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Title: Chantry House
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<p>Transcribed from the 1905 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price,
email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<h1>CHANTRY HOUSE</h1>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER I - A NURSERY PROSE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘And if it be the heart of man<br /> Which
our existence measures,<br />Far longer is our childhood’s span<br /> Than
that of manly pleasures.</p>
<p>‘For long each month and year is then,<br /> Their
thoughts and days extending,<br />But months and years pass swift with
men<br /> To time’s last goal descending.’</p>
<p>ISAAC WILLIAMS.</p>
<p>The united force of the younger generation has been brought upon
me to record, with the aid of diaries and letters, the circumstances
connected with Chantry House and my two dear elder brothers. Once
this could not have been done without more pain than I could brook,
but the lapse of time heals wounds, brings compensations, and, when
the heart has ceased from aching and yearning, makes the memory of what
once filled it a treasure to be brought forward with joy and thankfulness.
Nor would it be well that some of those mentioned in the coming narrative
should be wholly forgotten, and their place know them no more.</p>
<p>To explain all, I must go back to a time long before the morning
when my father astonished us all by exclaiming, ‘Poor old James
Winslow! So Chantry House is came to us after all!’
Previous to that event I do not think we were aware of the existence
of that place, far less of its being a possible inheritance, for my
parents would never have permitted themselves or their family to be
unsettled by the notion of doubtful contingencies.</p>
<p>My father, John Edward Winslow, was a barrister, and held an appointment
in the Admiralty Office, which employed him for many hours of the day
at Somerset House. My mother, whose maiden name was Mary Griffith,
belonged to a naval family. Her father had been lost in a West
Indian hurricane at sea, and her uncle, Admiral Sir John Griffith, was
the hero of the family, having been at Trafalgar and distinguished himself
in cutting out expeditions. My eldest brother bore his name.
The second was named after the Duke of Clarence, with whom my mother
had once danced at a ball on board ship at Portsmouth, and who had been
rather fond of my uncle. Indeed, I believe my father’s appointment
had been obtained through his interest, just about the time of Clarence’s
birth.</p>
<p>We three boys had come so fast upon each other’s heels in the
Novembers of 1809, 10, and 11, that any two of us used to look like
twins. There is still extant a feeble water-coloured drawing of
the trio, in nankeen frocks, and long white trowsers, with bare necks
and arms, the latter twined together, and with the free hands, Griffith
holding a bat, Clarence a trap, and I a ball. I remember the emulation
we felt at Griffith’s privilege of eldest in holding the bat.</p>
<p>The sitting for that picture is the only thing I clearly remember
during those earlier days. I have no recollection of the disaster,
which, at four years old, altered my life. The catastrophe, as
others have described it, was that we three boys were riding cock-horse
on the balusters of the second floor of our house in Montagu Place,
Russell Square, when we indulged in a general <i>mêlée</i>,
which resulted in all tumbling over into the vestibule below.
The others, to whom I served as cushion, were not damaged beyond the
power of yelling, and were quite restored in half-an-hour, but I was
undermost, and the consequence has been a curved spine, dwarfed stature,
an elevated shoulder, and a shortened, nearly useless leg.</p>
<p>What I do remember, is my mother reading to me Miss Edgeworth’s
<i>Frank and the little do Trusty</i>, as I lay in my crib in her bedroom.
I made one of my nieces hunt up the book for me the other day, and the
story brought back at once the little crib, or the watered blue moreen
canopy of the big four-poster to which I was sometimes lifted for a
change; even the scrawly pattern of the paper, which my weary eyes made
into purple elves perpetually pursuing crimson ones, the foremost of
whom always turned upside down; and the knobs in the Marseilles counterpane
with which my fingers used to toy. I have heard my mother tell
that whenever I was most languid and suffering I used to whine out,
‘O do read <i>Frank and the little dog Trusty</i>,’ and
never permitted a single word to be varied, in the curious childish
love of reiteration with its soothing power.</p>
<p>I am afraid that any true picture of our parents, especially of my
mother, will not do them justice in the eyes of the young people of
the present day, who are accustomed to a far more indulgent government,
and yet seem to me to know little of the loyal veneration and submission
with which we have, through life, regarded our father and mother.
It would have been reckoned disrespectful to address them by these names;
they were through life to us, in private, papa and mamma, and we never
presumed to take a liberty with them. I doubt whether the petting,
patronising equality of terms on which children now live with their
parents be equally wholesome. There was then, however, strong
love and self-sacrificing devotion; but not manifested in softness or
cultivation of sympathy. Nothing was more dreaded than spoiling,
which was viewed as idle and unjustifiable self-gratification at the
expense of the objects thereof. There were an unlucky little pair
in Russell Square who were said to be ‘spoilt children,’
and who used to be mentioned in our nursery with bated breath as a kind
of monsters or criminals. I believe our mother laboured under
a perpetual fear of spoiling Griff as the eldest, Clarence as the beauty,
me as the invalid, Emily (two years younger) as the only girl, and Martyn
as the after-thought, six years below our sister. She was always
performing little acts of conscientiousness, little as we guessed it.</p>
<p>Thus though her unremitting care saved my life, and was such that
she finally brought on herself a severe and dangerous illness, she kept
me in order all the time, never wailed over me nor weakly pitied me,
never permitted resistance to medicine nor rebellion against treatment,
enforced little courtesies, insisted on every required exertion, and
hardly ever relaxed the rule of Spartan fortitude in herself as in me.
It is to this resolution on her part, carried out consistently at whatever
present cost to us both, that I owe such powers of locomotion as I possess,
and the habits of exertion that have been even more valuable to me.</p>
<p>When at last, after many weeks, nay months, of this watchfulness,
she broke down, so that her life was for a time in danger, the lack
of her bracing and tender care made my life very trying, after I found
myself transported to the nursery, scarcely understanding why, accused
of having by my naughtiness made ray poor mamma so ill, and discovering
for the first time that I was a miserable, naughty little fretful being,
and with nobody but Clarence and the housemaid to take pity on me.</p>
<p>Nurse Gooch was a masterful, trustworthy woman, and was laid under
injunctions not to indulge Master Edward. She certainly did not
err in that respect, though she attended faithfully to my material welfare;
but woe to me if I gave way to a little moaning; and what I felt still
harder, she never said ‘good boy’ if I contrived to abstain.</p>
<p>I hear of carpets, curtains, and pictures in the existing nurseries.
They must be palaces compared with our great bare attic, where nothing
was allowed that could gather dust. One bit of drugget by the
fireside, where stood a round table at which the maids talked and darned
stockings, was all that hid the bare boards; the walls were as plain
as those of a workhouse, and when the London sun did shine, it glared
into my eyes through the great unshaded windows. There was a deal
table for the meals (and very plain meals they were), and two or three
big presses painted white for our clothes, and one cupboard for our
toys. I must say that Gooch was strictly just, and never permitted
little Emily, nor Griff - though he was very decidedly the favourite,
- to bear off my beloved woolly dog to be stabled in the houses of wooden
bricks which the two were continually constructing for their menagerie
of maimed animals.</p>
<p>Griff was deservedly the favourite with every one who was not, like
our parents, conscientiously bent on impartiality. He was so bright
and winning, he had such curly tight-rolled hair with a tinge of auburn,
such merry bold blue eyes, such glowing dimpled cheeks, such a joyous
smile all over his face, and such a ringing laugh; he was so strong,
brave, and sturdy, that he was a boy to be proud of, and a perfect king
in his own way, making every one do as he pleased. All the maids,
and Peter the footman, were his slaves, every one except nurse and mamma,
and it was only by a strong effort of principle that they resisted him;
while he dragged Clarence about as his devoted though not always happy
follower.</p>
<p>Alas! for Clarence! Courage was not in him. The fearless
infant boy chiefly dwells in conventional fiction, and valour seldom
comes before strength. Moreover, I have come to the opinion that
though no one thought of it at the time, his nerves must have had a
terrible and lasting shock at the accident and at the sight of my crushed
and deathly condition, which occupied every one too much for them to
think of soothing or shielding him. At any rate, fear was the
misery of his life. Darkness was his horror. He would scream
till he brought in some one, though he knew it would be only to scold
or slap him. The housemaid’s closet on the stairs was to
him an abode of wolves. Mrs. Gatty’s tale of <i>The Tiger
in the Coal-box</i> is a transcript of his feelings, except that no
one took the trouble to reassure him; something undefined and horrible
was thought to wag in the case of the eight-day clock; and he could
not bear to open the play cupboard lest ‘something’ should
jump out on him. The first time he was taken to the Zoological
Gardens, the monkeys so terrified him that a bystander insisted on Gooch’s
carrying him away lest he should go into fits, though Griffith was shouting
with ecstasy, and could hardly forgive the curtailment of his enjoyment.</p>
<p>Clarence used to aver that he really did see ‘things’
in the dark, but as he only shuddered and sobbed instead of describing
them, he was punished for ‘telling fibs,’ though the housemaid
used to speak under her breath of his being a ‘Sunday child.’
And after long penance, tied to his stool in the corner, he would creep
up to me and whisper, ‘But, Eddy, I really did!’</p>
<p>However, it was only too well established in the nursery that Clarence’s
veracity was on a par with his courage. When taxed with any misdemeanour,
he used to look round scared and bewildered, and utter a flat demur.
One scene in particular comes before me. There were strict laws
against going into shops or buying dainties without express permission
from mamma or nurse; but one day when Clarence had by some chance been
sent out alone with the good natured housemaid, his fingers were found
sticky.</p>
<p>‘Now, Master Clarence, you’ve been a naughty boy, eating
of sweets,’ exclaimed stern Justice in a mob cap and frills.</p>
<p>‘No - no - ’ faltered the victim; but, alas! Mrs.
Gooch had only to thrust her hand into the little pocket of his monkey
suit to convict him on the spot.</p>
<p>The maid was dismissed with a month’s wages, and poor Clarence
underwent a strange punishment from my mother, who was getting about
again by that time, namely, a drop of hot sealing-wax on his tongue,
to teach him practically the doom of the false tongue. It might
have done him good if there had been sufficient encouragement to him
to make him try to win a new character, but it only added a fresh terror
to his mind; and nurse grew fond of manifesting her incredulity of his
assertions by always referring to Griff or to me, or even to little
Emily. What was worse, she used to point him out to her congeners
in the Square or the Park as ‘such a false child.’</p>
<p>He was a very pretty little fellow, with a delicately rosy face,
wistful blue eyes, and soft, light, wavy hair, and perhaps Gooch was
jealous of his attracting more notice than Griffith, and thought he
posed for admiration, for she used to tell people that no one could
guess what a child he was for slyness; so that he could not bear going
out with her, and sometimes bemoaned himself to me.</p>
<p>There must be a good deal of sneaking in the undeveloped nature,
for in those days I was ashamed of my preference for Clarence, the naughty
one. But there was no helping it, he was so much more gentle than
Griff, and would always give up any sport that incommoded me, instead
of calling me a stupid little ape, and becoming more boisterous after
the fashion of Griff. Moreover, he fetched and carried for me
unweariedly, and would play at spillekins, help to put up puzzles, and
enact little dramas with our wooden animals, such as Griff scorned as
only fit for babies. Even nurse allowed Clarence’s merits
towards me and little Emily, but always with the sigh: ‘If he
was but as good in other respects, but them quiet ones is always sly.’</p>
<p>Good Nurse Gooch! We all owe much to her staunch fidelity,
strong discipline, and unselfish devotion, but nature had not fitted
her to deal with a timid, sensitive child, of highly nervous temperament.
Indeed, persons of far more insight might have been perplexed by the
fact that Clarence was exemplary at church and prayers, family and private,
- whenever Griff would let him, that is to say, - and would add private
petitions of his own, sometimes of a startling nature. He never
scandalised the nursery, like Griff, by unseemly pranks on Sundays,
nor by innovations in the habits of Noah’s ark, but was as much
shocked as nurse when the lion was made to devour the elephant, or the
lion and wolf fought in an embrace fatal to their legs. Bible
stories and Watt’s hymns were more to Clarence than even to me,
and he used to ask questions for which Gooch’s theology was quite
insufficient, and which brought the invariable answers, ‘Now,
Master Clarry, I never did! Little boys should not ask such questions!’
‘What’s the use of your pretending, sir! It’s
all falseness, that’s what it is! I hates hypercriting!’
‘Don’t worrit, Master Clarence; you are a very naughty boy
to say such things. I shall put you in the corner!’</p>
<p>Even nurse was scared one night when Clarence had a frightful screaming
fit, declaring that he saw ‘her - her - all white,’ and
even while being slapped reiterated, ‘<i>her</i>, Lucy!’</p>
<p>Lucy was a kind elder girl in the Square gardens, a protector of
little timid ones. She was known to be at that time very ill with
measles, and in fact died that very night. Both my brothers sickened
the next day, and Emily and I soon followed their example, but no one
had it badly except Clarence, who had high fever, and very much delirium
each night, talking to people whom he thought he saw, so as to make
nurse regret her severity on the vision of Lucy.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER II - SCHOOLROOM DAYS</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘In the loom of life-cloth pleasure,<br /> Ere
our childish days be told,<br />With the warp and woof enwoven,<br /> Glitters
like a thread of gold.’</p>
<p>JEAN INGELOW.</p>
<p>Looking back, I think my mother was the leading spirit in our household,
though she never for a moment suspected it. Indeed, the chess
queen must be the most active on the home board, and one of the objects
of her life was to give her husband a restful evening when he came home
to the six o’clock dinner. She also had to make both ends
meet on an income which would seem starvation at the present day; but
she was strong, spirited, and managing, and equal to all her tasks till
the long attendance upon me, and the consequent illness, forced her
to spare herself - a little - a very little.</p>
<p>Previously she had been our only teacher, except that my father read
a chapter of the Bible with us every morning before breakfast, and heard
the Catechism on a Sunday. For we could all read long before young
gentlefolks nowadays can say their letters. It was well for me,
since books with a small quantity of type, and a good deal of frightful
illustration, beguiled many of my weary moments. You may see my
special favourites, bound up, on the shelf in my bedroom. Crabbe’s
<i>Tales</i>, <i>Frank</i>, <i>the Parent’s Assistant</i>, and
later, Croker’s <i>Tales from English History</i>, Lamb’s
<i>Tales from Shakespeare</i>, <i>Tales of a Grandfather</i>, and the
<i>Rival Crusoes</i> stand pre-eminent - also <i>Mrs. Leicester’s
School</i>, with the ghost story cut out.</p>
<p>Fairies and ghosts were prohibited as unwholesome, and not unwisely.
The one would have been enervating to me, and the other would have been
a definite addition to Clarence’s stock of horrors. Indeed,
one story had been cut out of Crabbe’s <i>Tales</i>, and another
out of an Annual presented to Emily, but not before Griff had read the
latter, and the version he related to us probably lost nothing in the
telling; indeed, to this day I recollect the man, wont to slay the harmless
cricket on the hearth, and in a storm at sea pursued by a gigantic cockroach
and thrown overboard. The night after hearing this choice legend
Clarence was found crouching beside me in bed for fear of the cockroach.
I am afraid the vengeance was more than proportioned to the offence!</p>
<p>Even during my illness that brave mother struggled to teach my brothers’
daily lessons, and my father heard them a short bit of Latin grammar
at his breakfast (five was thought in those days to be the fit age to
begin it, and fathers the fit teachers thereof). And he continued
to give this morning lesson when, on our return from airing at Ramsgate
after our recovery from the measles, my mother found she must submit
to transfer us to a daily governess.</p>
<p>Old Miss Newton’s attainments could not have been great, for
her answers to my inquiries were decidedly funny, and prefaced <i>sotto
voce</i> with, ‘What a child it is!’ But she was a
good kindly lady, who had the faculty of teaching, and of forestalling
rebellion; and her little thin corkscrew curls, touched with gray, her
pale eyes, prim black silk apron, and sandalled shoes, rise before me
full of happy associations of tender kindness and patience. She
was wise, too, in her own simple way. When nurse would have forewarned
her of Clarence’s failings in his own hearing, she cut the words
short by declaring that she should like never to find out which was
the naughty one. And when habit was too strong, and he had denied
the ink spot on the atlas, she persuasively wiled out a confession not
only to her but to mamma, who hailed the avowal as the beginning of
better things, and kissed instead of punishing.</p>
<p>Clarence’s queries had been snubbed into reserve, and I doubt
whether Miss Newton’s theoretic theology was very much more developed
than that of Mrs. Gooch, but her practice and devotion were admirable,
and she fostered religious sentiment among us, introducing little books
which were welcome in the restricted range of Sunday reading.
Indeed, Mrs. Sherwood’s have some literary merit, and her <i>Fairchild
Family</i> indulged in such delicious and eccentric acts of naughtiness
as quite atoned for all the religious teaching, and fascinated Griff,
though he was apt to be very impatient of certain little affectionate
lectures to which Clarence listened meekly. My father and mother
were both of the old-fashioned orthodox school, with minds formed on
Jeremy Taylor, Blair, South, and Secker, who thought it their duty to
go diligently to church twice on Sunday, communicate four times a year
(their only opportunities), after grave and serious preparation, read
a sermon to their household on Sunday evenings, and watch over their
children’s religious instruction, though in a reserved undemonstrative
manner. My father always read one daily chapter with us every
morning, one Psalm at family prayers, and my mother made us repeat a
few verses of Scripture before our other studies began; besides which
there was special teaching on Sunday, and an abstinence from amusements,
such as would now be called Sabbatarian, but a walk in the Park with
papa was so much esteemed that it made the day a happy and honoured
one to those who could walk.</p>
<p>There was little going into society, comparatively, for people in
our station, - solemn dinner-parties from time to time - two a year,
did we give, and then the house was turned upside down, - and now and
then my father dined out, or brought a friend home to dinner; and there
were so-called morning calls in the afternoon, but no tea-drinking.
For the most part the heads of the family dined alone at six, and afterwards
my father read aloud some book of biography or travels, while we children
were expected to employ ourselves quietly, threading beads, drawing,
or putting up puzzles, and listen or not as we chose, only not interrupt,
as we sat at the big, central, round, mahogany table. To this
hour I remember portions of Belzoni’s Researches and Franklin’s
terrible American adventures, and they bring back tones of my father’s
voice. As an authority ‘papa’ was seldom invoked,
except on very serious occasions, such as Griffith’s audacity,
Clarence’s falsehood, or my obstinacy; and then the affair was
formidable, he was judicial and awful, and, though he would graciously
forgive on signs of repentance, he never was sympathetic. He had
not married young, and there were forty years or more between him and
his sons, so that he had left too far behind him the feelings of boyhood
to make himself one with us, even if he had thought it right or dignified
to do so, - yet I cannot describe the depth of the respect and loyalty
he inspired in us nor the delight we felt in a word of commendation
or a special attention from him.</p>
<p>The early part of Miss Newton’s rule was unusually fertile
in such pleasures, and much might have been spared, could Clarence have
been longer under her influence; but Griff grew beyond her management,
and was taunted by ‘fellows in the Square’ into assertions
of manliness, such as kicking his heels, stealing her odd little fringed
parasol, pitching his books into the area, keeping her in misery with
his antics during their walks, and finally leading Clarence off after
Punch into the Rookery of St. Giles’s, where she could not follow,
because Emily was in her charge.</p>
<p>This was the crisis. She had to come home without the boys,
and though they arrived long before any of the authorities knew of their
absence, she owned with tears that she could not conscientiously be
responsible any longer for Griffith, - who not only openly defied her
authority, but had found out how little she knew, and laughed at her.
I have reason to believe also that my mother had discovered that she
frequented the preachings of Rowland Hill and Baptist Noel; and had
confiscated some unorthodox tracts presented to the servants, thus being
alarmed lest she should implant the seeds of dissent.</p>
<p>Parting with her after four years under her was a real grief.
Even Griff was fond of her; when once emancipated, he used to hug her
and bring her remarkable presents, and she heartily loved her tormentor.
Everybody did. It remained a great pleasure to get her to spend
an evening with us while the elders were gone out to dinner; nor do
I think she ever did us anything but good, though I am afraid we laughed
at ‘Old Newton’ as we grew older and more conceited.
We never had another governess. My mother read and enforced diligence
on Emily and me, and we had masters for different studies; the two boys
went to school; and when Martyn began to emerge from babyhood, Emily
was his teacher.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER III - WIN AND SLOW</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘The rude will shuffle through with ease enough:<br />Great
schools best suit the sturdy and the rough.’</p>
<p>COWPER.</p>
<p>At school Griffith was very happy, and brilliantly successful, alike
in study and sport, though sports were not made prominent in those days,
and triumphs in them were regarded by the elders with doubtful pride,
lest they should denote a lack of attention to matters of greater importance.
All his achievements were, however, poured forth by himself and Clarence
to Emily and me, and we felt as proud of them as if they had been our
own.</p>
<p>Clarence was industrious, and did not fail in his school work, but
when he came home for the holidays there was a cowed look about him,
and private revelations were made over my sofa that made my flesh creep.
The scars were still visible, caused by having been compelled to grasp
the bars of the grate bare-handed; and, what was worse, he had been
suspended outside a third story window by the wrists, held by a schoolfellow
of thirteen!</p>
<p>‘But what was Griff about?’ I demanded, with hot tears
of indignation.</p>
<p>‘Oh, Win! - that’s what they call him, and me Slow -
he said it would do me good. But I don’t think it did, Eddy.
It only makes my heart beat fit to choke me whenever I go near the passage
window.’</p>
<p>I could only utter a vain wish that I had been there and able to
fight for him, and I attacked Griff on the subject on the first opportunity.</p>
<p>‘Oh!’ was his answer, ‘it is only what all fellows
have to bear if there’s no pluck in them. They tried it
on upon me, you know, but I soon showed them it would not do’
- with the cock of the nose, the flash of the eyes, the clench of the
fist, that were peculiarly Griff’s own; and when I pleaded that
he might have protected Clarence, he laughed scornfully. ‘As
to Slow, wretched being, a fellow can’t help bullying him.
It comes as natural as to a cat with a mouse.’ On further
and reiterated pleadings, Griff declared, first, that it was the only
thing to do Slow any good, or make a man of him; and next, that he heartily
wished that Winslow junior had been Miss Clara at once, as the fellows
called him - it was really hard on him (Griff) to have such a sneaking
little coward tied to him for a junior!</p>
<p>I particularly resented the term Slow, for Clarence had lately been
the foremost of us in his studies; but the idea that learning had anything
to do with the matter was derided, and as time went on, there was vexation
and displeasure at his progress not being commensurate with his abilities.
It would have been treason to schoolboy honour to let the elders know
that though a strong, high-spirited popular boy like ‘Win’
might venture to excel big bullying dunces, such fair game as poor ‘Slow’
could be terrified into not only keeping below them, but into doing
their work for them. To him Cowper’s ‘Tirocinium’
had only too much sad truth.</p>
<p>As to his old failing, there were no special complaints, but in those
pre-Arnoldian times no lofty code of honour was even ideal among schoolboys,
or expected of them by masters; shuffling was thought natural, and allowances
made for faults in indolent despair.</p>
<p>My mother thought the Navy the proper element of boyhood, and her
uncle the Admiral promised a nomination, - a simple affair in those
happy days, involving neither examination nor competition. Griffith
was, however, one of those independent boys who take an aversion to
whatever is forced on them as their fate. He was ready and successful
with his studies, a hero among his comrades, and preferred continuing
at school to what he pronounced, on the authority of the nautical tales
freely thrown in our way, to be the life of a dog, only fit for the
fool of the family; besides, he had once been out in a boat, tasted
of sea-sickness, and been laughed at. My father was gratified,
thinking his brains too good for a midshipman, and pleased that he should
wish to tread in his own steps at Harrow and Oxford, and thus my mother
could not openly regret his degeneracy when all the rest of us were
crazy over <i>Tom Cringle’s Log</i>, and ready to envy Clarence
when the offer was passed on to him, and he appeared in the full glory
of his naval uniform. Not much choice had been offered to him.
My mother would have thought it shameful and ungrateful to have no son
available, my father was glad to have the boy’s profession fixed,
and he himself was rejoiced to escape from the miseries he knew only
too well, and ready to believe that uniform and dirk would make a man
of him at once, with all his terrors left behind. Perhaps the
chief drawback was that the ladies <i>would</i> say, ‘What a darling!’
affording Griff endless opportunities for the good-humoured mockery
by which he concealed his own secret regrets. Did not even Selina
Clarkson, whose red cheeks, dark blue eyes, and jetty profusion of shining
curls, were our notion of perfect beauty, select the little naval cadet
for her partner at the dancing master’s ball?</p>
<p>In the first voyage, a cruise in the Pacific, all went well.
The good Admiral had carefully chosen ship and captain; there were an
excellent set of officers, a good tone among the midshipmen, and Clarence,
who was only twelve years old, was constituted the pet of the cockpit.
One lad in especial, Coles by name, attracted by Clarence’s pleasant
gentleness, and impelled by the generosity that shields the weak, became
his guardian friend, and protected him from all the roughnesses in his
power. If there were a fault in that excellent Coles, it was that
he made too much of a baby of his <i>protégé</i>, and
did not train him to shift for himself: but wisdom and moderation are
not characteristics of early youth. At home we had great enjoyment
of his long descriptive letters, which came under cover to our father
at the Admiralty, but were chiefly intended for my benefit. All
were proud of them, and great was my elation when I heard papa relate
some fact out of them with the preface, ‘My boy tells me, my boy
Clarence, in the <i>Calypso</i>; he writes a capital letter.’</p>
<p>How great was our ecstasy when after three years and a half we had
him at home again; handsome, vigorous, well-grown, excellently reported
of, fully justifying my mother’s assurances that the sea would
make a man of him. There was Griffith in the fifth form and a
splendid cricketer, but Clarence could stand up to him now, and Harrovian
exploits were tame beside stories of sharks and negroes, monkeys and
alligators. There was one in particular, about a whole boat’s
crew sitting down on what they thought was a fallen tree, but which
suddenly swept them all over on their faces, and turned out to be a
boa-constrictor, and would have embraced one of them if he had not had
the sail of the boat coiled round the mast, and palmed off upon him,
when he gorged it contentedly, and being found dead on the next landing,
his skin was used to cover the captain’s sea-chest. Clarence
declined to repeat this tale and many others before the elders, and
was displeased with Emily for referring to it in public. As to
his terrors, he took it for granted that an officer of H.M.S. <i>Calypso</i>,
had left them behind, and in fact, he naturally forgot and passed over
what he had not been shielded from, while his hereditary love of the
sea really made those incidental to his profession much more endurable
than the bullying he had undergone at school.</p>
<p>We were very happy that Christmas, and very proud of our boys.
One evening we were treated to a box at the pantomime, and even I was
able to go to it. We put our young sailor and our sister in the
forefront, and believed that every one was as much struck with them
as with the wonderful transformations of Goody-Two-Shoes under the wand
of Harlequin. Brother-like, we might tease our one girl, and call
her an affected little pussy cat, but our private opinion was that she
excelled all other damsels with her bright blue eyes and pretty curling
hair, which had the same chestnut shine as Griff’s - enough to
make us correct possible vanity by terming it red, though we were ready
to fight any one else who presumed to do so. Indeed Griff had
defended its hue in single combat, and his eye was treated for it with
beefsteak by Peter in the pantry. We were immensely, though silently,
proud of her in her white embroidered cambric frock, red sash and shoes,
and coral necklace, almost an heirloom, for it had been brought from
Sicily in Nelson’s days by my mother’s poor young father.
How parents and doctors in these days would have shuddered at her neck
and arms, bare, not only in the evening, but by day! When she
was a little younger she could so shrink up from her clothes that Griff,
or little Martyn, in a mischievous mood, would put things down her back,
to reappear below her petticoats. Once it was a dead wasp, which
descended harmlessly the length of her spine! She was a good-humoured,
affectionate, dear sister, my valued companion, submitting patiently
to be eclipsed when Clarence was present, and everything to me in his
absence. Sturdy little Martyn too, was held by us to be the most
promising of small boys. He was a likeness of Clarence, only stouter,
hardier, and without the delicate, girlish, wistful look; imitating
Griff in everything, and rather a heavy handful to Emily and me when
left to our care, though we were all the more proud of his high spirit,
and were fast becoming a mutual admiration society.</p>
<p>What then were our feelings when Griff, always fearless, dashed to
the rescue of a boy under whom the ice had broken in St. James’
Park, and held him up till assistance came? Martyn, who was with
him, was sent home to fetch dry clothes and reassure my mother, which
he did by dashing upstairs, shouting, ‘Where’s mamma?
Here’s Griff been into the water and pulled out a boy, and they
don’t know if he is drowned; but he looks - oh!’</p>
<p>Even after my mother had elicited that Martyn’s <i>he</i> meant
the boy, and not Griff, she could not rest without herself going to
see that our eldest was unhurt, greet him, and bring him home.
What happy tears stood in her eyes, how my father shook hands with him,
how we drank his health after dinner, and how ungrateful I was to think
Clarence deserved his name of Slow for having stayed at home to play
chess with me because my back was aching, when he might have been winning
the like honours! How red and gruff and shy the hero looked, and
how he entreated no one to say any more about it!</p>
<p>He would not even look publicly at the paragraph about it in the
paper, only vituperating it for having made him into ‘a juvenile
Etonian,’ and hoping no one from Harrow would guess whom it meant.</p>
<p>I found that paragraph the other day in my mother’s desk, folded
over the case of the medal of the Royal Humane Society, which Griff
affected to despise, but which, when he was well out of the way, used
to be exhibited on high days and holidays. It seems now like the
boundary mark of the golden days of our boyhood, and unmitigated hopes
for one another.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER IV - UBI LAPSUS, QUID FECI</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘Clarence is come - false, fleeting, perjured Clarence.’</p>
<p><i>King Richard III.</i></p>
<p>There was much stagnation in the Navy in those days in the reaction
after the great war; and though our family had fair interest at the
Admiralty, it was seven months before my brother went to sea again.
To me they were very happy months, with my helper of helpers, companion
of companions, who made possible to me many a little enterprise that
could not be attempted without him. My father made him share my
studies, and thus they became doubly pleasant. And oh, ye boys!
who murmur at the Waverley Novels as a dry holiday task, ye may envy
us the zest and enthusiasm with which we devoured them in their freshness.
Strangely enough, the last that we read together was the <i>Fair Maid
of Perth.</i></p>
<p>Clarence and his friend Coles longed to sail together again, but
Coles was shelved; and when Clarence’s appointment came at last,
it was to the brig <i>Clotho</i>, Commander Brydone, going out in the
Mediterranean Fleet, under Sir Edward Codrington. My mother did
not like brigs, and my father did not like what he heard of the captain;
but there had been jealous murmurs about appointments being absorbed
by sons of officials - he durst not pick and choose; and the Admiral
pronounced that if the lad had been spoilt on board the <i>Calypso</i>,
it was time for him to rough it - a dictum whence there was no appeal.</p>
<p>Half a year later the tidings of the victory of Navarino rang through
Europe, and were only half welcome to the conquerors; but in our household
it is connected with a terrible recollection. Though more than
half a century has rolled by, I shrink from dwelling on the shock that
fell on us when my father returned from Somerset House with such a countenance
that we thought our sailor had fallen; but my mother could brook the
fact far less than if her son had died a gallant death. The <i>Clotho</i>
was on her way home, and Midshipman William Clarence Winslow was to
be tried by court-martial for insubordination, disobedience, and drunkenness.
