep it down. I seem to get out of bed wrong side in the +morning, and I must have my passion out with the first person I meet. +Why, Libbie,” said she, with a doleful look of agony on her face, “I +even used to fly out on him, poor sick lad as he was, and you may judge +how little you can keep it down frae that. No, you must not come. I +must live alone now,” sinking her voice into the low tones of despair. + +But Libbie’s resolution was brave and strong. “I’m not afraid,” said +she, smiling. “I know you better than you know yourself, Mrs. Hall. +I’ve seen you try of late to keep it down, when you’ve been boiling +over, and I think you’ll go on a-doing so. And at any rate, when you’ve +had your fit out, you’re very kind, and I can forget if you’ve been a +bit put out. But I’ll try not to put you out. Do let me come: I think +_he_ would like us to keep together. I’ll do my very best to make you +comfortable.” + +“It’s me! it’s me as will be making your life miserable with my temper; +or else, God knows, how my heart clings to you. You and me is folk +alone in the world, for we both loved one who is dead, and who had +none else to love him. If you will live with me, Libbie, I’ll try as I +never did afore to be gentle and quiet-tempered. Oh! will you try me, +Libbie Marsh?” So out of the little grave there sprang a hope and a +resolution, which made life an object to each of the two. + + +When Elizabeth Marsh returned home the next evening from her day’s +labours, Anne (Dixon no longer) crossed over, all in her bridal finery, +to endeavour to induce her to join the dance going on in her father’s +house. + +“Dear Anne, this is good of you, a-thinking of me to-night,” said +Libbie, kissing her, “and though I cannot come,—I’ve promised Mrs. Hall +to be with her,—I shall think on you, and I trust you’ll be happy. I +have got a little needle-case I have looked out for you; stay, here it +is,—I wish it were more—only——” + +“Only, I know what. You’ve been a-spending all your money in nice +things for poor Franky. Thou’rt a real good un, Libbie, and I’ll keep +your needle-book to my dying day, that I will.” Seeing Anne in such a +friendly mood, emboldened Libbie to tell her of her change of place; of +her intention of lodging henceforward with Margaret Hall. + +“Thou never will! Why father and mother are as fond of thee as can be; +they’ll lower thy rent if that’s what it is—and thou knowst they never +grudge thee bit or drop. And Margaret Hall, of all folk, to lodge wi’! +She’s such a Tartar! Sooner than not have a quarrel, she’d fight right +hand against left. Thou’lt have no peace of thy life. What on earth can +make you think of such a thing, Libbie Marsh?” + +“She’ll be so lonely without me,” pleaded Libbie. “I’m sure I could +make her happier, even if she did scold me a bit now and then, than +she’d be a living alone, and I’m not afraid of her; and I mean to do my +best not to vex her: and it will ease her heart, maybe, to talk to me +at times about Franky. I shall often see your father and mother, and I +shall always thank them for their kindness to me. But they have you and +little Mary, and poor Mrs. Hall has no one.” + +Anne could only repeat, “Well, I never!” and hurry off to tell the news +at home. + +But Libbie was right. Margaret Hall is a different woman to the scold +of the neighbourhood she once was; touched and softened by the two +purifying angels, Sorrow and Love. And it is beautiful to see her +affection, her reverence, for Libbie Marsh. Her dead mother could +hardly have cared for her more tenderly than does the hard-hearted +washerwoman, not long ago so fierce and unwomanly. Libbie, herself, has +such peace shining on her countenance, as almost makes it beautiful, as +she tenders the services of a daughter to Franky’s mother, no longer +the desolate lonely orphan, a stranger on the earth. + + +Do you ever read the moral, concluding sentence of a story? I never do, +but I once (in the year 1811, I think) heard of a deaf old lady, living +by herself, who did; and as she may have left some descendants with +the same amiable peculiarity, I will put in, for their benefit, what I +believe to be the secret of Libbie’s peace of mind, the real reason why +she no longer feels oppressed at her own loneliness in the world,— + + +She has a purpose in life; and that purpose is a holy one. + + + + +CHRISTMAS STORMS AND SUNSHINE. + + +In the town of —— (no matter where) there circulated two local +newspapers (no matter when). Now the _Flying Post_ was long established +and respectable—alias bigoted and Tory; the _Examiner_ was spirited +and intelligent—alias new-fangled and democratic. Every week these +newspapers contained articles abusing each other; as cross and peppery +as articles could be, and evidently the production of irritated minds, +although they seemed to have one stereotyped commencement,—“Though +the article appearing in last week’s _Post_ (or _Examiner_) is below +contempt, yet we have been induced,” &c., &c., and every Saturday the +Radical shopkeepers shook hands together, and agreed that the _Post_ +was done for, by the slashing, clever _Examiner_; while the more +dignified Tories began by regretting that Johnson should think that low +paper, only read by a few of the vulgar, worth wasting his wit upon; +however the _Examiner_ was at its last gasp. + +It was not though. It lived and flourished; at least it paid its way, +as one of the heroes of my story could tell. He was chief compositor, +or whatever title may be given to the head-man of the mechanical +part of a newspaper. He hardly confined himself to that department. +Once or twice, unknown to the editor, when the manuscript had fallen +short, he had filled up the vacant space by compositions of his own; +announcements of a forthcoming crop of green peas in December; a +grey thrush having been seen, or a white hare, or such interesting +phenomena; invented for the occasion, I must confess; but what of that? +His wife always knew when to expect a little specimen of her husband’s +literary talent by a peculiar cough, which served as prelude; and, +judging from this encouraging sign, and the high-pitched and emphatic +voice in which he read them, she was inclined to think, that an “Ode +to an early Rose-bud,” in the corner devoted to original poetry, and +a letter in the correspondence department, signed “Pro Bono Publico,” +were her husband’s writing, and to hold up her head accordingly. + +I never could find out what it was that occasioned the Hodgsons to +lodge in the same house as the Jenkinses. Jenkins held the same office +in the Tory paper as Hodgson did in the _Examiner_, and, as I said +before, I leave you to give it a name. But Jenkins had a proper sense +of his position, and a proper reverence for all in authority, from the +king down to the editor and sub-editor. He would as soon have thought +of borrowing the king’s crown for a nightcap, or the king’s sceptre +for a walking-stick, as he would have thought of filling up any spare +corner with any production of his own; and I think it would have even +added to his contempt of Hodgson (if that were possible), had he known +of the “productions of his brain,” as the latter fondly alluded to the +paragraphs he inserted, when speaking to his wife. + +Jenkins had his wife too. Wives were wanting to finish the completeness +of the quarrel, which existed one memorable Christmas week, some dozen +years ago, between the two neighbours, the two compositors. And with +wives, it was a very pretty, a very complete quarrel. To make the +opposing parties still more equal, still more well-matched, if the +Hodgsons had a baby (“such a baby!—a poor, puny little thing”), Mrs. +Jenkins had a cat (“such a cat! a great, nasty, miowling tom-cat, that +was always stealing the milk put by for little Angel’s supper”). And +now, having matched Greek with Greek, I must proceed to the tug of war. +It was the day before Christmas; such a cold east wind! such an inky +sky! such a blue-black look in people’s faces, as they were driven +out more than usual, to complete their purchases for the next day’s +festival. + +Before leaving home that morning, Jenkins had given some money to his +wife to buy the next day’s dinner. + +“My dear, I wish for turkey and sausages. It may be a weakness, but +I own I am partial to sausages. My deceased mother was. Such tastes +are hereditary. As to the sweets—whether plum-pudding or mince-pies—I +leave such considerations to you; I only beg you not to mind expense. +Christmas comes but once a year.” + +And again he had called out from the bottom of the first flight of +stairs, just close to the Hodgsons’ door (“such ostentatiousness,” as +Mrs. Hodgson observed), “You will not forget the sausages, my dear?” + +“I should have liked to have had something above common, Mary,” said +Hodgson, as they too made their plans for the next day, “but I think +roast beef must do for us. You see, love, we’ve a family.” + +“Only one, Jem! I don’t want more than roast beef, though, I’m sure. +Before I went to service, mother and me would have thought roast beef a +very fine dinner.” + +“Well, let’s settle it then, roast beef and a plum-pudding; and now, +good-by. Mind and take care of little Tom. I thought he was a bit +hoarse this morning.” + +And off he went to his work. + +Now, it was a good while since Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Hodgson had spoken +to each other, although they were quite as much in possession of the +knowledge of events and opinions as though they did. Mary knew that +Mrs. Jenkins despised her for not having a real lace cap, which Mrs. +Jenkins had; and for having been a servant, which Mrs. Jenkins had not; +and the little occasional pinchings which the Hodgsons were obliged +to resort to, to make both ends meet, would have been very patiently +endured by Mary, if she had not winced under Mrs. Jenkins’s knowledge +of such economy. But she had her revenge. She had a child, and Mrs. +Jenkins had none. To have had a child, even such a puny baby as little +Tom, Mrs. Jenkins would have worn commonest caps, and cleaned grates, +and drudged her fingers to the bone. The great unspoken disappointment +of her life soured her temper, and turned her thoughts inward, and made +her morbid and selfish. + +“Hang that cat! he’s been stealing again! he’s gnawed the cold mutton +in his nasty mouth till it’s not fit to set before a Christian; and +I’ve nothing else for Jem’s dinner. But I’ll give it him now I’ve +caught him, that I will!” + +So saying, Mary Hodgson caught up her husband’s Sunday cane, and +despite pussy’s cries and scratches, she gave him such a beating as she +hoped might cure him of his thievish propensities; when lo! and behold, +Mrs. Jenkins stood at the door with a face of bitter wrath. + +“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, ma’am, to abuse a poor dumb animal, +ma’am, as knows no better than to take food when he sees it, ma’am? He +only follows the nature which God has given, ma’am; and it’s a pity +your nature, ma’am, which I’ve heard, is of the stingy saving species, +does not make you shut your cupboard-door a little closer. There is +such a thing as law for brute animals. I’ll ask Mr. Jenkins, but I +don’t think them Radicals has done away with that law yet, for all +their Reform Bill, ma’am. My poor precious love of a Tommy, is he hurt? +and is his leg broke for taking a mouthful of scraps, as most people +would give away to a beggar,—if he’d take ’em?” wound up Mrs. Jenkins, +casting a contemptuous look on the remnant of a scrag end of mutton. + +Mary felt very angry and very guilty. For she really pitied the poor +limping animal as he crept up to his mistress, and there lay down to +bemoan himself; she wished she had not beaten him so hard, for it +certainly was her own careless way of never shutting the cupboard-door +that had tempted him to his fault. But the sneer at her little bit of +mutton turned her penitence to fresh wrath, and she shut the door in +Mrs. Jenkins’s face, as she stood caressing her cat in the lobby, with +such a bang, that it wakened little Tom, and he began to cry. + +Everything was to go wrong with Mary to-day. Now baby was awake, who +was to take her husband’s dinner to the office? She took the child in +her arms, and tried to hush him off to sleep again, and as she sung she +cried, she could hardly tell why,—a sort of reaction from her violent +angry feelings. She wished she had never beaten the poor cat; she +wondered if his leg was really broken. What would her mother say if she +knew how cross and cruel her little Mary was getting? If she should +live to beat her child in one of her angry fits? + +It was of no use lullabying while she sobbed so; it must be given up, +and she must just carry her baby in her arms, and take him with her +to the office, for it was long past dinner-time. So she pared the +mutton carefully, although by so doing she reduced the meat to an +infinitesimal quantity, and taking the baked potatoes out of the oven, +she popped them piping hot into her basket with the et-cæteras of +plate, butter, salt, and knife and fork. + +It was, indeed, a bitter wind. She bent against it as she ran, and the +flakes of snow were sharp and cutting as ice. Baby cried all the way, +though she cuddled him up in her shawl. Then her husband had made his +appetite up for a potato pie, and (literary man as he was) his body got +so much the better of his mind, that he looked rather black at the cold +mutton. Mary had no appetite for her own dinner when she arrived at +home again. So, after she had tried to feed baby, and he had fretfully +refused to take his bread and milk, she laid him down as usual on his +quilt, surrounded by playthings, while she sided away, and chopped +suet for the next day’s pudding. Early in the afternoon a parcel came, +done up first in brown paper, then in such a white, grass-bleached, +sweet-smelling towel, and a note from her dear, dear mother; in which +quaint writing she endeavoured to tell her daughter that she was not +forgotten at Christmas time; but that learning that Farmer Burton was +killing his pig, she had made interest for some of his famous pork, out +of which she had manufactured some sausages, and flavoured them just as +Mary used to like when she lived at home. + +“Dear, dear mother!” said Mary to herself. “There never was any one +like her for remembering other folk. What rare sausages she used to +make! Home things have a smack with ’em, no bought things can ever +have. Set them up with their sausages! I’ve a notion if Mrs. Jenkins +had ever tasted mother’s she’d have no fancy for them town-made things +Fanny took in just now.” + +And so she went on thinking about home, till the smiles and the dimples +came out again at the remembrance of that pretty cottage, which would +look green even now in the depth of winter, with its pyracanthus, and +its holly-bushes, and the great Portugal laurel that was her mother’s +pride. And the back path through the orchard to Farmer Burton’s; how +well she remembered it. The bushels of unripe apples she had picked +up there, and distributed among his pigs, till he had scolded her for +giving them so much green trash. + +She was interrupted—her baby (I call him a baby, because his father and +mother did, and because he was so little of his age, but I rather think +he was eighteen months old,) had fallen asleep some time before among +his playthings; an uneasy, restless sleep; but of which Mary had been +thankful, as his morning’s nap had been too short, and as she was so +busy. But now he began to make such a strange crowing noise, just like +a chair drawn heavily and gratingly along a kitchen-floor! His eyes was +open, but expressive of nothing but pain. + +“Mother’s darling!” said Mary, in terror, lifting him up. “Baby, try +not to make that noise. Hush, hush, darling; what hurts him?” But the +noise came worse and worse. + +“Fanny! Fanny!” Mary called in mortal fright, for her baby was almost +black with his gasping breath, and she had no one to ask for aid or +sympathy but her landlady’s daughter, a little girl of twelve or +thirteen, who attended to the house in her mother’s absence, as daily +cook in gentlemen’s families. Fanny was more especially considered the +attendant of the upstairs lodgers (who paid for the use of the kitchin, +“for Jenkins could not abide the smell of meat cooking”), but just +now she was fortunately sitting at her afternoon’s work of darning +stockings, and hearing Mrs. Hodgson’s cry of terror, she ran to her +sitting-room, and understood the case at a glance. + +“He’s got the croup! Oh, Mrs. Hodgson, he’ll die as sure as fate. +Little brother had it, and he died in no time. The doctor said he +could do nothing for him—it had gone too far. He said if we’d put him +in a warm bath at first, it might have saved him; but, bless you! he +was never half so bad as your baby.” Unconsciously there mingled in +her statement some of a child’s love of producing an effect; but the +increasing danger was clear enough. + +“Oh, my baby! my baby! Oh, love, love! don’t look so ill; I cannot bear +it. And my fire so low! There, I was thinking of home, and picking +currants, and never minding the fire. Oh, Fanny! what is the fire like +in the kitchen? Speak.” + +“Mother told me to screw it up, and throw