My mother was like one turned to stone. She would hardly go out
of doors; she could scarcely bring herself to go to church; she would
have had my father give up his situation if there had been any other
means of livelihood. She could not talk; only when my father sighed,
‘We should never have put him into the Navy,’ she hotly
replied,</p>
<p>‘How was I to suppose that a son of mine would be like that?’</p>
<p>Emily cried all day and all night. Some others would have felt
it a relief to have cried too. In more furious language than parents
in those days tolerated, Griff wrote to me his utter disbelief, and
how he had punched the heads of fellows who presumed to doubt that it
was not all a rascally, villainous plot.</p>
<p>When the time came my father went down by the night mail to Portsmouth.
He could scarcely bear to face the matter; but, as he said, he could
not have it on his conscience if the boy did anything desperate for
want of some one to look after him. Besides, there might be some
explanation.</p>
<p>‘Explanation,’ said my mother bitterly. ‘That
there always is!’</p>
<p>The ‘explanation’ was this - I have put together what
came out in evidence, what my father and the Admiral heard from commiserating
officers, and what at different times I learned from Clarence himself.
Captain Brydone was one of the rough old description of naval men, good
sailors and stern disciplinarians, but wanting in any sense of moral
duties towards their ship’s company. His lieutenant was
of the same class, soured, moreover, by tardy promotion, and prejudiced
against a gentleman-like, fair-faced lad, understood to have interest,
and bearing a name that implied it. Of the other two midshipmen,
one was a dull lad of low stamp, the other a youth of twenty, a born
bully, with evil as well as tyrannical propensities; - the crew conforming
to severe discipline on board, but otherwise wild and lawless.
In such a ship a youth with good habits, sensitive conscience, and lack
of moral or physical courage, could not but lead a life of misery, losing
every day more of his self-respect and spirit as he was driven to the
evil he loathed, dreading the consequences, temporal and eternal, with
all his soul, yet without resolution or courage to resist.</p>
<p>As every one knows, the battle of Navarino came on suddenly, almost
by mistake; and though it is perhaps no excuse, the hurly-burly and
horror burst upon him at unawares. Though the English loss was
comparatively very small, the <i>Clotho</i> was a good deal exposed,
and two men were killed - one so close to Clarence that his clothes
were splashed with blood. This entirely unnerved him; he did not
even know what he did, but he was not to be found when required to carry
an order, and was discovered hidden away below, shuddering, in his berth,
and then made some shallow excuse about misunderstanding orders.
Whether this would have been brought up against him under other circumstances,
or whether it would have been remembered that great men, including Charles
V. and Henri IV., have had their <i>moment de peur</i>, I cannot tell;
but there were other charges. I cannot give date or details.
There is no record among the papers before me; and I can only vaguely
recall what could hardly be read for the sense of agony, was never discussed,
and was driven into the most oblivious recesses of the soul fifty years
ago. There was a story about having let a boat’s crew, of
which he was in charge, get drunk and over-stay their time. One
of them deserted; and apparently prevarication ran to the bounds of
perjury, if it did not overpass them. (N.B. - Seeing seamen flogged
was one of the sickening horrors that haunted Clarence in the <i>Clotho</i>.)
Also, when on shore at Malta with the young man whose name I will not
record - his evil genius - he was beguiled or bullied into a wine-shop,
and while not himself was made the cat’s-paw of some insolent
practical joke on the lieutenant; and when called to account, was so
bewildered and excited as to use unpardonable language.</p>
<p>Whatever it might have been in detail, so much was proved against
him that he was dismissed his ship, and his father was recommended to
withdraw him from the service, as being disqualified by want of nerve.
Also, it was added more privately, that such vicious tendencies needed
home restraint. The big bully, his corrupter, bore witness against
him, but did not escape scot free, for one of the captains spoke to
him in scathing tones of censure.</p>
<p>Whenever my mother was in trouble, she always re-arranged the furniture,
and a family crisis was always heralded by a revolution of chairs, tables,
and sofas. She could not sit still under suspense, and, during
these terrible days the entire house underwent a setting to rights.
Emily attended upon her, and I sat and dusted books. No doubt
it was much better for us than sitting still. My father’s
letter came by the morning mail, telling us of the sentence, and that
he and our poor culprit, as he said, would come home by the Portsmouth
coach in the evening.</p>
<p>One room was already in order when Sir John Griffith kindly came
to see whether he could bring any comfort to a spirit which would infinitely
have preferred death to dishonour, and was, above all, shocked at the
lack of physical courage. Never had I liked our old Admiral so
well as when I heard how his chief anger was directed against the general
mismanagement, and the cruelty of blighting a poor lad’s life
when not yet seventeen. His father might have been warned to remove
him without the public scandal of a court-martial and dismissal.</p>
<p>‘The guilt and shame would have been all the same to us,’
said my mother.</p>
<p>‘Come, Mary, don’t be hard on the poor fellow.
In quiet times like these a poor boy can’t look over the wall
where one might have stolen a horse, ay, or a dozen horses, when there
was something else to think about!’</p>
<p>‘You would not have forgiven such a thing, sir.’</p>
<p>‘It never would have happened under me, or in any decently
commanded ship!’ he thundered. ‘There wasn’t
a fault to be found with him in the <i>Calypso</i>. What possessed
Winslow to let him sail with Brydone? But the service is going,’
etc. etc., he ran on - forgetting that it was he himself who had been
unwilling, perhaps rightly, to press the Duke of Clarence for an appointment
to a crack frigate for his namesake. However, when he took leave
he repeated, as he kissed my mother, ‘Mind, Mary, don’t
be set against the lad. That’s the way to make ’em
desperate, and he is a mere boy, after all.’</p>
<p>Poor mother, it was not so much hardness as a wounded spirit that
made her look so rigid. It might have been better if the return
could have been delayed so as to make her yearn after her son, but there
was nowhere for him to go, and the coach was already on its way.
How strange it was to feel the wonted glow at Clarence’s return
coupled with a frightful sense of disgrace and depression.</p>
<p>The time was far on in October, and it was thus quite dark when the
travellers arrived, having walked from Charing Cross, where the coach
set them down. My father came in first, and my mother clung to
him as if he had been absent for weeks, while all the joy of contact
with my brother swept over me, even though his hand hung limp in mine,
and was icy cold like his cheeks. My father turned to him with
one of the little set speeches of those days. ‘Here is our
son, Mary, who has promised me to do his utmost to retrieve his character,
as far as may be possible, and happily he is still young.’</p>
<p>My mother’s embrace was in a sort of mechanical obedience to
her husband’s gesture, and her voice was not perhaps meant to
be so severe as it sounded when she said, ‘You are very cold -
come and warm yourself.’</p>
<p>They made room for him by the fire, and my father stood up in front
of it, giving particulars of the journey. Emily and Martyn were
at tea in the nursery, in a certain awe that hindered them from coming
down; indeed, Martyn seems to have expected to see some strange transformation
in his brother. Indeed, there was alteration in the absence of
the blue and gold, and, still more, in the loss of the lightsome, hopeful
expression from the young face.</p>
<p>There is a picture of Ary Scheffer’s of an old knight, whose
son had fled from the battle, cutting the tablecloth in two between
himself and the unhappy youth. Like that stern baron’s countenance
was that with which my mother sat at the head of the dinner-table, and
we conversed by jerks about whatever we least cared for, as if we could
hide our wretchedness from Peter. When the children appeared each
gave Clarence the shyest of kisses, and they sat demurely on their chairs
on either side of my father to eat their almonds and raisins, after
which we went upstairs, and there was the usual reading. It is
curious, but though none of us could have told at the time what it was
about, on turning over not long ago a copy of Head’s <i>Pampas
and Andes</i>, one chapter struck me with an intolerable sense of melancholy,
such as the bull chases of South America did not seem adequate to produce,
and by and by I remembered that it was the book in course of being read
at that unhappy period. My mother went on as diligently as ever
with some of those perpetual shirts which seemed to be always in hand
except before company, when she used to do tambour work for Emily’s
frocks. Clarence sat the whole time in a dark corner, never stirring,
except that he now and then nodded a little. He had gone through
many wakeful, and worse than wakeful, nights of wretched suspense, and
now the worst was over.</p>
<p>Family prayers took place, chill good-nights were exchanged, and
nobody interfered with his helping me up to my bedroom as usual; but
there was something in his face to which I durst not speak, though perhaps
I looked, for he exclaimed, ‘Don’t, Ned!’ wrung my
hand, and sped away to his own quarters higher up. Then came a
sound which made me open my door to listen. Dear little Emily!
She had burst out of her own room in her dressing-gown, and flung herself
upon her brother as he was plodding wearily upstairs in the dark, clinging
round his neck sobbing, ‘Dear, dear Clarry! I can’t
bear it! I don’t care. You’re my own dear brother,
and they are all wicked, horrid people.’</p>
<p>That was all I heard, except hushings on Clarence’s part, as
if the opening of my door and the thread of light from it warned him
that there was risk of interruption. He seemed to be dragging
her up to her own room, and I was left with a pang at her being foremost
in comforting him.</p>
<p>My father enacted that he should be treated as usual. But how
could that be when papa himself did not know how changed were his own
ways from his kindly paternal air of confidence? All trust had
been undermined, so that Clarence could not cross the threshold without
being required to state his object, and, if he overstayed the time calculated,
he was cross-examined, and his replies received with a sigh of doubt.</p>
<p>He hung about the house, not caring to do much, except taking me
out in my Bath chair or languidly reading the most exciting books he
could get; - but there was no great stock of sensation then, except
the Byronic, and from time to time one of my parents would exclaim,
‘Clarence, I wonder you can find nothing more profitable to occupy
yourself with than trash like that!’</p>
<p>He would lay down the book without a word, and take up Smith’s
<i>Wealth of Nations</i> or Smollett’s <i>England</i> - the profitable
studies recommended, and speedily become lost in a dejected reverie,
with fixed eyes and drooping lips.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER V - A HELPING HAND</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘Though hawks can prey through storms and winds,<br />The poor
bee in her hive must dwell.’</p>
<p>HENRY VAUGHAN.</p>
<p>In imagination the piteous dejection of our family seems to have
lasted for ages, but on comparison of dates it is plain that the first
lightening of the burthen came in about a fortnight’s time.</p>
<p>The firm of Frith and Castleford was coming to the front in the Chinese
trade. The junior partner was an old companion of my father’s
boyhood; his London abode was near at hand, and he was a kind of semi-godfather
to both Clarence and me, having stood proxy for our nominal sponsors.
He was as good and open-hearted a man as ever lived, and had always
been very kind to us; but he was scarcely welcome when my father, finding
that he had come up alone to London to see about some repairs to his
house, while his family were still in the country, asked him to dine
and sleep - our first guest since our misfortune.</p>
<p>My mother could hardly endure to receive any one, but she seemed
glad to see my father become animated and like himself while Roman Catholic
Emancipation was vehemently discussed, and the ruin of England hotly
predicted. Clarence moped about silently as usual, and tried to
avoid notice, and it was not till the next morning - after breakfast,
when the two gentlemen were in the dining-room, nearly ready to go their
several ways, and I was in the window awaiting my classical tutor -
that Mr. Castleford said,</p>
<p>‘May I ask, Winslow, if you have any plans for that poor boy?’</p>
<p>‘Edward?’ said my father, almost wilfully misunderstanding.
‘His ambition is to be curator of something in the British Museum,
isn’t it?’</p>
<p>Mr. Castleford explained that he meant the other, and my father sadly
answered that he hardly knew; he supposed the only thing was to send
him to a private tutor, but where to find a fit one he did not know
and besides, what could be his aim? Sir John Griffith had said
he was only fit for the Church, ‘But one does not wish to dispose
of a tarnished article there.’</p>
<p>‘Certainly not,’ said Mr. Castleford; and then he spoke
words that rejoiced my heart, though they only made my father groan,
bidding him remember that it was not so much actual guilt as the accident
of Clarence’s being in the Navy that had given so serious a character
to his delinquencies. If he had been at school, perhaps no one
would ever have heard of them, ‘Though I don’t say,’
added the good man, casting a new light on the subject, ‘that
it would have been better for him in the end.’ Then, quite
humbly, for he knew my mother especially had a disdain for trade, he
asked what my father would think of letting him give Clarence work in
the office for the present. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘it
is not the line your family might prefer, but it is present occupation;
and I do not think you could well send a youth who has seen so much
of the world back to schooling. Besides, this would keep him under
your own eye.’</p>
<p>My father was greatly touched by the kindness, but he thought it
right to set before Mr. Castleford the very worst side of poor Clarence;
declaring that he durst not answer for a boy who had never, in spite
of pains and punishments, learnt to speak truth at home or abroad, repeating
Captain Brydone’s dreadful report, and even adding that, what
was most grievous of all, there was an affectation of piety about him
that could scarcely be anything but self-deceit and hypocrisy.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘my eldest son, Griffith, is just
a boy, makes no profession, is not - as I am afraid you have seen -
exemplary at church, when Clarence sits as meek as a mouse, but then
he is always above-board, frank and straightforward. You know
where to have a high-spirited fellow, who will tame down, but you never
know what will come next with the other. I sometimes wonder for
what error of mine Providence has seen fit to give me such a son.’</p>
<p>Just then an important message came for Mr. Winslow, and he had to
hurry away, but Mr. Castleford still remained, and presently said,</p>
<p>‘Edward, I should like to know what your eyes have been trying
to say all this time.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, sir,’ I burst out, ‘do give him a chance.
Indeed he never means to do wrong. The harm is not in him.
He would have been the best of us all if he had only been let alone.’</p>
<p>Those were exactly my own foolish words, for which I could have beaten
myself afterwards; but Mr. Castleford only gave a slight grave smile,
and said, ‘You mean that your brother’s real defect is in
courage, moral and physical.’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ I said, with a great effort at expressing myself.
‘When he is frightened, or bullied, or browbeaten, he does not
know what he is doing or saying. He is quite different when he
is his own self; only nobody can understand.’</p>
<p>Strange that though the favoured home son and nearly sixteen years
old, it would have been impossible to utter so much to one of our parents.
Indeed the last sentence felt so disloyal that the colour burnt in my
cheeks as the door opened; but it only admitted Clarence, who, having
heard the front door shut, thought the coast was clear, and came in
with a load of my books and dictionaries.</p>
<p>‘Clarence,’ said Mr. Castleford, and the direct address
made him start and flush, ‘supposing your father consents, should
you be willing to turn your mind to a desk in my counting-house?’</p>
<p>He flushed deeper red, and his fingers quivered as he held by the
table. ‘Thank you, sir. Anything - anything,’
he said hesitatingly.</p>
<p>‘Well,’ said Mr. Castleford, with the kindest of voices,
‘let us have it out. What is in your mind? You know,
I’m a sort of godfather to you.’</p>
<p>‘Sir, if you would only let me have a berth on board one of
your vessels, and go right away.’</p>
<p>‘Aye, my poor boy, that’s what you would like best, I’ve
no doubt; but look at Edward’s face there, and think what that
would come to at the best!’</p>
<p>‘Yes, I know I have no right to choose,’ said Clarence,
drooping his head as before.</p>
<p>‘’Tis not that, my dear lad,’ said the good man,
‘but that packing you off like that, among your inferiors in breeding
and everything else, would put an end to all hope of your redeeming
the past - outwardly I mean, of course - and lodge you in a position
of inequality to your brothers and sister, and all - ’</p>
<p>‘That’s done already,’ said Clarence.</p>
<p>‘If you were a man grown it might be so,’ returned Mr.
Castleford, ‘but bless me, how old are you?’</p>
<p>‘Seventeen next 1st of November,’ said Clarence.</p>
<p>‘Not a bit too old for a fresh beginning,’ said Mr. Castleford
cheerily. ‘God helping you, you will be a brave and good
man yet, my boy - ’ then as my master rang at the door - ‘Come
with me and look at the old shop.’</p>
<p>Poor Clarence muttered something unintelligible, and I had to own
for him that he never went out without accounting for himself.
Whereupon our friend caused my mother to be hunted up, and explained
to her that he wanted to take Clarence out with him - making some excuse
about something they were to see together.</p>
<p>That walk enabled him to say something which came nearer to cheering
Clarence than anything that had passed since that sad return, and made
him think that to be connected with Mr. Castleford was the best thing
that could befall him. Mr. Castleford on his side told my father
that he was sure that the boy was good-hearted all the time, and thoroughly
repentant; but this had the less effect because plausibility, as my
father called it, was one of the qualities that specially annoyed him
in Clarence, and made him fear that his friend might be taken in.
However, the matter was discussed between the elders, and it was determined
that this most friendly offer should be accepted experimentally.
It was impressed on Clarence, with unnecessary care, that the line of
life was inferior; but that it was his only chance of regaining anything
like a position, and that everything depended on his industry and integrity.</p>
<p>‘Integrity!’ commented Clarence, with a burning spot
on his cheek after one of these lectures; ‘I believe they think
me capable of robbing the office!’</p>
<p>We found out, too, that the senior partner, Mr. Frith, a very crusty
old bachelor, did not like the appointment, and that it was made quite
against his will. ‘You’ll be getting your clerks next
from Newgate!’ was what some amiable friend reported him to have
said. However, Mr. Castleford had his way, and Clarence was to
begin his work with the New Year, being in the meantime cautioned and
lectured on the crime and danger of his evil propensities more than
he could well bear. ‘Oh!’ he groaned, ‘it serves
me right, I know that very well, but if my father only knew how I hate
and abhor all those things - and how I loathed them at the very time
I was dragged into them!’</p>
<p>‘Why don’t you tell him so?’ I asked.</p>
<p>‘That would make it no better.’</p>
<p>‘It is not so bad as if you had gone into it willingly, and
for your own pleasure.’</p>
<p>‘He would only think that another lie.’</p>
<p>No more could be said, for the idea of Clarence’s untruthfulness
and depravity had become so deeply rooted in our father’s mind
that there was little hope of displacing it, and even at the best his
manner was full of grave constrained pity. Those few words were
Clarence’s first approach to confidence with me, but they led
to more, and he knew there was one person who did not believe the defect
was in the bent of his will so much as in its strength.</p>
<p>All the time the prospect of the counting-house in comparison with
the sea was so distasteful to him that I was anxious whenever he went
out alone, or even with Griffith, who despised the notion of, as he
said, sitting on a high stool, dealing in tea, so much that he was quite
capable of aiding and abetting in an escape from it. Two considerations,
however, held Clarence back; one, the timidity of nature which shrank
from so violent a step, and the other, the strong affections that bound
him to his home, though his sojourn there was so painful. He knew
the misery his flight would have been to me; indeed I took care to let
him see it.</p>
<p>And Griffith’s return was like a fresh spring wind dispersing
vapours. He had gained an excellent scholarship at Brazenose,
and came home radiant with triumph, cheering us all up, and making a
generous use of his success. He was no letter-writer, and after
learning that the disaster and disgrace were all too certain, he ignored
the whole, and hailed Clarence on his return as if nothing had happened.
As eldest son, and almost a University man, he could argue with our
parents in a manner we never presumed on. At least I cannot aver
what he actually uttered, but probably it was a revised version of what
he thundered forth to me. ‘Such nonsense! such a shame to
keep the poor beggar going about with that hang dog look, as if he had
done for himself for life! Why, I’ve known fellows do ever
so much worse of their own accord, and nothing come of it. If
it was found out, there might be a row and a flogging, and there was
an end of it. As to going about mourning, and keeping the whole
house in doleful dumps, as if there was never to be any good again,
it was utter folly, and so I’ve told Bill, and papa and mamma,
both of them!’</p>
<p>How this was administered, or how they took it, there is no knowing,
but Griff would neither skate nor go to the theatre, nor to any other
diversion, without his brother; and used much kindly force and banter
to unearth him from his dismal den in the back drawing-room. He
was only let alone when there were engagements with friends, and indeed,
when meetings in the streets took place, by tacit agreement, Clarence
would shrink off in the crowd as if not belonging to his companion;
and these were the moments that stung him into longing to flee to the
river, and lose the sense of shame among common sailors: but there was
always some good angel to hold him back from desperate measures - chiefly
just then, the love between us three brothers, a love that never cooled
throughout our lives, and which dear old Griff made much more apparent
at this critical time than in the old Win and Slow days of school.
That return of his enlivened us all, and removed the terrible constraint
from our meals, bringing us back, as it were, to ordinary life and natural
intercourse among ourselves and with our neighbours.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER VI - THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘But when I lay upon the shore,<br /> Like
some poor wounded thing,<br />I deemed I should not evermore<br /> Refit
my wounded wing.<br />Nailed to the ground and fastened there,<br />This
was the thought of my despair.’</p>
<p>ABP. TRENCH.</p>
<p>Clarence’s debut at the office was not wholly unsuccessful.
He wrote a good hand, and had a good deal of method and regularity in
his nature, together with a real sense of gratitude to Mr. Castleford;
and this bore him through the weariness of his new employment, and,
what was worse, the cold reception he met with from the other clerks.
He was too quiet and reserved for the wilder spirits, too much of a
gentleman for others, and in the eyes of the managers, and especially
of the senior partner, a disgraced, untrustworthy youth foisted on the
office by Mr. Castleford’s weak partiality. That old Mr.
Frith had, Clarence used to say, a perfectly venomous way of accepting
his salute, and seemed always surprised and disappointed if he came
in in time, or showed up correct work. Indeed, the old man was
disliked and feared by all his subordinates as much as his partner was
loved; and while Mr. Castleford, with his good-natured Irish wife and
merry family, lived a life as cheerful as it was beneficent, Mr. Frith
dwelt entirely alone, in rooms over the office, preserving the habits
formed when his income had been narrow, and mistrusting everybody.</p>
<p>At the end of the first month of experiment, Mr. Castleford declared
himself contented with Clarence’s industry and steadiness, and
permanent arrangements were made, to which Clarence submitted with an
odd sort of passive gratitude, such as almost angered my father, who
little knew how trying the position really was, nor how a certain home-sickness
for the seafaring life was tugging at the lad’s heart, and making
each morning’s entrance at the counting-house an effort - each
merchant-captain, redolent of the sea, an object of envy. My mother
would have sympathised here, but Clarence feared her more than my father,
and she was living in continual dread of some explosion, so that her
dark curls began to show streaks of gray, and her face to lose its round
youthfulness.</p>
<p>Lent brought the question of Confirmation. Under the influence
of good Bishop Blomfield, and in the wave of evangelical revival - then
at its flood height - Confirmation was becoming a more prominent subject
with religious people than it had probably ever been in our Church,
and it was recognised that some preparation was desirable beyond the
power of repeating the Church Catechism. This was all that had
been required of my father at Harrow. My mother’s godfather,
a dignified clergyman, had simply said, ‘I suppose, my dear, you
know all about it;’ and as for the Admiral, he remarked, ‘Confirmed!
I never was confirmed anything but a post-captain!’</p>
<p>Our incumbent was more attentive to his duties, or rather recognised
more duties, than his predecessor. He preached on the subject,
and formed classes, sixteen being then the limit of age, - since the
idea of the vow, having become far more prominent than that of the blessing,
it was held that full development of the will and understanding was
needful.</p>
<p>I was of the requisite age, and my father spoke to the clergyman,
who called, and, as I could not attend the classes, gave me books to
read and questions to answer. Clarence read and discussed the
questions with me, showing so much more insight into them, and fuller
knowledge of Scripture than I possessed, that I exclaimed, ‘Why
should you not go up for Confirmation too?’</p>
<p>‘No,’ he answered mournfully. ‘I must take
no more vows if I can’t keep them. It would just be profane.’</p>
<p>I had no more to say; indeed, my parents held the same view.
It was good Mr. Castleford who saw things differently. He was
a clergyman’s son, and had been bred up in the old orthodoxy,
which was just beginning to put forth fresh shoots, and, as a quasi-godfather,
he held himself bound to take an interest in our religious life, while
the sponsors, whose names stood in the family Bible, and whose spoons
reposed in the plate-chest, never troubled themselves on the matter.
I remember Clarence leaning over me and saying, ‘Mr. Castleford
thinks I might be confirmed. He says it is not so much the promise
we make as of coming to Almighty God for strength to keep what we are
bound by already! He is going to speak to papa.’</p>
<p>Perhaps no one except Mr. Castleford could have prevailed over the
fear of profanation in the mind of my father, who was, in his old-fashioned
way, one of the most reverent of men, and could not bear to think of
holy things being approached by one under a stigma, nor of exposing
his son to add to his guilt by taking and breaking further pledges.
However, he was struck by his friend’s arguments, and I heard
him telling my mother that when he had wished to wait till there had
been time to prove sincerity of repentance by a course of steadiness,
the answer had been that it was hard to require strength, while denying
the means of grace. My mother was scarcely convinced, but as he
had consented she yielded without a protest; and she was really glad
that I should have Clarence at my side to help me at the ceremony.
The clergyman was applied to, and consented to let Clarence attend the
classes, where his knowledge, comprehension, and behaviour were exemplary,
so that a letter was written to my father expressive of perfect satisfaction
with him. ‘There,’ said my father, ‘I knew it
would be so! It is not <i>that</i> which I want.’</p>
<p>The Confirmation seemed at the time a very short and perfunctory
result of our preparation; and, as things were conducted or misconducted
then, involved so much crowding and distress that I recollect very little
but clinging to Clarence’s arm under a strong sense of my infirmities,
- the painful attempt at kneeling, and the big outstretched lawn sleeves
while the blessing was pronounced over six heads at once, and then the
struggle back to the pew, while the silver-pokered apparitor looked
grim at us, as though the maimed and halt had no business to get into
the way. Yet this was a great advance upon former Confirmations,
and the Bishop met my father afterwards, and inquired most kindly after
his lame son.</p>
<p>We were disappointed, and felt that we could not attain to the feelings
in the Confirmation poem in the <i>Christian Year</i> - Mr. Castleford’s
gift to me. Still, I believe that, though encumbered with such
a drag as myself, Clarence, more than I did,</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘Felt Him how strong, our hearts how frail,<br />And longed
to own Him to the death.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>But the evangelical belief that dejection ought to be followed by
a full sense of pardon and assurance of salvation somewhat perplexed
and dimmed our Easter Communion. For one short moment, as Clarence
turned to help my father lift me up from the altar-rail, I saw his face
and eyes radiant with a wonderful rapt look; but it passed only too
fast, and the more than ordinary glimpse his spiritual nature had had
made him all the more sad afterwards, when he said, ‘I would give
everything to know that there was any steadfastness in my purpose to
lead a new life.’</p>
<p>‘But you are leading a new life.’</p>
<p>‘Only because there is no one to bully me,’ he said.
Still, there had been no reproach against him all the time he had been
at Frith and Castleford’s, when suddenly we had a great shock.</p>
<p>Parties were running very high, and there were scurrilous papers
about, which my father perfectly abhorred; and one day at dinner, when
declaiming against something he had seen, he laid down strict commands
that none should be brought into the house. Then, glancing at
Clarence, something possessed him to say, ‘You have not been buying
any.’</p>
<p>‘No, sir,’ Clarence answered; but a few minutes later,
when we were alone together, the others having left him to help me upstairs,
he exclaimed, ‘Edward, what is to be done? I didn’t
buy it; but there is one of those papers in my great-coat pocket.
Pollard threw it on my desk; and there was something in it that I thought
would amuse you.’</p>
<p>‘Oh! why didn’t you say so?’</p>
<p>‘There I am again! I simply could not, with his eye on
me! Miserable being that I am! Oh, where is the spirit of
ghostly strength?’</p>
<p>‘Helping you now to take it to papa in the study and explain!’
I cried; but the struggle in that tall fellow was as if he had been
seven years old instead of seventeen, ere he put his hand over his face
and gave me his arm to come out into the hall, fetch the paper, and
make his confession. Alas! we were too late. The coat had
been moved, the paper had fallen out; and there stood my mother with
it in her hand, looking at Clarence with an awful stony face of mute
grief and reproach, while he stammered forth what he had said before,
and that he was about to give it to my father. She turned away,
bitterly, contemptuously indignant and incredulous; and my corroborations
only served to give both her and my father a certain dread of Clarence’s
influence over me, as though I had been either deceived or induced to
back him in deceiving them. The unlucky incident plunged him back
into the depths, just as he had begun to emerge. Slight as it
was, it was no trifle to him, in spite of Griffith’s exclamation,
‘How absurd! Is a fellow to be bound to give an account
of everything he looks at as if he were six years old? Catch me
letting my mother pry into my pockets! But you are too meek, Bill;
you perfectly invite them to make a row about nothing!’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER VII - THE INHERITANCE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘For he that needs five thousand pound to live<br />Is full
as poor as he that needs but five.<br />But if thy son can make ten
pound his measure,<br />Then all thou addest may be called his treasure.’</p>
<p>GEORGE HERBERT.</p>
<p>It was in the spring of 1829 that my father received a lawyer’s
letter announcing the death of James Winslow, Esquire, of Chantry House,
Earlscombe, and inviting him, as heir-at-law, to be present at the funeral
and opening of the will. The surprise to us all was great.
Even my mother had hardly heard of Chantry House itself, far less as
a possible inheritance; and she had only once seen James Winslow.
He was the last of the elder branch of the family, a third cousin, and
older than my father, who had known him in times long past. When
they had last met, the Squire of Chantry House was a married man, with
more than one child; my father a young barrister; and as one lived entirely
in the country and the other in town, without any special congeniality,
no intercourse had been kept up, and it was a surprise to hear that
he had left no surviving children. My father greatly doubted whether
being heir-at-law would prove to avail him anything, since it was likely
that so distant a relation would have made a will in favour of some
nearer connection on his wife’s or mother’s side.
He was very vague about Chantry House, only knowing that it was supposed
to be a fair property, and he would hardly consent to take Griffith
with him by the Western Royal Mail, warning him and all the rest of
us that our expectations would be disappointed.</p>
<p>Nevertheless we looked out the gentlemen’s seats in <i>Paterson’s
Road Book</i>, and after much research, for Chantry House lay far off
from the main road, we came upon - ‘Chantry House, Earlscombe,
the seat of James Winslow, Esquire, once a religious foundation; beautifully
situated on a rising ground, commanding an extensive prospect - ’</p>
<p>‘A religious foundation!’ cried Emily. ‘It
will be a dear delicious old abbey, all Gothic architecture, with cloisters
and ruins and ghosts.’</p>
<p>‘Ghosts!’ said my mother severely, ‘what has put
such nonsense into your head?’</p>
<p>Nevertheless Emily made up her mind that Chantry House would be another
Melrose, and went about repeating the moonlight scene in the <i>Lay
of the Last Minstrel</i> whenever she thought no one was there to laugh
at her.</p>
<p>My father and Griffith returned with the good news that there was
no mistake. Chantry House was really his own, with the estate
belonging to it, reckoned at £5000 a year, exclusive of a handsome
provision to Miss Selby, the niece of the late Mrs. Winslow, a spinster
of a certain age, who had lived with her uncle, and now proposed to
remove to Bath. Mr. Winslow had, it appeared, lost his only son
as a schoolboy, and his daughters, like their mother, had been consumptive.
He had always been resolved that the estate should continue in the family;
but reluctance to see any one take his son’s place had withheld
him from making any advances to my father; and for several years past
he had been in broken health with failing faculties.</p>
<p>Of course there was much elation. Griff described as charming
the place, perched on the southern slope of a wooded hill, with a broad
fertile valley lying spread out before it, and the woods behind affording
every promise of sport. The house, my father said, was good, odd
and irregular, built at different times, but quite habitable, and with
plenty of furniture, though he opined that mamma would think it needed
modernising, to which she replied that our present chattels would make
a great difference; whereat my father, looking at the effects of more
than twenty years of London blacks, gave a little whistle, for she was
always the economical one of the pair.</p>
<p>Emily, with glowing cheeks and eager eyes, entreated to know whether
it was Gothic, and had a cloister! Papa nipped her hopes of a
cloister, but there were Gothic windows and doorway, and a bit of ruin
in the garden, a fragment of the old chapel.</p>
<p>My father could not resign his office without notice, and, besides,
he wished Miss Selby to have leisure for leaving her home of many years;
after which there would be a few needful repairs. The delay was
not a great grievance to any of us except little Martyn. We were
much more Cockney than almost any one is in these days of railways.
We were unusually devoid of kindred on both sides, my father’s
holidays were short, I was not a very movable commodity, and economy
forbade long journeys, so that we had never gone farther than Ramsgate,
where we claimed a certain lodging-house as a sort of right every summer.</p>
<p>Real country was as much unknown to us as the backwoods. My
father alone had been born and bred to village life and habits, for
my mother had spent her youth in a succession of seaport towns, frequented
by men-of-war. We heard, too, that Chantry House was very secluded,
with only a few cottages near at hand - a mile and a half from the church
and village of Earlscombe, three from the tiny country town of Wattlesea,
four from the place where the coach passed, connecting it with the civilisation
of Bath and Bristol, from each of which places it was about half a day’s
distance, according to the measures of those times. It was a sort
of banishment to people accustomed to the stream of life in London;
and though the consequence and importance derived from being raised
to the ranks of the Squirearchy were agreeable, they were a dear purchase
at the cost of being out of reach of all our friends and acquaintances,
as well as of other advantages.</p>
<p>To my father, however, the retirement from his many years of drudgery
was really welcome, and he had preserved enough of country tastes to
rejoice that it was, as he said, a clear duty to reside on his estate
and look after his property. My mother saw his relief in the prospect,
and suppressed her sighs at the dislocation of her life-long habits,
and the loss of intercourse with the acquaintance whom separation raised
to the rank of intimate friends, even her misgivings as to butchers,
bakers, and grocers in the wilderness, and still worse, as to doctors
for me.</p>
<p>‘Humph!’ said the Admiral, ‘the boy will be all
the better without them.’</p>
<p>And so I was; I can’t say they were the subject of much regret,
but I was really sorry to leave our big neighbour, the British Museum,
where there were good friends who always made me welcome, and encouraged
me in studies of coins and heraldry, which were great resources to me,
so that I used to spend hours there, and was by no means willing to
resign my ambition of obtaining an appointment there, when I heard my
father say that he was especially thankful for his good fortune because
it enabled him to provide for me. There were lessons, too, from
masters in languages, music, and drawing, which Emily and I shared,
and which she had just begun to value thoroughly. We had filled
whole drawing-books with wriggling twists of foliage in B B B marking
pencil, and had just been promoted to water-colours; and she was beginning
to sing very prettily. I feared, too, that I should no longer
have a chance of rivalling Griffith’s university studies.
All this, with my sister’s girl friends, and those kind people
who used to drop in to play chess, and otherwise amuse me, would all
be left behind; and, sorest of all, Clarence, who, whatever he was in
the eyes of others, had grown to be my mainstay during this last year.
He it was who fetched me from the Museum, took me into the gardens,
helped me up and down stairs, spared no pains to rout out whatever my
fanciful pursuits required from shops in the City, and, in very truth,
spoilt me through all his hours that were free from business, besides
being my most perfect sympathising and understanding companion.</p>
<p>I feared, too, that he would be terribly lonesome, though of late
he had been less haunted by longings for the sea, had made some way
with his fellows, and had been commended by the managing clerk; and
it was painful to find the elders did not grieve on their own account
at parting with him. My mother told the Admiral that she thought
it would be good for Mr. Winslow’s spirits not to be continually
reminded of his trouble; and my father might be heard confiding to Mr.
Castleford that the separation might be good for both her and her son,
if only the lad could be trusted. To which that good man replied
by giving him an excellent character; but was only met by a sigh, and
‘Well, we shall see!’</p>
<p>Clarence was to be lodged with Peter, whose devotion would not extend
to following us into barbarism, where, as he told us, he understood
there was no such thing as a ‘harea,’ and master would have
to kill his own mutton.</p>
<p>Peter had been tranquilly engaged to Gooch for years untold.
They were to be transformed into Mr. and Mrs. Robson, with some small
appointment about the Law Courts for him, and a lodging-house for her,
where Clarence was to abide, my mother feeling secure that neither his
health, his morals, nor his shirts could go much astray without her
receiving warning thereof.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, by the help of an antiquarian friend of my father, Mr.
Stafford, who was great in county history, I hunted up in the Museum
library all I could discover about our new possession.</p>
<p>The Chantry of St. Cecily at Earlscombe, in Somersetshire, had, it
appeared, been founded and endowed by Dame Isabel d’Oyley, in
the year of grace 1434, that constant prayers might be offered for the
souls of her husband and son, slain in the French wars. The poor
lady’s intentions, which to our Protestant minds appeared rather
shocking than otherwise, had been frustrated at the break up of such
establishments, when the Chantry, and the estate that maintained its
clerks and bedesmen, was granted to Sir Harry Power, from whom, through
two heiresses, it had come to the Fordyces, the last of whom, by name
Margaret, had died childless, leaving the estate to her stepson, Philip
Winslow, our ancestor.</p>
<p>Moreover, we learnt that a portion of the building was of ancient
date, and that there was an ‘interesting fragment’ of the
old chapel in the grounds, which our good friend promised himself the
pleasure of investigating on his first holiday.</p>
<p>To add to our newly-acquired sense of consideration and of high pedigree,
the family chariot, after taking Miss Selby to Bath, came up post to
London to be touched up at the coachbuilder’s, have the escutcheon
altered so as to impale the Griffith coat instead of the Selby, and
finally to convey us to our new abode, in preparation for which all
its boxes came to be packed.</p>
<p>A chariot! You young ones have as little notion of one as of
a British war-chariot armed with scythes. Yet people of a certain
grade were as sure to keep their chariot as their silver tea-pot; indeed
we knew one young couple who started in life with no other habitation,
but spent their time as nomads, in visits to their relations and friends,
for visits <i>were</i> visits then.</p>
<p>The capacities of a chariot were considerable. Within, there
was a good-sized seat for the principal occupants, and outside a dickey
behind, and a driving box before, though sometimes there was only one
of these, and that transferable. The boxes were calculated to
hold family luggage on a six months’ tour. There they lay
on the spare-room floor, ready to be packed, the first earnest of our
new possessions - except perhaps the five-pound note my father gave
each of us four elder ones, on the day the balance at the bank was made
over to him. There was the imperial, a grand roomy receptacle,
which was placed on the top of the carriage, and would not always go
upstairs in small houses; the capbox, which fitted into a curved place
in front of the windows, and could not stand alone, but had a frame
to support it; two long narrow boxes with the like infirmity of standing,
which fitted in below; square ones under each seat; and a drop box fastened
on behind. There were pockets beneath each window, and, curious
relic in name and nature of the time when every gentleman carried his
weapon, there was the sword case, an excrescence behind the back of
the best seat, accessible by lifting a cushion, where weapons used to
be carried, but where in our peaceful times travellers bestowed their
luncheon and their books.</p>
<p>Our chariot was black above, canary yellow below, beautifully varnished,
and with our arms blazoned on each door. It was lined with dark
blue leather and cloth, picked out with blue and yellow lace in accordance
with our liveries, and was a gorgeous spectacle. I am afraid Emily
did not share in Mistress Gilpin’s humility when</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p> ‘The chaise was brought,<br /> But
yet was not allowed<br />To drive up to the door, lest all<br /> Should
say that she was proud!’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>It was then that Emily and I each started a diary to record the events
of our new life. Hers flourished by fits and starts; but I having
perforce more leisure than she, mine has gone on with few interruptions
till the present time, and is the backbone of this narrative, which
I compile and condense from it and other sources before destroying it.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER VIII - THE OLD HOUSE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘Your history whither are you spinning?<br /> Can
you do nothing but describe?<br />A house there is, and that’s
enough!’</p>
<p>GRAY.</p>
<p>How we did enjoy our journey, when the wrench from our old home was
once made. We did not even leave Clarence behind, for Mr. Castleford
had given him a holiday, so that he might not appear to be kept at a
distance, as if under a cloud, and might help me through our travels.</p>
<p>My mother and I occupied the inside of the carriage, with Emily between
us at the outset; but when we were off the London stones she was often
allowed to make a third on the dickey with Clarence and Martyn, whose
ecstatic heels could be endured for the sake of the free air and the
view. Of course we posted, and where there were severe hills we
indulged in four horses. The varieties of the jackets of our post-boys,
blue or yellow, as supposed to indicate the politics of their inns,
were interesting to us, as everything was interesting then. Otherwise
their equipment was exactly alike - neat drab corduroy breeches and
top-boots, and hats usually white, and they were all boys, though the
red faces and grizzled hair of some looked as if they had faced the
weather for at least fifty years.</p>
<p>It was a beautiful August, and the harvest fields were a sight perfectly
new, filling us with rapture unspeakable. At every hill which
offered an excuse, our outsiders were on their feet, thrusting in their
heads and hands to us within with exclamations of delight, and all sorts
of discoveries - really new to us three younger ones. Ears of
corn, bearded barley, graceful oats, poppies, corn-flowers, were all
delicious novelties to Emily and me, though Griff and my father laughed
at our ecstasies, and my mother occasionally objected to the wonderful
accumulation of curiosities thrust into her lap or the door pockets,
and tried to persuade Martyn that rooks’ wings, dead hedgehogs,
sticks and stones of various merits, might be found at Earlscombe, until
Clarence, by the judicious purchase of a basket at Salisbury, contrived
to satisfy all parties and safely dispose of the treasures. The
objects that stand out in my memory on that journey were Salisbury Spire,
and a long hill where the hedgebank was one mass of the exquisite rose-bay
willow herb - a perfect revelation to our city-bred eyes; but indeed,
the whole route was like one panorama to us of <i>L’Allegro</i>
and other descriptions on which we had fed. For in those days
we were much more devoted to poetry than is the present generation,
which has a good deal of false shame on that head.</p>
<p>Even dining and sleeping at an inn formed a pleasing novelty, though
we did not exactly sympathise with Martyn when he dashed in at breakfast
exulting in having witnessed the killing of a pig. As my father
observed, it was too like realising Peter’s forebodings of our
return to savage life.</p>
<p>Demonstrations were not the fashion of these times, and there was
a good deal of dull discontent and disaffection in the air, so that
no tokens of welcome were prepared for us - not even a peal of bells;
nor indeed should we have heard them if they had been rung, for the
church was a mile and a half beyond the house, with a wood between cutting
off the sound, except in certain winds. We did not miss a reception,
which would rather have embarrassed us. We began to think it was
time to arrive, and my father believed we were climbing the last hill,
when, just as we had passed a remarkably pretty village and church,
Griffith called out to say that we were on our own ground. He
had made his researches with the game keeper while my father was busy
with the solicitor, and could point to our boundary wall, a little below
the top of the hill on the northern side. He informed us that
the place we had passed was Hillside - Fordyce property, - but this
was Earlscombe, our own. It was a great stony bit of pasture with
a few scattered trees, but after the flat summit was past, the southern
side was all beechwood, where a gate admitted us into a drive cut out
in a slant down the otherwise steep descent, and coming out into an
open space. And there we were!</p>
<p>The old house was placed on the widest part of a kind of shelf or
natural terrace, of a sort of amphitheatre shape, with wood on either
hand, but leaving an interval clear in the midst broad enough for house
and gardens, with a gentle green slope behind, and a much steeper one
in front, closed in by the beechwoods. The house stood as it were
sideways, or had been made to do so by later inhabitants. I know
this is very long-winded, but there have been such alterations that
without minute description this narrative will be unintelligible.</p>
<p>The aspect was northwards so far as the lie of the ground was concerned,
but the house stood across. The main body was of the big symmetrical
Louis XIV. style - or, as it is now the fashion to call it, Queen Anne
- brick, with stone quoins, big sash-windows, and a great square hall
in the midst, with the chief rooms opening into it. The principal
entrance had been on the north, with a huge front door and a flight
of stone steps, and just space enough for a gravel coach ring before
the rapid grassy descent. Later constitutions, however, must have
eschewed that northern front door, and later nerves that narrow verge,
and on the eastern front had been added that Gothic porch of which Emily
had heard, - and a flagrantly modern Gothic porch it was, flanked by
two comical little turrets, with loopholes, from which a thread-paper
or Tom Thumb might have defended it. Otherwise it resembled a
church porch, except for the formidable points of a sham portcullis;
but there was no denying that it greatly increased the comfort of the
house, with its two sets of heavy doors, and the seats on either side.
The great hall door had been closed up, plastered over within, and rendered
inoffensive. Towards the west there was another modern addition
of drawing and dining rooms, and handsome bedchambers above, in Gothic
taste, <i>i.e</i>. with pointed arches filled up with glass over the
sash-windows. The drawing-room was very pretty, with a glass door
at the end leading into an old-fashioned greenhouse, and two French
windows to the south opening upon the lawn, which soon began to slope
upwards, curving, as I said, like an amphitheatre, and was always shady
and sheltered, tilting its flower-beds towards the house as if to display
them. The dining-room had, in like manner, one west and two north
windows, the latter commanding a grand view over the green meadow-land
below, dotted with round knolls, and rising into blue hills beyond.
We became proud of counting the villages and church towers we could
see from thence.</p>
<p>There was a still older portion, more ancient than the square <i>corps
de logis</i>, and built of the cream-coloured stone of the country.
It was at the south-eastern angle, where the ground began sloping so
near the house that this wing - if it may so be called - containing
two good-sized rooms nearly on a level with the upper floor, had nothing
below but some open stone vaultings, under which it was only just possible
for my tall brothers to stand upright, at the innermost end. These
opened into the cellars which, no doubt, belonged to the fifteenth-century
structure. There seemed to have once been a door and two or three
steps to the ground, which rose very close to the southern end; but
this had been walled up. The rooms had deep mullioned windows
east and west, and very handsome groined ceilings, and were entered
by two steps down from the gallery round the upper part of the hall.
There was a very handsome double staircase of polished oak, shaped like
a Y, the stem of which began just opposite the original front door -
making us wonder if people knew what draughts were in the days of Queen
Anne, and remember Madame de Maintenon’s complaint that health
was sacrificed to symmetry. Not far from this oldest portion were
some broken bits of wall and stumps of columns, remnants of the chapel,
and prettily wreathed with ivy and clematis. We rejoiced in such
a pretty and distinctive ornament to our garden, and never troubled
ourselves about the desecration; and certainly ours was one of the most
delightful gardens that ever existed, what with green turf, bright flowers,
shapely shrubs, and the grand beech-trees enclosing it with their stately
white pillars, green foliage, and the russet arcades beneath them.
The stillness was wonderful to ears accustomed to the London roar -
almost a new sensation. Emily was found, as she said, ‘listening
to the silence;’ and my father declared that no one could guess
at the sense of rest that it gave him.</p>
<p>Of space within there was plenty, though so much had been sacrificed
to the hall and staircase; and this was apparently the cause of the
modern additions, as the original sitting-rooms, wainscotted and double-doored,
were rather small for family requirements. One of these, once
the dining-room, became my father’s study, where he read and wrote,
saw his tenants, and by and by acted as Justice of the Peace.
The opposite one, towards the garden, was termed the book-room.
Here Martyn was to do his lessons, and Emily and I carry on our studies,
and do what she called keeping up her accomplishments. My couch
and appurtenances abode there, and it was to be my retreat from company,
- or on occasion could be made a supplementary drawing-room, as its
fittings showed it had been the parlour. It communicated with
another chamber, which became my own - sparing the difficulties that
stairs always presented; and beyond lay, niched under the grand staircase,
a tiny light closet, a passage-room, where my mother put a bed for a
man-servant, not liking to leave me entirely alone on the ground floor.
It led to a passage to the garden door, also to my mother’s den,
dedicated to housewifely cares and stores, and ended at the back stairs,
descending to the servants’ region. This was very old, handsomely
vaulted with stone, and, owing to the fall of the ground, had ample
space for light on the north side, - where, beyond the drive, the descent
was so rapid as to afford Martyn infinite delight in rolling down, to
the horror of all beholders and the detriment of his white duck trowsers.</p>
<p>I don’t know much about the upper story, so I spare you that.
Emily had a hankering for one of the pretty old mullioned-windowed rooms
- the mullion chambers, as she named them; but Griff pounced on them
at once, the inner for his repose, the outer for his guns and his studies
- not smoking, for young men were never permitted to smoke within doors,
nor indeed in any home society. The choice of the son and heir
was undisputed, and he proceeded to settle his possessions in his new
domains, where they made an imposing appearance.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER IX - RATS</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘As louder and louder, drawing near,<br />The gnawing of their
teeth he could hear.’</p>
<p>SOUTHEY.</p>
<p>‘What a ridiculous old fellow that Chapman is,’ said
Griff, coming in from a conference with the gaunt old man who acted
as keeper to our not very extensive preserves. ‘I told him
to get some gins for the rats in my rooms, and he shook his absurd head
like any mandarin, and said, “There baint no trap as will rid
you of them kind of varmint, sir.”’</p>
<p>‘Of course,’ my father said, ‘rats are part of
the entail of an old house. You may reckon on them.’</p>
<p>‘Those rooms of yours are the very place for them,’ added
my mother. ‘I only hope they will not infest the rest of
the house.’</p>
<p>To which Griff rejoined that they perpetrated the most extraordinary
noises he had ever heard from rats, and told Emily she might be thankful
to him for taking those rooms, for she would have been frightened out
of her little wits. He meant, he said, to get a little terrier,
and have a thorough good rat hunt, at which Martyn capered about in
irrepressible ecstasy.</p>
<p>This, however, was deferred by the unwillingness of old Chapman,
of whom even Griff was somewhat in awe. His fame as a sportsman
had to be made, and he had had only such practice as could be attained
by shooting at a mark ever since he had been aware of his coming greatness.
So he was desirous of conciliating Chapman, and not getting laughed
at as the London young gentleman who could not hit a hay-stack.
My father, who had been used to carrying a gun in his younger days,
was much amused, in his quiet way, at seeing Griff watch Chapman off
on his rounds, and then betake himself to the locality most remote from
the keeper’s ears to practise on the rook or crow. Martyn
always ran after him, having solemnly promised not to touch the gun,
and to keep behind. He was too good-natured to send the little
fellow back, though he often tried to elude the pursuit, not wishing
for a witness to his attempts; and he never invited Clarence, who had
had some experience of curious game but never mentioned it.</p>
<p>Clarence devoted himself to Emily and me, tugging my garden-chair
along all the paths where it would go without too much jolting, and
when I had had enough, exploring those hanging woods, either with her
or on his own account. They used to come home with their hands
full of flowers, and this resulted in a vehement attack of botany, -
a taste that has lasted all our lives, together with the <i>hortus siccus</i>
to which we still make additions, though there has been a revolution
there as well as everywhere else, and the Linnæan system we learnt
so eagerly from Martin’s <i>Letters</i> is altogether exploded
and antiquated. Still, my sister refuses to own the scientific
merits of the natural system, and can point to school-bred and lectured
young ladies who have no notion how to discover the name or nature of
a live plant.</p>
<p>On the Friday after our arrival the noises had been so fearful that
Griff had been exasperated into going off across the hills, accompanied
by his constant shadow, Martyn, in search of the professional ratcatcher
of the neighbourhood, in spite of Chapman’s warning - that Tom
Petty was the biggest rascal in the neighbourhood, and a regular out
and out poacher; and as to the noises - he couldn’t ‘tackle
the like of they.’ After revelling in the beauty of the
beechwoods as long as was good for me or for Clarence, I was left in
the garden to sketch the ruin, while my two companions started on one
of their exploring expeditions.</p>
<p>It was getting late enough to think of going to prepare for the six
o’clock dinner when Emily came forth alone from the path between
the trees, announcing - ‘An adventure, Edward! We have had
such an adventure.’</p>
<p>‘Where’s Clarence?’</p>
<p>‘Gone for the doctor! Oh, no; Griff hasn’t shot
anybody. He is gone for the ratcatcher, you know. It is
a poor little herdboy, who tumbled out of a tree; and oh! such a sweet,
beautiful, young lady - just like a book!’</p>
<p>When Emily became less incoherent, it appeared that on coming out
on the bit of common above the wood, as she and Clarence were halting
on the brow of the hill to admire the view, they heard a call for help,
and hurrying down in the direction whence it proceeded they saw a stunted
ash-tree, beneath which were a young lady and a little child bending
over a village lad who lay beneath moaning piteously. The girl,
whom Emily described as the most beautiful creature she ever saw, explained
that the boy, who had been herding the cattle scattered around, had
been climbing the tree, a limb of which had broken with him. She
had seen the fall from a distance, and hurried up; but she hardly knew
what to do, for her little sister was too young to be sent in quest
of assistance. Clarence thought one leg seriously injured, and
as the young lady seemed to know the boy, offered to carry him home.
School officers were yet in the future; children were set to work almost
as soon as they could walk, and this little fellow was so light and
thin as to shock Clarence when he had been taken up on his back, for
he weighed quite a trifle. The young lady showed the way to a
wretched little cottage, where a bigger girl had just come in with a
sheaf of corn freshly gleaned poised on her head. They sent her
to fetch her mother, and Clarence undertook to go for a doctor, but
to the surprise and horror of Emily, there was a demur. Something
was said of old Molly and her ‘ile’ and ‘yarbs,’
or perhaps Madam could step round. When Clarence, on this being
translated to him, pronounced the case beyond such treatment, it was
explained outside the door that this was a terribly poor family, and
the doctor would not come to parish patients for an indefinite time
after his summons, besides which, he lived at Wattlesea. ‘Indeed
mamma does almost all the doctoring with her medicine chest,’
said the girl.</p>
<p>On which Clarence declared that he would let the doctor know that
he himself would be responsible for the cost of the attendance, and
set off for Wattlesea, a kind of town village in the flat below.
He could not get back till dinner was half over, and came in alarmed
and apologetic; but he had nothing worse to encounter than Griff’s
unmerciful banter (or, as you would call it, chaff) about his knight
errantry, and Emily’s lovely heroine in the sweetest of cottage
bonnets.</p>
<p>Griff could be slightly tyrannous in his merry mockery, and when
he found that on the ensuing day Clarence proposed to go and inquire
after the patient, he made such wicked fun of the expectations the pair
entertained of hearing the sweet cottage bonnet reading a tract in a
silvery voice through the hovel window, that he fairly teased and shamed
Clarence out of starting till the renowned Tom Petty arrived and absorbed
all the three brothers, and even their father, in delights as mysterious
to me as to Emily. How she shrieked when Martyn rushed triumphantly
into the room where we were arranging books with the huge patriarch
of all the rats dangling by his tail! Three hopeful families were
destroyed; rooms, vaults, and cellars examined and cleared; and Petty
declared the race to be exterminated, picturesque ruffian that he was,
in his shapeless hat, rusty velveteen, long leggings, a live ferret
in his pocket, and festoons of dead rats over his shoulder.</p>
<p>Chapman, who regarded him much as the ferret did the rat, declared
that the rabbits and hares would suffer from letting ‘that there
chap’ show his face here on any plea; and, moreover, gave a grunt
very like a scoff; at the idea of slumbers in the mullion rooms (as
they were called) being secured by his good offices.</p>
<p>And Chapman was right. The unaccountable noises broke out again
- screaming, wailing, sobbing - sounds scarcely within the power of
cat or rat, but possibly the effect of the wind in the old building.
At any rate, Griff could not stand them, and declared that sleep was
impossible when the wind was in that quarter, so that he must shift
his bedroom elsewhere, though he still wished to retain the outer apartment,
which he had taken pleasure in adorning with his special possessions.
My mother would scarcely have tolerated such fancies in any one else,
but Griff had his privileges.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER X - OUR TUNEFUL CHOIR</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘The church has been whitewashed, but right long ago,<br />As
the cracks and the dinginess amply doth show;<br />About the same time
that a strange petrifaction<br />Confined the incumbent to mere Sunday
action.<br />So many abuses in this place are rife,<br />The only church
things giving token of life<br />Are the singing within and the nettles
without -<br />Both equally rampant without any doubt.’</p>
<p>F. R. HAVERGAL.</p>
<p>All Griff’s teasing could not diminish - nay, rather increased
- Emily’s excitement in the hope of seeing and identifying the
sweet cottage bonnet at church on Sunday. The distance we had
to go was nearly two miles, and my mother and I drove thither in a donkey
chair, which had been hunted up in London for that purpose because the
‘pheeaton’ (as the servants insisted on calling it) was
too high for me. My father had an old-fashioned feeling about
the Fourth Commandment, which made him scrupulous as to using any animal
on Sunday; and even when, in bad weather, or for visitors, the larger
carriage was used, he always walked. He was really angry with
Griff that morning for mischievously maintaining that it was a greater
breach of the commandment to work an ass than a horse.</p>
<p>It was a pretty drive on a road slanting gradually through the brushwood
that clothed the steep face of the hillside, and passing farms and meadows
full of cattle - all things quieter and stiller than ever in their Sunday
repose. We knew that the living was in Winslow patronage, but
that it was in the hands of one of the Selby connection, who held it,
together with it is not safe to say how many benefices, and found it
necessary for his health to reside at Bath. The vicarage had long
since been turned into a farmhouse, and the curate lived at Wattlesea.
All this we knew, but we had not realised that he was likewise assistant
curate there, and only favoured Earlscombe with alternate morning and
evening services on Sundays.</p>
<p>Still less were we prepared for the interior of the church.
It had a picturesque square tower covered with ivy, and a general air
of fitness for a sketch; indeed, the photograph of it in its present
beautified state will not stand a comparison with our drawings of it,
in those days of dilapidation in the middle of the untidy churchyard,
with little boys astride on the sloping, sunken lichen-grown headstones,
mullein spikes and burdock leaves, more graceful than the trim borders
and zinc crosses which are pleasanter to the mental eye.</p>
<p>The London church we had left would be a fearful shock to the present
generation, but we were accustomed to decency, order, and reverence;
and it was no wonder that my father was walking about the churchyard,
muttering that he never saw such a place, while my brothers were full
of amusement. Their spruce looks in their tall hats, bright ties,
dark coats, and white trowsers strapped tight under their boots, looked
incongruous with the rest of the congregation, the most distinguished
members of which were farmers in drab coats with huge mother-of-pearl
buttons, and long gaiters buttoned up to their knees and strapped up
to their gay waistcoats over their white corduroys. Their wives
and daughters were in enormous bonnets, fluttering with ribbons; but
then what my mother and Emily wore were no trifles. The rest of
the congregation were - the male part of it - in white or gray smock-frocks,
the elderly women in black bonnets, the younger in straw; but we had
not long to make our observations, for Chapman took possession of us.
He was parish clerk, and was in great glory in his mourning coat and
hat, and his object was to marshal us all into our pew before he had
to attend upon the clergyman; and of course I was glad enough to get
as soon as possible out of sight of all the eyes not yet accustomed
to my figure.</p>
<p>And hidden enough I was when we had been introduced through the little
north chancel door into a black-curtained, black-cushioned, black-lined
pew, well carpeted, with a table in the midst, and a stove, whose pipe
made its exit through the floriated tracery of the window overhead.
The chancel arch was to the west of us, blocked up by a wooden parcel-gilt
erection, and to the east a decorated window that would have been very
handsome if two side-lights had not been obscured by the two Tables
of the Law, with the royal arms on the top of the first table, and over
the other our own, with the Fordyce in a scutcheon of pretence; for,
as an inscription recorded, they had been erected by Margaret, daughter
of Christopher Fordyce, Esquire, of Chantry House, and relict of Sir
James John Winslow, Kt., sergeant-at-law, A.D. 1700 - the last date,
I verily believe, at which anything had been done to the church.
And on the wall, stopping up the southern chancel window, was a huge
marble slab, supported by angels blowing trumpets, with a very long
inscription about the Fordyce family, ending with this same Margaret,
who had married the Winslow, lost two or three infants, and died on
1st January 1708, three years later than her husband.</p>
<p>Thus far I could see; but Griff was standing lifting the curtain,
and showing by the working of his shoulders his amazement and diversion,
so that only the daggers in my mother’s eyes kept Martyn from
springing up after him. What he beheld was an altar draped in
black like a coffin, and on the step up to the rail, boys and girls
eating apples and performing antics to beguile the waiting time, while
a row of white-smocked old men occupied the bench opposite to our seat,
conversing loud enough for us to hear them.</p>
<p>My father and Clarence came in; the bells stopped; there was a sound
of steps, and in the fabric in front of us there emerged a grizzled
head and the back of a very dirty surplice besprinkled with iron moulds,
while Chapman’s back appeared above our curtain, his desk (full
of dilapidated prayer-books) being wedged in between us and the reading-desk.</p>
<p>The duet that then took place between him and the curate must have
been heard to be credible, especially as, being so close behind the
old man, we could not fail to be aware of all the remarkable shots at
long words which he bawled out at the top of his voice, and I refrain
from recording, lest they should haunt others as they have done by me
all my life. Now and then Chapman caught up a long switch and
dashed out at some obstreperous child to give an audible whack; and
towards the close of the litany he stumped out - we heard his tramp
the whole length of the church, and by and by his voice issued from
an unknown height, proclaiming - ‘Let us sing to the praise and
glory in an anthem taken from the 42d chapter of Genesis.’</p>
<p>There was an outburst of bassoon, clarionet, and fiddle, and the
performance that followed was the most marvellous we had ever heard,
especially when the big butcher - fiddling all the time - declared in
a mighty solo, ‘I am Jo - Jo - Jo - Joseph!’ and having
reiterated this information four or five times, inquired with equal
pertinacity, ‘Doth - doth my fa-a-u-ther yet live?’