some slack on as soon as Mrs. +Jenkins had done with it, and so I did. It’s very low and black. But, +oh, Mrs. Hodgson! let me run for the doctor—I cannot abear to hear him, +it’s so like little brother.” + +Through her streaming tears Mary motioned her to go; and trembling, +sinking, sick at heart, she laid her boy in his cradle, and ran to fill +her kettle. + +Mrs. Jenkins, having cooked her husband’s snug little dinner, to which +he came home; having told him her story of pussy’s beating, at which +he was justly and dignifiedly indignant, saying it was all of a piece +with that abusive _Examiner_; having received the sausages, and turkey, +and mince pies, which her husband had ordered; and cleaned up the room, +and prepared everything for tea, and coaxed and duly bemoaned her cat +(who had pretty nearly forgotten his beating, but very much enjoyed the +petting), having done all these and many other things, Mrs. Jenkins +sate down to get up the real lace cap. Every thread was pulled out +separately, and carefully stretched: when, what was that? Outside, in +the street, a chorus of piping children’s voices sang the old carol she +had heard a hundred times in the days of her youth:— + + “As Joseph was a walking he heard an angel sing, + ‘This night shall be born our heavenly King. + He neither shall be born in housen nor in hall, + Nor in the place of Paradise, but in an ox’s stall. + He neither shall be clothed in purple nor in pall, + But all in fair linen, as were babies all: + He neither shall be rocked in silver nor in gold, + But in a wooden cradle that rocks on the mould,’” &c. + +She got up and went to the window. There, below, stood the group +of grey black little figures, relieved against the snow, which now +enveloped everything. “For old sake’s sake,” as she phrased it, she +counted out a halfpenny apiece for the singers, out of the copper bag, +and threw them down below. + +The room had become chilly while she had been counting out and throwing +down her money, so she stirred her already glowing fire, and sat down +right before it—but not to stretch her lace; like Mary Hodgson, she +began to think over long-past days, on softening remembrances of the +dead and gone, on words long forgotten, on holy stories heard at her +mother’s knee. + +“I cannot think what’s come over me to-night,” said she, half aloud, +recovering herself by the sound of her own voice from her train of +thought—“My head goes wandering on them old times. I’m sure more texts +have come into my head with thinking on my mother within this last half +hour, than I’ve thought on for years and years. I hope I’m not going to +die. Folks say, thinking too much on the dead betokens we’re going to +join ’em; I should be loth to go just yet—such a fine turkey as we’ve +got for dinner to-morrow, too!” + +Knock, knock, knock, at the door, as fast as knuckles could go. And +then, as if the comer could not wait, the door was opened, and Mary +Hodgson stood there as white as death. + +“Mrs. Jenkins!—oh, your kettle is boiling, thank God! Let me have the +water for my baby, for the love of God! He’s got croup, and is dying!” + +Mrs. Jenkins turned on her chair with a wooden inflexible look on her +face, that (between ourselves) her husband knew and dreaded for all his +pompous dignity. + +“I’m sorry I can’t oblige you, ma’am; my kettle is wanted for my +husband’s tea. Don’t be afeared, Tommy, Mrs. Hodgson won’t venture to +intrude herself where she’s not desired. You’d better send for the +doctor, ma’am, instead of wasting your time in wringing your hands, +ma’am—my kettle is engaged.” + +Mary clasped her hands together with passionate force, but spoke no +word of entreaty to that wooden face—that sharp, determined voice; but, +as she turned away, she prayed for strength to bear the coming trial, +and strength to forgive Mrs. Jenkins. + +Mrs. Jenkins watched her go away meekly, as one who has no hope, and +then she turned upon herself as sharply as she ever did on any one else. + +“What a brute I am, Lord forgive me! What’s my husband’s tea to a +baby’s life? In croup, too, where time is everything. You crabbed old +vixen, you!—any one may know you never had a child!” + +She was down stairs (kettle in hand) before she had finished her +self-upbraiding; and when in Mrs. Hodgson’s room, she rejected all +thanks (Mary had not the voice for many words), saying, stiffly, “I do +it for the poor babby’s sake, ma’am, hoping he may live to have mercy +to poor dumb beasts, if he does forget to lock his cupboards.” + +But she did everything, and more than Mary, with her young +inexperience, could have thought of. She prepared the warm bath, +and tried it with her husband’s own thermometer (Mr. Jenkins was as +punctual as clockwork in noting down the temperature of every day). +She let his mother place her baby in the tub, still preserving the +same rigid, affronted aspect, and then she went upstairs without a +word. Mary longed to ask her to stay, but dared not; though, when she +left the room, the tears chased each other down her cheeks faster than +ever. Poor young mother! how she counted the minutes till the doctor +should come. But, before he came, down again stalked Mrs. Jenkins, with +something in her hand. + +“I’ve seen many of these croup-fits, which, I take it, you’ve not, +ma’am. Mustard plaisters is very sovereign, put on the throat; I’ve +been up and made one, ma’am, and, by your leave, I’ll put it on the +poor little fellow.” + +Mary could not speak, but she signed her grateful assent. + +It began to smart while they still kept silence; and he looked up to +his mother as if seeking courage from her looks to bear the stinging +pain; but she was softly crying, to see him suffer, and her want of +courage reacted upon him, and he began to sob aloud. Instantly Mrs. +Jenkins’s apron was up, hiding her face: “Peep-bo, baby,” said she, as +merrily as she could. His little face brightened, and his mother having +once got the cue, the two women kept the little fellow amused, until +his plaister had taken effect. + +“He’s better,—oh, Mrs. Jenkins, look at his eyes! how different! And he +breathes quite softly——” + +As Mary spoke thus, the doctor entered. He examined his patient. Baby +was really better. + +“It has been a sharp attack, but the remedies you have applied have +been worth all the Pharmacopoeia an hour later.—I shall send a powder,” +&c. &c. + +Mrs. Jenkins stayed to hear this opinion; and (her heart wonderfully +more easy) was going to leave the room, when Mary seized her hand and +kissed it; she could not speak her gratitude. + +Mrs. Jenkins looked affronted and awkward, and as if she must go +upstairs and wash her hand directly. + +But, in spite of these sour looks, she came softly down an hour or so +afterwards to see how baby was. + +The little gentleman slept well after the fright he had given his +friends; and on Christmas morning, when Mary awoke and looked at the +sweet little pale face lying on her arm, she could hardly realize the +danger he had been in. + +When she came down (later than usual), she found the household in +a commotion. What do you think had happened? Why, pussy had been a +traitor to his best friend, and eaten up some of Mr. Jenkins’s own +especial sausages; and gnawed and tumbled the rest so, that they were +not fit to be eaten! There were no bounds to that cat’s appetite! he +would have eaten his own father if he had been tender enough. And now +Mrs. Jenkins stormed and cried—“Hang the cat!” + +Christmas Day, too! and all the shops shut! “What was turkey without +sausages?” gruffly asked Mr. Jenkins. + +“Oh, Jem!” whispered Mary, “hearken what a piece of work he’s making +about sausages,—I should like to take Mrs. Jenkins up some of mother’s; +they’re twice as good as bought sausages.” + +“I see no objection, my dear. Sausages do not involve intimacies, else +his politics are what I can no ways respect.” + +“But, oh, Jem, if you had seen her last night about baby! I’m sure +she may scold me for ever, and I’ll not answer. I’d even make her cat +welcome to the sausages.” The tears gathered to Mary’s eyes as she +kissed her boy. + +“Better take ’em upstairs, my dear, and give them to the cat’s +mistress.” And Jem chuckled at his saying. + +Mary put them on a plate, but still she loitered. + +“What must I say, Jem? I never know.” + +“Say—I hope you’ll accept of these sausages, as my mother—no, that’s +not grammar;—say what comes uppermost, Mary, it will be sure to be +right.” + +So Mary carried them upstairs and knocked at the door; and when told to +“come in,” she looked very red, but went up to Mrs. Jenkins, saying, +“Please take these. Mother made them.” And was away before an answer +could be given. + +Just as Hodgson was ready to go to church, Mrs. Jenkins came +downstairs, and called Fanny. In a minute, the latter entered the +Hodgsons’ room, and delivered Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins’s compliments, and +they would be particular glad if Mr. and Mrs. Hodgson would eat their +dinner with them. + +“And carry baby upstairs in a shawl, be sure,” added Mrs. Jenkins’s +voice in the passage, close to the door, whither she had followed her +messenger. There was no discussing the matter, with the certainty of +every word being overheard. + +Mary looked anxiously at her husband. She remembered his saying he did +not approve of Mr. Jenkins’s politics. + +“Do you think it would do for baby?” asked he. + +“Oh, yes,” answered she, eagerly; “I would wrap him up so warm.” + +“And I’ve got our room up to sixty-five already, for all it’s so +frosty,” added the voice outside. + +Now, how do you think they settled the matter? The very best way in +the world. Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins came down into the Hodgsons’ room, and +dined there. Turkey at the top, roast beef at the bottom, sausages at +one side, potatoes at the other. Second course, plum-pudding at the +top, and mince pies at the bottom. + +And after dinner, Mrs. Jenkins would have baby on her knee; and he +seemed quite to take to her; she declared he was admiring the real lace +on her cap, but Mary thought (though she did not say so) that he was +pleased by her kind looks and coaxing words. Then he was wrapped up and +carried carefully upstairs to tea, in Mrs. Jenkins’s room. And after +tea, Mrs. Jenkins, and Mary, and her husband, found out each other’s +mutual liking for music, and sat singing old glees and catches, till I +don’t know what o’clock, without one word of politics or newspapers. + +Before they parted, Mary had coaxed pussy on to her knee; for Mrs. +Jenkins would not part with baby, who was sleeping on her lap. + +“When you’re busy, bring him to me. Do, now, it will be a real favour. +I know you must have a deal to do, with another coming; let him come +up to me. I’ll take the greatest of cares of him; pretty darling, how +sweet he looks when he’s asleep!” + +When the couples were once more alone, the husbands unburdened their +minds to their wives. + +Mr. Jenkins said to his—“Do you know, Burgess tried to make me believe +Hodgson was such a fool as to put paragraphs into the _Examiner_ now +and then; but I see he knows his place, and has got too much sense to +do any such thing.” + +Hodgson said—“Mary, love, I almost fancy from Jenkins’s way of speaking +(so much civiler than I expected), he guesses I wrote that ‘Pro Bono’ +and the ‘Rose-bud,’—at any rate, I’ve no objection to your naming it, +if the subject should come uppermost; I should like him to know I’m a +literary man.” + +Well! I’ve ended my tale; I hope you don’t think it too long; but, +before I go, just let me say one thing. + +If any of you have any quarrels, or misunderstandings, or coolnesses, +or cold shoulders, or shynesses, or tiffs, or miffs, or huffs, with +any one else, just make friends before Christmas,—you will be so much +merrier if you do. + +I ask it of you for the sake of that old angelic song, heard so many +years ago by the shepherds, keeping watch by night, on Bethlehem +Heights. + + + + +HAND AND HEART. + + +“Mother, I should so like to have a great deal of money,” said little +Tom Fletcher one evening, as he sat on a low stool by his mother’s +knee. His mother was knitting busily by the firelight, and they had +both been silent for some time. + +“What would you do with a great deal of money if you had it?” + +“Oh! I don’t know—I would do a great many things. But should not you +like to have a great deal of money, mother?” persisted he. + +“Perhaps I should,” answered Mrs. Fletcher. “I am like you sometimes, +dear, and think that I should be very glad of a little more money. But +then I don’t think I am like you in one thing, for I have always some +little plan in my mind, for which I should want the money. I never wish +for it just for its own sake.” + +“Why, mother! there are so many things we could do if we had but +money;—real good, wise things I mean.” + +“And if we have real good, wise things in our head to do, which cannot +be done without money, I can quite enter into the wish for money. But +you know, my little boy, you did not tell me of any good or wise thing.” + +“No! I believe I was not thinking of good or wise things just then, but +only how much I should like money to do what I liked,” answered little +Tom ingenuously, looking up in his mother’s face. She smiled down upon +him, and stroked his head. He knew she was pleased with him for having +told her openly what was passing in his mind. Presently he began again. + +“Mother, if you wanted to do something very good and wise, and if you +could not do it without money, what should you do?” + +“There are two ways of obtaining money for such wants; one is by +earning; and the other is by saving. Now both are good, because both +imply self-denial. Do you understand me, Tom? If you have to earn +money, you must steadily go on doing what you do not like perhaps; +such as working when you would like to be playing, or in bed, or +sitting talking with me over the fire. You deny yourself these little +pleasures; and that is a good habit in itself, to say nothing of the +industry and energy you have to exert in working. If you save money, +you can easily see how you exercise self-denial. You do without +something you wish for in order to possess the money it would have +cost. Inasmuch as self-denial, energy, and industry are all good +things, you do well either to earn or to save. But you see the purpose +for which you want the money must be taken into consideration. You say, +for ‘something wise and good.’ Either earning or saving becomes holy +in this case. I must then think which will be most consistent with my +other duties, before I decide whether I will earn or save money.” + +“I don’t quite know what you mean, mother.” + +“I will try and explain myself. You know I have to keep a little shop, +and to try and get employment in knitting stockings, and to clean my +house, and to mend our clothes, and many other things. Now, do you +think I should be doing my duty if I left you in the evenings, when +you come home from school, to go out as a waiter at ladies’ parties? I +could earn a good deal of money by it, and I could spend it well among +those who are poorer than I am (such as lame Harry), but then I should +be leaving you alone in the little time that we have to be together; +I do not think I should be doing right even for our ‘good and wise +purpose’ to earn money, if it took me away from you at nights: do you, +Tom?” + +“No, indeed; you never mean to do it, do you, mother?” + +“No,” said she, smiling; “at any rate not till you are older. You see +at present then, I cannot _earn_ money, if I want a little more than +usual to help a sick neighbour. I must then try and _save_ money. +Nearly every one can do that.” + +“Can _we_, mother? We are so careful of everything. Ned Dixon calls us +stingy: what could _we save_?” + +“Oh, many and many a little thing. We use many things which are +luxuries; which we do not want, but only use them for pleasure. Tea and +sugar—butter—our Sunday’s dinner of bacon or meat—the grey ribbon I +bought for my bonnet, because you thought it prettier than the black, +which was cheaper; all these are luxuries. We use very little tea or +sugar, it is true; but we might do without any.” + +“You did do without any, mother, for a long, long time, you know, to +help widow Black; it was only for your bad head-aches.” + +“Well! but you see we can save money; a penny, a halfpenny a day, or +even a penny a week, would in time make a little store ready to be +applied to the ‘good and wise’ purpose, when the time comes. But do you +know, my little boy, I think we may be considering money too much as +the only thing required if we want to do a kindness.” + +“If it is not the only thing, it is the chief thing, at any rate.” + +“No, love, it is not the chief thing. I should think very poorly of +that beggar who liked sixpence given with a curse (as I have sometimes +heard it), better than the kind and gentle words some people use in +refusing to give. The curse sinks deep into the heart; or if it does +not, it is a proof that the poor creature has been made hard before by +harsh treatment. And mere money can do little to cheer a sore heart. It +is kindness only that can do this. Now we have all of us kindness in +our power. The little child of