Poor Emily was fairly ‘convulsed;’ she stuffed her handkerchief
into her mouth, and grew so crimson that my mother was quite frightened,
and very near putting her out at the little door of excommunication.
To our last hour we shall never forget the shock of that first anthem.</p>
<p>The Commandments were read from the desk, Chapman’s solitary
response coming from the gallery; and while the second singing - four
verses from Tate and Brady - was going on, we beheld the surplice stripped
off, - like the slough of a May-fly, as Griff said, - when a rusty black
gown was revealed, in which the curate ascended the pulpit and was lost
to our view before the concluding verse of the psalm, which we had reason
to believe was selected in compliment to us, as well as to Earlscombe,
-</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘My lot is fall’n in that blest land<br /> Where
God is truly know,<br />He fills my cup with liberal hand;<br /> ’Tis
He - ’tis He - ’tis He - supports my throne.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>We had great reason to doubt how far the second line could justly
be applied to the parish! but there was no judging of the sermon, for
only detached sentences reached us in a sort of mumble. Griff
afterwards declared churchgoing to be as good as a comedy, and we all
had to learn to avoid meeting each other’s eyes, whatever we might
hear. When the scuffle and tramp of the departing congregation
had ceased, we came forth from our sable box, and beheld the remnants
of a once handsome church, mauled in every possible way, green stains
on the walls, windows bricked up, and a huge singing gallery.
Good bits of carved stall work were nailed anyhow into the pews; the
floor was uneven; no font was visible; there was a mouldy uncared-for
look about everything. The curate in riding-boots came out of
the vestry, - a pale, weary-looking man, painfully meek and civil, with
gray hair sleeked round his face. He ‘louted low,’
and seemed hardly to venture on taking the hand my father held out to
him. There was some attempt to enter into conversation with him,
but he begged to be excused, for he had to hurry back to Wattlesea to
a funeral. Poor man! he was as great a pluralist as his vicar,
for he kept a boys’ school, partially day, partially boarding,
and his eyes looked hungrily at Martyn.</p>
<p>If the ‘sweet cottage bonnet’ had been at church there
would have been little chance of discovering her, but we found that
we were the only ‘quality,’ as Chapman called it, or things
might not have been so bad. Old James Winslow had been a mere
fox-hunting squire till he became a valetudinarian; nor had he ever
cared for the church or for the poor, so that the village was in a frightful
state of neglect. There was a dissenting chapel, old enough to
be overgrown with ivy and not too hideous, erected by the Nonconformists
in the reign of the Great Deliverer, but this partook of the general
decadence of the parish, and, as we found, the chapel’s principal
use was to serve as an excuse for not going to church.</p>
<p>My father always went to church twice, so he and Clarence walked
to Wattlesea, where appearances were more respectable; but they heard
the same sermon over again, and, as my father drily remarked, it was
not a composition that would bear repetition.</p>
<p>He was much distressed at the state of things, and intended to write
to the incumbent, though, as he said, whatever was done would end by
being at his own expense, and the move and other calls left him so little
in hand that he sighed over the difficulties, and declared that he was
better off in London, except for the honour of the thing. Perhaps
my mother was of the same opinion after a dreary afternoon, when Griff
and Martyn had been wandering about aimlessly, and were at length betrayed
by the barking of a little terrier, purchased the day before from Tom
Petty, besieging the stable cat, who stood with swollen tail, glaring
eyes, and thunderous growls, on the top of the tallest pillar of the
ruins. Emily nearly cried at their cruelty. Martyn was called
off by my mother, and set down, half sulky, half ashamed, to <i>Henry
and his Bearer</i>; and Griff, vowing that he believed it was that brute
who made the row at night, and that she ought to be exterminated, strolled
off to converse with Chapman, who was a quaint compound of clerk and
keeper - in the one capacity upholding his late master, in the other
bemoaning Mr. Mears’ unpunctualities, specially as regarded weddings
and funerals; one ‘corp’ having been kept waiting till a
messenger had been sent to Wattlesea, who finding both clergy out for
the day, had had to go to Hillside, ‘where they was always ready,
though the old Squire would have been mad with him if he’d a-guessed
one of they Fordys had ever set foot in the parish.’</p>
<p>The only school in the place was close to the meeting-house, ‘a
very dame’s school indeed,’ as Emily described it after
a peep on Monday. Dame Dearlove, the old woman who presided, was
a picture of Shenstone’s schoolmistress, - black bonnet, horn
spectacles, fearful birch rod, three-cornered buff ’kerchief,
checked apron and all, but on meddling with her, she proved a very dragon,
the antipodes of her name. Tattered copies of the <i>Universal
Spelling-Book</i> served her aristocracy, ragged Testaments the general
herd, whence all appeared to be shouting aloud at once. She looked
sour as verjuice when my mother and Emily entered, and gave them to
understand that ‘she wasn’t used to no strangers in her
school, and didn’t want ’em.’ We found that
in Chapman’s opinion she ‘didn’t larn ’em nothing.’
She had succeeded her aunt, who had taught him to read ‘right
off,’ but ‘her baint to be compared with she.’
And now the farmers’ children, and the little aristocracy, including
his own grand-children, - all indeed who, in his phrase, ‘cared
for eddication,’ - went to Wattlesea.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XI - ‘THEY FORDYS.’</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘Of honourable reckoning are you both,<br />And pity ’tis,
you lived at odds so long.’</p>
<p>SHAKESPEARE.</p>
<p>My father had a good deal of business in hand, and was glad of Clarence’s
help in writing and accounts, - a great pleasure, though it prevented
his being Griff’s companion in his exploring and essays at shooting.
He had time, however, to make an expedition with me in the donkey chair
to inquire after the herdboy, Amos Bell, and carry him some kitchen
physic. To our horror we found him quite alone in the wretched
cottage, while everybody was out harvesting; but he did not seem to
pity himself, or think it otherwise than quite natural, as he lay on
a little bed in the corner, disabled by what Clarence thought a dislocation.
Miss Ellen had brought him a pudding, and little Miss Anne a picture-book.</p>
<p>He was not so dense and shy as the children of the hamlet near us,
and Emily extracted from him that Miss Ellen was ‘Our passon’s
young lady.’</p>
<p>‘Mr. Mears’!’ she exclaimed.</p>
<p>‘No: ourn be Passon Fordy.’</p>
<p>It turned out that this place was not in Earlscombe at all, but in
Hillside, a different parish; and the boy, Amos, further communicated
that there was old Passon Fordy, and Passon Frank, and Madam, what was
Mr. Frank’s lady. Yes, he could read, he could; he went
to Sunday School, and was in Miss Ellen’s class; he had been to
school worky days, only father was dead, and Farmer Hartop gave him
a job.</p>
<p>It was plain that Hillside was under a very different rule from Earlscombe;
and Emily was delighted to have discovered that the sweet cottage bonnet’s
owner was called Ellen, which just then was the pet Christian name of
romance, in honour of the <i>Lady of the Lake.</i></p>
<p>In the midst of her raptures, however, just as we were about to turn
in at our own gate into the wood, we heard horses’ hoofs, and
then came, careering by on ponies, a very pretty girl and a youth of
about the same age. Clarence’s hand rose to his hat, and
he made his eager bow; but the young lady did not vouchsafe the slightest
acknowledgment, turned her head away, and urged her pony to speed.</p>
<p>Emily broke out with an angry disappointed exclamation. Clarence’s
face was scarlet, and he said low and hoarsely, ‘That’s
Lester. He was in the <i>Argus</i> at Portsmouth two years ago;’
- and then, as our little sister continued her indignant exclamations,
he added, ‘Hush! Don’t on any account say a word about
it. I had better get back to my work. I am only doing you
harm by staying here.’</p>
<p>At which Emily shed tears, and together we persuaded him not to curtail
his holiday, which, indeed, he could not have done without assigning
the reason to the elders, and this was out of the question. Nor
did he venture to hang back when, as our service was to be on Sunday
afternoon, my father proposed to walk to Hillside Church in the morning.
They came back well pleased. There was care and decency throughout.
The psalms were sung to a ‘grinder organ’ - which was an
advanced state of things in those days - and very nicely. Parson
Frank read well and impressively, and the old parson, a fine venerable
man, had preached an excellent sermon - really admirable, as my father
repeated. Our party had been scarcely in time, and had been disposed
of in seats close to the door, where Clarence was quite out of sight
of the disdainful young lady and her squire, of whom Emily begged to
hear no more.</p>
<p>She looked askance at the cards left on the hall table the next day
- ‘The Rev. Christopher Fordyce,’ and ‘The Rev. F.
C. Fordyce,’ also ‘Mrs. F. C. Fordyce, Hillside Rectory.’</p>
<p>We had found out that Hillside was a family living, and that there
was much activity there on the part of the father and son - rector and
curate; and that the other clerical folk, ladies especially, who called
on us, spoke of Mrs. F. C. Fordyce with a certain tone, as if they were
afraid of her, as Sir Horace Lester’s sister, - very superior,
very active, very strict in her notions, - as if these were so many
defects. They were an offshoot of the old Fordyces of Chantry
House, but so far back that all recollection of kindred or connection
must have worn out. Their property - all in beautiful order -
marched with ours, and Chapman was very particular about the boundaries.
‘Old master he wouldn’t have a bird picked up if it fell
over on they Fordys’ ground - not he! He couldn’t
abide passons, couldn’t the old Squire - not Miss Hannah More,
and all they Cheddar lot, and they Fordys least of all. My son’s
wife, she was for sending her little maid to Hillside to Madam Fordys’
school, but, bless your heart, ’twould have been as much as my
place was worth if master had known it.’</p>
<p>The visit was not returned till after Clarence had gone back to his
London work. Sore as was the loss of him from my daily life, I
could see that the new world and fresh acquaintances were a trial to
him, and especially since the encounter with young Lester had driven
him back into his shell, so that he would be better where he was already
known and had nothing new to overcome. Emily, though not yet sixteen,
was emancipated from schoolroom habits, and the dear girl was my devoted
slave to an extent that perhaps I abused.</p>
<p>Not being ‘come out,’ she was left at home on the day
when we set out on a regular progress in the chariot with post-horses.
The britshka and pair, which were our ambition, were to wait till my
father’s next rents came in. Morning calls in the country
were a solemn and imposing ceremony, and the head of the family had
to be taken on the first circuit; nor was there much scruple as to making
them in the forenoon, so several were to be disposed of before fulfilling
an engagement to luncheon at the farthest point, where some old London
friends had borrowed a house for the summer, and had included me in
their invitation.</p>
<p>Here alone did I leave the carriage, but I had Cooper’s <i>Spy</i>
and my sketch-book as companions while waiting at doors where the inhabitants
were at home. The last visit was at Hillside Rectory, a house
of architecture somewhat similar to our own, but of the soft creamy
stone which so well set off the vine with purple clusters, the myrtles
and fuchsias, that covered it. I was wishing we had drawn up far
enough off for a sketch to be possible, when, from a window close above,
I heard the following words in a clear girlish voice -</p>
<p>‘No, indeed! I’m not going down. It is only
those horrid Earlscombe people. I can’t think how they have
the face to come near us!’</p>
<p>There was a reply, perhaps that the parents had made the first visit,
for the rejoinder was - ‘Yes; grandpapa said it was a Christian
duty to make an advance; but they need not have come so soon.
Indeed, I wonder they show themselves at all. I am sure I would
not if I had such a dreadful son.’ Presently, ‘I hate
to think of it. That I should have thanked him. Depend upon
it, he will never pay the doctor. A coward like that is capable
of anything.’</p>
<p>The proverb had been realised, but there could hardly have been a
more involuntary or helpless listener. Presently my parents came
back, escorted by both the gentlemen of the house, tall fine-looking
men, the elder with snowy hair, and the dignity of men of the old school;
the younger with a joyous, hearty, out-of-door countenance, more like
a squire than a clergyman.</p>
<p>The visit seemed to have been gratifying. Mrs. Fordyce was
declared to be of higher stamp than most of the neighbouring ladies;
and my father was much pleased with the two clergymen, while as we drove
along he kept on admiring the well-ordered fields and fences, and contrasting
the pretty cottages and trim gardens with the dreary appearance of our
own village. I asked why Amos Bell’s home had been neglected,
and was answered with some annoyance, as I pointed down the lane, that
it was on our land, though in Hillside parish. ‘I am glad
to have such neighbours!’ observed my mother, and I kept to myself
the remarks I had heard, though I was still tingling with the sting
of them.</p>
<p>We heard no more of ‘they Fordys’ for some time.
The married pair went away to stay with friends, and we only once met
the old gentleman, when I was waiting in the street at Wattlesea in
the donkey chair, while my mother was trying to match netting silk in
the odd little shop that united fancy work, toys, and tracts with the
post office. Old Mr. Fordyce met us as we drew up, handed her
out with a grand seigneur’s courtesy, and stood talking to me
so delightfully that I quite forgot it was from Christian duty.</p>
<p>My father corresponded with the old Rector about the state of the
parish, and at last went over to Bath for a personal conference, but
without much satisfaction. The Earlscombe people were pronounced
to be an ungrateful good-for-nothing set, for whom it was of no use
to do anything; and indeed my mother made such discoveries in the cottages
that she durst not let Emily fulfil her cherished scheme of visiting
them. The only resemblance to the favourite heroines of religious
tales that could be permitted was assembling a tiny Sunday class in
Chapman’s lodge; and it must be confessed that her brothers thought
she made as much fuss about it as if there had been a hundred scholars.</p>
<p>However, between remonstrances and offers of undertaking a share
of the expense, my father managed to get Mr. Mears’ services dispensed
with from the ensuing Lady Day, and that a resident curate should be
appointed, the choice of whom was to rest with himself. It was
then and there decided that Martyn should be ‘brought up to the
Church,’ as people then used to term destination to Holy Orders.
My father said he should feel justified in building a good house when
he could afford it, if it was to be a provision for one of his sons,
and he also felt that as he had the charge of the parish as patron,
it was right and fitting to train one of his sons up to take care of
it. Nor did Martyn show any distaste to the idea, as indeed there
was less in it then than at present to daunt the imagination of an honest,
lively boy, not as yet specially thoughtful or devout, but obedient,
truthful, and fairly reverent, and ready to grow as he was trained.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XII - MRS. SOPHIA’S FEUD</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘O’er all there hung the shadow of a fear,<br /> A
sense of mystery the spirit daunted,<br />And said as plain as whisper
in the ear,<br /> The place is haunted.’</p>
<p>HOOD.</p>
<p>We had a houseful at Christmas. The Rev. Charles Henderson,
a Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford, lately ordained a deacon, had been
recommended to us by our London vicar, and was willing not only to take
charge of the parish, but to direct my studies, and to prepare Martyn
for school. He came to us for the Christmas vacation to reconnoitre
and engage lodgings at a farmhouse. We liked him very much - my
mother being all the better satisfied after he had shown her a miniature,
and confided to her that the original was waiting till a college living
should come to him in the distant future.</p>
<p>Admiral Griffith could not tear himself from his warm rooms and his
club, but our antiquarian friend, Mr. Stafford, came with his wife,
and revelled in the ceilings of the mullion room, where he would much
have liked to sleep, but that its accommodations were only fit for a
bachelor.</p>
<p>Our other visitor was Miss Selby, or rather Mrs. Sophia Selby, as
she designated herself, according to the becoming fashion of elderly
spinsters, which to my mind might be gracefully resumed. It irked
my father to think of the good lady’s solitary Christmas at Bath,
and he asked her to come to us. She travelled half-way in a post-chaise,
and then was met by the carriage. A very nice old lady she was,
with a meek, delicate babyish face, which could not be spoilt by the
cap of the period, one of the most disfiguring articles of head gear
ever devised, though nobody thought so then. She was full of kindness;
indeed, if she had a fault it was the abundant pity she lavished on
me, and her determination to amuse me. The weather was of the
kind that only the healthy and hardy could encounter, and when every
one else was gone out, and I was just settling in with a new book, or
an old crabbed Latin document, that Mr. Stafford had entrusted to me
to copy out fairly and translate, she would glide in with her worsted
work on a charitable mission to enliven poor Mr. Edward.</p>
<p>However, this was the means of my obtaining some curious enlightenments.
A dinner-party was in contemplation, and she was dismayed at the choice
of the fashionable London hour of seven, and still more by finding that
the Fordyces were to be among the guests. She was too well-bred
to manifest her feelings to her hosts, but alone with me, she could
not refrain from expressing her astonishment to me, all the more when
she heard this was reciprocity for an invitation that it had not been
possible to accept. Her poor dear uncle would never hear of intercourse
with Hillside. On being asked why, she repeated what Chapman had
said, that he could not endure any one connected with Mrs. Hannah More
and her canting, humbugging set, as the ungodly old man had chosen to
call them, imbuing even this good woman with evil prejudices against
their noble work at Cheddar.</p>
<p>‘Besides this, Fordyces and Winslows could never be friends,
since the Fordyces had taken on themselves to dispute the will, and
say it had been improperly obtained.’</p>
<p>‘What will?’</p>
<p>‘Mrs. Winslow’s - Margaret Fordyce that was. She
was the heiress, and had every right to dispose of her property.’</p>
<p>‘But that was more than a hundred years ago!’</p>
<p>‘So it was, my dear; but though the law gave it to us - to
my uncle’s grandfather (or great-grandfather, was it?) - those
Fordyces never could rest content. Why, one of them - a clergyman’s
son too - shot young Philip Winslow dead in a duel. They have
always grudged at us. Does your papa know it, my dear Mr. Edward?
He ought to be aware.’</p>
<p>‘I do not know,’ I said; ‘but he would hardly care
about what happened in the time of Queen Anne.’</p>
<p>It was curious to see how the gentle little lady espoused the family
quarrel, which, after all, was none of hers.</p>
<p>‘Well, you are London people, and the other branch, and may
not feel as we do down here; but I shall always say that Madam Winslow’s
husband’s son had every right to come before her cousin once removed.’</p>
<p>I asked if we were descended from her, for, having a turn for heraldry
and genealogy, I wanted to make out our family tree. Mrs. Sophia
was ready to hold up her hands at the ignorance of the ‘other
branch.’ This poor heiress had lost all her children in
their infancy, and bequeathed the estate to her stepson, the Fordyce
male heir having been endowed by her father with the advowson of Hillside
and a handsome estate there, which Mrs. Selby thought ought to have
contented him, ‘but some people never know when they have enough;’
and, on my observing that it might have been a matter of justice, she
waxed hotter, declaring that what the Winslows felt so much was the
accusation of violence against the poor lady. She spoke as if
it were a story of yesterday, and added, ‘Indeed, they made the
common people have all sorts of superstitious fancies about the room
where she died - that old part of the house.’ Then she added
in a low mysterious voice, ‘I hear that your brother Mr. Griffith
Winslow could not sleep there;’ and when the rats and the wind
were mentioned - ‘Yes, that was what my poor dear uncle used to
say. He always called it nonsense; but we never had a servant
who would sleep there. You’ll not mention it, Mr. Edward,
but I could not help asking that very nice housemaid, Jane, whether
the room was used, and she said how Mr. Griffith had given it up, and
none of the servants could spend a night there when they are sleeping
round. Of course I said all in my power to dispel the idea, and
told her that there was no accounting for all the noises in old houses;
but you never can reason with that class of people.’</p>
<p>‘Did you ever hear the noises, Mrs. Selby?’</p>
<p>‘Oh, no; I wouldn’t sleep there for thousands!
Not that I attach any importance to such folly, - my poor dear uncle
would never hear of such a thing; but I am such a nervous creature,
I should lie awake all night expecting the rats to run over me.
I never knew of any one sleeping there, except in the gay times when
I was a child, and the house used to be as full as, or fuller than,
it could hold, for the hunt breakfast or a ball, and my poor aunt used
to make up ever so many beds in the two rooms, and then we never heard
of any disturbance, except what they made themselves.’</p>
<p>This chiefly concerned me, because home cosseting had made me old
woman enough to be uneasy about unaired beds; and I knew that my mother
meant to consign Clarence to the mullion chamber. So, without
betraying Jane, I spoke to her, and was answered, ‘Oh, sir, I’ll
take care of that; I’ll light a fire and air the mattresses well.
I wish that was all, poor young gentleman!’</p>
<p>To the reply that the rats were slaughtered and the wind stopped
out, Jane returned a look of compassion; but the subject was dropped,
as it was supposed to be the right thing to hush up, instead of fostering,
any popular superstition; but it surprised me that, as all our servants
were fresh importations, they should so soon have become imbued with
these undefined alarms.</p>
<p>My father was much amused at being successor to this family feud,
and said that when he had time he would look up the documents.</p>
<p>Mrs. Sophia was a sight when Mr. Fordyce and his son and daughter-in-law
were announced; she was so comically stiff between her deference to
her hosts and her allegiance to her poor dear uncle; but her coldness
melted before the charms of old Mr. Fordyce, who was one of the most
delightful people in the world. She even was his partner at whist,
and won the game, and that she <i>did</i> like.</p>
<p>Parson Frank, as we naughty young ones called him, was all good-nature
and geniality - a thorough clergyman after the ideas of the time, and
a thorough farmer too; and in each capacity, as well as in politics,
he suited my father or Mr. Henderson. His lady, in a blonde cap,
exactly like the last equipment my mother had provided herself with
in London, and a black satin dress, had much more style than the more
gaily-dressed country dames, and far more conversation. Mr. Stafford,
who had dreaded the party, pronounced her a sensible, agreeable woman,
and she was particularly kind and pleasant to me, coming and talking
over the botany of the country, and then speaking of my brother’s
kindness to poor Amos Bell, who was nearly recovered, but was a weakly
child, for whom she dreaded the toil of a ploughboy in thick clay with
heavy shoes.</p>
<p>I was sorry when, after Emily’s well-studied performance on
the piano, Mrs. Fordyce was summoned away from me to sing, but her music
and her voice were both of a very different order from ordinary drawing-room
music; and when our evening was over, we congratulated ourselves upon
our neighbours, and agreed that the Fordyces were the gems of the party.</p>
<p>Only Mrs. Sophia sighed at us as degenerate Winslows, and Emily reserved
to herself the right of believing that the daughter was ‘a horrid
girl.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XIII - A SCRAPE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘Though bound with weakness’ heavy chain<br />We in the
dust of earth remain;<br />Not all remorseful be our tears,<br />No
agony of shame or fears,<br />Need pierce its passion’s bitter
tide.’</p>
<p><i>Verses and Sonnets.</i></p>
<p>Perhaps it was of set purpose that our dinner. party had been given
before Clarence’s return. Griffith had been expected in
time for it, but he had preferred going by way of London to attend a
ball given by the daughter of a barrister friend of my father’s.
Selina Clarkson was a fine showy girl, with the sort of beauty to inspire
boyish admiration, and Griff’s had been a standing family joke,
even my father condescending to tease him when the young lady married
Sir Henry Peacock, a fat vulgar old man who had made his fortune in
the commissariat, and purchased a baronetcy. He was allowing his
young wife her full swing of fashion and enjoyment. My mother
did not think it a desirable acquaintance, and was restless until both
the brothers came home together, long after dark on Christmas Eve, having
been met by the gig at the corner where the coach stopped. The
dinner-hour had been put off till half-past six, and we had to wait
for them, the coach having been delayed by setting down Christmas guests
and Christmas fare. They were a contrast; Griffith looking very
handsome and manly, all in a ruddy glow from the frosty air, and Clarence,
though equally tall, well-made, and with more refined features, looked
pale and effaced, now that his sailor tan was worn off. The one
talked as eagerly as he ate, the other was shy, spiritless, and with
little appetite; but as he always shrank into himself among strangers,
it was the less wonder that he sat in his drooping way behind my sofa,
while Griffith kept us all merry with his account of the humours of
the ‘Peacock at home;’ the lumbering efforts of old Sir
Henry to be as young and gay as his wife, in spite of gout and portliness;
and the extreme delight of his lady in her new splendours - a gold spotted
muslin and white plumes in a diamond agraffe. He mimicked Sir
Henry’s cockneyisms more than my father’s chivalry approved
towards his recent host, as he described the complaints he had heard
against ‘my Lady being refused the hentry at Halmack’s,
but treated like the wery canal;’ and how the devoted husband
‘wowed he would get up a still more hexclusive circle, and shut
hout these himpertinent fashionables who regarded Halmack’s as
the seventh ’eaven.’</p>
<p>My mother shook her head at his audacious fun about Paradise and
the Peri, but he was so brilliant and good-humoured that no one was
ever long displeased with him. At night he followed when Clarence
helped me to my room, and carefully shutting the door, Griff began.
‘Now, Teddy, you’re always as rich as a Jew, and I told
Bill you’d help him to set it straight. I’d do it
myself, but that I’m cleaned out. I’d give ten times
the cash rather than see him with that hang-dog look again for just
nothing at all, if he would only believe so and be rational.’</p>
<p>Clarence did look indescribably miserable while it was explained
that he had been commissioned to receive about £20 which was owing
to my father, and to discharge therewith some small debts to London
tradesmen. All except the last, for a little more than four pounds,
had been paid, when Clarence met in the street an old messmate, a good-natured
rattle-pated youth, - one of those who had thought him harshly treated.
There was a cordial greeting, and an invitation to dine at once at a
hotel, where they were joined by some other young men, and by and by
betook themselves to cards, when my poor brother’s besetting enemy
prevented him from withdrawing when he found the points were guineas.
Thus he lost the remaining amount in his charge, and so much of his
own that barely enough was left for his journey. His salary was
not due till Lady Day; Mr. Castleford was in the country, and no advances
could be asked from Mr. Frith. Thus Griff had found him in utter
despair, and had ever since been trying to cheer him and make light
of his trouble. If I advanced the amount, which was no serious
matter to me, Clarence could easily get Peter to pay the bill, and if
my father should demand the receipt too soon, it would be easy to put
him off by saying there had been a delay in getting the account sent
in.</p>
<p>‘I couldn’t do that,’ said Clarence.</p>
<p>‘Well, I should not have thought you would have stuck at that,’
returned Griff.</p>
<p>‘There must be no untruth,’ I broke in; ‘but if
without <i>that</i>, he can avoid getting into a scrape with papa -
’</p>
<p>Clarence interrupted in the wavering voice we knew so well, but growing
clearer and stronger.</p>
<p>‘Thank you, Edward, but - but - no, I can’t. There’s
the Sacrament to-morrow.’</p>
<p>‘Oh - h!’ said Griff, in an indescribable tone.
But he will never believe you, nor let you go.’</p>
<p>‘Better so,’ said Clarence, half choked, ‘than
go profanely - deceiving - or not knowing whether I shall - ’</p>
<p>Just then we heard our father wishing the other gentlemen good-night,
and to our surprise Clarence opened the door, though he was deadly white
and with dew starting on his forehead.</p>
<p>My father turned good-naturedly. ‘Boys, boys, you are
glad to be together, but mamma won’t have you talking here all
night, keeping her baby up.’</p>
<p>‘Sir,’ said Clarence, holding by the rail of the bed,
‘I was waiting for you. I have something to tell you - ’</p>
<p>The words that followed were incoherent and wrong end foremost; nor
had many, indeed, been uttered before my father cut them short with
-</p>
<p>‘No false excuses, sir; I know you too well to listen.
Go. I have ceased to hope for anything better.’</p>
<p>Clarence went without a word, but Griff and I burst out with entreaties
to be listened to. Our father thought at first that ours were
only the pleadings of partiality, and endeavours to shield the brother
we both so heartily loved; but when he understood the circumstances,
the real amount of the transgression, and Clarence’s rejection
of our united advice and assistance to conceal it, he was greatly touched
and softened. ‘Poor lad! poor fellow!’ he muttered,
‘he is really doing his best. I need not have cut him so
short. I was afraid of more falsehoods if I let him open his mouth.
I’ll go and see.’</p>
<p>He went off, and we remained in suspense, Griff observing that he
had done his best, but poor Bill always would be a fool, and that no
one who had not always lived at home like me would have let out that
we had been for the suppression policy. As I was rather shocked,
he went off to bed, saying he should look in to see what remained of
Clarence after the pelting of the pitiless storm he was sure to bring
on himself by his ridiculous faltering instead of speaking out like
a man.</p>
<p>I longed to have been able to do the same, but my father kindly came
back to relieve my mind by telling me that he was better satisfied about
Clarence than ever he had been before. When encouraged to speak
out, the narrative of the temptation had so entirely agreed with what
we had said as to show there had been no prevarication, and this had
done more to convince my father that he was on the right track than
the having found him on his knees. He had had a patient hearing,
and thus was able to command his nerves enough to explain himself, and
it had ended in my father giving entire forgiveness for what, as Griff
truly said, would have been a mere trifle but for the past. The
voluntary confession had much impressed my father, and he could not
help adding a word of gentle reproof to me for having joined in aiding
him to withhold it, but he accepted my explanation and went away, observing,
‘By the by, I don’t wonder at what Griffith says of that
room; I never heard such strange effects of currents of air.’</p>
<p>Clarence was in my room before I was drest, full of our father’s
‘wonderful goodness’ to him. He had never experienced
anything like it, he said. ‘Why! he really seemed hopeful
about me,’ were words uttered with a gladness enough to go to
one’s heart. ‘O Edward, I feel as if there was some
chance of “steadfastly purposing” this time.’</p>
<p>It was not the way of the family to say much of religious feeling,
and this was much for Clarence to utter. He looked white and tired,
but there was an air of rest and peace about him, above all when my
mother met him with a very real kiss. Moreover, Mr. Castleford
had taken care to brighten our Christmas with a letter expressive of
great satisfaction with Clarence for steadiness and intelligence.
Even Mr. Frith allowed that he was the most punctual of all those young
dogs.</p>
<p>‘I do believe,’ said my father, ‘that his piety
is doing him some good after all.’</p>
<p>So our mutual wishes of a happy Christmas were verified, though not
much according to the notions of this half of the century. People
made their Christmas day either mere merriment, or something little
different from the grave Sunday of that date. And ours, except
for the Admiral’s dining with us, had always been of the latter
description, all the more that when celebrations of the Holy Communion
were so rare they were treated with an awe and reverence which frequency
has perhaps diminished, and a feeling (possibly Puritanical) prevailed
which made it appear incongruous to end with festivity a day so begun.
That we had a Christmas Day Communion at all at Earlscombe was an innovation
only achieved by Mr. Henderson going to assist the old Rector at Wattlesea;
and there were no communicants except from our house, besides Chapman,
his daughter-in-law, and five old creatures between whom the alms were
immediately divided. We afterwards learnt that our best farmer
and his wife were much disappointed at the change from Sunday interfering
with the family jollification; and Mrs. Sophia Selby was annoyed at
the contradiction to her habits under the rule of her poor dear uncle.</p>
<p>Of the irregularities, irreverences, and squalor of the whole I will
not speak. They were not then such stumbling-blocks as they would
be now, and many passed unperceived by us, buried as we were in our
big pew, with our eyes riveted on our books; yet even thus there was
enough evident to make my mother rejoice that Mr. Henderson would be
with us before Easter. Still this could not mar the thankful gladness
that was with us all that day, and which shone in Clarence’s eyes.
His countenance always had a remarkable expression in church, as if
somehow his spirit went farther than ours did, and things unseen were
more real to him.</p>
<p>Hillside, as usual, had two services, and my father and his friend
were going to walk thither in the afternoon, but it was a raw cold day,
threatening snow, and Emily was caught by my mother in the hail and
ordered back, as well as Clarence, who had shown symptoms of having
caught cold on his dismal journey. Emily coaxed from her permission
to have a fire in the bookroom, and there we three had a memorably happy
time. We read our psalms and lessons, and our <i>Christian Year</i>,
which was more and more the lodestar of our feelings. We compared
our favourite passages, and discussed the obscurer ones, and Clarence
was led to talk out more of his heart than he had ever shown to us before.
Perhaps he had lost some of his reserve through his intercourse with
our good old governess, Miss Newton, who was still grinding away at
her daily mill, though with somewhat failing eyesight, so that she could
do nothing but knit in the long evenings, and was most grateful to her
former pupil for coming, as often as he could, to talk or read to her.</p>
<p>She was a most excellent and devout woman, and when Emily, who in
youthful <i>gaieté de cœur</i> had got a little tired of
her, exclaimed at his taste, and asked if she made him read nothing
but Pike’s Early <i>Piety</i>, he replied gravely, ‘She
showed me where to lay my burthen down,’ and turned to the two
last verses of the poem for ‘Good Friday’ in the <i>Christian
Year</i>, as well as to the one we had just read on the Holy Communion.</p>
<p>My father’s kindness had seemed to him the pledge of the Heavenly
Father’s forgiveness; and he added, perhaps a little childishly,
that it had been his impulse to promise never to touch a card again,
but that he dreaded the only too familiar reply, ‘What availed
his promises?’</p>
<p>‘Do promise, Clarry!’ cried Emily, ‘and then you
won’t have to play with that tiresome old Mrs. Sophia.’</p>
<p>‘That would rather deter me,’ said Clarence good-humouredly.</p>
<p>‘A card-playing old age is despicable,’ pronounced Miss
Emily, much to our amusement.</p>
<p>After that we got into a bewilderment. We knew nothing of the
future question of temperance <i>versus</i> total abstinence; but after
it had been extracted that Miss Newton regarded cards as the devil’s
books, the inconsistent little sister changed sides, and declared it
narrow and evangelical to renounce what was innocent. Clarence
argued that what might be harmless for others might be dangerous for
such as himself, and that his real difficulty in making even a mental
vow was that, if broken, there was an additional sin.</p>
<p>‘It is not oneself that one trusts,’ I said.</p>
<p>‘No,’ said Clarence emphatically; ‘and setting
up a vow seems as if it might be sticking up the reed of one’s
own word, and leaning on <i>that</i> - when it breaks, at least mine
does. If I could always get the grasp of Him that I felt to-day,
there would be no more bewildered heart and failing spirit, which are
worse than the actual falls they cause.’ And as Emily said
she did not understand, he replied in words I wrote down and thought
over, ‘What we <i>are</i> is the point, more than even what we
<i>do</i>. We <i>do</i> as we <i>are</i>; and yet we form ourselves
by what we <i>do</i>.’</p>
<p>‘And,’ I put in, ‘I know somebody who won a victory
last night over himself and his two brothers. Surely <i>doing</i>
that is a sign that he <i>is</i> more than he used to be.’</p>
<p>‘If he were, it would not have been an effort at all,’
said Clarence, but with his rare sweet smile.</p>
<p>Just then Griff called him away, and Emily sat pondering and impressed.
‘It did seem so odd,’ she said, ‘that Clarry should
be so much the best, and yet so much the worst of us.’</p>
<p>I agreed. His insight into spiritual things, and his enjoyment
of them, always humiliated us both, yet he fell so much lower in practice,
- ‘But then we had not his temptations.’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ said Emily; ‘but look at Griff! He
goes about like other young men, and keeps all right, and yet he doesn’t
care about religious things a bit more than he can help.’</p>
<p>It was quite true. Religion was life to the one and an insurance
to the other, and this had been a mystery to us all our young lives,
as far as we had ever reflected on the contrast between the practical
failure and success of each. Our mother, on the other hand, viewed
Clarence’s tendencies as part of an unreal, self-deceptive nature,
and regretted his intimacy with Miss Newton, who, she said, had fostered
‘that kind of thing’ in his childhood - made him fancy talk,
feeling, and preaching were more than truth and honour - and might lead
him to run after Irving, Rowland Hill, or Baptist Noel, about whose
tenets she was rather confused. It would be an additional misfortune
if he became a fanatical Evangelical light, and he was just the character
to be worked upon.</p>
<p>My father held that she might be thankful for any good influence
or safe resort for a young man in lodgings in London, and he merely
bade Clarence never resort to any variety of dissenting preacher.
We were of the school called - a little later - high and dry, but were
strictly orthodox according to our lights, and held it a prime duty
to attend our parish church, whatever it might be; nor, indeed, had
Clarence swerved from these traditions.</p>
<p>Poor Mrs. Sophia was baulked of the game at whist, which she viewed
as a legitimate part of the Christmas pleasures; and after we had eaten
our turkey, we found the evening long, except that Martyn escaped to
snapdragon with the servants; and, by and by, Chapman, magnificent in
patronage, ushered in the church singers into the hall, and clarionet,
bassoon, and fiddle astonished our ears.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XIV - THE MULLION CHAMBER</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘A lady with a lamp I see,<br />Pass through the glimmering
gloom,<br /> And flit from room to room.’</p>
<p>LONGFELLOW.</p>
<p>For want of being able to take exercise, the first part of the night
had always been sleepless with me, though my dear mother thought it
wrong to recognise the habit or allow me a lamp. A fire, however,
I had, and by its light, on the second night after Christmas, I saw
my door noiselessly opened, and Clarence creeping in half-dressed and
barefooted. To my frightened interrogation the answer came, through
chattering teeth, ‘It’s I - only I - Ted - no - nothing’s
the matter, only I can’t stand it any longer!’</p>
<p>His hands were cold as ice when he grasped mine, as if to get hold
of something substantial, and he trembled so as to shake the bed.
‘That room,’ he faltered. ‘’Tis not only
the moans! I’ve seen her!’</p>
<p>‘Whom?’</p>
<p>‘I don’t know. There she stands with her lamp,
crying!’ I could scarcely distinguish the words through
the clashing of his teeth, and as I threw my arms round him the shudder
seemed to pass to me; but I did my best to warm him by drawing the clothes
over him, and he began to gather himself together, and speak intelligibly.
There had been sounds the first night as of wailing, but he had been
too much preoccupied to attend to them till, soon after one o’clock,
they ended in a heavy fall and long shriek, after which all was still.
Christmas night had been undisturbed, but on this the voices had begun
again at eleven, and had a strangely human sound; but as it was windy,
sleety weather, and he had learnt at sea to disregard noises in the
rigging, he drew the sheet over his head and went to sleep. ‘I
was dreaming that I was at sea,’ he said, ‘as I always do
on a noisy night, but this was not a dream. I was wakened by a
light in the room, and there stood a woman with a lamp, moaning and
sobbing. My first notion was that one of the maids had come to
call me, and I sat up; but I could not speak, and she gave another awful
suppressed cry, and moved towards that walled-up door. Then I
saw it was none of the servants, for it was an antique dress like an
old picture. So I knew what it must be, and an unbearable horror
came over me, and I rushed into the outer room, where there was a little
fire left; but I heard her going on still, and I could endure it no
longer. I knew you would be awake and would bear with me, so I
came down to you.’</p>
<p>Then this was what Chapman and the maids had meant. This was
Mrs. Sophia Selby’s vulgar superstition! I found that Clarence
had heard none of the mysterious whispers afloat, and only knew that
Griff had deserted the room after his own return to London. I
related what I had learnt from the old lady, and in that midnight hour
we agreed that it could be no mere fancy or rumour, but that cruel wrong
must have been done in that chamber. Our feeling was that all
ought to be made known, and in that impression we fell asleep, Clarence
first.</p>
<p>By and by I found him moving. He had heard the clock strike
four, and thought it wiser to repair to his own quarters, where he believed
the disturbance was over. Lucifer matches as yet were not, but
he had always been a noiseless being, with a sailor’s foot, so
that, by the help of the moonlight through the hall windows, he regained
his room.</p>
<p>And when morning had come, the nocturnal visitation wore such a different
aspect to both our minds that we decided to say nothing to our parents,
who, said Clarence, would simply disbelieve him; and, indeed, I inclined
to suppose it had been an uncommonly vivid dream, produced in that sensitive
nature by the uncanny sounds of the wind in the chinks and crannies
of the ancient chamber. Had not Scott’s <i>Demonology and
Witchcraft</i>, which we studied hard on that day, proved all such phantoms
to be explicable? The only person we told was Griff, who was amused
and incredulous. He had heard the noises - oh yes! and objected
to having his sleep broken by them. It was too had to expose Clarence
to them - poor Bill - on whom they worked such fancies!</p>
<p>He interrogated Chapman, however, but probably in that bantering
way which is apt to produce reserve. Chapman never ‘gave
heed to them fictious tales,’ he said; but, when hard pressed,
he allowed that he had ‘heerd that a lady do walk o’ winter
nights,’ and that was why the garden door of the old rooms was
walled up. Griff asked if this was done for fear she should catch
cold, and this somewhat affronted him, so that he averred that he knew
nought about it, and gave no thought to such like.</p>
<p>Just then they arrived at the Winslow Arms, and took each a glass
of ale, when Griff, partly to tease Chapman, asked the landlady - an
old Chantry House servant - whether she had ever met the ghost.
She turned rather pale, which seemed to have impressed him, and demanded
if he had seen it. ‘It always walked at Christmas time -
between then and the New Year.’ She had once seen a light
in the garden by the ruin in winter-time, and once last spring it came
along the passage, but that was just before the old Squire was took
for death, - folks said that was always the way before any of the family
died - ‘if you’ll excuse it, sir.’ Oh no, she
thought nothing of such things, but she had heard tell that the noises
were such at all times of the year that no one could sleep in the rooms,
but the light wasn’t to be seen except at Christmas.</p>
<p>Griff with the philosophy of a university man, was certain that all
was explained by Clarence having imbibed the impression of the place
being haunted; and going to sleep nervous at the noises, his brain had
shaped a phantom in accordance. Let Clarence declare as he might
that the legends were new to him, Griff only smiled to think how easily
people forgot, and he talked earnestly about catching ideas without
conscious information.</p>
<p>However, he volunteered to sit up that night to ascertain the exact
causes of the strange noises and convince Clarence that they were nothing
but the effects of draughts. The fire in his gunroom was surreptitiously
kept up to serve for the vigil, which I ardently desired to share.
It was an enterprise; it would gratify my curiosity; and besides, though
Griffith was good-natured and forbearing in a general way towards Clarence,
I detected a spirit of mockery about him which might break out unpleasantly
when poor Clarry was convicted of one of his unreasonable panics.</p>
<p>Both brothers were willing to gratify me, the only difficulty being
that the tap of my crutches would warn the entire household of the expedition.
However, they had - all unknown to my mother - several times carried
me about queen’s cushion fashion, as, being always much of a size,
they could do most handily; and as both were now fine, strong, well-made
youths of twenty and nineteen, they had no doubt of easily and silently
conveying me up the shallow-stepped staircase when all was quiet for
the night.</p>
<p>Emily, with her sharp ears, guessed that something was in hand, but
we promised her that she should know all in time. I believe Griff,
being a little afraid of her quickness, led her to suppose he was going
to hold what he called a symposium in his rooms, and to think it a mystery
of college life not intended for young ladies.</p>
<p>He really had prepared a sort of supper for us when, after my father’s
resounding turn of the key of the drawing-room door, my brothers, in
their stocking soles, bore me upstairs, the fun of the achievement for
the moment overpowering all sense of eeriness. Griff said he could
not receive me in his apartment without doing honour to the occasion,
and that Dutch courage was requisite for us both; but I suspect it was
more in accordance with Oxford habits that he had provided a bottle
of sherry and another of ale, some brandy cherries, bread, cheese, and
biscuits, by what means I do not know, for my mother always locked up
the wine. He was disappointed that Clarence would touch nothing,
and declared that inanition was the preparation for ghost-seeing or
imagining. I drank his health in a glass of sherry as I looked
round at the curious old room, with its panelled roof, the heraldic
devices and badges of the Power family, and the trophy of swords, dirks,
daggers, and pistols, chiefly relics of our naval grandfather, but reinforced
by the sword, helmet, and spurs of the county Yeomanry which Griff had
joined.</p>
<p>Griff proposed cards to drive away fancies, especially as the sounds
were beginning; but though we generally yielded to him we <i>could</i>
not give our attention to anything but these. There was first
a low moan. ‘No great harm in that,’ said Griff; ‘it
comes through that crack in the wainscot where there is a sham window.
Some putty will put a stop to that.’</p>
<p>Then came a more decided wail and sob much nearer to us. Griff
hastily swallowed the ale in his tumbler, and, striking a theatrical
attitude, exclaimed, ‘Angels and ministers of grace defend us!’</p>
<p>Clarence held up his hand in deprecation. The door into his
bedroom was open, and Griff, taking up one of the flat candlesticks,
pursued his researches, holding the flame to all chinks or cracks in
the wainscotting to detect draughts which might cause the dreary sounds,
which were much more like suppressed weeping than any senseless gust
of wind. Of draughts there were many, and he tried holding his
hand against each crevice to endeavour to silence the wails; but these
became more human and more distressful. Presently Clarence exclaimed,
‘There!’ and on his face there was a whiteness and an expression
which always recurs to me on reading those words of Eliphaz the Temanite,
‘Then a spirit passed before my face, and the hair of my flesh
stood up.’ Even Griff was awestruck as we cried, ‘Where?
what?’</p>
<p>‘Don’t you see her? There! By the press -
look!’</p>
<p>‘I see a patch of moonlight on the wall,’ said Griff.</p>
<p>‘Moonlight - her lamp. Edward, don’t you see her?’</p>
<p>I could see nothing but a spot of light on the wall. Griff
(plainly putting a force on himself) came back and gave him a good-natured
shake. ‘Dreaming again, old Bill. Wake up and come
to your senses.’</p>
<p>‘I am as much in my senses as you are,’ said Clarence.
‘I see her as plainly as I see you.’</p>
<p>Nor could any one doubt either the reality of the awe in his voice
and countenance, nor of the light - a kind of hazy ball - nor of the
choking sobs.</p>
<p>‘What is she like?’ I asked, holding his hand, for, though
infected by his dread, my fears were chiefly for the effect on him;
but he was much calmer and less horror-struck than on the previous night,
though still he shuddered as he answered in a low voice, as if loth
to describe a lady in her presence, ‘A dark cloak with the hood
fallen back, a kind of lace headdress loosely fastened, brown hair,
thin white face, eyes - oh, poor thing! - staring with fright, dark
- oh, how swollen the lids! all red below with crying - black dress
with white about it - a widow kind of look - a glove on the arm with
the lamp. Is she beckoning - looking at us? Oh, you poor
thing, if I could tell what you mean!’</p>
<p>I felt the motion of his muscles in act to rise, and grasped him.
Griff held him with a strong hand, hoarsely crying, ‘Don’t!
- don’t - don’t follow the thing, whatever you do!’</p>
<p>Clarence hid his face. It was very awful and strange.
Once the thought of conjuring her to speak by the Holy Name crossed
me, but then I saw no figure; and with incredulous Griffith standing
by, it would have been like playing, nor perhaps could I have spoken.
How long this lasted there is no knowing; but presently the light moved
towards the walled-up door and seemed to pass into it. Clarence
raised his head and said she was gone. We breathed freely.</p>
<p>‘The farce is over,’ said Griff. ‘Mr. Edward
Winslow’s carriage stops the way!’</p>
<p>I was hoisted up, candle in hand, between the two, and had nearly
reached the stairs when there came up on the garden side a sound as
of tipsy revellers in the garden. ‘The scoundrels! how can
they have got in?’ cried Griff, looking towards the window; but
all the windows on that side had peculiarly heavy shutters and bars,
with only a tiny heart-shaped aperture very high up, so they somewhat
hurried their steps downstairs, intending to rush out on the intruders
from the back door. But suddenly, in the middle of the staircase,
we heard a terrible heartrending woman’s shriek, making us all
start and have a general fall. My brothers managed to seat me
safely on a step without much damage to themselves, but the candle fell
and was extinguished, and we made too heavy a weight to fall without
real noise enough to bring the household together before we could pick
ourselves up in the dark.</p>
<p>We heard doors opening and hurried calls, and something about pistols,
impelling Griff to call out, ‘It’s nothing, papa; but there
are some drunken rascals in the garden.’</p>
<p>A light had come by this time, and we were detected. There
was a general sally upon the enemy in the garden before any one thought
of me, except a ‘You here!’ when they nearly fell over me.
And there I was left sitting on the stair, helpless without my crutches,
till in a few minutes all returned declaring there was nothing - no
signs of anything; and then as Clarence ran up to me with my crutches
my father demanded the meaning of my being there at that time of night.</p>
<p>‘Well, sir,’ said Griff, ‘it is only that we have
been sitting up to investigate the ghost.’</p>
<p>‘Ghost! Arrant stuff and nonsense! What induced
you to be dragging Edward about in this dangerous way?’</p>
<p>‘I wished it,’ said I.</p>
<p>‘You are all mad together, I think. I won’t have
the house disturbed for this ridiculous folly. I shall look into
it to-morrow!‘</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XV - RATIONAL THEORIES</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘These are the reasons, they are natural.’</p>
<p><i>Julius Cæsar.</i></p>
<p>If anything could have made our adventure more unpleasant to Mr.
and Mrs. Winslow, it would have been the presence of guests. However,
inquiry was suppressed at breakfast, in deference to the signs my mother
made to enjoin silence before the children, all unaware that Emily was
nearly frantic with suppressed curiosity, and Martyn knew more about
the popular version of the legend than any of us.</p>
<p>Clarence looked wan and heavy-eyed. His head was aching from
a bump against the edge of a step, and his cold was much worse; no wonder,
said my mother; but she was always softened by any ailment, and feared
that the phantoms were the effect of coming illness. I have always
thought that if Clarence could have come home from his court-martial
with a brain fever he would have earned immediate forgiveness; but unluckily
for him, he was a very healthy person.</p>
<p>All three of us were summoned to the tribunal in the study, where
my father and my mother sat in judgment on what they termed ‘this
preposterous business.’ In our morning senses our impressions
were much more vague than at midnight, and we betrayed some confusion;
but Griff and I had a strong instinct of sheltering Clarence, and we
stoutly declared the noises to be beyond the capacities of wind, rats,
or cats; that the light was visible and inexplicable; and that though
we had seen nothing else, we could not doubt that Clarence did.</p>
<p>‘Thought he did,’ corrected my father.</p>
<p>‘Without discussing the word,’ said Griff, ‘I mean
that the effect on his senses was the same as the actual sight.
You could not look at him without being certain.’</p>
<p>‘Exactly so,’ returned my mother. ‘I wish
Dr. Fellowes were near.’</p>
<p>Indeed nothing saved Clarence from being consigned to medical treatment
but the distance from Bath or Bristol, and the contradictory advice
that had been received from our county neighbours as to our family doctor.
However, she formed her theory that his nervous imaginings - whether
involuntary or acted, she hoped the former, and wished she could be
sure - had infected us; and, as she was really uneasy about him, she
would not let him sleep in the mullion room, but having nowhere else
to bestow him, she turned out the man-servant and put him into the little
room beyond mine, and she also forbade any mention of the subject to
him that day.</p>
<p>This was a sore prohibition to Emily, who had been discussing it
with the other ladies, and was in a mingled state of elation at the
romance, and terror at the supernatural, which found vent in excited
giggle, and moved Griff to cram her with raw-head and bloody-bone horrors,
conventional enough to be suspicious, and send her to me tearfully to
entreat to know the truth. If by day she exulted in a haunted
chamber, in the evening she paid for it by terrors at walking about
the house alone, and, when sent on an errand by my mother, looked piteous
enough to be laughed at or scolded on all sides.</p>
<p>The gentlemen had more serious colloquies, and the upshot was a determination
to sit up together and discover the origin of the annoyance. Mr.
Stafford’s antiquarian researches had made him familiar with such
mysteries, and enough of them had been explained by natural causes to
convince him that there was a key to all the rest. Owls, coiners,
and smugglers had all been convicted of simulating ghosts. In
one venerable mansion, behind the wainscot, there had been discovered
nine skeletons of cats in different stages of decay, having trapped
themselves at various intervals of time, and during the gradual extinction
of their eighty-one lives having emitted cries enough to establish the
ghastly reputation of the place. Perhaps Mr. Henderson was inclined
to believe there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt
of in even an antiquary’s philosophy. He owned himself perplexed,
but reserved his opinion.</p>
<p>At breakfast Clarence was quite well, except for the remains of his
sore throat, and the two seniors were gruff and brief as to their watch.
They had heard odd noises, and should discover the cause; the carpenter
had already been sent for, and they had seen a light which was certainly
due to reflection or refraction. Mr. Henderson committed himself
to nothing but that ‘it was very extraordinary;’ and there
was a wicked look of diversion on Griff’s face, and an exchange
of glances. Afterwards, in our own domain, we extracted a good
deal more from them.</p>
<p>Griff told us how the two elders started on politics, and denounced
Brougham and O’Connell loud enough to terrify any save the most
undaunted ghost, till Henderson said ‘Hush!’ and they paused
at the moan with which the performance always commenced, making Mr.
Stafford turn, as Griff said, ‘white in the gills,’ though
he talked of the wind on the stillest of frosty nights. Then came
the sobbing and wailing, which certainly overawed them all; Henderson
called them ‘agonising,’ but Griff was in a manner inured
to this, and felt as if master of the ceremonies. Let them say
what they would by daylight about owls, cats, and rats, they owned the
human element then, and were far from comfortable, though they would
not compromise their good sense by owning what both their younger companions
had perceived - their feeling of some undefinable presence. Vain
attempts had been made to account for the light or get rid of it by
changing the position of candles or bright objects in the outer room;
and Henderson had shut himself into the bedroom with it; but there he
still only saw the hazy light - though all was otherwise pitch dark,
except the keyhole and the small gray patch of sky at the top of the
window-shutters. ‘You saw nothing else?’ said Griff.
‘I thought I heard you break out as Clarence did, just before
my father opened the door.’</p>
<p>‘Perhaps I did so. I had the sense strongly on me of
some being in grievous distress very near me.’</p>
<p>‘And you should have power over it,’ suggested Emily.</p>
<p>‘I am afraid,’ he said, ‘that more thorough conviction
and comprehension are needed before I could address the thing with authority.
I should like to have stayed longer and heard the conclusion.’</p>
<p>For Mr. Stafford had grown impatient and weary, and my father having
satisfied himself that there was something to be detected, would not
remain to the end, and not only carried his companions off, but locked
the doors, perhaps expecting to imprison some agent in a trick, and
find him in the morning.</p>
<p>Indeed Clarence had a dim remembrance of having been half wakened
by some one looking in on him in the night, when he was sleeping heavily
after his cold and the previous night’s disturbance, and we suspected,
though we would not say, that our father might have wished to ascertain
that he had no share in producing these appearances. He was, however,
fully acquitted of all wilful deception in the case, and he was not
surprised, though he was disappointed, that his vision of the lady was
supposed to be the consequence of excited imagination.</p>
<p>‘I can’t help it,’ he said to me in private.
‘I have always seen or felt, or whatever you may call it, things
that others do not. Don’t you remember how nobody would
believe that I saw Lucy Brooke?’</p>
<p>‘That was in the beginning of the measles.’</p>
<p>‘ I know; and I will tell you something curious. When
I was at Gibraltar I met Mrs. Emmott - ’</p>
<p>‘Mary Brooke?’</p>
<p>‘Yes; I spent a very happy Sunday with her. We talked
over old times, and she told me that Lucy had all through her illness
been very uneasy about having promised to bring me a macaw’s feather
the next time we played in the Square gardens. It could not be
sent to me for fear of carrying the infection, but the dear girl was
too light-headed to understand, and kept on fretting and wandering about
breaking her word. I have no doubt the wish carried her spirit
to me the moment it was free,’ he added, with tears springing
to his eyes. He also said that before the court-martial he had,
night after night, dreams of sinking and drowning in huge waves, and
his friend Coles struggling to come to his aid, but being forcibly withheld;
and he had since learnt that Coles had actually endeavoured to come
from Plymouth to bear testimony to his previous character, but had been
refused leave, and told that he could do no good.</p>
<p>There had been other instances of perception of a presence and of
a prescient foreboding. ‘It is like a sixth sense,’
he said, ‘and a very uncomfortable one. I would give much
to be rid of it, for it is connected with all that is worst in my life.
I had it before Navarino, when no one expected an engagement.
It made me believe I should be killed, and drove me to what was much
worse - or at least I used to think so.’</p>
<p>‘Don’t you now?’ I asked.</p>
<p>‘No,’ said Clarence. ‘It was a great mercy
that I did not die then. There’s something to conquer first.
But you’ll never speak of this, Ted. I have left off telling
of such things - it only gives another reason for disbelieving me.’</p>
<p>However, this time his veracity was not called in question, - but
he was supposed to be under a hallucination, the creation of the noises
acting on his imagination and memory of the persecuted widow, which
must have been somewhere dormant in his mind, though he averred that
he had never heard of it. It had now, however, made a strong impression
on him; he was convinced that some crime or injustice had been perpetrated,
and thought it ought to be investigated; but Griffith made us laugh
at his championship of this shadow of a shade, and even wrote some mock
heroic verses about it, - nor would it have been easy to stir my father
to seek for the motives of an apparition which no one in the family
save Clarence professed to have seen.</p>
<p>The noises were indisputable, but my mother began to suspect a cause
for them. To oblige a former cook we had brought down with us
as stable-boy her son, George Sims, an imp accustomed to be the pet
and jester of a mews. Martyn was only too fond of his company,
and he made no secret of his contempt for the insufferable dulness of
the country, enlivening it by various acts of monkey-mischief, in some
of which Martyn had been implicated. That very afternoon, as Mrs.
Sophia Selby was walking home in the twilight from Chapman’s lodge,
in company with Mr. Henderson, an eldritch yell proceeding from the
vaults beneath the mullion chambers nearly frightened her into fits.
Henderson darted in and captured the two boys in the fact. Martyn’s
asseveration that he had taken the pair for Griff and Emily would have
pacified the good-natured clergyman, but Mrs. Sophia was too much agitated,
or too spiteful, as we declared, not to make a scene.</p>
<p>Martyn spent the evening alone and in disgrace, and only his unimpeachable
character for truth caused the acceptance of his affirmation that the
yell was an impromptu fraternal compliment, and that he had nothing
to do with the noises in the mullion chamber. He had been supposed
to be perfectly unconscious of anything of the kind, and to have never
so much as heard of a phantom, so my mother was taken somewhat aback
when, in reply to her demand whether he had ever been so naughty as
to assist George in making a noise in Clarence’s room, he said,
‘Why, that’s the ghost of the lady that was murdered atop
of the steps, and always walks every Christmas!’</p>
<p>‘Who told you such ridiculous nonsense?’</p>
<p>The answer ‘George’ was deemed conclusive that all had
been got up by that youth; and there was considerable evidence of his
talent for ventriloquism and taste for practical jokes. My mother
was certain that, having heard of the popular superstition, he had acted
ghost. She appealed to <i>Woodstock</i> to prove the practicability
of such feats; and her absolute conviction persuaded the maids (who
had given warning <i>en masse</i>) that the enemy was exorcised when
George Sims had been sent off on the Royal Mail under Clarence’s
guardianship.</p>
<p>None of the junior part of the family believed him guilty, but he
had hunted the cows round the paddock, mounted on my donkey, had nearly
shot the kitchen-maid with Griff’s gun, and, if not much maligned,
knew the way to the apple-chamber only too well, - so that he richly
deserved his doom, rejoiced in it himself, and was unregretted save
by Martyn. Clarence viewed him in the light of a victim, and tried
to keep an eye on him, but he developed his talent as a ventriloquist,
made his fortune, and retired on a public-house.</p>
<p>My mother would fain have had the vaults under the mullion rooms
bricked up, but Mr. Stafford cried out on the barbarism of such a proceeding.
The mystery was declared to be solved, and was added to Mr. Stafford’s
good stories of haunted houses.</p>
<p>And at home my father forbade any further mention of such rank folly
and deception. The inner mullion chamber was turned into a lumber-room,
and as weeks passed by without hearing or seeing any more of lady or
of lamp, we began to credit the wonderful freaks of the goblin page.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XVI - CAT LANGUAGE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Soon as she parted thence - the fearful twayne,<br />That blind old
woman and her daughter deare,<br />Came forth, and finding Kirkrapine
there slayne,<br />For anguish greate they gan to rend their heare<br />And
beate their breasts, and naked flesh to teare;<br />And when they both
had wept and wayled their fill,<br />Then forth they ran, like two amazèd
deere,<br />Half mad through malice and revenging will,<br />To follow
her that was the causer of their ill.’</p>
<p>SPENSER.</p>
<p>The Christmas vacation was not without another breeze about Griffith’s
expenses at Oxford. He held his head high, and declared that people
expected something from the eldest son of a man of property, and my
father tried to convince him that a landed estate often left less cash
available than did the fixed salary of an office. Griff treated
all in his light, good-humoured way, promised to be careful, and came
to me to commiserate the poor old gentleman’s ignorance of the
ways of the new generation.</p>
<p>There ensued some trying weeks of dark days, raw frost, and black
east wind, when the home party cast longing, lingering recollections
back to the social intercourse, lamp-lit streets, and ready interchange
of books and other amenities we had left behind us. We were not
accustomed to have our nearest neighbours separated from us by two miles
of dirty lane, or road mended with excruciating stones, nor were they
very congenial when we did see them. The Fordyce family might
be interesting, but we younger ones could not forget the slight to Clarence,
and, besides, the girls seemed to be entirely in the schoolroom, Mrs.