two years old, who can only just totter +about, can show kindness?” + +“Can I, mother?” + +“To be sure, dear; and you often do, only perhaps not quite so often +as you might do. Neither do I. But instead of wishing for money (of +which I don’t think either you or I are ever likely to have much), +suppose you try to-morrow how you can make people happier, by thinking +of little loving actions of help. Let us try and take for our text, +‘Silver and gold I have none, but such as I have give I unto thee.’” + +“Ay, mother, we will.” + +Must I tell you about little Tom’s “to-morrow.” + +I do not know if little Tom dreamed of what his mother and he had been +talking about, but I do know that the first thing he thought about, +when he awoke in the morning, was his mother’s saying that he might +try how many kind actions he could do that day without money; and he +was so impatient to begin, that he jumped up and dressed himself, +although it was more than an hour before his usual time of getting +up. All the time he kept wondering what a little boy like him, only +eight years old, could do for other people; till at last he grew so +puzzled with inventing occasions for showing kindness, that he very +wisely determined to think no more about it, but learn his lessons very +perfectly; that was the first thing he had to do; and then he would +try, without too much planning beforehand, to keep himself ready to +lend a helping hand, or to give a kind word, when the right time came. +So he screwed himself into a corner, out of the way of his mother’s +sweeping and dusting, and tucked his feet up on the rail of the chair, +turned his face to the wall, and in about half an hour’s time, he could +turn round with a light heart, feeling he had learnt his lesson well, +and might employ his time as he liked till breakfast was ready. He +looked round the room; his mother had arranged all neatly, and was now +gone to the bedroom; but the coal-scuttle and the can for water were +empty, and Tom ran away to fill them; and as he came back with the +latter from the pump, he saw Ann Jones (the scold of the neighbourhood) +hanging out her clothes on a line stretched across from side to side of +the little court, and speaking very angrily and loudly to her little +girl, who was getting into some mischief in the house-place, as her +mother perceived through the open door. + +“There never were such plagues as my children are, to be sure,” said +Ann Jones, as she went into her house, looking very red and passionate. +Directly after, Tom heard the sound of a slap, and then a little +child’s cry of pain. + +“I wonder,” thought he, “if I durst go and offer to nurse and play +with little Hester. Ann Jones is fearful cross, and just as likely to +take me wrong as right; but she won’t box me for mother’s sake; mother +nursed Jemmy many a day through the fever, so she won’t slap me, I +think. Any rate, I’ll try.” But it was with a beating heart he said to +the fierce-looking Mrs. Jones, “Please, may I go and play with Hester. +May be I could keep her quiet while you’re busy hanging out clothes.” + +“What! and let you go slopping about, I suppose, just when I’d made +all ready for my master’s breakfast. Thank you, but my own children’s +mischief is as much as I reckon on; I’ll have none of strange lads in +my house.” + +“I did not mean to do mischief or slop,” said Tom, a little sadly at +being misunderstood in his good intentions. “I only wanted to help.” + +“If you want to help, lift me up those clothes’ pegs, and save me +stooping; my back’s broken with it.” + +Tom would much rather have gone to play with and amuse little Hester; +but it was true enough that giving Mrs. Jones the clothes’ pegs as she +wanted them would help her as much; and perhaps keep her from being so +cross with her children if they did anything to hinder her. Besides, +little Hester’s cry had died away, and she was evidently occupied in +some new pursuit (Tom could only hope that it was not in mischief this +time); so he began to give Ann the pegs as she wanted them, and she, +soothed by his kind help, opened her heart a little to him. + +“I wonder how it is your mother has trained you up to be so handy, Tom; +you’re as good as a girl—better than many a girl. I don’t think Hester +in three years’ time will be as thoughtful as you. There!” (as a fresh +scream reached them from the little ones inside the house), “they are +at some mischief again; but I’ll teach ’em,” said she, getting down +from her stool in a fresh access of passion. + +“Let me go,” said Tom, in a begging voice, for he dreaded the cruel +sound of another slap. “I’ll lift the basket of pegs on to a stool, +so that you need not stoop; and I’ll keep the little ones safe out of +mischief till you’re done. Do let me go, missus.” + +With some grumblings at losing his help, she let him go into the +house-place. He found Hester, a little girl of five, and two younger +ones. They had been fighting for a knife, and in the struggle, the +second, Johnnie, had cut his finger—not very badly, but he was +frightened at the sight of the blood; and Hester, who might have +helped, and who was really sorry, stood sullenly aloof, dreading the +scolding her mother always gave her if either of the little ones hurt +themselves while under her care. + +“Hester,” said Tom, “will you get me some cold water, please? it will +stop the bleeding better than anything. I daresay you can find me a +basin to hold it.” + +Hester trotted off, pleased at Tom’s confidence in her power. When the +bleeding was partly stopped, he asked her to find him a bit of rag, and +she scrambled under the dresser for a little piece she had hidden there +the day before. Meanwhile, Johnny ceased crying, he was so interested +in all the preparation for dressing his little wound, and so much +pleased to find himself an object of so much attention and consequence. +The baby, too, sat on the floor, gravely wondering at the commotion; +and thus busily occupied, they were quiet and out of mischief till Ann +Jones came in, and, having hung out her clothes, and finished that +morning’s piece of work, she was ready to attend to her children in her +rough, hasty kind of way. + +[Illustration p. 220: The Cut Finger.] + +“Well! I’m sure, Tom, you’ve tied it up as neatly as I could have done. +I wish I’d always such an one as you to see after the children; but you +must run off now, lad, your mother was calling you as I came in, and I +said I’d send you—good-by, and thank you.” + +As Tom was going away, the baby, sitting in square gravity on the +floor, but somehow conscious of Tom’s gentle helpful ways, put up +her mouth to be kissed; and he stooped down in answer to the little +gesture, feeling very happy, and very full of love and kindliness. + +After breakfast, his mother told him it was school time, and he must +set off, as she did not like him to run in out of breath and flurried, +just when the schoolmaster was going to begin; but she wished him to +come in decently and in order, with quiet decorum, and thoughtfulness +as to what he was going to do. So Tom got his cap and his bag, and went +off with a light heart, which I suppose made his footsteps light, for +he found himself above half way to school while it wanted yet a quarter +to the time. So he slackened his pace, and looked about him a little +more than he had been doing. There was a little girl on the other side +of the street carrying a great big basket, and lugging along a little +child just able to walk; but who, I suppose, was tired, for he was +crying pitifully, and sitting down every two or three steps. Tom ran +across the street, for, as perhaps you have found out, he was very fond +of babies, and could not bear to hear them cry. + +“Little girl, what is he crying about? Does he want to be carried? I’ll +take him up, and carry him as far as I go alongside of you.” + +So saying, Tom was going to suit the action to the word; but the +baby did not choose that any one should carry him but his sister, +and refused Tom’s kindness. Still he could carry the heavy basket of +potatoes for the little girl, which he did as far as their road lay +together, when she thanked him, and bade him good-by, and said she +could manage very well now, her home was so near. So Tom went into +school very happy and peaceful; and had a good character to take home +to his mother for that morning’s lesson. + +It happened that this very day was the weekly half-holiday, so that +Tom had many hours unoccupied that afternoon. Of course, his first +employment after dinner was to learn his lessons for the next day; and +then, when he had put his books away, he began to wonder what he should +do next. + +He stood lounging against the door wishing all manner of idle wishes; +a habit he was apt to fall into. He wished he were the little boy +who lived opposite, who had three brothers ready to play with him on +half-holidays; he wished he were Sam Harrison, whose father had taken +him one day a trip by the railroad; he wished he were the little boy +who always went with the omnibuses,—it must be so pleasant to go +riding about on the step, and to see so many people; he wished he +were a sailor, to sail away to the countries where grapes grew wild, +and monkeys and parrots were to be had for the catching. Just as he +was wishing himself the little Prince of Wales, to drive about in a +goat-carriage, and wondering if he should not feel very shy with the +three great ostrich-feathers always niddle-noddling on his head, for +people to know him by, his mother came from washing up the dishes, and +saw him deep in the reveries little boys and girls are apt to fall into +when they are the only children in a house. + +“My dear Tom,” said she, “why don’t you go out, and make the most of +this fine afternoon?” + +“Oh, mother,” answered he (suddenly recalled to the fact that he was +little Tom Fletcher, instead of the Prince of Wales, and consequently +feeling a little bit flat), “it is so dull going out by myself. I have +no one to play with. Can’t you go with me, mother—just this once, into +the fields?” + +Poor Mrs. Fletcher heartily wished she could gratify this very natural +desire of her little boy; but she had the shop to mind, and many a +little thing besides to do; it was impossible. But however much she +might regret a thing, she was too faithful to repine. So, after a +moment’s thought, she said, cheerfully, “Go into the fields for a walk, +and see how many wild flowers you can bring me home, and I’ll get down +father’s jug for you to put them in when you come back.” + +“But, mother, there are so few pretty flowers near a town,” said Tom, +a little unwillingly, for it was a coming down from being Prince of +Wales, and he was not yet quite reconciled to it. + +“Oh dear! there are a great many if you’ll only look for them. I dare +say you’ll make me up as many as twenty different kinds.” + +“Will you reckon daisies, mother?” + +“To be sure; they are just as pretty as any.” + +“Oh, if you’ll reckon such as them, I dare say I can bring you more +than twenty.” + +So off he ran; his mother watching him till he was out of sight, and +then she returned to her work. In about two hours he came back, his +pale cheeks looking quite rosy, and his eyes quite bright. His country +walk, taken with cheerful spirits, had done him all the good his mother +desired, and had restored his usually even, happy temper. + +“Look, mother! here are three-and-twenty different kinds; you said I +might count all, so I have even counted this thing like a nettle with +lilac flowers, and this little common blue thing.” + +“Robin-run-in-the-hedge is its name,” said his mother. “It’s very +pretty if you look at it close. One, two, three”—she counted them all +over, and there really were three-and-twenty. She went to reach down +the best jug. + +“Mother,” said little Tom, “do you like them very much?” + +“Yes, very much,” said she, not understanding his meaning. He was +silent, and gave a little sigh. “Why, my dear?” + +“Oh, only—it does not signify if you like them very much; but I thought +how nice it would be to take them to lame Harry, who can never walk so +far as the fields, and can hardly know what summer is like, I think.” + +“Oh, that will be very nice; I am glad you thought of it.” + +Lame Harry was sitting by himself, very patiently, in a neighbouring +cellar. He was supported by his daughter’s earnings; but as she worked +in a factory, he was much alone. + +If the bunch of flowers had looked pretty in the fields, they looked +ten times as pretty in the cellar to which they were now carried. Lame +Harry’s eyes brightened up with pleasure at the sight; and he began to +talk of the times long ago, when he was a little boy in the country, +and had a corner of his father’s garden to call his own, and grow +lad’s-love and wall-flower in. Little Tom put them in water for him, +and put the jug on the table by him; on which his daughter had placed +the old Bible, worn with much reading, although treated with careful +reverence. It was lying open, with Harry’s horn spectacles put in to +mark the place. + +“I reckon my spectacles are getting worn out; they are not so clear +as they used to be; they are dim-like before my eyes, and it hurts me +to read long together,” said Harry. “It’s a sad miss to me. I never +thought the time long when I could read; but now I keep wearying for +the day to be over, though the nights, when I cannot sleep for my legs +paining me, are almost as bad. However, it’s the Lord’s will.” + +“Would you like me—I cannot read very well aloud, but I’d do my best, +if you’d like me to read a bit to you. I’ll just run home and get my +tea, and be back directly.” And off Tom ran. + +He found it very pleasant reading aloud to lame Harry, for the old man +had so much to say that was worth listening to, and was so glad of a +listener, that I think there was as much talking as reading done that +evening. But the Bible served as a text-book to their conversation; +for in a long life old Harry had seen and heard so much, which he +had connected with events, or promises, or precepts contained in the +Scriptures, that it was quite curious to find how everything was +brought in and dove-tailed, as an illustration of what they were +reading. + +When Tom got up to go away, lame Harry gave him many thanks, and told +him he would not sleep the worse for having made an old man’s evening +so pleasant. Tom came home in high self-satisfaction. “Mother,” said +he, “it’s all very true what you said about the good that may be done +without money: I’ve done many pieces of good to-day without a farthing. +First,” said he, taking hold of his little finger, “I helped Ann Jones +with hanging out her clothes when she was”— + +His mother had been listening while she turned over the pages of the +New Testament which lay by her, and now having found what she wanted, +she put her arm gently round his waist, and drew him fondly towards +her. He saw her finger put under one passage, and read,— + +“Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth.” + +He was silent in a moment. + +Then his mother spoke in her soft low voice:—“Dearest Tom, though I +don’t want us to talk about it, as if you had been doing more than just +what you ought, I am glad you have seen the truth of what I said; how +far more may be done by the loving heart than by mere money-giving; and +every one may have the loving heart.” + +I have told you of one day of little Tom’s life, when he was eight +years old, and lived with his mother. I must now pass over a year, and +tell you of a very different kind of life he had then to lead. His +mother had never been very strong, and had had a good deal of anxiety; +at last she was taken ill, and soon felt that there was no hope for +her recovery. For a long time the thought of leaving her little boy +was a great distress to her, and a great trial to her faith. But God +strengthened her, and sent his peace into her soul, and before her +death she was content to leave her precious child in his hands, who is +a Father to the fatherless, and defendeth the cause of the widow. + +When she felt that she had not many more days to live, she sent for her +husband’s brother, who lived in a town not many miles off; and gave her +little Tom in charge to him to bring up. + +“There are a few pounds in the savings-bank—I don’t know how many +exactly—and the furniture and bit of stock in the shop; perhaps they +would be enough to bring him up to be a joiner, like his father before +him.” + +She spoke feebly, and with many pauses. Her brother-in-law, though a +rough kind of man, wished to do all he could to make her feel easy in +her last moments, and touched with the reference to his dead brother, +promised all she required. + +“I’ll take him back with me after”—the funeral, he was going to say, +but he stopped. She smiled gently, fully understanding his meaning. + +“We shall, may be, not be so tender with him as you’ve been; but I’ll +see he comes to no harm. It will be a good thing for him to rough it a +bit with other children,—he’s too nesh for a boy; but I’ll pay them if +they aren’t kind to him in the long run, never fear.” + +Though this speech was not exactly what she liked, there was quite +enough of good feeling in it to make her thankful for such a protector +and friend for her boy. And so, thankful for the joys she had had, and +thankful for the sorrows which had taught her meekness, thankful for +life, and thankful for death, she died. + +Her brother-in-law arranged all as she had wished. After the quiet +simple funeral was over, he took Tom by the hand, and set off on the +six-mile walk to his home. Tom had cried till he could cry no more, but +sobs came quivering up from his heart every now and then, as he passed +some well-remembered cottage, or thorn-bush, or tree on the road. His +uncle was very sorry for him, but did not know what to say, or how to +comfort him. + +“Now mind, lad, thou com’st to me if thy cousins are o’er hard upon +thee. Let me hear if they misuse thee, and I’ll give it them.” + +Tom shrunk from the idea that this gave him of the cousins, whose +companionship he had, until then, been looking forward to as a +pleasure. He was not reassured when, after threading several streets +and by-ways, they came into a court of dingy-looking houses, and his +uncle opened the door of one, from which the noise of loud, if not +angry voices was heard. + +A tall large woman was whirling one child out of her way with a rough +movement of her arm; while she was scolding a boy a little older than +Tom, who stood listening sullenly to her angry words. + +“I’ll tell father of thee, I will,” said she; and turning to uncle +John, she began to pour out her complaints against Jack, without +taking any notice of little Tom, who clung to his uncle’s hand as to a +protector in the scene of violence into which he had entered. + +“Well, well, wife!—I’ll leather Jack the next time I catch him letting +the water out of the pipe; but now get this lad and me some tea, for +we’re weary and tired.” + +His aunt seemed to wish Jack might be leathered now, and to be angry +with her husband for not revenging her injuries; for an injury it was +that the boy had done her in letting the water all run off, and that +on the very eve of the washing day. The mother grumbled as she left +off mopping the wet floor, and went to the fire to stir it up ready +for the kettle, without a word of greeting to her little nephew, or of +welcome to her husband. On the contrary, she complained of the trouble +of getting tea ready afresh, just when she had put slack on the fire, +and had no water in the house to fill the kettle with. Her husband grew +angry, and Tom was frightened to hear his uncle speaking sharply. + +“If I can’t have a cup of tea in my own house without all this ado, +I’ll go to the Spread Eagle, and take Tom with me. They’ve a bright +fire there at all times, choose how they manage it; and no scolding +wives. Come, Tom, let’s be off.” + +Jack had been trying to scrape acquaintance with his cousin by winks +and grimaces behind his mother’s back, and now made a sign of drinking +out of an imaginary glass. But Tom clung to his uncle, and softly +pulled him down again on his chair, from which he had risen to go to +the public-house. + +“If you please, ma’am,” said he, sadly frightened of his aunt, “I think +I could find the pump, if you’d let me try.” + +She muttered something like an acquiescence; so Tom took up the kettle, +and, tired as he was, went out to the pump. Jack, who had done nothing +but mischief all day, stood amazed, but at last settled that his cousin +was a “softy.” + +When Tom came back, he tried to blow the fire with the broken bellows, +and at last the water boiled, and the tea was made. “Thou’rt a rare +lad, Tom,” said his uncle. “I wonder when our Jack will be of as much +use.” + +This comparison did not please either Jack or his mother, who +liked to keep to herself the privilege of directing their father’s +dissatisfaction with his children. Tom felt their want of kindliness +towards him; and now that he had nothing to do but rest and eat, he +began to feel very sad, and his eyes kept filling with tears, which he +brushed away with the back of his hand, not wishing to have them seen. +But his uncle noticed him. + +“Thou had’st better have had a glass at the Spread Eagle,” said he, +compassionately. + +“No; I only am rather tired. May I go to bed?” said he, longing for a +good cry unobserved under the bed-clothes. + +“Where’s he to sleep?” asked the husband of the wife. + +“Nay,” said she, still offended on Jack’s account, “that’s thy +look-out. He’s thy flesh and blood, not mine.” + +“Come, wife,” said uncle John, “he’s an orphan, poor chap. An orphan is +kin to every one.” + +She was softened directly, for she had much kindness in her, although +this evening she had been so much put out. + +“There’s no place for him but with Jack and Dick. We’ve the baby, and +the other three are packed close enough.” + +She took Tom up to the little back room, and stopped to talk with him +for a minute or two, for her husband’s words had smitten her heart, and +she was sorry for the ungracious reception she had given Tom at first. + +“Jack and Dick are never in bed till we come, and it’s work enough to +catch them then on fine evenings,” said she, as she took the candle +away. + +Tom tried to speak to God as his mother had taught him, out of the +fulness of his little heart, which was heavy enough that night. He +tried to think how she would have wished him to speak and to do, and +when he felt puzzled with the remembrance of the scene of disorder and +anger which he had seen, he earnestly prayed God would make and keep +clear his path before him. And then he fell asleep. + +He had had a long dream of other and happier days, and had thought he +was once more taking a Sunday evening walk with his mother, when he was +roughly wakened up by his cousins. + +“I say, lad, you’re lying right across the bed. You must get up, and +let Dick and me come in, and then creep into the space that’s left.” + +Tom got up dizzy and half awake. His cousins got into bed, and then +squabbled about the largest share. It ended in a kicking match, during +which Tom stood shivering by the bedside. + +“I’m sure we’re pinched enough as it is,” said Dick at last. “And why +they’ve put Tom in with us I can’t think. But I’ll not stand it. Tom +shan’t sleep with us. He may lie on the floor, if he likes. I’ll not +hinder him.” + +He expected an opposition from Tom, and was rather surprised when he +heard the little fellow quietly lie down, and cover himself as well as +he could with his clothes. After some more quarrelling, Jack and Dick +fell asleep. But in the middle of the night Dick awoke, and heard by +Tom’s breathing that he was still awake, and was crying gently. + +“What! molly-coddle, crying for a softer bed?” asked Dick. + +“Oh, no—I don’t care for that—if—oh! if mother were but alive,” little +Tom sobbed aloud. + +“I say,” said Dick, after a pause. “There’s room at my back, if you’ll +creep in. There! don’t be afraid—why, how cold you are, lad.” + +Dick was sorry for his cousin’s loss, but could not speak about it. +However, his kind tone sank into Tom’s heart, and he fell asleep once +more. + +The three boys all got up at the same time in the morning, but were +not inclined to talk. Jack and Dick put on their clothes as fast as +possible, and ran downstairs; but this was quite a different way of +going on to what Tom had been accustomed. He looked about for some kind +of basin or mug to wash in; there was none—not even a jug of water in +the room. He slipped on a few necessary clothes, and went downstairs, +found a pitcher, and went off to the pump. His cousins, who were +playing in the court, laughed at him, and would not tell him where the +soap was kept: he had to look some minutes before he could find it. +Then he went back to the bedroom; but on entering it from the fresh +air, the smell was so oppressive that he could not endure it. Three +people had been breathing the air all night, and had used up every +particle many times over and over again; and each time that it had been +sent out from the lungs, it was less fit than before to be breathed +again. They had not felt how poisonous it was while they stayed in it; +they had only felt tired and unrefreshed, with a dull headache; but now +that Tom came back again into it, he could not mistake its oppressive +nature. He went to the window to try and open it. It was what people +call a “Yorkshire light,” where you know one-half has to be pushed on +one side. It was very stiff, for it had not been opened for a long +time. Tom pushed against it with all his might; at length it gave way +with a jerk; and the shake sent out a cracked pane, which fell on the +floor in a hundred little bits. Tom was sadly frightened when he saw +what he had done. He would have been sorry to have done mischief at any +time, but he had seen enough of his aunt the evening before to find out +that she was sharp, and hasty, and cross; and it was hard to have to +begin the first day in his new home by getting into a scrape. He sat +down on the bedside, and began to cry. But the morning air blowing in +upon him, refreshed him, and made him feel stronger. He grew braver as +he washed himself in the pure, cold water. “She can’t be cross with me +longer than a day; by to-night it will be all over; I can bear it for a +day.” + +Dick came running upstairs for something he had forgotten. + +“My word, Tom! but you’ll catch it!” exclaimed he, when he saw the +broken window. He was half pleased at the event, and half sorry for +Tom. “Mother did so beat Jack last week for throwing a stone right +through the window downstairs. He kept out of the way till night, but +she was on the look-out for him, and as soon as she saw him, she caught +hold of him and gave it him. Eh! Tom, I would not be you for a deal!” + +Tom began to cry again at this account of his aunt’s anger; Dick became +more and more sorry for him. + +“I’ll tell thee what; we’ll go down and say it was a lad in yon +back-yard throwing stones, and that one went smack through the window. +I’ve got one in my pocket that will just do to show.” + +“No,” said Tom, suddenly stopping crying. “I dare not do that.” + +“Daren’t! Why you’ll have to dare much more if you go down and face +mother without some such story.” + +“No! I shan’t. I shan’t have to dare God’s anger. Mother taught me to +fear that; she said I need never be really afraid of aught else. Just +be quiet, Dick, while I say my prayers.” + +Dick watched his little cousin kneel down by the bed, and bury his +face in the clothes; he did not say any set prayer (which Dick was +accustomed to think was the only way of praying), but Tom seemed, by +the low murmuring which Dick heard, to be talking to a dear friend; and +though at first he sobbed and cried, as he asked for help and strength, +yet when he got up, his face looked calm and bright, and he spoke +quietly as he said to Dick, “Now I’m ready to go and tell aunt.” + +“Aunt” meanwhile had missed her pitcher and her soap, and was in no +good-tempered mood when Tom came to make his confession. She had been +hindered in her morning’s work by his taking her things away; and now +he was come to tell her of the pane being broken and that it must be +mended, and money must go all for a child’s nonsense. + +She gave him (as he had been led to expect) one or two very sharp +blows. Jack and Dick looked on with curiosity, to see how he would take +it; Jack, at any rate, expecting a hearty crying from “softy” (Jack +himself had cried loudly at his last beating), but Tom never shed a +tear, though his face did go very red, and his mouth did grow set with +the pain. But what struck the boys more even than his being “hard” in +bearing such blows, was his quietness afterwards. He did not grumble +loudly, as Jack would have done, nor did he turn sullen, as was Dick’s +custom; but the minute afterwards he was ready to run an errand for his +aunt; nor did he make any mention of the hard blows, when his uncle +came in to breakfast, as his aunt had rather expected he would. She was +glad he did not, for she knew her husband would have been displeased to +know how early she had begun to beat his orphan nephew. So she almost +felt grateful to Tom for his silence, and certainly began to be sorry +she had struck him so hard. + +Poor Tom! he did not know that his cousins were beginning to respect +him, nor that his aunt was learning to like him; and he felt very +lonely and desolate that first morning. He had nothing to do. Jack went +to work at the factory; and Dick went grumbling to school. Tom wondered +if he was to go to school again, but he did not like to ask. He sat on +a little stool, as much out of his terrible aunt’s way as he could. She +had her youngest child, a little girl of about a year and a half old, +crawling about on the floor. Tom longed to play with her; but he was +not sure how far his aunt would like it. But he kept smiling at her, +and doing every little thing he could to attract her attention and make +her come to him. At last she was coaxed to come upon his knee. His aunt +saw it, and though she did not speak, she did not look displeased. He +did everything he could think of to amuse little Annie; and her mother +was very glad to have her attended to. When Annie grew sleepy, she +still kept fast hold of one of Tom’s fingers in her little, round, soft +hand, and he began to know the happy feeling of loving somebody again. +Only the night before, when his cousins had made him get out of bed, he +had wondered if he should live to be an old man, and never have anybody +to love all that long time; but now his heart felt quite warm to the +little thing that lay on his lap. + +“She’ll tire you, Tom,” said her mother, “you’d better let me put her +down in the cot.” + +“Oh, no!” said he, “please don’t! I like so much to have her here.” He +never moved, though she lay very heavy on his arm, for fear of wakening +her. + +When she did rouse up, his aunt said, “Thank you, Tom. I’ve got my work +done rarely with you for a nurse. Now take a run in the yard, and play +yourself a bit.” + +His aunt was learning something, and Tom was teaching, though they +would both have been very much surprised to hear it. Whenever, in a +family, every one is selfish, and (as it is called) “stands up for +his own rights,” there are no feelings of gratitude; the gracefulness +of “thanks” is never called for; nor can there be any occasion for +thoughtfulness for others when those others are sure to get the start +in thinking for themselves, and taking care of number one. Tom’s aunt +had never had to remind Jack or Dick to go out to play. They were ready +enough to see after their own pleasures. + +Well! dinner-time came, and all the family gathered to the meal. It +seemed to be a scramble who should be helped first, and cry out for the +best pieces. Tom looked very red. His aunt in her new-born liking for +him, helped him early to what she thought he would like. But he did +not begin to eat. It had been his mother’s custom to teach her little +son to say a simple “grace” with her before they began their dinner. +He expected his uncle to follow the same observance; and waited. Then +he felt very hot and shy; but, thinking that it was right to say it, +he put away his shyness, and very quietly, but very solemnly said +the old accustomed sentence of thanksgiving. Jack burst out laughing +when he had done; for which Jack’s father gave him a sharp rap and +a sharp word, which made him silent through the rest of the dinner. +But, excepting Jack, who was angry, I think all the family were the +happier for having listened reverently (if with some surprise) to Tom’s +thanksgiving. They were not an ill-disposed set of people, but wanted +thoughtfulness in their every-day life; that sort of thoughtfulness +which gives order to a home, and makes a wise and holy spirit of love +the groundwork of order. + +From that first day Tom never went back in the regard he began then +to win. He was useful to his aunt, and patiently bore her hasty ways, +until for very shame she left off being hasty with one who was always +so meek and mild. His uncle sometimes said he was more like a girl than +a boy, as was to be looked for from being brought up for so many years +by a woman; but that was the greatest fault he ever had to find with +him; and in spite of it, he really respected him for the very qualities +which are most truly “manly;” for the courage with which he dared to do +what was right, and the quiet firmness with which he bore many kinds +of pain. As for little Annie, her friendship and favour and love were +the delight of Tom’s heart. He did not know how much the others were +growing to like him, but Annie showed it in every way, and he loved her +in return most dearly. Dick soon found out how useful Tom could be to +him in his lessons; for though older than his cousin, Master Dick was +a regular dunce, and had never even wished to learn till Tom came; and +long before Jack could be brought to acknowledge it, Dick maintained +that “Tom had a great deal of pluck in him, though it was not of Jack’s +kind.” + +Now I shall jump another year, and tell you a very little about the +household twelve months after Tom had entered it. I said above that his +aunt had learned to speak less crossly to one who was always gentle +after her scoldings. By-and-by her ways to all became less hasty and +passionate, for she grew ashamed of speaking to any one in an angry way +before Tom; he always looked so sad