Fordyce was delicate and was shut up all the winter, and the only intercourse
that took place was when my father met the elder Mr. Fordyce at the
magistrates’ bench; also there was a conference about Amos Bell,
who was preferred to the post left vacant by George Sims, in right of
his being our tenant, but more civilised than Earlscombers, a widow’s
son, and not sufficiently recovered from his accident to be exposed
to the severe tasks of a ploughboy in the winter.</p>
<p>Mrs. Fordyce was the manager of a book-club, which circulated volumes
covered in white cartridge paper, with a printed list of the subscribers’
names. Two volumes at a time might be kept for a month by each
member in rotation, novels were excluded, and the manager had a veto
on all orders. We found her more liberal than some of our other
neighbours, who looked on our wants and wishes with suspicion as savouring
of London notions. Happily we could read old books and standard
books over again, and we gloated over <i>Blackwood</i> and the <i>Quarterly</i>,
enjoying, too, every out-of-door novelty of the coming spring, as each
revealed itself. Emily will never forget her first primroses,
nor I the first thrush in early morning.</p>
<p>Blankets, broth, and what were uncomfortably termed broken victuals
had been given away during the winter, and a bewildering amount of begging
women and children used to ask interviews with ‘the Lady Winslow,’
with stories that crumbled on investigation so as to make us recollect
the Rector’s character of Earlscombe.</p>
<p>However, Mr. Henderson came in the second week of Lent, and what
our steps towards improvement introduced would have seemed almost as
shocking to you youngsters, as what they displaced. For instance,
a plain crimson cloth covered the altar, instead of the rags in the
colours of the Winslow livery, presented, according to the queer old
register, by the unfortunate Margaret. There was talk of velvet
and the gold monogram, surrounded by rays, alternately straight and
wavy, as in our London church, but this was voted ‘unfit for a
plain village church.’ Still, the new hangings of pulpit,
desk, and altar were all good in quality and colour, and huge square
cushions were provided as essential to each. Moreover, the altar
vessels were made somewhat more respectable, - all this being at my
father’s expense.</p>
<p>He also carried in the Vestry, though not without strong opposition
from a dissenting farmer, that new linen and a fresh surplice should
be provided by the parish, which surplice would have made at least six
of such as are at present worn. The farmers were very jealous
of the interference of the Squire in the Vestry - ‘what he had
no call to,’ and of church rates applied to any other object than
the reward of birdslayers, as thus, in the register -</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Hairy Wills, 1 score sprows heds 2d.<br />Jems Brown, 1 poulcat 6d.<br />Jarge
Bell, 2 howls 6d.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>It was several years before this appropriation of the church rates
could be abolished. The year 1830, with a brand new squire and
parson, was too ticklish a time for many innovations.</p>
<p>Hillside Church was the only one in the neighbourhood where Holy
Week or Ascension Day had been observed in the memory of man.
When we proposed going to church on the latter day the gardener asked
my mother ‘if it was her will to keep Thursday holy,’ as
if he expected its substitution for Sunday. Monthly Communions
and Baptisms after the Second Lesson were viewed as ‘not fit for
a country church,’ and every attempt at even more secular improvements
was treated with the most disappointing distrust and aversion.
When my father laid out the allotment grounds, the labourers suspected
some occult design for his own profit, and the farmers objected that
the gardens would be used as an excuse for neglecting their work and
stealing their potatoes. Coal-club and clothing-club were regarded
in like manner, and while a few took advantage of these offers in a
grudging manner, the others viewed everything except absolute gifts
as ‘me-an’ on our part, the principle of aid to self-help
being an absolute novelty. When I look back to the notes in our
journals of that date I see how much has been overcome.</p>
<p>Perhaps we listened more than was strictly wise to the revelations
of Amos Bell, when he attended Emily and me on our expeditions with
the donkey. Though living over the border of Hillside, he had
a family of relations at Earlscombe, and for a time lodged with his
grandmother there. When his shyness and lumpishness gave way,
he proved so bright that Emily undertook to carry on his education.
He soon had a wonderful eye for a wild flower, and would climb after
it with the utmost agility; and when once his tongue was loosed, he
became almost too communicative, and made us acquainted with the opinions
of ‘they Earlscoom folk’ with a freedom not to be found
in an elder or a native.</p>
<p>Moreover, he was the brightest light of the Sunday school which Mr.
Henderson opened at once - for want of a more fitting place - in the
disused north transept of the church. It was an uncouth, ill-clad
crew which assembled on those dilapidated paving tiles. Their
own grandchildren look almost as far removed from them in dress and
civilisation as did my sister in her white worked cambric dress, silk
scarf, huge Tuscan bonnet, and the little curls beyond the lace quilling
round her bright face, far rosier than ever it had been in town.
And what would the present generation say to the odd little contrivances
in the way of cotton sun-bonnets, check pinafores, list tippets, and
print capes, and other wonderful manufactures from the rag-bag, which
were then grand prizes and stimulants?</p>
<p>Previous knowledge or intelligence scarcely existed, and then was
not due to Dame Dearlove’s tuition. Mr. Henderson pronounced
an authorised school a necessity. My father had scruples as to
vested rights, for the old woman was the last survivor of a family who
had had recourse to primer and hornbook after their ejection on ‘black
Bartholomew’s Day;’ and when the meeting-house was built
after the Revolution, had combined preaching with teaching. Monopoly
had promoted degeneracy, and this last of the race was an unfavourable
specimen in all save outward picturesqueness. However, much against
Henderson’s liking, an accommodation was proposed, by which books
were to be supplied to her, and the Church Catechism be taught in her
school, with the assistance of the curate and Miss Winslow.</p>
<p>The terms were rejected with scorn. No School Board could be
more determined against the Catechism, nor against ‘passons meddling
wi’ she;’ and as to assistance, ‘she had been a governess
this thirty year, and didn’t want no one trapesing in and out
of her school.’</p>
<p>She was warned, but probably did not believe in the possibility of
an opposition school; and really there were children enough in the place
to overfill both her room and that which was fitted up after a very
humble fashion in one of our cottages. H.M. Inspector would hardly
have thought it even worth condemnation any more than the attainments
of the mistress, the young widow of a small Bristol skipper. Her
qualifications consisted in her piety and conscientiousness, good temper
and excellent needlework, together with her having been a scholar in
one of Mrs. Hannah More’s schools in the Cheddar district.
She could read and teach reading well; but as for the dangerous accomplishments
of writing and arithmetic, such as desired to pass beyond the rudiments
of them must go to Wattlesea.</p>
<p>So nice did she look in her black that Earlscombe voted her a mere
town lady, and even at a penny a week hesitated to send its children
to her. Indeed it was currently reported that her school was part
of a deep and nefarious scheme of the gentlefolks for reducing the poor-rates
by enticing the children, and then shipping them off to foreign parts
from Bristol.</p>
<p>But the great crisis was one unlucky summer evening when Emily and
I were out with the donkey, and Griffith, just come home from Oxford,
was airing the new acquisition of a handsome black retriever.</p>
<p>Close by the old chapel, a black cat was leisurely crossing the road.
At her dashed Nero, stimulated perhaps by an almost involuntary scss
- scss - from his master, if not from Amos and me. The cat flew
up a low wall, and stood at bay on the top on tiptoe, with bristling
tail, arched back, and fiery eyes, while the dog danced round in agony
on his hind legs, barking furiously, and almost reaching her.
Female sympathy ever goes to the cat, and Emily screamed out in the
fear that he would seize her, or even that Griff might aid him.
Perhaps Amos would have done so, if left to himself; but Griff, who
saw the cat was safe, could not help egging on his dog’s impotent
rage, when in the midst, out flew pussy’s mistress, Dame Dearlove
herself, broomstick in hand, using language as vituperative as the cat’s,
and more intelligible.</p>
<p>She was about to strike the dog - indeed I fancy she did, for there
was a howl, and Griff sprang to his defence with - ‘Don’t
hurt my dog, I say! He hasn’t touched the brute! She
can take care of herself. Here, there’s half-a-crown for
the fright,’ as the cat sprang down within the wall, and Nero
slunk behind him. But Dame Dearlove was not so easily appeased.
Her blood was up after our long series of offences, and she broke into
a regular tirade of abuse.</p>
<p>‘That’s the way with you fine folk, thinking you can
tread down poor people like the dirt under your feet, and insult ’em
when you’ve taken the bread out of the mouths of them that were
here before you. Passons and ladies a meddin’ where no one
ever set a foot before! Ay, ay, but ye’ll all be down before
long.’</p>
<p>Griff signed to us to go on, and thundered out on her to take care
what she was about and not be abusive; but this brought a fresh volley
on him, heralded by a derisive laugh. ‘Ha! ha! fine talking
for the likes of you, Winslows that you are. But there’s
a curse on you all! The poor lady as was murdered won’t
let you be! Why, there’s one of you, poor humpy object -
’</p>
<p>At this savage attack on me, Griff waxed furious, and shouted at
her to hold her confounded tongue, but this only diverted the attack
on himself. ‘And as for you - fine chap as ye think yourself,
swaggering and swearing at poor folk, and setting your dog at them -
your time’s coming. Look out for yourself. It’s
well known as how the curse is on the first-born. The Lady Margaret
don’t let none of ’em live to come after his father.’</p>
<p>Griff laughed and said, ‘There, we have had enough of this;’
and in fact we had already moved on, so that he had to make some long
steps to overtake us, muttering, ‘So we’ve started a Meg
Merrilies! My father won’t keep such a foul-mouthed hag
in the parish long!’</p>
<p>To which I had to respond that her cottage belonged to the trustees
of the chapel, whereat he whistled. I don’t think he knew
that we had heard her final denunciation, and we did not like to mention
it to him, scarcely to each other, though Emily looked very white and
scared.</p>
<p>We talked it over afterwards in private, and with Henderson, who
confessed that he had heard of the old woman’s saying something
of the kind to other persons. We consulted the registers in hopes
of confuting it, but did not satisfy ourselves. The last Squire
had lost his only son at school. He himself had been originally
second in the family, and in the generation before him there had been
some child-deaths, after which we came back to a young man, apparently
the eldest, who, according to Miss Selby’s story, had been killed
in a duel by one of the Fordyces. It was not comfortable, till
I remembered that our family Bible recorded the birth, baptism, and
death of a son who had preceded Griffith, and only borne for a day the
name afterwards bestowed on me.</p>
<p>And Henderson, who was so little our elder as to discuss things on
fairly equal grounds, had some very interesting talks with us two over
ancestral sin and its possible effects, dwelling on the 18th of Ezekiel
as a comment on the Second Commandment. Indeed, we agreed that
the uncomfortable state of disaffection which, in 1830, was becoming
only too manifest in the populace, was the result of neglect in former
ages, and that, even in our own parish, the bitterness, distrust, and
ingratitude were due to the careless, riotous, and oppressive family
whom we represented.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XVII - THE SIEGE OF HILLSIDE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘Ferments arise, imprisoned factions roar,<br />Represt ambition
struggles round the shore;<br />Till, overwrought, the general system
feels<br />Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels.’</p>
<p>GOLDSMITH.</p>
<p>Griffith had come straight home this year. There were no Peacock
gaieties to tempt him in London, for old Sir Henry had died suddenly
soon after the ball in December; nor was there much of a season that
year, owing to the illness and death of George IV.</p>
<p>A regiment containing two old schoolmates of his was at Bristol,
and he spent a good deal of time there, and also in Yeomanry drill.
As autumn came on we rejoiced in having so stalwart a protector, for
the agricultural riots had begun, and the forebodings of another French
Revolution seemed about to be realised. We stayed on at Chantry
House. My father thought his duty lay there as a magistrate, and
my mother would not leave him; nor indeed was any other place much safer,
certainly not London, whence Clarence wrote accounts of formidable mobs
who were expected to do more harm than they accomplished; though their
hatred of the hero of our country filled us with direful prognostications,
and made us think of the guillotine, which was linked with revolution
in our minds, before we had I beheld the numerous changes that followed
upon the thirty years of peace in which we grew up.</p>
<p>The ladies did not much like losing so stalwart a defender when Griff
returned to Oxford; and Jane the housemaid went to bed every night with
the pepper-pot and a poker, the first wherewith to blind the enemy,
the second to charge them with. From our height we could more
than once see blazing ricks, and were glad that the home farm was not
in our own hands, and that our only stack of hay was a good way from
the house. When the onset came at last, it was December, and the
enemy only consisted of about thirty dreary-looking men and boys in
smock-frocks and chalked or smutted faces, armed only with sticks and
an old gun diverted from its purpose of bird-scaring. They shouted
for food, money, and arms; but my father spoke to them from the hall
steps, told them they had better go home and learn that the public-house
was a worse enemy to them than any machine that had ever been invented,
and assured them that they would get no help from him in breaking the
laws and getting themselves into trouble. A stone or two was picked
up, whereupon he went back and had the hall door shut and barred, the
heavy shutters of the windows having all been closed already, so that
we could have stood a much more severe siege than from these poor fellows.
One or two windows were broken, as well as the glass of the conservatory,
and the flower beds were trampled; but finding our fortress impregnable
they sneaked away before dark. We fared better than our neighbours,
some of whom were seriously frightened, and suffered loss of property.
Old Mr. Fordyce had for many years past been an active magistrate -
that a clergyman should be on the bench having been quite correct according
to the notions of his younger days; and in spite of his beneficence
he incurred a good deal of unpopularity for withstanding the lax good-nature
which made his brother magistrates give orders for parish relief refused
to able-bodied paupers by their own Vestries. This was a mischievous
abuse of the old poor-law times, which made people dispose of every
one’s money save their own. He had also been a keen sportsman;
and though his son had given up field sports in deference to higher
notions of clerical duty (his wife’s, as people said), the old
man’s feeling prompted him to severity on poachers. Frank
Fordyce, while by far the most earnest, hardworking clergyman in the
neighbourhood, worked off his superfluous energy on scientific farming,
making the glebe and the hereditary estate as much the model farm as
Hillside was the model parish. He had lately set up a threshing-machine
worked by horses, which was as much admired by the intelligent as it
was vituperated by the ignorant.</p>
<p>Neither paupers nor poachers abounded in Hillside; the natives were
chiefly tenants and employed on the property, and, between good management
and beneficence, there was little real want and much friendly confidence
and affection; and thus, in spite of surrounding riots, Hillside seemed
likely to be an exception, proving what could he done by rightful care
and attention. Nor indeed did the attack come from thence; but
the two parsons were bitterly hated by outsiders beyond the reach of
their personal influence and benevolence.</p>
<p>It was on a Saturday evening, the day after Griff had come back for
the Christmas vacation, that, as Emily was giving Amos his lesson, she
saw that the boy was crying, and after examination he let out that ‘folk
should say that the lads were agoing to break Parson Fordy’s machine
and fire his ricks that very night;’ but he would not give his
authority, and when he saw her about to give warning, entreated, ‘Now,
dont’ze say nothing, Miss Emily - ’</p>
<p>‘What?’ she cried indignantly; ‘do you think I
could hear of such a thing without trying to stop it?’</p>
<p>‘Us says,’ he blurted out, ‘as how Winslows be
always fain of ought as happens to the Fordys - ’</p>
<p>‘We are not such wicked Winslows as you have heard of,’
returned Emily with dignity; and she rushed off in quest of papa and
Griff, but when she brought them to the bookroom, Amos had decamped,
and was nowhere to be found that night. We afterwards learnt that
he lay hidden in the hay-loft, not daring to return to his granny’s,
lest he should be suspected of being a traitor to his kind; for our
lawless, untamed, discontented parish furnished a large quota to the
rioters, and he has since told me that though all seemed to know what
was about to be done, he did not hear it from any one in particular.</p>
<p>It was no time to make light of a warning, but very difficult to
know what to do. Rural police were non-existent; there were no
soldiers nearer than Keynsham, and the Yeomanry were all in their own
homesteads. However, the captain of Griff’s troop, Sir George
Eastwood, lived about three miles beyond Wattlesea, and had a good many
dependants in the corps, so it was resolved to send him a note by the
gardener, good James Ellis, a steady, resolute man, on Emily’s
fast-trotting pony, while my father and Griff should hasten to Hillside
to warn the Fordyces, who were not unlikely to be able to muster trustworthy
defenders among their own people, and might send the ladies to take
shelter at Chantry House.</p>
<p>My mother’s brave spirit disdained to detain an effective man
for her own protection, and the groom was to go to Hillside; he was
in the Yeomanry, and, like Griff, put on his uniform, while my father
had the Riot Act in his pocket. All the horses were thus absorbed,
but Chapman and the man-servant followed on foot.</p>
<p>Never did I feel my incapacity more than on that strange night, when
Emily was flying about with Martyn to all the doors and windows in a
wild state of excitement, humming to herself -</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘When the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,<br />My
true love has mounted his steed and away.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>My mother was equally restless, prolonging as much as possible the
preparation of rooms for possible guests; and when she did come and
sit down, she netted her purse with vehement jerks, and scolded Emily
for jumping up and leaving doors open.</p>
<p>At last, after an hour according to the clock, but far more by our
feelings, wheels were heard in the distance; Emily was off like a shot
to reconnoitre, and presently Martyn bounced in with the tidings that
a pair of carriage lamps were coming up the drive. My mother hurried
out into the hall; I made my best speed after her, and found her hastily
undoing the door-chain as she recognised the measured, courteous voice
of old Mr. Fordyce. In a moment more they were all in the house,
the old gentleman giving his arm to his daughter-in-law, who was quite
overcome with distress and alarm; then came his tall, slim granddaughter,
carrying her little sister with arms full of dolls, and sundry maid-servants
completed the party of fugitives.</p>
<p>‘We are taking advantage of Mr. Winslow’s goodness,’
said the old Rector. ‘He assured us that you would be kind
enough to receive those who would only be an encumbrance.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, but I must go back to Frank now that you and the children
are safe,’ cried the poor lady. ‘Don’t send
away the carriage; I must go back to Frank.’</p>
<p>‘Nonsense, my dear,’ returned Mr. Fordyce, ‘Frank
is in no danger. He will get on much better for knowing you are
safe. Mrs. Winslow will tell you so.’</p>
<p>My mother was enforcing this assurance, when the little girl’s
sobs burst out in spite of her sister, who had been trying to console
her. ‘It is Celestina Mary,’ she cried, pointing to
three dolls whom she had carried in clasped to her breast. ‘Poor
Celestina Mary! She is left behind, and Ellen won’t let
me go and see if she is in the carriage.’</p>
<p>‘My dear, if she is in the carriage, she will be quite safe
in the morning.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, but she will be so cold. She had nothing on but
Rosella’s old petticoat.’</p>
<p>The distress was so real that I had my hand on the bell to cause
a search to be instituted for the missing damsel, when Mrs. Fordyce
begged me to do no such thing, as it was only a doll. The child,
while endeavouring to shelter with a shawl the dolls, snatched in their
night-gear from their beds, wept so piteously at the rebuff that her
grandfather had nearly gone in quest of the lost one, but was stopped
by a special entreaty that he would not spoil the child. Martyn,
however, who had been standing in open-mouthed wonder at such feeling
for a doll, exclaimed, ‘Don’t cry, don’t cry.
I’ll go and get it for you;’ and rushed off to the stable-yard.</p>
<p>This episode had restored Mrs. Fordyce, and while providing some
of our guests with wine, and others with tea, we heard the story, only
interrupted by Martyn’s return from a vain search, and Anne’s
consequent tears, which, however, were somehow hushed and smothered
by fears of being sent to bed, coupled with his promises to search every
step of the way to-morrow.</p>
<p>It appeared that while the Fordyce family were at dinner, shouts,
howls and yells had startled them. The rabble had surrounded the
Rectory, bawling out abuse of the parsons and their machines, and occasionally
throwing stones. There was no help to be expected; the only hope
was in the strength of the doors and windows, and the knowledge that
personal violence was very uncommon; but those were terrible moments,
and poor Mrs. Fordyce was nearly dead with suppressed terror when her
husband tried haranguing from an upper window, and was received with
execrations and a volley of stones, while the glass crashed round him.</p>
<p>At that instant the shouts turned to yells of dismay, ‘The
so’diers! the so’diers!’</p>
<p>Our party had found everything still and dark in the village, for
in truth the men had hidden themselves. They were being too much
attached to their masters to join in the attack, but were afraid of
being compelled to assist the rioters, and not resolute enough against
their own class either to inform against them or oppose them.</p>
<p>Through the midnight-like stillness of the street rose the tumult
around the Rectory; and by the light of a few lanterns, and from the
upper windows, they could see a mass of old hats, smock-frocked shoulders,
and the tops of bludgeons; while at soonest, Sir George Eastwood’s
troop could not be expected for an hour or more.</p>
<p>‘We must get to them somehow,’ said my father and Griff
to one another; and Griff added, ‘These rascals are arrant cowards,
and they can’t see the number of us.’</p>
<p>Then, before my father knew what he was about - certainly before
he could get hold of the Riot Act - he found the stable lantern made
over to him, and Griff’s sword flashing in light, as, making all
possible clatter and jingling with their accoutrements, the two yeomen
dashed among the throng, shouting with all their might, and striking
with the flat of their swords. The rioters, ill-fed, dull-hearted
men for the most part - many dragged out by compulsion, and already
terrified - went tumbling over one another and running off headlong,
bearing off with them (as we afterwards learnt) their leaders by their
weight, taking the blows and pushes they gave one another in their pell-mell
rush for those of the soldiery, and falling blindly against the low
wall of the enclosure. The only difficulty was in clearing them
out at the two gates of the drive.</p>
<p>When Mr. Fordyce opened the door to hail his rescuers he was utterly
amazed to behold only three, and asked in a bewildered voice, ‘Where
are the others?’</p>
<p>There were two prisoners, Petty the ratcatcher, who had attempted
some resistance and had been knocked down by Griff’s horse, and
a young lad in a smock-frock who had fallen off the wall and hurt his
knee, and who blubbered piteously, declaring that them chaps had forced
him to go with them, or they would duck him in the horse-pond.
They were supposed to be given in charge to some one, but were lost
sight of, and no wonder! For just then it was discovered that
the machine shed was on fire. The rioters had apparently detached
one of their number to kindle the flame before assaulting the house.
The matter was specially serious, because the stackyard was on a line
with the Rectory, at some distance indeed, but on lower ground; and
what with barns, hay and wheat ricks, sheds, cowhouses and stables,
all thatched, a big wood-pile, and a long old-fashioned greenhouse,
there was almost continuous communication. Clouds of smoke and
an ominous smell were already perceptible on the wind, generated by
the heat, and the loose straw in the centre of the farmyard was beginning
to be ignited by the flakes and sparks, carrying the mischief everywhere,
and rendering it exceedingly difficult to release the animals and drive
them to a place of safety. Water was scarce. There were
only two wells, besides the pump in the house, and a shallow pond.
The brook was a quarter of a mile off in the valley, and the nearest
engine, a poor feeble thing, at Wattlesea. Moreover, the assailants
might discover how small was the force of rescuers, and return to the
attack. Thus, while Griff, who had given amateur assistance at
all the fires he could reach in London; was striving to organise resistance
to this new enemy, my father induced the gentlemen to cause the horses
to be put to the various vehicles, and employ them in carrying the women
and children to Chantry House. The old Rector was persuaded to
go to take care of his daughter-in-law, and she only thought of putting
her girls in safety. She listened to reason, and indeed was too
much exhausted to move when once she was laid on the sofa. She
would not hear of going to bed, though her little daughter Anne was
sent off with her nurse, grandpapa persuading her that Rosella and the
others were very much tired. When she was gone, he declared his
fears that he had sat down on Celestina’s head, and showed so
much compunction that we were much amused at his relief when Martyn
assured him of having searched the carriage with a stable lantern, so
that whatever had befallen the lady he was not the guilty person.
He really seemed more concerned about this than at the loss of all his
own barns and stores. And little Anne was certainly as lovely
and engaging a little creature as ever I saw; while, as to her elder
sister, in all the trouble and anxiety of the night, I could not help
enjoying the sight of her beautiful eager face and form. She was
tall and very slight, sylph-like, as it was the fashion to call it,
but every limb was instinct with grace and animation. Her face
was, perhaps, rather too thin for robust health, though this enhanced
the idea of her being all spirit, as also did the transparency of complexion,
tinted with an exquisite varying carnation. Her eyes were of a
clear, bright, rather light brown, and were sparkling with the lustre
of excitement, her delicate lips parted, showing the pretty pearly teeth,
as she was telling Emily, in a low voice of enthusiasm, scarcely designed
for my ears, how glorious a sight our brother had been, riding there
in his glancing silver, bearing down all before him with his good sword,
like the Captal de Buch dispersing the Jacquerie.</p>
<p>To which Emily responded, ‘Oh, don’t you love the Captal
de Buch?’ And their friendship was cemented.</p>
<p>Next I heard, ‘And that you should have been so good after
all my rudeness. But I thought you were like the old Winslows;
and instead of that you have come to the rescue of your enemies.
Isn’t it beautiful?’</p>
<p>‘Oh no, not enemies,’ said Emily. ‘That was
all over a hundred years ago!’</p>
<p>‘So my papa and grandpapa say,’ returned Miss Fordyce;
‘but the last Mr. Winslow was not a very nice man, and never would
be civil to us.’</p>
<p>A report was brought that the glare of the fire could be seen over
the hill from the top of the house, and off went the two young ladies
to the leads, after satisfying themselves that Anne was asleep among
her homeless dolls.</p>
<p>Old Mr. Fordyce devoted himself to keeping up the spirits of his
daughter-in-law as the night advanced without any tidings, except that
the girls, from time to time, rushed down to tell us of fresh outbursts
of red flame reflected in the sky, then that the glow was diminishing;
by which time they were tired out, and, both sinking into a big armchair,
they went to sleep in each other’s arms. Indeed I believe
we all dozed more or less before any one returned from the scene of
action - at about three o’clock.</p>
<p>The struggle with the flames had been very unequal. The long
tongues soon reached the roof of the large barn, which was filled with
straw, nor could the flakes of burning thatch be kept from the stable,
while the water of the pond was soon reduced to mud. Helpers began
to flock in, but who could tell which were trustworthy? and all were
uncomprehending.</p>
<p>There was so little hope of saving the house that the removal of
everything valuable was begun under my father’s superintendence.
Frank Fordyce was here, there, and everywhere; while Griffith, like
a gallant general, fought the foe with very helpless unmanageable forces.
Villagers, male and female, had emerged and stood gaping round; but,
let him rage and storm as he might, they would not go and collect pails
and buckets and form a line to the brook. Still less would they
assist in overthrowing and carrying away the faggots of a big wood-pile
so as to cut off the communication with the offices. Only Chapman
and one other man gave any help in this; and presently the stack caught,
and Griff, on the top, was in great peril of the faggots rolling down
with him into the middle, and imprisoning him in the blazing pile.
‘I never felt so like Dido,’ said Griff.</p>
<p>That woodstack gave fearful aliment to the roaring flame, which came
on so fast that the destruction of the adjoining buildings quickly followed.
The Wattlesea engine had come, but the yard well was unattainable, and
all that could be done was to saturate the house with water from its
own well, and cover the side with wet blankets; but these reeked with
steam, and then shrivelled away in the intense glow of heat.</p>
<p>However, by this time the Eastwood Yeomanry, together with some reasonable
men, had arrived. A raid was made on the cottages for buckets,
a chain formed to the river, and at last the fire was got under, having
made a wreck of everything out-of-doors, and consumed one whole wing
of the house, though the older and more esteemed portion was saved.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XVIII - THE PORTRAIT</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘When day was gone and night was come,<br /> And
all men fast asleep,<br />There came the spirit of fair Marg’ret<br /> And
stood at William’s feet.’</p>
<p><i>Scotch Ballad.</i></p>
<p>When I emerged from my room the next morning the phaeton was at the
door to take the two clergymen to reconnoitre their abode before going
to church. Miss Fordyce went with them, and my father was for
once about to leave his parish church to give them his sympathy, and
join in their thanksgiving that neither life nor limb had been injured.
He afterwards said that nothing could have been more touching than old
Mr. Fordyce’s manner of mentioning this special cause for gratitude
before the General Thanksgiving; and Frank Fordyce, having had all his
sermons burnt, gave a short address extempore (a very rare and almost
shocking thing at that date), reducing half the congregation to tears,
for they really loved ‘the fam’ly,’ though they had
not spirit enough to defend it; and their passiveness always remained
a subject of pride and pleasure to the Fordyces. It was against
the will of these good people that Petty, the ratcatcher, was arrested,
but he had been engaged in other outrages, though this was the only
one in which a dwelling-house had suffered. And Chapman observed
that ‘there was nothing to be done with such chaps but to string
’em up out of the way.’</p>
<p>Griff had toiled that night till he was as stiff as a rheumatic old
man when he came down only just in time for luncheon. Mrs. Fordyce
did not appear at all. She was a fragile creature, and quite knocked
up by the agitations of the night. The gentlemen had visited the
desolate rectory, and found that though the fine ancient kitchen had
escaped, the pleasant living rooms had been injured by the water, and
the place could hardly be made habitable before the spring. They
proposed to take a house in Bath, whence Frank Fordyce could go and
come for Sunday duty and general superintendence, but my parents were
urgent that they should not leave us until after Christmas, and they
consented. Their larger possessions were to be stored in the outhouses,
their lesser in our house, notably in the inner mullion chamber, which
would thus be so blocked that there would be no question of sleeping
in it.</p>
<p>Old Mr. Fordyce had ascertained that he might acquit himself of smashing
Celestina Mary, for no remains appeared in the carriage; but a miserable
trunk was discovered in the ruins, which he identified - though surely
no one else save the disconsolate parent could have done so. Poor
little Anne’s private possessions had suffered most severely of
all, for her whole nursery establishment had vanished. Her surviving
dolls were left homeless, and devoid of all save their night-clothing,
which concerned her much more than the loss of almost all her own garments.
For what dolls were to her could never have been guessed by us, who
had forced Emily to disdain them; whereas they were children to the
maternal heart of this lonely child.</p>
<p>She was quite a new revelation to us. All the Fordyces were
handsome; and her chestnut curls and splendid eyes, her pretty colour
and unconscious grace, were very charming. Emily was so near our
own age that we had never known the winsomeness of a little maid-child
amongst us, and she was a perpetual wonder and delight to us.</p>
<p>Indeed, from having always lived with her elders, she was an odd
little old-fashioned person, advanced in some ways, and comically simple
in others. Her doll-heart was kept in abeyance all Sunday, and
it was only on Monday that her anxiety for Celestina manifested itself
with considerable vehemence; but her grandfather gravely informed her
that the young lady was gone to an excellent doctor, who would soon
effect a cure. The which was quite true, for he had sent her to
a toy-shop by one of the maids who had gone to restore the ravage on
the wardrobes, and who brought her back with a new head and arms, her
identity apparently not being thus interfered with. The hoards
of scraps were put under requisition to re-clothe the survivors; and
I won my first step in Miss Anne’s good graces by undertaking
a knitted suit for Rosella.</p>
<p>The good little girl had evidently been schooled to repress her dread
and repugnance at my unlucky appearance, and was painfully polite, only
shutting her eyes when she came to shake hands with me; but after Rosella
condescended to adopt me, we became excellent friends. Indeed
the following conversation was overheard by Emily, and set down:</p>
<p>‘Do you know, Martyn, there’s a fairies’ ring on
Hillside Down?’</p>
<p>‘Mushrooms,’ quoth Martyn.</p>
<p>‘Yes, don’t you know? They are the fairies’
tables. They come out and spread them with lily tablecloths at
night, and have acorn cups for dishes, with honey in them. And
they dance and play there. Well, couldn’t Mr. Edward go
and sit under the beech-tree at the edge till they come?’</p>
<p>‘I don’t think he would like it at all,’ said Martyn.