and sorry to hear her. She has also +spoken to him sometimes about his mother; at first because she thought +he would like it; but latterly because she became really interested +to hear of her ways; and Tom being an only child, and his mother’s +friend and companion, has been able to tell her of many household +arts of comfort, which coming quite unconscious of any purpose, from +the lips of a child, have taught her many things which she would have +been too proud to learn from an older person. Her husband is softened +by the additional cleanliness and peace of his home. He does not now +occasionally take refuge in a public-house, to get out of the way of +noisy children, an unswept hearth, and a scolding wife. Once when Tom +was ill for a day or two, his uncle missed the accustomed grace, and +began to say it himself. He is now the person to say “Silence, boys;” +and then to ask the blessing on the meal. It makes them gather round +the table, instead of sitting down here and there in the comfortless, +unsociable way they used to do. Tom and Dick go to school together now, +and Dick is getting on famously, and will soon be able to help his next +brother over his lessons, as Tom has helped him. + +Even Jack has been heard to acknowledge that Tom has “pluck” in him; +and as “pluck” in Jack’s mind is a short way of summing up all the +virtues, he has lately become very fond of his cousin. Tom does not +think about happiness, but is happy; and I think we may hope that he, +and the household among whom he is adopted, will go “from strength to +strength.” + +Now do you not see how much happier this family are from the one +circumstance of a little child’s coming among them? Could money have +made one-tenth part of this real and increasing happiness? I think you +will all say no. And yet Tom was no powerful person; he was not clever; +he was very friendless at first; but he was loving and good; and on +those two qualities, which any of us may have if we try, the blessing +of God lies in rich abundance. + + + + +BESSY’S TROUBLES AT HOME. + + +“Well, mother, I’ve got you a Southport ticket,” said Bessy Lee, as she +burst into a room where a pale, sick woman lay dressed on the outside +of a bed. “Aren’t you glad?” asked she, as her mother moved uneasily, +but did not speak. + +“Yes, dear, I’m very thankful to you; but your sudden coming in has +made my heart flutter so, I’m ready to choke.” + +Poor Bessy’s eyes filled with tears: but, it must be owned, they were +tears half of anger. She had taken such pains, ever since the doctor +said that Southport was the only thing for her mother, to get her an +order from some subscriber to the charity; and she had rushed to her, +in the full glow of success, and now her mother seemed more put out by +the noise she had made on coming in, than glad to receive the news she +had brought. + +Mrs. Lee took her hand and tried to speak, but, as she said, she was +almost choked with the palpitation at her heart. + +“You think it very silly in me, dear, to be so easily startled; but it +is not altogether silliness; it is I am so weak that every little noise +gives me quite a fright. I shall be better, love, please God, when I +come back from Southport. I am so glad you’ve got the order, for you’ve +taken a deal of pains about it.” Mrs. Lee sighed. + +“Don’t you want to go?” asked Bessy, rather sadly. “You always seem so +sorrowful and anxious when we talk about it.” + +“It’s partly my being ailing that makes me anxious, I know,” said Mrs. +Lee. “But it seems as if so many things might happen while I was away.” + +Bessy felt a little impatient. Young people in strong health can hardly +understand the fears that beset invalids. Bessy was a kind-hearted +girl, but rather headstrong, and just now a little disappointed. She +forgot that her mother had had to struggle hard with many cares ever +since she had been left a widow, and that her illness now had made her +nervous. + +“What nonsense, mother! What can happen? I can take care of the house +and the little ones, and Tom and Jem can take care of themselves. What +is to happen?” + +“Jenny may fall into the fire,” murmured Mrs. Lee, who found little +comfort in being talked to in this way. “Or your father’s watch may be +stolen while you are in, talking with the neighbours, or——” + +“Now come, mother, you know I’ve had the charge of Jenny ever since +father died, and you began to go out washing—and I’ll lock father’s +watch up in the box in our room.” + +“Then Tom and Jem won’t know at what time to go to the factory. +Besides, Bessy,” said she, raising herself up, “they’re are but young +lads, and there’s a deal of temptation to take them away from their +homes, if their homes are not comfortable and pleasant to them. It’s +that, more than anything, I’ve been fretting about all the time I’ve +been ill,—that I’ve lost the power of making this house the cleanest +and brightest place they know. But it’s no use fretting,” said she, +falling back weakly upon the bed and sighing. “I must leave it in God’s +hands. He raiseth up and He bringeth low.” + +Bessy stood silent for a minute or two. Then she said, “Well, mother, I +will try to make home comfortable for the lads, if you’ll but keep your +mind easy, and go off to Southport quiet and cheerful.” + +“I’ll try,” said Mrs. Lee, taking hold of Bessy’s hand, and looking up +thankfully in her face. + +The next Wednesday she set off, leaving home with a heavy heart, which, +however, she struggled against, and tried to make more faithful. But +she wished her three weeks at Southport were over. + +Tom and Jem were both older than Bessy, and she was fifteen. Then came +Bill and Mary and little Jenny. They were all good children, and all +had faults. Tom and Jem helped to support the family by their earnings +at the factory, and gave up their wages very cheerfully for this +purpose, to their mother, who, however, insisted on a little being put +by every week in the savings’ bank. It was one of her griefs now that, +when the doctor ordered her some expensive delicacy in the way of diet +during her illness (a thing which she persisted in thinking she could +have done without), her boys had gone and taken their money out in +order to procure it for her. The article in question did not cost one +quarter of the amount of their savings, but they had put off returning +the remainder into the bank, saying the doctor’s bill had yet to be +paid, and that it seemed so silly to be always taking money in and +out. But meanwhile Mrs. Lee feared lest it should be spent, and begged +them to restore it to the savings’ bank. This had not been done when +she left for Southport. Bill and Mary went to school. Little Jenny was +the darling of all, and toddled about at home, having been her sister +Bessy’s especial charge when all went on well, and the mother used to +go out to wash. + +Mrs. Lee, however, had always made a point of giving all her children +who were at home a comfortable breakfast at seven, before she set out +to her day’s work; and she prepared the boys’ dinner ready for Bessy +to warm for them. At night, too, she was anxious to be at home as soon +after her boys as she could; and many of her employers respected her +wish, and, finding her hard-working and conscientious, took care to set +her at liberty early in the evening. + +Bessy felt very proud and womanly when she returned home from seeing +her mother off by the railway. She looked round the house with a new +feeling of proprietorship, and then went to claim little Jenny from +the neighbour’s where she had been left while Bessy had gone to the +station. They asked her to stay and have a bit of chat; but she replied +that she could not, for that it was near dinner-time, and she refused +the invitation that was then given her to go in some evening. She was +full of good plans and resolutions. + +That afternoon she took Jenny and went to her teacher’s to borrow a +book, which she meant to ask one of her brothers to read to her in +the evenings while she worked. She knew that it was a book which Jem +would like, for though she had never read it, one of her school-fellows +had told her it was all about the sea, and desert islands, and +cocoanut-trees, just the things that Jem liked to hear about. How happy +they would all be this evening. + +She hurried Jenny off to bed before her brothers came home; Jenny did +not like to go so early, and had to be bribed and coaxed to give up the +pleasure of sitting on brother Tom’s knee; and when she was in bed, +she could not go to sleep, and kept up a little whimper of distress. +Bessy kept calling out to her, now in gentle, now in sharp tones, as +she made the hearth clean and bright against her brothers’ return, as +she settled Bill and Mary to their next day’s lessons, and got her work +ready for a happy evening. + +Presently the elder boys came in. + +“Where’s Jenny?” asked Tom, the first thing. + +“I’ve put her to bed,” said Bessy. “I’ve borrowed a book for you to +read to me while I darn the stockings; and it was time for Jenny to go.” + +“Mother never puts her to bed so soon,” said Tom, dissatisfied. + +“But she’d be so in the way of any quietness over our reading,” said +Bessy. + +“I don’t want to read,” said Tom; “I want Jenny to sit on my knee, as +she always does, while I eat my supper.” + +“Tom, Tom, dear Tom!” called out little Jenny, who had heard his voice, +and, perhaps, a little of the conversation. + +Tom made but two steps upstairs, and re-appeared with Jenny in his +arms, in her night-clothes. The little girl looked at Bessy half +triumphant and half afraid. Bessy did not speak, but she was evidently +very much displeased. Tom began to eat his porridge with Jenny on his +knee. Bessy sat in sullen silence; she was vexed with Tom, vexed with +Jenny, and vexed with Jem, to gratify whose taste for reading travels +she had especially borrowed this book, which he seemed to care so +little about. She brooded over her fancied wrongs, ready to fall upon +the first person who might give the slightest occasion for anger. +It happened to be poor little Jenny, who, by some awkward movement, +knocked over the jug of milk, and made a great splash on Bessy’s clean +white floor. + +“Never mind!” said Tom, as Jenny began to cry. “I like my porridge as +well without milk as with it.” + +“Oh, never mind!” said Bessy, her colour rising, and her breath growing +shorter. “Never mind dirtying anything, Jenny; it’s only giving trouble +to Bessy! But I’ll make you mind,” continued she, as she caught a +glance of intelligence peep from Jem’s eyes to Tom; and she slapped +Jenny’s head. The moment she had done it she was sorry for it; she +could have beaten herself now with the greatest pleasure for having +given way to passion; for she loved little Jenny dearly, and she saw +that she really had hurt her. But Jem, with his loud, deep, “For shame, +Bessy!” and Tom, with his excess of sympathy with his little sister’s +wrongs, checked back any expression which Bessy might have uttered of +sorrow and regret. She sat there ten times more unhappy than she had +been before the accident, hardening her heart to the reproaches of her +conscience, yet feeling most keenly that she had been acting wrongly. +No one seemed to notice her; this was the evening she had planned and +arranged for so busily; and the others, who never thought about it at +all, were all quiet and happy, at least in outward appearance, while +she was so wretched. By-and-by, she felt the touch of a little soft +hand stealing into her own. She looked to see who it was; it was Mary, +who till now had been busy learning her lessons, but uncomfortably +conscious of the discordant spirit prevailing in the room; and who had +at last ventured up to Bessy, as the one who looked the most unhappy, +to express, in her own little gentle way, her sympathy in sorrow. Mary +was not a quick child; she was plain and awkward in her ways, and did +not seem to have many words in which to tell her feelings, but she was +very tender and loving, and submitted meekly and humbly to the little +slights and rebuffs she often met with for her stupidity. + +“Dear Bessy! good night!” said she, kissing her sister; and, at the +soft kiss, Bessy’s eyes filled with tears, and her heart began to melt. + +“Jenny,” continued Mary, going to the little spoilt, wilful girl, “will +you come to bed with me, and I’ll tell you stories about school, and +sing you my songs as I undress? Come, little one!” said she, holding +out her arms. Jenny was tempted by this speech, and went off to bed in +a more reasonable frame of mind than any one had dared to hope. + +And now all seemed clear and open for the reading, but each was too +proud to propose it. Jem, indeed, seemed to have forgotten the book +altogether, he was so busy whittling away at a piece of wood. At last +Tom, by a strong effort, said, “Bessy, mayn’t we have the book now?” + +“No!” said Jem, “don’t begin reading, for I must go out and try and +make Ned Bates give me a piece of ash-wood—deal is just good for +nothing.” + +“Oh!” said Bessy, “I don’t want any one to read this book who does not +like it. But I know mother would be better pleased if you were stopping +at home quiet, rather than rambling to Ned Bates’s at this time of +night.” + +“I know what mother would like as well as you, and I’m not going to be +preached to by a girl,” said Jem, taking up his cap and going out. Tom +yawned and went up to bed. Bessy sat brooding over the evening. + +“So much as I thought and I planned! I’m sure I tried to do what was +right, and make the boys happy at home. And yet nothing has happened +as I wanted it to do. Every one has been so cross and contrary. Tom +would take Jenny up when she ought to have been in bed. Jem did not +care a straw for this book that I borrowed on purpose for him, but sat +laughing. I saw, though he did not think I did, when all was going +provoking and vexatious. Mary—no! Mary was a help and a comfort, as she +always is, I think, though she is so stupid over her book. Mary always +contrives to get people right, and to have her own way somehow; and yet +I’m sure she does not take half the trouble I do to please people.” + +Jem came back soon, disappointed because Ned Bates was out, and could +not give him any ash-wood. Bessy said it served him right for going at +that time of night, and the brother and sister spoke angrily to each +other all the way upstairs, and parted without even saying good-night. +Jenny was asleep when Bessy entered the bedroom which she shared with +her sisters and her mother; but she saw Mary’s wakeful eyes looking at +her as she came in. + +“Oh, Mary,” said she, “I wish mother was back. The lads would mind her, +and now I see they’ll just go and get into mischief to spite and plague +me.” + +“I don’t think it’s for that,” said Mary, softly. “Jem did want that +ash-wood, I know, for he told me in the morning he didn’t think that +deal would do. He wants to make a wedge to keep the window from +rattling so on windy nights; you know how that fidgets mother.” + +The next day, little Mary, on her way to school, went round by Ned +Bates’s to beg a piece of wood for her brother Jem; she brought it +home to him at dinner-time, and asked him to be so good as to have +everything ready for a quiet whittling at night, while Tom or Bessy +read aloud. She told Jenny she would make haste with her lessons, so +as to be ready to come to bed early, and talk to her about school +(a grand, wonderful place, in Jenny’s eyes), and thus Mary quietly +and gently prepared for a happy evening, by attending to the kind of +happiness for which every one wished. + +While Mary had thus been busy preparing for a happy evening, Bessy had +been spending part of the afternoon at a Mrs. Foster’s, a neighbour +of her mother’s, and a very tidy, industrious old widow. Mrs. Foster +earned part of her livelihood by working for the shops where knitted +work of all kinds is to be sold; and Bessy’s attention was caught, +almost as soon as she went in, by a very gay piece of wool-knitting, +in a new stitch, that was to be used as a warm covering for the feet. +After admiring its pretty looks, Bessy thought how useful it might be +to her mother; and when Mrs. Foster heard this, she offered to teach +Bessy how to do it. But where were the wools to come from? Those which +Mrs. Foster used were provided her by the shop; and she was a very poor +woman—too poor to make presents, though rich enough (as we all are) to +give help of many other kinds, and willing too to do what she could +(which some of us are not). + +The two sat perplexed. “How much did you say it would cost?” said Bessy +at last; as if the article was likely to have become cheaper, since she +asked the question before. + +“Well! it’s sure to be more than two shillings if it’s German wool. You +might get it for eighteenpence if you could be content with English.” + +“But I’ve not got eighteenpence,” said Bessy, gloomily. + +“I could lend it you,” said Mrs. Foster, “if I was sure of having it +back before Monday. But it’s part of my rent-money. Could you make +sure, do you think?” + +“Oh, yes!” said Bessy, eagerly. “At least I’d try. But perhaps I had +better not take it, for after all I don’t know where I could get it. +What Tom and Jem earn is little enough for the house, now that mother’s +washing is cut off.” + +“They are good, dutiful lads, to give it to their mother,” said Mrs. +Foster, sighing: for she thought of her own boys, that had left her in +her old age to toil on, with faded eyesight and weakened strength. + +“Oh! but mother makes them each keep a shilling out of it for +themselves,” said Bessy, in a complaining tone, for she wanted money, +and was inclined to envy any one who possessed it. + +“That’s right enough,” said Mrs. Foster. “They that earn it should have +some of the power over it.” + +“But about this wool; this eighteenpence! I wish I was a boy and could +earn money. I wish mother would have let me go to work in the factory.” + +“Come now, Bessy, I can have none of that nonsense. Thy mother knows +what’s best for thee; and I’m not going to hear thee complain of what +she has thought right. But may be, I can help you to a way of gaining +eighteenpence. Mrs. Scott at the worsted shop told me that she should +want some one to clean on Saturday; now you’re a good strong girl, and +can do a woman’s work if you’ve a mind. Shall I say you will go? and +then I don’t mind if I lend you my eighteenpence. You’ll pay me before +I want my rent on Monday.” + +“Oh! thank you, dear Mrs. Foster,” said Bessy. “I can scour as well as +any woman, mother often says so; and I’ll do my best on Saturday; they +shan’t blame you for having spoken up for me.” + +“No, Bessy, they won’t, I’m sure, if you do your best. You’re a good +sharp girl for your years.” + +Bessy lingered for some time, hoping that Mrs. Foster would remember +her offer of lending her the money; but finding that she had quite +forgotten it, she ventured to remind the kind old woman. That it was +nothing but forgetfulness, was evident from the haste with which Mrs. +Foster bustled up to her tea-pot and took from it the money required. + +“You’re as welcome to it as can be, Bessy, as long as I’m sure of +its being repaid by Monday. But you’re in a mighty hurry about this +coverlet,” continued she, as she saw Bessy put on her bonnet and +prepare to go out. “Stay, you must take patterns, and go to the right +shop in St. Mary’s Gate. Why, your mother won’t be back this three +weeks, child.” + +“No. But I can’t abide waiting, and I want to set to it before it is +dark; and you’ll teach me the stitch, won’t you, when I come back with +the wools? I won’t be half an hour away.” + +But Mary and Bill had to “abide waiting” that afternoon; for though +the neighbour at whose house the key was left could let them into the +house, there was no supper ready for them on their return from school; +even Jenny was away spending the afternoon with a playfellow; the fire +was nearly out, the milk had been left at a neighbour’s; altogether +home was very comfortless to the poor tired children, and Bill grumbled +terribly; Mary’s head ached, and the very tones of her brother’s voice, +as he complained, gave her pain; and for a minute she felt inclined to +sit down and cry. But then she thought of many little sayings which +she had heard from her teacher—such as “Never complain of what you +can cure,” “Bear and forbear,” and several other short sentences of a +similar description. So she began to make up the fire, and asked Bill +to fetch some chips; and when he gave her the gruff answer, that he did +not see any use in making a fire when there was nothing to cook by it, +she went herself and brought the wood without a word of complaint. + +Presently Bill said, “Here! you lend me those bellows; you’re not +blowing it in the right way; girls never do!” He found out that Mary +was wise in making a bright fire ready; for before the blowing was +ended, the neighbour with whom the milk had been left brought it in, +and little handy Mary prepared the porridge as well as the mother +herself could have done. They had just ended when Bessy came in almost +breathless; for she had suddenly remembered, in the middle of her +knitting-lesson, that Bill and Mary must be at home from school. + +“Oh!” she said, “that’s right. I have so hurried myself! I was afraid +the fire would be out. Where’s Jenny? You were to have called for her, +you know, as you came from school. Dear! how stupid you are, Mary. I am +sure I told you over and over again. Now don’t cry, silly child. The +best thing you can do is to run off back again for her.” + +“But my lessons, Bessy. They are so bad to learn. It’s tables day +to-morrow,” pleaded Mary. + +“Nonsense; tables are as easy as can be. I can say up to sixteen times +sixteen in no time.” + +“But you know, Bessy, I’m very stupid, and my head aches so to-night!” + +“Well! the air will do it good. Really, Mary, I would go myself, only +I’m so busy; and you know Bill is too careless, mother says, to fetch +Jenny through the streets; and besides they would quarrel, and you can +always manage Jenny.” + +Mary sighed, and went away to bring her sister home. Bessy sat down to +her knitting. Presently Bill came up to her with some question about +his lesson. She told him the answer without looking at the book; it was +all wrong, and made nonsense; but Bill did not care to understand what +he learnt, and went on saying, “Twelve inches make one shilling,” as +contentedly as if it were right. + +Mary brought Jenny home quite safely. Indeed, Mary always did succeed +in everything, except learning her lessons well; and sometimes, if the +teacher could have known how many tasks fell upon the willing, gentle +girl at home, she would not have thought that poor Mary was slow or a +dunce; and such thoughts would come into the teacher’s mind sometimes, +although she fully appreciated Mary’s sweetness and humility of +disposition. + +To-night she tried hard at her tables, and all to no use. Her head +ached so, she could not remember them, do what she would. She longed to +go to her mother, whose cool hands around her forehead always seemed +to do her so much good, and whose soft, loving words were such a help +to her when she had to bear pain. She had arranged so many plans for +to-night, and now all were deranged by Bessy’s new fancy for knitting. +But Mary did not see this in the plain, clear light in which I have +put it before you. She only was sorry that she could not make haste +with her lessons, as she had promised Jenny, who was now upbraiding her +with the non-fulfilment of her words. Jenny was still up when Tom and +Jem came in. They spoke sharply to Bessy for not having their porridge +ready; and while she was defending herself, Mary, even at the risk of +imperfect lessons, began to prepare the supper for her brothers. She +did it all so quietly, that, almost before they were aware, it was +ready for them; and Bessy, suddenly ashamed of herself, and touched by +Mary’s quiet helpfulness, bent down and kissed her, as once more she +settled to the never-ending difficulty of her lesson. + +Mary threw her arms round Bessy’s neck, and began to cry, for this +little mark of affection went to her heart; she had been so longing for +a word or a sign of love in her suffering. + +“Come, Molly,” said Jem, “don’t cry like a baby;” but he spoke very +kindly. “What’s the matter? the old headache come back? Never mind. Go +to bed, and it will be better in the morning.” + +“But I can’t go to bed. I don’t know my lesson!” Mary looked happier, +though the tears were in her eyes. + +“I know mine,” said Bill, triumphantly. + +“Come here,” said Jem. “There! I’ve time enough to whittle away at this +before mother comes back. Now let’s see this difficult lesson.” + +Jem’s help soon enabled Mary to conquer her lesson; but, meanwhile, +Jenny and Bill had taken to quarrelling in spite of Bessy’s scolding, +administered in small sharp doses, as she looked up from her +all-absorbing knitting. + +“Well,” said Tom, “with this riot on one side, and this dull lesson on +the other, and Bessy as cross as can be in the midst, I can understand +what makes a man go out to spend his evenings from home.” + +Bessy looked up, suddenly wakened up to a sense of the danger which her +mother had dreaded. + +Bessy thought it was very fortunate that it fell on a Saturday, of all +days in the week, that Mrs. Scott wanted her; for Mary would be at +home, who could attend to the household wants of everybody; and so she +satisfied her conscience at leaving the post of duty that her mother +had assigned to her, and that she had promised to fulfil. She was so +eager about her own plans that she did not consider this; she did not +consider at all, or else I think she would have seen many things to +which she seemed to be blind now. When were Mary’s lessons for Monday +to be learnt? Bessy knew as well as we do, that lesson-learning was +hard work to Mary. If Mary worked as hard as she could after morning +school she could hardly get the house cleaned up bright and comfortable +before her brothers came home from the factory, which “loosed” early +on the Saturday afternoon; and if pails of water, chairs heaped up one +on the other, and tables put topsy-turvy on the dresser, were the most +prominent objects in the house-place, there would be no temptation for +the lads to stay at home; besides which, Mary, tired and weary (however +gentle she might be), would not be able to give the life to the evening +that Bessy, a clever, spirited girl, near their own age, could easily +do, if she chose to be interested and sympathising in what they had to +tell. But Bessy did not think of all this. What she did think about +was the pleasant surprise she should give her mother by the warm and +pretty covering for her feet, which she hoped to present her with on +her return home. And if she had done the duties she was pledged to on +her mother’s departure first, if they had been compatible with her plan +of being a whole day absent from home, in order to earn the money for +the wools, the project of the surprise would have been innocent and +praiseworthy. + +Bessy prepared everything for dinner before she left home that Saturday +morning. She made a potato-pie all ready for putting in the oven; she +was very particular in telling Mary what was to be cleaned, and how it +was all to be cleaned; and then she kissed the children, and ran off +to Mrs. Scott’s. Mary was rather afraid of the responsibility thrust +upon her; but still she was pleased that Bessy could trust her to do +so much. She took Jenny to the ever-useful neighbour, as she and Bill +went to school; but she was rather frightened when Mrs. Jones began to +grumble about these frequent visits of the child. + +“I was ready enough to take care of the wench when thy mother was ill; +there was reason for that. And the child is a nice child enough, when +she is not cross; but still there are some folks, it seems, who, if you +give them an inch, will take an ell. Where’s Bessy, that she can’t mind +her own sister?” + +“Gone out charing,” said Mary, clasping the little hand in hers +tighter, for she was afraid of Mrs. Jones’s anger. + +“I could go out charing every day in the week if I’d the face to +trouble other folks with my children,” said Mrs. Jones, in a surly tone. + +“Shall I take her back, ma’am?” said Mary, timidly, though she knew +this would involve her staying away from school, and being blamed by +the dear teacher. But Mrs. Jones growled worse than she bit, this time +at least. + +“No,” said she, “you may leave her with me. I suppose she’s had her +breakfast?” + +“Yes; and I’ll fetch her away as soon as ever I can after twelve.” + +If Mary had been one to consider the hardships of her little lot, she +might have felt this morning’s occurrence as one;—that she, who dreaded +giving trouble to anybody, and was painfully averse from asking any +little favour for herself, should be the very one on whom it fell to +presume upon another person’s kindness. But Mary never did think of any +hardships; they seemed the natural events of life, and as if it was +fitting and proper that she, who managed things badly, and was such a +dunce, should be blamed. Still she was rather flurried by Mrs. Jones’s +scolding; and almost wished that she had taken Jenny home again. Her +lessons were not well said, owing to the distraction of her mind. + +When she went for Jenny she found that Mrs. Jones, repenting of her +sharp words, had given the little girl bread and treacle, and made her +very comfortable; so much so that Jenny was not all at once ready to +leave her little playmates, and when once she had set out on the road, +she was in no humour to make haste. Mary thought of the potato-pie and +her brothers, and could almost have cried, as Jenny, heedless of her +sister’s entreaties, would linger at the picture-shops. + +“I shall be obliged to go and leave you, Jenny! I must get dinner +ready.” + +“I don’t care,” said Jenny. “I don’t want any dinner, and I can come +home quite well by myself.” + +Mary half longed to give her a fright, it was so provoking. But she +thought of her mother, who was so anxious always about Jenny, and she +did not do it. She kept patiently trying to attract her onwards, and +at last they were at home. Mary stirred up the fire, which was to all +appearance quite black; it blazed up, but the oven was cold. She put +the pie in, and blew the fire; but the paste was quite white and soft +when her brothers came home, eager and hungry. + +“Oh! Mary, what a manager you are!” said Tom. “Any one else would have +remembered and put the pie in in time.” + +Mary’s eyes filled full of tears; but she did not try to justify +herself. She went on blowing, till Jem took the bellows, and kindly +told her to take off her bonnet, and lay the cloth. Jem was always +kind. He gave Tom the best baked side of the pie, and quietly took the +side himself where the paste was little better than dough, and the +potatoes quite hard; and when he caught Mary’s little anxious face +watching him, as he had to leave part of his dinner untasted, he said, +“Mary, I should like this pie warmed up for supper; there is nothing so +good as potato-pie made hot the second time.” + +Tom went off saying, “Mary, I would not have you for a wife on any +account. Why, my dinner would never be ready, and your sad face would +take away my appetite if it were.” + +But Jem kissed her and said, “Never mind, Mary! you and I will live +together, old maid and old bachelor.” + +So she could set to with spirit to her cleaning, thinking there never +was such a good brother as Jem; and as she dwelt upon his perfections, +she thought who it was who had given her such a good, kind brother, +and felt her heart full of gratitude to Him. She scoured and cleaned +in right-down earnest. Jenny helped her for some time, delighted to be +allowed to touch and lift things. But then she grew tired; and Bill was +out of doors; so Mary had to do all by herself, and grew very nervous +and frightened, lest all should not be finished and tidy against Tom +came home. And the more frightened she grew, the worse she got on. Her +hands trembled, and things slipped out of them; and she shook so, she +could not lift heavy pieces of furniture quickly and sharply; and in +the middle the clock struck the hour for her brothers’ return, when all +ought to have been tidy and ready for tea. She gave it up in despair, +and began to cry. + +“Oh, Bessy, Bessy! why did you go away? I have tried hard, and I cannot +do it,” said she aloud, as if Bessy could hear. + +“Dear Mary, don’t cry,” said Jenny, suddenly coming away from her play. +“I’ll help you. I am very strong. I can do anything. I can lift that +pan off the fire.” + +The pan was full of boiling water, ready for Mary. Jenny took hold of +the handle, and dragged it along the bar over the fire. Mary sprung +forwards in terror to stop the little girl. She never knew how it was, +but the next moment her arm and side were full of burning pain, which +turned her sick and dizzy, and Jenny was crying passionately beside her. + +“Oh, Mary! Mary! Mary! my hand is so scalded. What shall I do? I cannot +bear it. It’s all about my feet on the ground.” She kept shaking her +hand to cool it by the action of the air. Mary thought that she herself +was dying, so acute and terrible was the pain; she could hardly keep +from screaming out aloud; but she felt that if she once began she could +not stop herself, so she sat still, moaning, and the tears running down +her face like rain. “Go, Jenny,” said she, “and tell some one to come.” + +“I can’t, I can’t, my hand hurts so,” said Jenny. But she flew wildly +out of the house the next minute, crying out, “Mary is dead. Come, +come, come!” For Mary could bear it no longer; but had fainted away, +and looked, indeed, like one that was dead. Neighbours flocked in; and +one ran for a doctor. In five minutes Tom and Jem came home. What a +home it seems! People they hardly knew standing in the house-place, +which looked as if it had never been cleaned—all was so wet, and in +such disorder, and dirty with the trampling of many feet; Jenny still +crying passionately, but half comforted at being at present the only +authority as to how the affair happened; and faint moans from the room +upstairs, where some women were cutting the clothes off poor Mary, +preparatory for the doctor’s inspection. Jem said directly, “Some one +go straight to Mrs. Scott’s, and fetch our Bessy. Her place is here, +with Mary.” + +And then he civilly, but quietly, dismissed all the