‘He never goes out at odd times.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, but don’t you know? when they come they begin to
sing -</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘“Sunday and Monday,<br />Monday and Tuesday.”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>And if he was to sing nicely,</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘“Wednesday and Thursday,”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>they would be so much pleased that they would make his back straight
again in a moment. At least, perhaps Wednesday and Thursday would
not do, because the little tailor taught them those; but Friday makes
them angry. But suppose he made some nice verse -</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘“Monday and Tuesday<br />The fairies are gay,<br />Tuesday
and Wednesday<br />They dance away - ”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>I think that would do as well, perhaps. Do get him to do so,
Martyn. It would be so nice if he was tall and straight.’</p>
<p>Dear little thing! Martyn, who was as much her slave as was
her grandfather, absolutely made her shed tears over his history of
our accident, and then caressed them off; but I believe he persuaded
her that such a case might be beyond the fairies’ reach, and that
I could hardly get to the spot in secret, which, it seems, is an essential
point. He had imagination enough to be almost persuaded of fairyland
by her earnestness, and she certainly took him into doll-land.
He had a turn for carpentry and contrivance, and he undertook that the
Ladies Rosella, etc., should be better housed than ever. A great
packing-case was routed out, and much ingenuity was expended, much delight
obtained, in the process of converting it into a doll’s mansion,
and replenishing it with furniture. Some was bought, but Martyn
aspired to make whatever he could; I did a good deal, and I believe
most of our achievements are still extant. Whatever we could not
manage, Clarence was to accomplish when he should come home.</p>
<p>His arrival was, as usual, late in the evening; and, as before, he
had the little room within mine. In the morning, as we were crossing
the hall to the bright wood fire, around which the family were wont
to assemble before prayers, he came to a pause, asking under his breath,
‘What’s that? Who’s that?’</p>
<p>‘It is one of the Hillside pictures. You know we have
a great many things here from thence.’</p>
<p>‘It is <i>she</i>,’ he said, in a low, awe-stricken voice.
No need to say who <i>she</i> meant.</p>
<p>I had not paid much attention to the picture. It had come with
several more, such as are rife in country houses, and was one of the
worst of the lot, a poor imitation of Lely’s style, with a certain
air common to all the family; but Clarence’s eyes were riveted
on it. ‘She looks younger,’ he said; ‘but it
is the same. I could swear to the lip and the whole shape of the
brow and chin. No - the dress is different.’</p>
<p>For in the portrait, there was nothing on the head, and one long
lock of hair fell on the shoulder of the low-cut white-satin dress,
done in very heavy gray shading. The three girls came down together,
and I asked who the lady was.</p>
<p>‘Don’t you know? You ought; for that is poor Margaret
who married your ancestor.’</p>
<p>No more was said then, for the rest of the world was collecting,
and then everybody went out their several ways. Some tin tacks
were wanted for the dolls’ house, and there were reports that
Wattlesea possessed a doll’s grate and fire-irons. The children
were wild to go in quest of them, but they were not allowed to go alone,
and it was pronounced too far and too damp for the elder sister, so
that they would have been disappointed, if Clarence - stimulated by
Martyn’s kicks under the table - had not offered to be their escort.
When Mrs. Fordyce demurred, my mother replied, ‘You may perfectly
trust her with Clarence.’</p>
<p>‘Yes; I don’t know a safer squire,’ rejoined my
father.</p>
<p>Commendation was so rare that Clarence quite blushed with pleasure;
and the pretty little thing was given into his charge, prancing and
dancing with pleasure, and expecting much more from sixpence and from
Wattlesea than was likely to be fulfilled.</p>
<p>Griff went out shooting, and the two young ladies and I intended
to spend a very rational morning in the bookroom, reading aloud Mme.
de La Rochejaquelein’s <i>Memoirs</i> by turns. Our occupations
were, on Emily’s part, completing a reticule, in a mosaic of shaded
coloured beads no bigger than pins’ heads, for a Christmas gift
to mamma - a most wearisome business, of which she had grown extremely
tired. Miss Fordyce was elaborately copying our Müller’s
print of Raffaelle’s St. John in pencil on cardboard, so as to
be as near as possible a facsimile; and she had trusted me to make a
finished water-coloured drawing from a rough sketch of hers of the Hillside
barn and farm-buildings, now no more.</p>
<p>In a pause Ellen Fordyce suddenly asked, ‘What did you mean
about that picture?’</p>
<p>‘Only Clarence said it was like - ’ and here Emily came
to a dead stop.</p>
<p>‘Grandpapa says it is like me,’ said Miss Fordyce.
‘What, you don’t mean <i>that</i>? Oh! oh! oh! is
it true? Does she walk? Have you seen her? Mamma calls
it all nonsense, and would not have Anne hear of it for anything; but
old Aunt Peggy used to tell me, and I am sure grandpapa believes it,
just a little. Have you seen her?’</p>
<p>‘Only Clarence has, and he knew the picture directly.’</p>
<p>She was much impressed, and on slight persuasion related the story,
which she had heard from an elder sister of her grandfather’s,
and which had perhaps been the more impressed on her by her mother’s
consternation at ‘such folly’ having been communicated to
her. Aunt Peggy, who was much older than her brother, had died
only four years ago, at eighty-eight, having kept her faculties to the
last, and handed down many traditions to her great-niece. The
old lady’s father had been contemporary with the Margaret of ghostly
fame, so that the stages had been few through which it had come down
from 1708 to 1830.</p>
<p>I wrote it down at once, as it here stands.</p>
<p>Margaret was the only daughter of the elder branch of the Fordyces.
Her father had intended her to marry her cousin, the male heir on whom
the Hillside estates and the advowson of that living were entailed;
but before the contract had been formally made, the father was killed
by accident, and through some folly and ambition of her mother’s
(such seemed to be the Fordyce belief), the poor heiress was married
to Sir James Winslow, one of the successful intriguers of the days of
the later Stewarts, and with a family nearly as old, if not older, than
herself. Her own children died almost at their birth, and she
was left a young widow. Being meek and gentle, her step-sons and
daughters still ruled over Chantry House. They prevented her Hillside
relations from having access to her whilst in a languishing state of
health, and when she died unexpectedly, she was found to have bequeathed
all her property to her step-son, Philip Winslow, instead of to her
blood relations, the Fordyces.</p>
<p>This was certain, but the Fordyce tradition was that she had been
kept shut up in the mullion chambers, where she had often been heard
weeping bitterly. One night in the winter, when the gentlemen
of the family had gone out to a Christmas carousal, she had endeavoured
to escape by the steps leading to the garden from the door now bricked
up, but had been met by them and dragged back with violence, of which
she died in the course of a few days; and, what was very suspicious,
she had been entirely attended by her step-daughter and an old nurse,
who never would let her own woman come near her.</p>
<p>The Fordyces had thought of a prosecution, but the Winslows had powerful
interest at Court in those corrupt times, and contrived to hush up the
matter, as well as to win the suit in which the Fordyces attempted to
prove that there was no right to will the property away. Bitter
enmity remained between the families; they were always opposed in politics,
and their animosity was fed by the belief which arose that at the anniversaries
of her death the poor lady haunted the rooms, lamp in hand, wailing
and lamenting. A duel had been fought on the subject between the
heirs of the two families, resulting in the death of the young Winslow.</p>
<p>‘And now,’ cried Ellen Fordyce, ‘the feud is so
beautifully ended; the doom must be appeased, now that the head of one
hostile line has come to the rescue of the other, and saved all our
lives.’</p>
<p>My suggestion that these would hardly have been destroyed, even without
our interposition, fell very flat, for romance must have its swing.
Ellen told us how, on the news of our kinsman’s death and our
inheritance, the ancestral story had been discussed, and her grandfather
had said he believed there were letters about it in the iron deed-box,
and how he hoped to be on better terms with the new heir.</p>
<p>The ghost story had always been hushed up in the family, especially
since the duel, and we all knew the resemblance of the picture would
be scouted by our elders; but perhaps this gave us the more pleasure
in dwelling upon it, while we agreed that poor Margaret ought to be
appeased by Griffith’s prowess on behalf of the Fordyces.</p>
<p>The two young ladies went off to inspect the mullion chamber, which
they found so crammed with Hillside furniture that they could scarcely
enter, and returned disappointed, except for having inspected and admired
all Griff’s weapons, especially what Miss Fordyce called the sword
of her rescue.</p>
<p>She had been learning German - rather an unusual study in those days,
and she narrated to us most effectively the story of <i>Die Weisse Frau</i>,
working herself up to such a pitch that she would have actually volunteered
to spend a night in the room, to see whether Margaret would hold any
communication with a descendant, after the example of the White Woman
and Lady Bertha, if there had been either fire or accommodation, and
if the only entrance had not been through Griff’s private sitting-room.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XIX - THE WHITE FEATHER</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘The white doe’s milk is not out of his mouth.’</p>
<p>SCOTT.</p>
<p>Clarence had come home free from all blots. His summer holiday
had been prevented by the illness of one of the other clerks, whose
place, Mr. Castleford wrote, he had so well supplied that ere long he
would be sure to earn his promotion. That kind friend had several
times taken him to spend a Sunday in the country, and, as we afterwards
had reason to think, would have taken more notice of him but for the
rooted belief of Mr. Frith that it was a case of favouritism, and that
piety and strictness were assumed to throw dust in the eyes of his patron.</p>
<p>Such distrust had tended to render Clarence more reserved than ever,
and it was quite by the accident of finding him studying one of Mrs.
Trimmer’s Manuals that I discovered that, at the request of his
good Rector, he had become a Sunday-school teacher, and was as much
interested as the enthusiastic girls; but I was immediately forbidden
to utter a word on the subject, even to Emily, lest she should tell
any one.</p>
<p>Such reserve was no doubt an outcome of his natural timidity.
He had to bear a certain amount of scorn and derision among some of
his fellow-clerks for the stricter habits and observances that could
not be concealed, and he dreaded any fresh revelation of them, partly
because of the cruel imputation of hypocrisy, partly because he feared
the bringing a scandal on religion by his weakness and failures.</p>
<p>Nor did our lady visitors’ ways reassure him, though they meant
to be kind. They could not help being formal and stiff, not as
they were with Griff and me. The two gentlemen were thoroughly
friendly and hearty; Parson Frank could hardly have helped being so
towards any one in the same house with himself; and as to little Anne,
she found in the new-comer a carpenter and upholsterer superior even
to Martyn; but her candour revealed a great deal which I overheard one
afternoon, when the two children were sitting together on the hearth-rug
in the bookroom in the twilight.</p>
<p>‘I want to see Mr. Clarence’s white feather,’ observed
Anne.</p>
<p>‘Griff has a white plume in his Yeomanry helmet,’ replied
Martyn; ‘Clarence hasn’t one.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, I saw Mr. Griffith’s!’ she answered; ‘but
Cousin Horace said Mr. Clarence showed the white feather.’</p>
<p>‘Cousin Horace is an ape!’ cried Martyn.</p>
<p>‘I don’t think he is so nice as an ape,’ said Anne.
‘He is more like a monkey. He tries the dolls by court-martial,
and he shot Arabella with a pea-shooter, and broke her eye; only grandpapa
made him have it put in again with his own money, and then he said I
was a little sneak, and if I ever did it again he would shoot me.’</p>
<p>‘Mind you don’t tell Clarence what he said,’ said
Martyn.</p>
<p>‘Oh, no! I think Mr. Clarence very nice indeed; but Horace
did tease so about that day when he carried poor Amos Bell home.
He said Ellen had gone and made friends with the worst of all the wicked
Winslows, who had shown the white feather and disgraced his flag.
No; I know you are not wicked. And Mr. Griff came all glittering,
like Richard Cœur de Lion, and saved us all that night.
But Ellen cried to think what she had done, and mamma said it showed
what it was to speak to a strange young man; and she has never let Ellen
and me go out of the grounds by ourselves since that day.’</p>
<p>‘It is a horrid shame,’ exclaimed Martyn, ‘that
a fellow can’t get into a scrape without its being for ever cast
up to him.’</p>
<p>‘<i>I</i> like him,’ said Anne. ‘He gave
Mary Bell a nice pair of boots, and he made a new pair of legs for poor
old Arabella, and she can really sit down! Oh, he is <i>very</i>
nice; but’ - in an awful whisper - ‘does he tell stories?
I mean fibs - falsehoods.’</p>
<p>‘Who told you that?’ exclaimed Martyn.</p>
<p>‘Mamma said it. Ellen was telling them something about
the picture of the white-satin lady, and mamma said, “Oh, if it
is only that young man, no doubt it is a mere mystification;”
and papa said, “Poor young fellow, he seems very amiable and well
disposed;” and mamma said, “If he can invent such a story
it shows that Horace was right, and he is not to be believed.”
Then they stopped, but I asked Ellen who it was, and she said it was
Mr. Clarence, and it was a sad thing for Emily and all of you to have
such a brother.’</p>
<p>Martyn began to stammer with indignation, and I thought it time to
interfere; so I called the little maid, and gravely explained the facts,
adding that poor Clarence’s punishment had been terrible, but
that he was doing his best to make up for what was past; and that, as
to anything he might have told, though he might be mistaken, he never
said anything <i>now</i> but what he believed to be true. She
raised her brown eyes to mine full of gravity, and said, ‘I <i>do</i>
like him.’ Moreover, I privately made Martyn understand
that if he told her what had been said about the white-satin lady, he
would never be forgiven; the others would be sure to find it out, and
it might shorten their stay.</p>
<p>That was a dreadful idea, for the presence of those two creatures,
to say nothing of their parents, was an unspeakable charm and novelty
to us all. We all worshipped the elder, and the little one was
like a new discovery and toy to us, who had never been used to such
a presence. She was not a commonplace child; but even if she had
been, she would have been as charming a study as a kitten; and she had
all the four of us at her feet, though her mother was constantly protesting
against our spoiling her, and really kept up so much wholesome discipline
that the little maid never exceeded the bounds of being charming to
us. After that explanation there was the same sweet wistful gentleness
in her manner towards Clarence as she showed to me; while he, who never
dreamt of such a child knowing his history was brighter and freer with
her than with any one else, played with her and Martyn, and could be
heard laughing merrily with them. Perhaps her mother and sister
did not fully like this, but they could not interfere before our faces.
And Parson Frank was really kind to him; took him out walking when going
to Hillside, and talked to him so as to draw him out; certifying, perhaps,
that he would do no harm, although, indeed, the family looked on dear
good Frank as a sort of boy, too kind-hearted and genial for his approval
to be worth as much as that of the more severe.</p>
<p>These were our only Christmas visitors, for the state of the country
did not invite Londoners; but we did not want them. The suppression
of Clarence was the only flaw in a singularly happy time; and, after
all I believe I felt the pity of it more than he did, who expected nothing,
and was accustomed to being in the background.</p>
<p>For instance, one afternoon in the course of one of the grave discussions
that used to grow up between Miss Fordyce, Emily, and me, over subjects
trite to the better-instructed younger generation, we got quite out
of our shallow depths. I think it was on the meaning of the ‘Communion
of Saints,’ for the two girls were both reading in preparation
for a Confirmation at Bristol, and Miss Fordyce knew more than we did
on these subjects. All the time Clarence had sat in the window,
carving a bit of doll’s furniture, and quite forgotten; but at
night he showed me the exposition copied from <i>Pearson on the Creed</i>,
a bit of Hooker, and extracts from one or two sermons. I found
these were notes written out in a blank book, which he had had in hand
ever since his Confirmation - his logbook as he called it; but he would
not hear of their being mentioned even to Emily, and only consented
to hunt up the books on condition I would not bring him forward as the
finder. It was of no use to urge that it was a deprivation to
us all that he should not aid us with his more thorough knowledge and
deeper thought. ‘He could not do so,’ he said, in
a quiet decisive manner; ‘it was enough for him to watch and listen
to Miss Fordyce, when she could forget his presence.’</p>
<p>She often did forget it in her eagerness. She was by nature
one of the most ardent beings that I ever saw, yet with enthusiasm kept
in check by the self-control inculcated as a primary duty. It
would kindle in those wonderful light brown eyes, glow in the clear
delicate cheek, quiver in the voice even when the words were only half
adequate to the feeling. She was not what is now called gushing.
Oh, no! not in the least! She was too reticent and had too much
dignity for anything of the kind. Emily had always been reckoned
as our romantic young lady, and teased accordingly, but her enthusiasm
beside Ellen’s was</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘As moonlight is to sunlight, as water is to wine,’ -</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>a mere reflection of the tone of the period, compared with a real
element in the character. At least so my sister tells me, though
at the time all the difference I saw was that Miss Fordyce had the most
originality, and unconsciously became the leader. The bookroom
was given up to us, and there in the morning we drew, worked, read,
copied and practised music, wrote out extracts, and delivered our youthful
minds to one another on all imaginable topics from ‘slea silk
to predestination.’</p>
<p>Religious subjects occupied us more than might have been held likely.
A spirit of reflection and revival was silently working in many a heart.
Evangelicalism had stirred old-fashioned orthodoxy, and we felt its
action. The <i>Christian Year</i> was Ellen’s guiding star
- as it was ours, nay, doubly so in proportion to the ardour of her
nature. Certain poems are dearer and more eloquent to me still,
because the verses recall to me the thrill of her sweet tones as she
repeated them. We were all very ignorant alike of Church doctrine
and history, but talking out and comparing our discoveries and impressions
was as useful as it was pleasant to us.</p>
<p>What the <i>Christian Year</i> was in religion to us Scott was in
history. We read to verify or illustrate him, and we had little
raving fits over his characters, and jokes founded on them. Indeed,
Ellen saw life almost through that medium; and the siege of Hillside,
dispersed by the splendid prowess of Griffith, the champion with silver
helm and flashing sword, was precious to her as a renewal of the days
of Ivanhoe or Damian de Lacy.</p>
<p>As may be believed, these quiet mornings were those when that true
knight was employed in field sports or yeomanry duties, such as the
state of the country called for. When he was at home, all was
fun and merriment and noise - walks and rides on fine days, battledore
and shuttlecock on wet ones, music, singing, paper games, giggling and
making giggle, and sometimes dancing in the hall - Mr. Frank Fordyce
joining with all his heart and drollery in many of these, like the boy
he was.</p>
<p>I could play quadrilles and country dances, and now and then a reel
- nobody thought of waltzes - and the three couples changed and counterchanged
partners. Clarence had the sailor’s foot, and did his part
when needed; Emily generally fell to his share, and their silence and
gravity contrasted with the mirth of the other pairs. He knew
very well he was the <i>pis aller</i> of the party, and only danced
when Parson Frank was not dragged out, nothing loth, by his little daughter.
With Miss Fordyce, Clarence never had the chance of dancing; she was
always claimed by Griff, or pounced upon by Martyn.</p>
<p>Miss Fordyce she always was to us in those days, and those pretty
lips scrupulously ‘Mistered’ and ‘Winslowed’
us. I don’t think she would have been more to us, if we
had called her Nell, and had been Griff, Bill, and Ted to her, or if
there had not been all the little formalities of avoiding tête
à têtes and the like. They were essentials of propriety
then - natural, and never viewed as prudish. Nor did it detract
from the sweet dignity of maidenhood that there was none of the familiarity
which breeds something one would rather not mention in conjunction with
a lady.</p>
<p>Altogether there was a sunshine around Miss Fordyce by which we all
seemed illuminated, even the least favoured and least demonstrative;
we were all her willing slaves, and thought her smile and thanks full
reward.</p>
<p>One day, when Griff and Martyn were assisting at the turn out of
an isolated barn at Hillside, where Frank Fordyce declared, all the
burnt-out rats and mice had taken refuge, the young ladies went out
to cater for house decorations for Christmas under Clarence’s
escort. Nobody but the clerk ever thought of touching the church,
where there were holes in all the pews to receive the holly boughs.</p>
<p>The girls came back, telling in eager scared voices how, while gathering
butcher’s broom in Farmer Hodges’ home copse, a savage dog
had flown out at them, but had been kept at bay by Mr. Clarence Winslow
with an umbrella, while they escaped over the stile.</p>
<p>Clarence had not come into the drawing-room with them, and while
my mother, who had a great objection to people standing about in out-door
garments, sent them up to doff their bonnets and furs, I repaired to
our room, and was horrified to find him on my bed, white and faint.</p>
<p>‘Bitten?’ I cried in dismay.</p>
<p>‘Yes; but not much. Only I’m such a fool.
I turned off when I began taking off my boots. No, no - don’t!
Don’t call any one. It is nothing!’</p>
<p>He was springing up to stop me, but was forced to drop back, and
I made my way to the drawing-room, where my mother happened to be alone.
She was much alarmed, but a glass of wine restored Clarence; and inspection
showed that the thick trowser and winter stocking had so protected him
that little blood had been drawn, and there was bruise rather than bite
in the calf of the leg, where the brute had caught him as he was getting
over the stile as the rear-guard. It was painful, though the faintness
was chiefly from tension of nerve, for he had kept behind all the way
home, and no one had guessed at the hurt. My mother doctored it
tenderly, and he begged that nothing should be said about it; he wanted
no fuss about such a trifle. My mother agreed, with the proud
feeling of not enhancing the obligations of the Fordyce family; but
she absolutely kissed Clarence’s forehead as she bade him lie
quiet till dinner-time.</p>
<p>We kept silence at table while the girls described the horrors of
the monster. ‘A tawny creature, with a hideous black muzzle,’
said Emily. ‘Like a bad dream,’ said Miss Fordyce.
The two fathers expressed their intention of remonstrating with the
farmer, and Griff declared that it would be lucky if he did not shoot
it. Miss Fordyce generously took its part, saying the poor dog
was doing its duty, and Griff ejaculated, ‘If I had been there!’</p>
<p>‘It would not have dared to show its teeth, eh?’ said
my father, when there was a good deal of banter.</p>
<p>My father, however, came at night with mamma to inspect the hurt
and ask details, and he ended with, ‘Well done, Clarence, boy;
I am gratified to see you are acquiring presence of mind, and can act
like a man.’</p>
<p>Clarence smiled when they were gone, saying, ‘That would have
been an insult to any one else.’</p>
<p>Emily perceived that he had not come off unscathed, and was much
aggrieved at being bound to silence. ‘Well,’ she broke
out, ‘if the dog goes mad, and Clarence has the hydrophobia, I
suppose I may tell.’</p>
<p>‘In that pleasing contingency,’ said Clarence smiling.
‘Don’t you see, Emily, it is the worst compliment you can
pay me not to treat this as a matter of course?’ Still,
he was the happier for not having failed. Whatever strengthened
his self-respect and gave him trust in himself was a stepping-stone.</p>
<p>As to rivalry or competition with Griff, the idea seemingly never
crossed his mind, and envy or jealousy were equally aloof from it.
One subject of thankfulness runs through these recollections - namely,
that nothing broke the tie of strong affection between us three brothers.
Griffith might figure as the ‘vary parfite knight,’ the
St. George of the piece, glittering in the halo shed round him by the
bright eyes of the rescued damsel; while Clarence might drag himself
along as the poor recreant to be contemned and tolerated, and he would
accept the position meekly as only his desert, without a thought of
bitterness. Indeed, he himself seemed to have imbibed Nurse Gooch’s
original opinion, that his genuine love for sacred things was a sort
of impertinence and pretension in such as he - a kind of hypocrisy even
when they were the realities and helps to which he clung with all his
heart. Still, this depression was only shown by reserve, and troubled
no one save myself, who knew him best guessed what was lost by his silence,
and burned in spirit at seeing him merely endured as one unworthy.</p>
<p>In one of our varieties of Waverley discussions the crystal hardness
and inexperienced intolerance of youth made Miss Fordyce declare that
had she been Edith Plantagenet, she would never, never have forgiven
Sir Kenneth. ‘How could she, when he had forsaken the king’s
banner? Unpardonable!’</p>
<p>Then came a sudden, awful silence, as she recollected her audience,
and blushed crimson with the misery of perceiving where her random shaft
had struck, nor did either of us know what to say; but to our surprise
it was Clarence who first spoke to relieve the desperate embarrassment.
‘Is forgiven quite the right word, when the offence was not personal?
I know that such things can neither be repaired nor overlooked, and
I think that is what Miss Fordyce meant.’</p>
<p>‘Oh, Mr. Winslow,’ she exclaimed, ‘I am very sorry
- I don’t think I quite meant’ - and then, as her eyes for
one moment fell on his subdued face, she added, ‘No, I said what
I ought not. If there is sorrow’ - her voice trembled -
‘and pardon above, no one below has any right to say unpardonable.’</p>
<p>Clarence bowed his head, and his lips framed, but he did not utter,
‘Thank you.’ Emily nervously began reading aloud the
page before her, full of the jingling recurring rhymes about Sir Thomas
of Kent; but I saw Ellen surreptitiously wipe away a tear, and from
that time she was more kind and friendly with Clarence.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XX - VENI, VIDI, VICI</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘None but the brave,<br />None but the brave,<br />None but
the brave deserve the fair.’</p>
<p><i>Song.</i></p>
<p>Christmas trees were not yet heard of beyond the Fatherland, and
both the mothers held that Christmas parties were not good for little
children, since Mrs. Winslow’s strong common sense had arrived
at the same conclusion as Mrs. Fordyce had derived from Hannah More
and Richard Lovell Edgeworth. Besides, rick-burning and mobs were
far too recent for our neighbours to venture out at night.</p>
<p>But as we were all resolved that little Anne should have a memorable
Christmas at Chantry House, we begged an innocent, though iced cake,
from the cook, painted a set of characters ourselves, including all
the dolls, and bespoke the presence of Frank Fordyce at a feast in the
outer mullion room - Griff’s apartment, of course. The locality
was chosen as allowing more opportunity for high jinks than the bookroom,
and also because the swords and pistols in trophy over the mantelpiece
had a great fascination for the two sisters, and to ‘drink tea
with Mr. Griffith’ was always known to be a great ambition of
the little queen of the festival. As to the mullion chamber legends,
they had nearly gone out of our heads, though Clarence did once observe,
‘You remember, it will be the 26th of December;’ but we
did not think this worthy of consideration, especially as Anne’s
entertainment, at its latest, could not last beyond nine o’clock;
and the ghostly performances - now entirely laid to the account of the
departed stable-boy - never began before eleven.</p>
<p>Nor did anything interfere with our merriment. The fun of fifty
years ago must be intrinsically exquisite to bear being handed down
to another generation, so I will attempt no repetition, though some
of those Twelfth Day characters still remain, pasted into my diary.
We anticipated Twelfth Day because our guests meant to go to visit some
other friends before the New Year, and we knew Anne would have no chance
there of fulfilling her great ambition of drawing for king and queen.
These home-made characters were really charming. Mrs. Fordyce
had done several of them, and she drew beautifully. A little manipulation
contrived that the exquisite Oberon and Titania should fall to Martyn
and Anne, for whom crowns and robes had been prepared, worn by her majesty
with complacent dignity, but barely tolerated by him! The others
took their chance. Parson Frank was Tom Thumb, and convulsed us
all the evening by acting as if no bigger than that worthy, keeping
us so merry that even Clarence laughed as I had never seen him laugh
before.</p>
<p>Cock Robin and Jenny Wren - the best drawn of all - fell to Griff
and Miss Fordyce. There was a suspicion of a tint of real carnation
on her cheek, as, on his low, highly-delighted bow, she held up her
impromptu fan of folded paper; and drollery about currant wine and hopping
upon twigs went on more or less all the time, while somehow or other
the beauteous glow on her cheeks went on deepening, so that I never
saw her look so pretty as when thus playing at Jenny Wren’s coyness,
though neither she nor Griff had passed the bounds of her gracious precise
discretion.</p>
<p>The joyous evening ended at last. With the stroke of nine,
Jenny Wren bore away Queen Titania to put her to bed, for the servants
were having an entertainment of their own downstairs for all the out-door
retainers, etc. Oberon departed, after an interval sufficient
to prove his own dignity and advanced age. Emily went down to
report the success of the evening to the elders in the drawing-room,
but we lingered while Frank Fordyce was telling good stories of Oxford
life, and Griff capping them with more recent ones.</p>
<p>We too broke up - I don’t remember how; but Clarence was to
help me down the stairs, and Mr. Fordyce, frowning with anxiety at the
process, was offering assistance, while we had much rather he had gone
out of the way; when suddenly, in the gallery round the hall giving
access to the bedrooms, there dawned upon us the startled but scarcely
displeased figure of Jenny Wren in her white dress, not turning aside
that blushing face, while Cock Robin was clasping her hand and pressing
it to his lips. The tap of my crutches warned them. She
flew back within her door and shut it; Griff strode rapidly on, caught
hold of her father’s hand, exclaiming, ‘Sir, sir, I must
speak to you!’ and dragged him back into the mullion room leaving
Clarence and me to convey ourselves downstairs as best we might.</p>
<p>‘Our sister, our sweet sister!’</p>
<p>We were immensely excited. All the three of us were so far
in love with Ellen Fordyce that her presence was an enchantment to us,
and at any rate none of us ever saw the woman we could compare to her;
and as we both felt ourselves disqualified in different ways from any
nearer approach, we were content to bask in the reflected rays of our
brother’s happiness.</p>
<p>Not that he had gone that length as yet, as we knew before the night
was over, when he came down to us. Even with the dear maiden herself,
he had only made sure that she was not averse, and that merely by her
eyes and lips; and he had extracted nothing from her father but that
they were both very young, a great deal too young, and had no business
to think of such things yet. It must be talked over, etc. etc.</p>
<p>But just then, Griff told us, Frank Fordyce jumped up and turned
round with the sudden exclamation, ‘Ellen!’ looking towards
the door behind him with blank astonishment, as he found it had neither
been opened nor shut. He thought his daughter had recollected
something left behind, and coming in search of it, had retreated precipitately.
He had seen her, he said, in the mirror opposite. Griff told him
there was no mirror, and had to carry a candle across to convince him
that he had only been looking at the door into the inner room, which
though of shining dark oak, could hardly have made a reflection as vivid
as he declared that his had been. Indeed, he ascertained that
Ellen had never left her own room at all. ‘It must have
been thinking about the dear child,’ he said. ‘And
after all, it was not quite like her - somehow - she was paler, and
had something over her head.’ We had no doubt who it was.
Griff had not seen her, but he was certain that there had been none
of the moaning nor crying, ‘In fact, she has come to give her
consent,’ he said with earnest in his mocking tone.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ said Clarence gravely, and with glistening eyes.
‘You are happy Griff. It is given to you to right the wrong,
and quiet that poor spirit.’</p>
<p>‘Happy! The happiest fellow in the world,’ said
Griff, ‘even without that latter clause - if only Madam and the
old man will have as much sense as she has!’</p>
<p>The next day was a thoroughly uncomfortable one. Griff was
not half so near his goal as he had hoped last night when with kindly
Parson Frank.</p>
<p>The commotion was as if a thunderbolt had descended among the elders.