unnecessary and +useless people, feeling sure that in case of any kind of illness, quiet +was the best thing. Then he went upstairs. + +Mary’s face was scarlet now with violent pain; but she smiled a little +through her tears at seeing Jem. As for him, he cried outright. + +“I don’t think it was anybody’s fault, Jem,” said she, softly. “It was +very heavy to lift.” + +“Are you in great pain, dear?” asked Jem, in a whisper. + +“I think I’m killed, Jem. I do think I am. And I did so want to see +mother again.” + +“Nonsense!” said the woman who had been helping Mary. For, as she said +afterwards, whether Mary died or lived, crying was a bad thing for her; +and she saw the girl was ready to cry when she thought of her mother, +though she had borne up bravely all the time the clothes were cut off. + +Bessy’s face, which had been red with hard running, faded to a dead +white when she saw Mary; she looked so shocked and ill that Jem had +not the heart to blame her, although the minute before she came in, he +had been feeling very angry with her. Bessy stood quite still at the +foot of Mary’s bed, never speaking a word, while the doctor examined +her side and felt her pulse; only great round tears gathered in her +eyes, and rolled down her cheeks, as she saw Mary quiver with pain. Jem +followed the doctor downstairs. Then Bessy went and knelt beside Mary, +and wiped away the tears that were trickling down the little face. + +“Is it very bad, Mary?” asked Bessy. + +“Oh yes! yes! if I speak, I shall scream.” + +Then Bessy covered her head in the bed-clothes and cried outright. + +“I was not cross, was I? I did not mean to be—but I hardly know what I +am saying,” moaned out little Mary. “Please forgive me, Bessy, if I was +cross.” + +“God forgive me!” said Bessy, very low. They were the first words she +had spoken since she came home. But there could be no more talking +between the sisters, for now the woman returned who had at first been +assisting Mary. Presently Jem came to the door, and beckoned. Bessy +rose up, and went with, him below. Jem looked very grave, yet not so +sad as he had done before the doctor came. “He says she must go into +the infirmary. He will see about getting her in.” + +“Oh, Jem! I did so want to nurse her myself!” said Bessy, imploringly. +“It was all my own fault,” (she choked with crying); “and I thought I +might do that for her, to make up.” + +“My dear Bessy,”—before he had seen Bessy, he had thought he could +never call her “dear” again, but now he began—“My dear Bessy, we both +want Mary to get better, don’t we? I am sure we do. And we want to take +the best way of making her so, whatever that is; well, then, I think we +must not be considering what we should like best just for ourselves, +but what people, who know as well as doctors do, say is the right way. +I can’t remember all that he said; but I’m clear that he told me, all +wounds on the skin required more and better air to heal in than Mary +could have here: and there the doctor will see her twice a day, if need +be.” + +Bessy shook her head, but could not speak at first. At last she said, +“Jem, I did so want to do something for her. No one could nurse her as +I should.” + +Jem was silent. At last he took Bessy’s hand, for he wanted to say +something to her that he was afraid might vex her, and yet that he +thought he ought to say. + +“Bessy!” said he, “when mother went away, you planned to do all things +right at home, and to make us all happy. I know you did. Now may I tell +you how I think you went wrong? Don’t be angry, Bessy.” + +“I think I shall never have spirit enough in me to be angry again,” +said Bessy, humbly and sadly. + +“So much the better, dear. But don’t over-fret about Mary. The doctor +has good hopes of her, if he can get her into the infirmary. Now, I’m +going on to tell you how I think you got wrong after mother left. You +see, Bessy, you wanted to make us all happy your way—as you liked; just +as you are wanting now to nurse Mary in your way, and as you like. Now, +as far as I can make out, those folks who make home the happiest, are +people who try and find out how others think they could be happy, and +then, if it’s not wrong, help them on with their wishes as far as they +can. You know, you wanted us all to listen to your book; and very kind +it was in you to think of it; only, you see, one wanted to whittle, and +another wanted to do this or that, and then you were vexed with us all. +I don’t say but what I should have been if I had been in your place, +and planned such a deal for others; only lookers-on always see a deal; +and I saw that if you’d done what poor little Mary did next day, we +should all have been far happier. She thought how she could forward us +in our plans, instead of trying to force a plan of her own on us. She +got me my right sort of wood for whittling, and arranged all nicely +to get the little ones off to bed, so as to get the house quiet, if +you wanted some reading, as she thought you did. And that’s the way, I +notice, some folks have of making a happy home. Others may mean just as +well, but they don’t hit the thing.” + +“I dare say it’s true,” said Bessy. “But sometimes you all hang about +as if you did not know what to do. And I thought reading travels would +just please you all.” + +Jem was touched by Bessy’s humble way of speaking, so different from +her usual cheerful, self-confident manner. He answered, “I know you +did, dear. And many a time we should have been glad enough of it, when +we had nothing to do, as you say.” + +“I had promised mother to try and make you all happy, and this is the +end of it!” said Bessy, beginning to cry afresh. + +“But, Bessy! I think you were not thinking of your promise, when you +fixed to go out and char.” + +“I thought of earning money.” + +“Earning money would not make us happy. We have enough, with care and +management. If you were to have made us happy, you should have been at +home, with a bright face, ready to welcome us; don’t you think so, dear +Bessy?” + +“I did not want the money for home. I wanted to make mother a present +of such a pretty thing!” + +“Poor mother! I am afraid we must send for her home now. And she has +only been three days at Southport!” + +“Oh!” said Bessy, startled by this notion of Jem’s; “don’t, don’t send +for mother. The doctor did say so much about her going to Southport +being the only thing for her, and I did so try to get her an order! +It will kill her, Jem! indeed it will; you don’t know how weak and +frightened she is,—oh, Jem, Jem!” + +Jem felt the truth of what his sister was saying. At last, he resolved +to leave the matter for the doctor to decide, as he had attended his +mother, and now knew exactly how much danger there was about Mary. He +proposed to Bessy that they should go and relieve the kind neighbour +who had charge of Mary. + +“But you won’t send for mother,” pleaded Bessy; “if it’s the best thing +for Mary, I’ll wash up her things to-night, all ready for her to go +into the infirmary. I won’t think of myself, Jem.” + +“Well! I must speak to the doctor,” said Jem. “I must not try and fix +any way just because we wish it, but because it is right.” + +All night long, Bessy washed and ironed, and yet was always ready to +attend to Mary when Jem called her. She took Jenny’s scalded hand in +charge as well, and bathed it with the lotion the doctor sent; and all +was done so meekly and patiently that even Tom was struck with it, +and admired the change. The doctor came very early. He had prepared +everything for Mary’s admission into the infirmary. And Jem consulted +him about sending for his mother home. Bessy sat trembling, awaiting +his answer. + +“I am very unwilling to sanction any concealment. And yet, as you say, +your mother is in a very delicate state. It might do her serious harm +if she had any shock. Well! suppose for this once, I take it on myself. +If Mary goes on as I hope, why—well! well! we’ll see. Mind that your +mother is told all when she comes home. And if our poor Mary grows +worse—but I’m not afraid of that, with infirmary care and nursing—but +if she does, I’ll write to your mother myself, and arrange with a kind +friend I have at Southport all about sending her home. And now,” said +he, turning suddenly to Bessy, “tell me what you were doing from home +when this happened. Did not your mother leave you in charge of all at +home?” + +“Yes, sir!” said Bessy, trembling. “But, sir, I thought I could earn +money to make mother a present!” + +“Thought! fiddle-de-dee. I’ll tell you what; never you neglect the +work clearly laid out for you by either God or man, to go making work +for yourself, according to your own fancies. God knows what you are +most fit for. Do that. And then wait; if you don’t see your next duty +clearly. You will not long be idle in this world, if you are ready for +a summons. Now let me see that you send Mary all clean and tidy to the +infirmary.” + +Jem was holding Bessy’s hand. “She has washed everything and made it +fit for a queen. Our Bessy worked all night long, and was content to +let me be with Mary (where she wished sore to be), because I could lift +her better, being the stronger.” + +“That’s right. Even when you want to be of service to others, don’t +think how to please yourself.” + +I have not much more to tell you about Bessy. This sad accident of +Mary’s did her a great deal of good, although it cost her so much +sorrow at first. It taught her several lessons, which it is good for +every woman to learn, whether she is called upon, as daughter, sister, +wife, or mother, to contribute to the happiness of a home. And Mary +herself was hardly more thoughtful and careful to make others happy +in their own way, provided that way was innocent, than was Bessy +hereafter. It was a struggle between her and Mary which could be +the least selfish, and do the duties nearest to them with the most +faithfulness and zeal. The mother stayed at Southport her full time, +and came home well and strong. Then Bessy put her arms round her +mother’s neck, and told her all—and far more severely against herself +than either the doctor or Jem did, when they related the same story +afterwards. + + + + +DISAPPEARANCES. + + +I am not in the habit of seeing the _Household Words_ regularly; but a +friend, who lately sent me some of the back numbers, recommended me to +read “all the papers relating to the Detective and Protective Police,” +which I accordingly did—not as the generality of readers have done, as +they appeared week by week, or with pauses between, but consecutively, +as a popular history of the Metropolitan Police; and, as I suppose it +may also be considered, a history of the police force in every large +town in England. When I had ended these papers, I did not feel disposed +to read any others at that time, but preferred falling into a train of +reverie and recollection. + +First of all I remembered, with a smile, the unexpected manner in which +a relation of mine was discovered by an acquaintance, who had mislaid +or forgotten Mr. B.’s address. Now my dear cousin, Mr. B., charming as +he is in many points, has the little peculiarity of liking to change +his lodgings once every three months on an average, which occasions +some bewilderment to his country friends, who have no sooner learnt the +19, Belle Vue Road, Hampstead, than they have to take pains to forget +that address, and to remember the 27½, Upper Brown Street, Camberwell; +and so on, till I would rather learn a page of _Walker’s Pronouncing +Dictionary_, than try to remember the variety of directions which I +have had to put on my letters to Mr. B. during the last three years. +Last summer it pleased him to remove to a beautiful village not ten +miles out of London, where there is a railway station. Thither his +friend sought him. (I do not now speak of the following scent there +had been through three or four different lodgings, where Mr. B. had +been residing, before his country friend ascertained that he was now +lodging at R——.) He spent the morning in making inquiries as to Mr. +B.’s whereabouts in the village; but many gentlemen were lodging there +for the summer, and neither butcher nor baker could inform him where +Mr. B. was staying; his letters were unknown at the post-office, +which was accounted for by the circumstance of their always being +directed to his office in town. At last the country friend sauntered +back to the railway-office, and while he waited for the train he made +inquiry, as a last resource, of the book-keeper at the station. “No, +sir, I cannot tell you where Mr. B. lodges—so many gentlemen go by the +trains; but I have no doubt but that the person standing by that pillar +can inform you.” The individual to whom he directed the inquirer’s +attention had the appearance of a tradesman—respectable enough, yet +with no pretensions to “gentility,” and had, apparently, no more urgent +employment than lazily watching the passengers who came dropping in to +the station. However, when he was spoken to, he answered civilly and +promptly. “Mr. B.? tall gentleman, with light hair? Yes, sir, I know +Mr. B. He lodges at No. 8, Morton Villas—has done these three weeks or +more; but you’ll not find him there, sir, now. He went to town by the +eleven o’clock train, and does not usually return until the half-past +four train.” + +The country friend had no time to lose in returning to the village, to +ascertain the truth of this statement. He thanked his informant, and +said he would call on Mr. B. at his office in town; but before he left +R——station, he asked the book-keeper who the person was to whom he had +referred him for information as to his friend’s place of residence. +“One of the Detective Police, sir,” was the answer. I need hardly say +that Mr. B., not without a little surprise, confirmed the accuracy of +the policeman’s report in every particular. + +When I heard this anecdote of my cousin and his friend, I thought that +there could be no more romances written on the same kind of plot as +Caleb Williams; the principal interest of which, to the superficial +reader, consists in the alternation of hope and fear, that the hero +may, or may not, escape his pursuer. It is long since I have read the +story, and I forget the name of the offended and injured gentleman, +whose privacy Caleb has invaded; but I know that his pursuit of +Caleb—his detection of the various hiding-places of the latter—his +following up of slight clues—all, in fact, depended upon his own +energy, sagacity, and perseverance. The interest was caused by the +struggle of man against man; and the uncertainty as to which would +ultimately be successful in his object; the unrelenting pursuer, or the +ingenious Caleb, who seeks by every device to conceal himself. Now, +in 1851, the offended master would set the Detective Police to work; +there would be no doubt as to their success; the only question would +be as to the time that would elapse before the hiding-place could be +detected, and that could not be a question long. It is no longer a +struggle between man and man, but between a vast organized machinery, +and a weak, solitary individual; we have no hopes, no fears—only +certainty. But if the materials of pursuit and evasion, as long as +the chase is confined to England, are taken away from the store-house +of the romancer, at any rate we can no more be haunted by the idea +of the possibility of mysterious disappearances; and any one who has +associated much with those who were alive at the end of the last +century, can testify that there was some reason for such fears. + +When I was a child, I was sometimes permitted to accompany a relation +to drink tea with a very clever old lady, of one hundred and twenty—or, +so I thought then; I now think she, perhaps, was only about seventy. +She was lively, and intelligent, and had seen and known much that was +worth narrating. She was a cousin of the Sneyds, the family whence Mr. +Edgeworth took two of his wives; had known Major André; had mixed in +the Old Whig Society that the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire and “Buff +and Blue Mrs. Crewe” gathered round them; her father had been one of +the early patrons of the lovely Miss Linley. I name these facts to show +that she was too intelligent and cultivated by association, as well as +by natural powers, to lend an over-easy credence to the marvellous; and +yet I have heard her relate stories of disappearances which haunted +my imagination longer than any tale of wonder. One of her stories was +this:—Her father’s estate lay in Shropshire, and his park-gates opened +right on to a scattered village of which he was landlord. The houses +formed a straggling irregular street—here a garden, next a gable-end of +a farm, there a row of cottages, and so on. Now, at the end house or +cottage lived a very respectable man and his wife. They were well known +in the village, and were esteemed for the patient attention which they +paid to the husband’s father, a paralytic old man. In winter, his chair +was near the fire; in summer, they carried him out into the open space +in front of the house to bask in the sunshine, and to receive what +placid amusement he could from watching the little passings to and fro +of the villagers. He could not move from his bed to his chair without +help. One hot and sultry June day, all the village turned out to the +hay-fields. Only the very old and the very young remained. + +The old father of whom I have spoken was carried out to bask in the +sunshine that afternoon as usual, and his son and daughter-in-law +went to the hay-making. But when they came home in the early evening, +their paralysed father had disappeared—was gone! and from that day +forwards, nothing more was ever heard of him. The old lady, who told +this story, said with the quietness that always marked the simplicity +of her narration, that every inquiry which her father could make was +made, and that it could never be accounted for. No one had observed any +stranger in the village; no small household robbery, to which the old +man might have been supposed an obstacle, had been committed in his +son’s dwelling that afternoon. The son and daughter-in-law (noted too +for their attention to the helpless father) had been a-field among all +the neighbours the whole of the time. In short, it never was accounted +for; and left a painful impression on many minds. + +I will answer for it, the Detective Police would have ascertained every +fact relating to it in a week. + +This story from its mystery was painful, but had no consequences +to make it tragical. The next which I shall tell (and although +traditionary, these anecdotes of disappearances which I relate in this +paper are correctly repeated, and were believed by my informants to be +strictly true), had consequences, and melancholy ones too. The scene of +it is in a little country-town, surrounded by the estates of several +gentlemen of large property. About a hundred years ago there lived in +this small town an attorney, with his mother and sister. He was agent +for one of the squires near, and received rents for him on stated days, +which of course were well known. He went at these times to a small +public-house, perhaps five miles from ——, where the tenants met him, +paid their rents, and were entertained at dinner afterwards. One night +he did not return from this festivity. He never returned. The gentleman +whose agent he was, employed the Dogberrys of the time to find him, +and the missing cash; the mother, whose support and comfort he was, +sought him with all the perseverance of faithful love. But he never +returned; and by-and-by the rumour spread that he must have gone abroad +with the money; his mother heard the whispers all around her, and could +not disprove it; and so her heart broke, and she died. Years after, I +think as many as fifty, the well-to-do butcher and grazier of —— died; +but, before his death, he confessed that he had waylaid Mr. —— on the +heath close to the town, almost within call of his own house, intending +only to rob him, but meeting with more resistance than he anticipated, +had been provoked to stab him; and had buried him that very night deep +under the loose sand of the heath. There his skeleton was found; but +too late for his poor mother to know that his fame was cleared. His +sister, too, was dead, unmarried, for no one liked the possibilities +which might arise from being connected with the family. None cared if +he was guilty or innocent now. + +If our Detective Police had only been in existence! + +This last is hardly a story of unaccounted-for disappearance. It is +only unaccounted for in one generation. But disappearances never to be +accounted for on any supposition are not uncommon, among the traditions +of the last century. I have heard (and I think I have read it in one of +the earlier numbers of _Chambers’s Journal_), of a marriage which took +place in Lincolnshire about the year 1750. It was not then _de rigueur_ +that the happy couple should set out on a wedding journey; but instead, +they and their friends had a merry jovial dinner at the house of either +bride or groom; and in this instance the whole party adjourned to the +bridegroom’s residence, and dispersed, some to ramble in the garden, +some to rest in the house until the dinner-hour. The bridegroom, it is +to be supposed, was with his bride, when he was suddenly summoned away +by a domestic, who said that a stranger wished to speak to him; and +henceforward he was never seen more. The same tradition hangs about +an old deserted Welsh Hall standing in a wood near Festiniog; there, +too, the bridegroom was sent for to give audience to a stranger on his +wedding-day, and disappeared from the face of the earth from that time; +but there, they tell in addition, that the bride lived long,—that she +passed her three-score years and ten, but that daily during all those +years, while there was light of sun or moon to lighten the earth, she +sat watching,—watching at one particular window which commanded a view +of the approach to the house. Her whole faculties, her whole mental +powers, became absorbed in that weary watching; long before she died, +she was childish, and only conscious of one wish—to sit in that long +high window, and watch the road, along which he might come. She was as +faithful as Evangeline, if pensive and inglorious. + +That these two similar stories of disappearance on a wedding-day +“obtained,” as the French say, shows us that anything which adds to +our facility of communication, and organization of means, adds to +our security of life. Only let a bridegroom try to disappear from an +untamed _Katherine_ of a bride, and he will soon be brought home, like +a recreant coward, overtaken by the electric telegraph, and clutched +back to his fate by a detective policeman. + +Two more stories of disappearance, and I have done. I will give you +the last in date first, because it is the most melancholy; and we will +wind up cheerfully (after a fashion). Some time between 1820 and 1830, +there lived in North Shields a respectable old woman, and her son, who +was trying to struggle into sufficient knowledge of medicine, to go +out as ship-surgeon in a Baltic vessel, and perhaps in this manner to +earn money enough to spend a session in Edinburgh. He was furthered in +all his plans by the late benevolent Dr. G——, of that town. I believe +the usual premium was not required in his case; the young man did many +useful errands and offices which a finer young gentleman would have +considered beneath him; and he resided with his mother in one of the +alleys (or “chares,”) which lead down from the main street of North +Shields to the river. Dr. G——had been with a patient all night, and +left her very early on a winter’s morning to return home to bed; but +first he stepped down to his apprentice’s home, and bade him get up, +and follow him to his own house, where some medicine was to be mixed, +and then taken to the lady. Accordingly the poor lad came, prepared the +dose, and set off with it some time between five and six on a winter’s +morning. He was never seen again. Dr. G—— waited, thinking he was at +his mother’s house; she waited, considering that he had gone to his +day’s work. And meanwhile, as people remembered afterwards, the small +vessel bound to Edinburgh sailed out of port. The mother expected +him back her whole life long; but some years afterwards occurred +the discoveries of the Hare and Burke horrors, and people seemed to +gain a dark glimpse at his fate; but I never heard that it was fully +ascertained, or indeed more than surmised. I ought to add that all +who knew him spoke emphatically as to his steadiness of purpose, and +conduct, so as to render it improbable in the highest degree that he +had run off to sea, or suddenly changed his plan of life in any way. + +My last story is one of a disappearance which was accounted for after +many years. There is a considerable street in Manchester leading from +the centre of the town to some of the suburbs. This street is called +at one part Garratt, and afterwards, where it emerges into gentility +and, comparatively, country, Brook Street. It derives its former name +from an old black-and-white hall of the time of Richard the Third, or +thereabouts, to judge from the style of building; they have closed in +what is left of the old hall now; but a few years since this old house +was visible from the main road; it stood low on some vacant ground, +and appeared to be half in ruins. I believe it was occupied by several +poor families who rented tenements in the tumble-down dwelling. But +formerly it was Gerard Hall, (what a difference between Gerard and +Garratt!) and was surrounded by a park with a clear brook running +through it, with pleasant fish-ponds, (the name of these was preserved +until very lately, on a street near,) orchards, dovecotes, and similar +appurtenances to the manor-houses of former days. I am almost sure that +the family to whom it belonged were Mosleys, probably a branch of the +tree of the lord of the Manor of Manchester. Any topographical work of +the last century relating to their district would give the name of the +last proprietor of the old stock, and it is to him that my story refers. + +Many years ago there lived in Manchester two old maiden ladies, of high +respectability. All their lives had been spent in the town, and they +were fond of relating the changes which had taken place within their +recollection, which extended back to seventy or eighty years from the +present time. They knew much of its traditionary history from their +father, as well; who, with his father before him, had been respectable +attorneys in Manchester, during the greater part of the last century: +they were, also, agents for several of the county families, who, driven +from their old possessions by the enlargement of the town, found some +compensation in the increased value of any land which they might +choose to sell. Consequently the Messrs. S——, father and son, were +conveyancers in good repute, and acquainted with several secret pieces +of family history, one of which related to Garratt Hall. + +The owner of this estate, some time in the first half of the last +century, married young; he and his wife had several children, and +lived together in a quiet state of happiness for many years. At last, +business of some kind took the husband up to London; a week’s journey +in those days. He wrote and announced his arrival; I do not think he +ever wrote again. He seemed to be swallowed up in the abyss of the +metropolis, for no friend (and the lady had many and powerful friends) +could ever ascertain for her what had become of him; the prevalent idea +was that he had been attacked by some of the street-robbers who prowled +about in those days, that he had resisted, and had been murdered. His +wife gradually gave up all hopes of seeing him again, and devoted +herself to the care of her children; and so they went on, tranquilly +enough, until the heir came of age, when certain deeds were necessary +before he could legally take possession of the property. These deeds +Mr. S—— (the family lawyer) stated had been given up by him into the +missing gentleman’s keeping just before the last mysterious journey +to London, with which I think they were in some way concerned. It was +possible that they were still in existence; some one in London might +have them in possession, and be either conscious or unconscious of +their importance. At any rate, Mr. S——’s advice to his client was +that he should put an advertisement in the London papers, worded so +skilfully that any one who might hold the important documents should +understand to what it referred, and no one else. This was accordingly +done; and although repeated at intervals for some time, it met with +no success. But at last a mysterious answer was sent; to the effect +that the deeds were in existence, and should be given up; but only +on certain conditions, and to the heir himself. The young man, in +consequence, went up to London, and adjourned, according to directions, +to an old house in Barbican, where he was told by a man, apparently +awaiting him, that he must submit to be blindfolded, and must follow +his guidance. He was taken through several long passages before he +left the house; at the termination of one of these he was put into a +sedan-chair, and carried about for an hour or more; he always reported +that there were many turnings, and that he imagined he was set down +finally not very far from his starting point. + +When his eyes were unbandaged, he was in a decent sitting-room, with +tokens of family occupation lying about. A middle-aged gentleman +entered, and told him that, until a certain time had elapsed (which +should be indicated to him in a particular way, but of which the length +was not then named), he must swear to secrecy as to the means by which +he obtained possession of the deeds. This oath was taken; and then the +gentleman, not without some emotion, acknowledged himself to be the +missing father of the heir. It seems that he had fallen in love with a +damsel, a friend of the person with whom he lodged. To this young woman +he had represented himself as unmarried; she listened willingly to +his wooing, and her father, who was a shopkeeper in the City, was not +averse to the match, as the Lancashire squire had a goodly presence, +and many similar qualities, which the shopkeeper thought might be +acceptable to his customers. The bargain was struck; the descendant +of a knightly race married the only daughter of the City shopkeeper, +and became a junior partner in the business. He told his son that he +had never repented the step he had taken; that his lowly-born wife was +sweet, docile, and affectionate; that his family by her was large; and +that he and they were thriving and happy. He inquired after his first +(or rather, I should say, his true) wife with friendly affection; +approved of what she had done with regard to his estate, and the +education of his children; but said that he considered he was dead +to her, as she was to him. When he really died he promised that a +particular message, the nature of which he specified, should be sent to +his son at Garrett; until then they would not hear more of each other; +for it was of no use attempting to trace him under his incognito, +even if the oath did not render such an attempt forbidden. I dare say +the youth had no great desire to trace out the father, who had been +one in name only. He returned to Lancashire; took possession of the +property at Manchester; and many years elapsed before he received the +mysterious intimation of his father’s real death. After that, he named +the particulars connected with the recovery of the title-deeds to Mr. +S., and one or two intimate friends. When the family became extinct, or +removed from Garratt, it became no longer any very closely kept secret, +and I was told the tale of the disappearance by Miss S., the aged +daughter of the family agent. + +Once more, let me say I am thankful I live in the days of the Detective +Police; if I am murdered, or commit bigamy, at any rate my friends will +have the comfort of knowing all about it. + +A correspondent has favoured us with the sequel of the disappearance +of the pupil of Dr. G., who vanished from North Shields, in charge +of certain potions he was entrusted with, very early one morning, to +convey to a patient:—“Dr. G.’s son married my sister, and the young man +who disappeared was a pupil in the house. When he went out with the +medicine, he was hardly dressed, having merely thrown on some clothes; +and he went in slippers—which incidents induced the belief that he was +made away with. After some months his family put on mourning; and the +G.’s (_very_ timid people) were so sure that he was murdered, that +they wrote verses to his memory, and became sadly worn by terror. But, +after a long time (I fancy, but am not sure, about a year and a half), +came a letter from the young man, who was doing well in America. His +explanation was, that a vessel was lying at the wharf about to sail in +the morning, and the youth, who had long meditated evasion, thought it +a good opportunity, and stepped on board, after leaving the medicine at +the proper door. I spent some weeks at Dr. G.’s after the occurrence; +and very doleful we used to be about it. But the next time I went they +were, naturally, very angry with the inconsiderate young man.” + + +London: Printed by SMITH, ELDER & Co., 15½, Old Bailey, E.C. + + + + +FOOTNOTES + +1. Wir pflügen und wir streuen + Den Saamen auf das Land; + Das Wachsen und Gedeihen + Steht in des höchsten Hand. + Er sendet Thau und Regen, + Und Sonn und Mondesschein; + Von Ihm kommt aller Segen, + Von unserm Gott allein: + Alle gute Gabe kommt her + Von Gott dem Herrn, + Drum dankt und hofft auf Ihn. + + + + +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE + +Contemporary spellings have been retained even when inconsistent. A +small number of obvious typographical errors have been corrected, and +missing punctuation has been silently added. + +The following additional changes have been made: + + re-inter the inn re-enter the inn + + borne at Altenahr born at Altenahr + + hofft auf Ihm hofft auf Ihn + + Libbie fell very shy Libbie felt very shy + + shut the door in shut the door in + Mr. Jenkins’s face Mrs. Jenkins’s face + + his eyes was open his eyes were open + + count-out and throwing counting out and throwing + down her money down her money + + altered breathings altered breathing + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 28636 *** |