What they had been thinking of, I cannot tell, not to have perceived
how matters were tending; but their minds were full of the Reform Bill
and the state of the country, and, besides, we were all looked on still
as mere children. Indeed, Griff was scarcely one-and-twenty, and
Ellen wanted a month of seventeen; and the crisis had really been a
sudden impulse, as he said, ‘She looked so sweet and lovely, he
could not help it.’</p>
<p>The first effect was a serious lecture upon maidenliness and propriety
to poor Ellen from her mother, who was sure that she must have transgressed
the bounds of discretion, or such ill-bred presumption would have been
spared her, and bitterly regretted the having trusted her to take care
of herself. There were sufficient grains of truth in this to make
the poor girl cry herself out of all condition for appearing at breakfast
or luncheon, and Emily’s report of her despair made us much more
angry with Mrs. Fordyce than was perhaps quite due to that good lady.</p>
<p>My parents were at first inclined to take the same line, and be vexed
with Griff for an act of impertinence towards a guest. He had
a great deal of difficulty in inducing the elders to believe him in
earnest, or treat him as a man capable of knowing his own mind; and
even thus they felt as if his addresses to Miss Fordyce were, under
present circumstances, taking almost an unfair advantage of the other
family - at which our youthful spirits felt indignant.</p>
<p>Yet, after all, such a match was as obvious and suitable as if it
had been a family compact, and the only objection was the youth of the
parties. Mrs. Fordyce would fain have believed her daughter’s
heart to be not yet awake, and was grieved to find childhood over, and
the hero of romance become the lover; and she was anxious that full
time should be given to perceive whether her daughter’s feelings
were only the result of the dazzling aureole which gratitude and excited
fancy had cast around the fine, handsome, winning youth. Her husband,
however, who had himself married very young, and was greatly taken with
Griff, besides being always tender-hearted, did not enter into her scruples;
but, as we had already found out, the grand-looking and clever man of
thirty-eight was, chiefly from his impulsiveness and good-nature, treated
as the boy of the family. His old father, too, was greatly pleased
with Griff’s spirit, affection, and purpose, as well as with my
father’s conduct in the matter; and so, after a succession of
private interviews, very tantalising to us poor outsiders, it was conceded
that though an engagement for the present was preposterous, it might
possibly be permitted when Ellen was eighteen if Griff had completed
his university life with full credit. He was fervently grateful
to have such an object set before him, and my father was warmly thankful
for the stimulus.</p>
<p>That last evening was very odd and constrained. We could not
help looking on the lovers as new specimens over which some strange
transformation had passed, though for the present it had stiffened them
in public into the strictest good behaviour. They would have been
awkward if it had been possible to either of them, and, save for a certain
look in their eyes, comported themselves as perfect strangers.</p>
<p>The three elder gentlemen held discussions in the dining-room, but
we were not trusted in our playground adjoining. Mrs. Fordyce
nailed Griff down to an interminable game at chess, and my mother kept
the two girls playing duets, while Clarence turned over the leaves;
and I read over <i>The Lady of the Lake</i>, a study which I always
felt, and still feel, as an act of homage to Ellen Fordyce, though there
was not much in common between her and the maid of Douglas. Indeed,
it was a joke of her father’s to tease her by criticising the
famous passage about the tears that old Douglas shed over his duteous
daughter’s head - ‘What in the world should the man go whining
and crying for? He had much better have laughed with her.’</p>
<p>Little did the elders know what was going on in the next room, where
there was a grand courtship among the dolls; the hero being a small
jointed Dutch one in Swiss costume, about an eighth part of the size
of the resuscitated Celestina Mary, but the only available male character
in doll-land! Anne was supposed to be completely ignorant of what
passed above her head; and her mother would have been aghast had she
heard the remarkable discoveries and speculations that she and Martyn
communicated to one another.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXI - THE OUTSIDE OF THE COURTSHIP</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘Or framing, as a fair excuse,<br />The book, the pencil, or
the muse;<br />Something to give, to sing, to say,<br />Some modern
tale, some ancient lay.’</p>
<p>SCOTT.</p>
<p>It seems to me on looking back that I have hardly done justice to
Mrs. Fordyce, and certainly we - as Griffith’s eager partisans
- often regarded her in the light of an enemy and opponent; but after
this lapse of time, I can see that she was no more than a prudent mother,
unwilling to see her fair young daughter suddenly launched into womanhood,
and involved in an attachment to a young and untried man.</p>
<p>The part of a drag is an invidious one; and this must have been her
part through most of her life. The Fordyces, father and son, were
of good family, gentlemen to their very backbones, and thoroughly good,
religious men; but she came of a more aristocratic strain, had been
in London society, and brought with her a high-bred air which, implanted
on the Fordyce good looks, made her daughter especially fascinating.
But that air did not recommend Mrs. Fordyce to all her neighbours, any
more than did those stronger, stricter, more thorough-going notions
of religious obligation which had led her husband to make the very real
and painful sacrifice of his sporting tastes, and attend to the parish
in a manner only too rare in those days. She was a very well-informed
and highly accomplished woman, and had made her daughter the same, keeping
her children up in a somewhat exclusive style, away from all gossip
or undesirable intimacies, as recommended by Miss Edgeworth and other
more religious authorities, and which gave great offence in houses where
there were girls of the same age. No one, however, could look
at Ellen, and doubt of the success of the system, or of the young girl’s
entire content and perfect affection for her mother, though her father
was her beloved playfellow - yet always with respect. She never
took liberties with him, nor called him Pap or any other ridiculous
name inconsistent with the fifth Commandment, though she certainly was
more entirely at ease with him than ever we had been with our elderly
father. When once Mrs. Fordyce found on what terms we were to
be, she accepted them frankly and fully. Already Emily had been
the first girl, not a relation, whose friendship she had fostered with
Ellen; and she had also become thoroughly affectionate and at home with
my mother, who suited her perfectly on the conscientious, and likewise
on the prudent and sensible, side of her nature.</p>
<p>To me she was always kindness itself, so kind that I never felt,
as I did on so many occasions, that she was very pitiful and attentive
to the deformed youth; but that she really enjoyed my companionship,
and I could help her in her pursuits. I have a whole packet of
charming notes of hers about books, botany, drawings, little bits of
antiquarianism, written with an arch grace and finish of expression
peculiarly her own, and in a very pointed hand, yet too definite to
be illegible. I owe her more than I can say for the windows of
wholesome hope and ambition she opened to me, giving a fresh motive
and zest even to such a life as mine. I can hardly tell which
was the most delightful companion, she or her husband. In spite
of ill health, she knew every plant, and every bit of fair scenery in
the neighbourhood, and had fresh, amusing criticisms to utter on each
new book; while he, not neglecting the books, was equally well acquainted
with all beasts and birds, and shed his kindly light over everything
he approached. He was never melancholy about anything but politics,
and even there it was an immense consolation to him to have the owner
of Chantry House staunch on the same side, instead of in chronic opposition.</p>
<p>The family party moved to a tall house at Bath, but there still was
close intercourse, for the younger clergyman rode over every week for
the Sunday duty, and almost always dined and slept at Chantry House.
He acted as bearer of long letters, which, in spite of a reticulation
of crossings, were too expensive by post for young ladies’ pocket-money,
often exceeding the regular quarto sheet. It was a favourite joke
to ask Emily what Ellen reported about Bath fashions, and to see her
look of scorn. For they were a curious mixture, those girlish
letters, of village interests, discussion of books, and thoughts beyond
their age; Tommy Toogood and Prometheus; or Du Guesclin in the closest
juxtaposition with reports of progress in Abercrombie on the <i>Intellectual
Powers</i>. It was the desire of Ellen to prove herself not unsettled
but improved by love, and to become worthy of her ideal Griffith, never
guessing that he would have been equally content with her if she had
been as frivolous as the idlest girl who lingered amid the waning glories
of Bath.</p>
<p>We all made them a visit there when Martyn was taken to a preparatory
school in the place. Mrs. Fordyce took me out for drives on the
beautiful hills; and Emily and I had a very delightful time, undisturbed
by the engrossing claims of love-making. Very good, too, were
our friends, after our departure, in letting Martyn spend Sundays and
holidays with them, play with Anne as before, say his Catechism with
her to Mrs. Fordyce, and share her little Sunday lessons, which had,
he has since told, a force and attractiveness he had never known before,
and really did much, young as he was, in preparing the way towards the
fulfilment of my father’s design for him.</p>
<p>When the Rectory was ready, and the family returned, it was high
summer, and there were constant meetings between the households.
No doubt there were the usual amount of trivial disappointments and
annoyances, but the whole season seems to me to have been bathed in
sunlight. The Reform Bill agitations and the London mobs of which
Clarence wrote to us were like waves surging beyond an isle of peace.
Clarence had some unpleasant walks from the office. Once or twice
the shutters had to be put up at Frith and Castleford’s to prevent
the windows from being broken; and once Clarence actually saw our nation’s
hero, ‘the Duke,’ riding quietly and slowly through a yelling,
furious mob, who seemed withheld from falling on him by the perfect
impassiveness of the eagle face and spare figure. Moreover a pretty
little boy, on his pony, suddenly pushed forward and rode by the Duke’s
side, as if proud and resolute to share his peril.</p>
<p>‘If Griffith had been there!’ said Ellen and Emily, though
they did not exactly know what they expected him to have done.</p>
<p>The chief storms that drifted across our sky were caused by Mrs.
Fordyce’s resolution that Griffith should enjoy none of the privileges
of an accepted suitor before the engagement was an actual fact.
Ellen was obedient and conscientious; and would neither transgress nor
endure to have her mother railed at by Griff’s hasty tongue, and
this affronted him, and led to little breezes.</p>
<p>When people overstay their usual time, tempers are apt to get rather
difficult. Griffith had kept all his terms at Oxford, and was
not to return thither after the long vacation, but was to read with
a tutor before taking his degree. Moreover bills began to come
from Oxford, not very serious, but vexing my father and raising annoyances
and frets, for Griff resented their being complained of, and thought
himself ill-used, going off to see his own friends whenever he was put
out.</p>
<p>One morning at breakfast, late in October, he announced that Lady
Peacock was in lodgings at Clifton, and asked my mother to call on her.
But mamma said it was too far for the horse - she visited no one at
that distance, and had never thought much of Selina Clarkson before
or after her marriage.</p>
<p>‘But now that she is a widow, it would be such a kindness,’
pleaded Griff.</p>
<p>‘Depend upon it, a gay young widow needs no kindness from me,
and had better not have it from you,’ said my mother, getting
up from behind her urn and walking off, followed by my father.</p>
<p>Griff drummed on the table. ‘I wonder what good ladies
of a certain age do with their charity,’ he said.</p>
<p>And while we were still crying out at him, Ellen Fordyce and her
father appeared, like mirth bidding good-morrow, at the window.
All was well for the time, but Griff wanted Ellen to set out alone with
him, and take their leisurely way through the wood-path, and she insisted
on waiting for her father, who had got into an endless discussion with
mine on the Reform Bill, thrown out in the last Session. Griff
tried to wile her on with him, but, though she consented to wander about
the lawn before the windows with him, she always resolutely turned at
the great beech tree. Emily and I watched them from the window,
at first amused, then vexed, as we could see, by his gestures, that
he was getting out of temper, and her straw bonnet drooped at one moment,
and was raised the next in eager remonstrance or defence. At last
he flung angrily away from her, and went off to the stables, leaving
her leaning against the gate in tears. Emily, in an access of
indignant sympathy, rushed out to her, and they vanished together into
the summer-house, until her father called her, and they went home together.</p>
<p>Emily told me that Ellen had struggled hard to keep herself from
crying enough to show traces of tears which her father could observe,
and that she had excused Griff with all her might on the plea of her
own ‘tiresomeness.’</p>
<p>We were all the more angry with him for his selfishness and want
of consideration, for Ellen, in her torrent of grief, had even disclosed
that he had said she did not care for him - no one really in love ever
scrupled about a mother’s nonsense, etc., etc.</p>
<p>We were resolved, like two sages, to give him a piece of our minds,
and convince him that such dutifulness was the pledge of future happiness,
and that it was absolute cruelty to the rare creature he had won, to
try to draw her in a direction contrary to her conscience.</p>
<p>However, we saw him no more that day; and only learnt that he had
left a message at the stables that dinner was not to be kept waiting
for him. Such a message from Clarence would have caused a great
commotion; but it was quite natural and a matter of course from him
in the eyes of the elders, who knew nothing of his parting with Ellen.
However, there was annoyance enough, when bedtime came, family prayers
were over, and still there was no sign of him. My father sat up
till one o’clock, to let him in, then gave it up, and I heard
his step heavily mounting the stairs.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXII - BRISTOL DIAMONDS</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘<i>Stafford</i>. And you that are the King’s friends,
follow me.</p>
<p><i>Cade</i>. And you that love the Commons, follow me;<br />We
will not leave one lord, one gentleman,<br />Spare none but such as
go in clouted shoon.’</p>
<p>Act I. <i>Henry VI.</i></p>
<p>The next day was Sunday, and no Griff appeared in the morning.
Vexation, perhaps, prevented us from attending as much as we otherwise
might have done to Mr. Henderson when he told us that there were rumours
of a serious disturbance at Bristol; until Emily recollected that Griff
had been talking for some days past of riding over to see his friend
in the cavalry regiment there stationed, and we all agreed that it was
most likely that he was there; and our wrath began to soften in the
belief that he might have been detained to give his aid in the cause
of order, though his single arm could not be expected to effect as much
as at Hillside.</p>
<p>Long after dark we heard a horse’s feet, and in another minute
Griff, singed, splashed, and battered, had hurried into the room - ‘It
has begun!’ he said. ‘The revolution! I have
brought her - Lady Peacock. She was at Clifton, dreadfully alarmed.
She is almost at the door now, in her carriage. I’ll just
take the pony, and ride over to tell Eastwood in case he will call out
the Yeomanry.’</p>
<p>The wheels were to be heard, and everybody hastened out to receive
Lady Peacock, who was there with her maid, full of gratitude.
I heard her broken sentences as she came across the hall, about dreadful
scenes - frightful mob - she knew not what would have become of her
but for Griffith - the place was in flames when they left it - the military
would not act - Griffith had assured her that Mr. and Mrs. Winslow would
be so kind - as long as any place was a refuge</p>
<p>We really did believe we were at the outbreak of a revolution or
civil war, and, all little frets forgotten, listened appalled to the
tidings; how the appearance of Sir Charles Wetherall, the Recorder of
Bristol, a strong opponent to the Reform Bill, seemed to have inspired
the mob with fury. Griff and his friend the dragoon, while walking
in Broad Street, were astonished by a violent rush of riotous men and
boys, hooting and throwing stones as the Recorder’s carriage tried
to make its way to the Guildhall. In the midst a piteous voice
exclaimed -</p>
<p>‘Oh, Griffith! Mr. Griffith Winslow! Is it you?’
and Lady Peacock was seen retreating upon the stone steps of a house
either empty, or where the inhabitants were too much alarmed to open
the doors. She was terribly frightened, and the two gentlemen
stood in front of her till the tumultuary procession had passed by.
She was staying in lodgings at Clifton, and had driven in to Bristol
to shop, when she thus found herself entangled in the mob. They
then escorted her to the place where she was to meet her carriage, and
found it for her with some difficulty. Then, while the officer
returned to his quarters, Griff accompanied her far enough on the way
to Clifton to see that everything was quiet before her, and then returned
to seek out his friend. The court at the Guildhall had had to
be adjourned, but the rioters were hunting Sir Charles to the Mansion-House.
Griff was met by one of the Town Council, a tradesman with whom we dealt,
who, having perhaps heard of his prowess at Hillside, entreated him
to remain, offering him a bed, and saying that all friends of order
were needed in such a crisis as this. Griff wrote a note to let
us know what had become of him, but everything was disorganised, and
we did not get it till two days afterwards.</p>
<p>In the evening the mob became more violent, and in the midst of dinner
a summons came for Griff’s host to attend the Mayor in endeavouring
to disperse it. Getting into the Mansion-House by private back
ways, they were able to join the Mayor when he came out, amid a shower
of brickbats, sticks, and stones, and read the Riot Act three times
over, after warning them of the consequences of persisting in their
defiance.</p>
<p>‘But they were far past caring for that,’ said Griff.
‘An iron rail from the square was thrown in the midst of it, and
if I had not caught it there would have been an end of his Worship.’</p>
<p>The constables, with such help as Griff and a few others could give
them, defended the front of the Mansion-House, while the Recorder, for
whom they savagely roared, made his escape by the roof to another house.
A barricade was made with beds, tables, and chairs, behind which the
defenders sheltered themselves, while volleys of stones smashed in the
windows, and straw was thrown after them. But at last the tramp
of horses’ feet was heard, and the Dragoons came up.</p>
<p>‘We thought all over then,’ said Griff; ‘but Colonel
Brereton would not have a blow struck, far less a shot fired!
He would have it that it was a good-humoured mob! I heard him!
When one of his own men was brought up badly hurt with a brickbat, I
heard Ludlow, the Town-Clerk, ask him what he thought of their good
humour, and he had nothing to say but that it was an accident!
And the rogues knew it! He took care they should; he walked about
among them and shook hands with them!’</p>
<p>Griff waited at the Mansion-House all night, and helped to board
up the smashed windows; but at daylight Colonel Brereton came and insisted
on withdrawing the piquet on guard - not, however, sending a relief
for them, on the plea that they only collected a crowd. The instant
they were withdrawn, down came the mob in fresh force, so desperate
that all the defences were torn down, and they swarmed in so that there
was nothing for it but to escape over the roofs.</p>
<p>Griffith was sent to rouse the inhabitants of College Green and St.
Augustine’s Back to come in the King’s name to assist the
Magistrates, and he had many good stories of the various responses he
met with. But the rioters, inflamed by the wine they had found
in sacking the Mansion-House, and encouraged by the passiveness of the
troops, had become entirely masters of the situation. And Colonel
Brereton seems to have imagined that the presence of the soldiers acted
as an irritation; for in this crisis he actually sent them out of the
city to Keynsham, then came and informed the mob, who cheered him, as
well they might.</p>
<p>In the night the Recorder had left the city, and notices were posted
to that effect; also that the Riot Act had been read, and any further
disturbance would be capital felony. This escape of their victim
only had the effect of directing the rage of the populace against Bishop
Grey, who had likewise opposed the Reform Bill.</p>
<p>Messages had been sent to advise the Bishop, who was to preach that
day at the Cathedral, to stay away and sanction the omission of the
service; but his answer to one of his clergy was - ‘These are
times in which it is necessary not to shrink from danger! Our
duty is to be at our post.’ And he also said, ‘Where
can I die better than in my own Cathedral?’</p>
<p>Since the bells were ringing, and it was understood that the Bishop
was actually going to dare the peril, Griff and others of the defenders
decided that it was better to attend the service and fill up the nave
so as to hinder outrage. He said it was a most strange and wonderful
service. Chants and Psalms and Lessons and prayers going on their
course as usual, but every now and then in the pauses of the organ,
a howl or yell of the voice of the multitude would break on the ear
through the thick walls. Griff listened and hoped for a volley
of musketry. He was not tender-hearted! But none came, and
by the time the service was over, the mob had been greatly reinforced
and had broken into the prisons, set them on fire, and released the
prisoners. They were mustering on College Green for an attack
on the palace. Griff aided in guarding the entrance to the cloisters
till the Bishop and his family had had time to drive away to Almondsbury,
four miles off, and then the rush became so strong that they had to
give way. There was another great struggle at the door of the
palace, but it was forced open with a crowbar, while shouts rang out
‘No King and no Bishops!’ A fire was made in the dining-room
with chairs and tables, and live coals were put into the beds, while
the plunder went on.</p>
<p>Griff meantime had made his way to the party headed by the magistrates,
and accompanied by the dragoons, and the mob began to flee; but Colonel
Brereton had given strict orders that the soldiers should not fire,
and the plunderers rallied, made a fire in the Chapter House, and burnt
the whole of the library, shouting with the maddest triumph.</p>
<p>They next attacked the Cathedral, intending to burn that likewise,
but two brave gentlemen, Mr. Ralph and Mr. Linne, succeeded in saving
this last outrage, at the head of the better affected.</p>
<p>Griff had fought hard. He was all over bruises which he really
had never felt at the time, scarcely even now, though one side of his
face was turning purple, and his clothes were singed. In a sort
of council held at the repulse of the attack on the Cathedral, it had
been decided that the best thing he could do would be to give notice
to Sir George Eastwood, in order that the Yeomanry might be called out,
since the troops were so strangely prevented from acting. As he
rode through Clifton, he had halted at Lady Peacock’s, and found
her in extreme alarm. Indeed, no one could guess what the temper
of the mob might be the next day, or whether they might not fall upon
private houses. The Mansion-House, the prisons, the palace were
all burning and were an astounding sight, which terrified her exceedingly,
and she was sending out right and left to endeavour to get horses to
take her away. In common humanity, and for old acquaintance sake,
it was impossible not to help her, and Griff had delayed, to offer any
amount of reward in her name for posthorses, which he had at last secured.
Her own man-servant, whom she had sent in quest of some, had never returned,
and she had to set off without him, Griff acting as outrider; but after
the first there was no more difficulty about horses, and she had been
able to change them at the next stage.</p>
<p>We all thought the days of civil war were really begun, as the heads
of this account were hastily gathered; but there was not much said,
only Mr. Frank Fordyce laid his hand on Griff’s shoulder and said,
‘Well done, my boy; but you have had enough for to-day.
If you’ll lend me a horse, Winslow, I’ll ride over to Eastwood.
That’s work for the clergy in these times, eh? Griffith
should rest. He may be wanted to-morrow. Only is there any
one to take a note home for me, to say where I’m gone;’
and then he added with that sweet smile of his, ‘Some one will
be more the true knight than ever, eh, you Griffith you - ’</p>
<p>Griffith coloured a little, and Lady Peacock’s eyes looked
interrogative. When the horse was announced, Griff followed Mr.
Fordyce into the hall, and came back announcing that, unless summoned
elsewhere, he should go to breakfast at Hillside, and so hear what was
decided on. He longed to be back at the scene of action, but was
so tired out that he could not dispense with another night’s rest;
though he took all precautions for being called up, in case of need.</p>
<p>However, nothing came, and he rode to the Rectory in Yeomanry equipment.
Nor could any one doubt that in the ecstasy of meeting such a hero,
all the little misunderstanding and grief of the night before was forgotten?
Ellen looked as if she trod on air, when she came down with her father
to report that Griffith had gone, according to the orders sent, to join
the rest of the Yeomanry, who were to advance upon Bristol. They
had seen, and tried to turn back, some of the villagers who were starting
with bludgeons to share in the spoil, and who looked sullen, as if they
were determined not to miss their share.</p>
<p>I do not think we were very much alarmed for Griff’s safety
or for our own, not even the ladies. My mother had the lion-heart
of her naval ancestors, and Ellen was in a state of exaltation.
Would that I could put her before other eyes, as she stood with hands
clasped and glowing cheek.</p>
<p>‘Oh! - think! - think of having one among us who is as real
and true knight as ever watched his armour -</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘“For king, for church, for lady fight!”<br />It
has all come gloriously true!’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘Should not you like to bind on his spurs?’ I asked somewhat
mischievously; but she was serious as she said, ‘I am sure he
has won them.’ All the rest of the Fordyces came down afterwards,
too anxious to stay at home. Our elders felt the matter more gravely,
thinking of what civil war might mean to us all, and what an awful thing
it was for Englishmen to be enrolled against each other. Nottingham
Castle had just been burnt, and things looked only too like revolution,
especially considering the inaction of the dragoons. After Griff
had left Bristol, there had been some terrible scenes at the Custom
House, where the ringleaders - unhappy men! - were caught in a trap
of their own and perished miserably.</p>
<p>However, by the morning, the order sent from Lord Hill, the arrival
of Major Beckwith from Gloucester, and the proceedings of the good-humoured
mob had put an end to poor Brereton’s hesitations; a determined
front had been shown; the mob had been fairly broken up; troops from
all quarters poured into the city, and by dinner-time Griff came back
with the news that all was quiet and there was nothing more to fear.
Ellen and Emily both flew out to meet him at the first sound of the
horse’s feet, and they all came into the drawing-room together
- each young lady having hold of one of his hands - and Ellen’s
face in such a glow, that I rather suspect that he had snatched a reward
which certainly would not have been granted save in such a moment of
uplifted feeling, and when she was thankful to her hero for forgetting
how angry he had been with her two days before.</p>
<p>Minor matters were forgotten in the details of his tidings, as he
stood before the fire, shining in his silver lace, and relating the
tragedy and the comedy of the scene.</p>
<p>It was curious, as the evening passed on, to see how Ellen and Lady
Peacock regarded each other, now that the tension of suspense was over.
To Ellen, the guest was primarily a distressed and widowed dame, delivered
by Griff, to whom she, as his lady love, was bound to be gracious and
kind; nor had they seen much of one another, the elder ladies sitting
in the drawing-room, and we in our own regions; but we were all together
at dinner and afterwards, and Lady Peacock, who had been in a very limp,
nervous, and terrified state all day, began to be the Selina Clarkson
we remembered, and ‘more too.’ She was still in mourning,
but she came down to dinner in gray satin sheen, and with her hair in
a most astonishing erection of bows and bands, on the very crown of
her head, raising her height at least four inches. Emily assures
me that it was the mode in use, and that she and Ellen wore their hair
in the same style, appealing to portraits to prove it. I can only
say that they never astonished my weak mind in the like manner; and
that their heads, however dressed, only appeared to me a portion of
the general woman, and part of the universal fitness of things.
Ellen was likewise amazed, most likely not at the hair, but at the transformation
of the disconsolate, frightened widow, into the handsome, fashionable,
stylish lady, talking over London acquaintance and London news with
my father and Griff whenever they left the endless subject of the Bristol
adventures.</p>
<p>The widow had gained a good deal in beauty since her early girlhood,
having regular features, eyes of an uncommon deep blue, very black brows,
eye-lashes, and hair, and a form of the kind that is better after early
youth is over. ‘A fine figure of a woman,’ Parson
Frank pronounced her, and his wife, with the fine edge of her lips replied,
‘exactly what she is!’</p>
<p>She looked upon us younger ones as mere children still - indeed she
never looked at me at all if she could help it - but she mortally offended
Emily by penning her up in a corner, and asking if Griff were engaged
to that sentimental little girl.</p>
<p>Emily coloured like a turkey cock between wrath and embarrassment,
and hotly protested against the word sentimental.</p>
<p>‘Ah yes, I see!’ she said in a patronising tone, ‘she
is your bosom friend, eh? That’s the way those things always
begin. You need not answer: I see it all. And no doubt it
is a capital thing for him; properties joining and all. And she
will get a little air and style when he takes her to London.’
It was a tremendous offence even to hint that Ellen’s style was
capable of improvement; perhaps an unprejudiced eye would have said
that the difference was between high-bred simplicity and the air of
fashion and society.</p>
<p>In our eyes Lady Peacock was the companion of the elders, and as
such was appreciated by the gentlemen; but neither of the two mothers
was equally delighted with her, nor was mine at all sorry when, on Tuesday,
the boxes were packed, posthorses sent for, and my Lady departed, with
great expressions of thankfulness to us all.</p>
<p>‘A tulip to a jessamine,’ muttered Griff as she drove
off, and he looked up at his Ellen’s sweet refined face.</p>
<p>The unfortunate Colonel Brereton put an end to himself when the court-martial
was half over. How Clarence was shocked and how ardent was his
pity! But Griffith received the thanks of the Corporation of Bristol
for his gallant conduct, when the special assize was held in January.
Mrs. Fordyce was almost as proud of him as we were, and there was much
less attempt at restraining the terms on which he stood with Ellen -
though still the formal engagement was not permitted.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXIII - QUICKSANDS</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p> ‘Whither shall I go?<br />Where shall I hide
my forehead and my eyes?’</p>
<p>TENNYSON.</p>
<p>It was in the May of the ensuing year, 1832, that Clarence was sent
down to Bristol for a few weeks to take the place of one of the clerks
in the office where the cargoes of the incoming vessels of the firm
were received and overhauled.</p>
<p>This was a good-natured arrangement of Mr. Castleford’s in
order to give him change of work and a sight of home, where, by the
help of the coach, he could spend his Sundays. That first spring
day on his way down was a great delight and even surprise to him, who
had never seen our profusion of primroses, cowslips, and bluebells,
nor our splendid blossom of trees - apple, lilac, laburnum - all vieing
in beauty with one another. Emily conducted him about in great
delight, taking him over to Hillside to see Mrs. Fordyce’s American
garden, blazing with azaleas, and glowing with rhododendrons.
He came back with a great bouquet given to him by Ellen, who had been
unusually friendly with him, and he was more animated and full of life
than for years before.</p>
<p>Next time he came he looked less happy. There was plenty of
room in our house, but he used, by preference, the little chamber within
mine, and there at night he asked me to lend him a few pounds, since
Griffith had written one of his off-hand letters asking him to discharge
a little bill or two at Bristol, giving the addresses, but not sending
the accounts. This was no wonder, since any enclosure doubled
the already heavy postage. One of these bills was for some sporting
equipments from the gunsmith’s; another, much heavier, from a
tavern for breakfasts, or rather luncheons, to parties of gentlemen,
mostly bearing date in the summer and autumn of 1830, before the friendship
with the Fordyces had begun. On Clarence’s defraying the
first and applying for the second, two more had come in, one from a
jeweller for a pair of drop-earrings, the other from a nurseryman for
a bouquet of exotics. Doubting of these two last, Clarence had
written to Griff, but had not yet received an answer. The whole
amount was so much beyond what he had been led to expect that he had
not brought enough money to meet it, and wanted an advance from me,
promising repayment, to which latter point I could not assent, as both
of us knew, but did not say, we should never see the sum again, and
to me it only meant stinting in new books and curiosities. We
were anxious to get the matter settled at once, as Griffith spoke of
being dunned; and it might be serious, if the tradesmen applied to my
father when he was still groaning over revelations of college expenses.</p>
<p>On the ensuing Saturday, Clarence showed me Griff’s answer
- ‘I had forgotten these items. The earrings were a wedding
present to the pretty little barmaid, who had been very civil.
The bouquet was for Lady Peacock; I felt bound to do something to atone
for mamma’s severe virtue. It is all right, you best of
brothers.’</p>
<p>It was consolatory that all the dates were prior to the Hillside
fire, except that of the bouquet. As to the earrings, we all knew
that Griff could not see a pretty girl without talking nonsense to her.
Anyway, if they were a wedding present, there was an end of it; and
we were only glad to prevent any hint of them from reaching the ears
of the authorities.</p>
<p>Clarence had another trouble to confide to me. He had strong
reason to believe that Tooke, the managing clerk at Bristol, was carrying
on a course of peculation, and feathering his nest at the expense of
the firm. What a grand discovery, thought I, for such a youth
to have made. The firm would be infinitely obliged to him, and
his fortune would be secured. He shook his head, and said that
was all my ignorance; the man, Tooke, was greatly trusted, especially
by Mr. Frith the senior partner, and was so clever and experienced that
it would be almost impossible to establish anything against him.
Indeed he had browbeaten Clarence, and convinced him at the moment that
his suspicions and perplexities were only due to the ignorance of a
foolish, scrupulous youth, who did not understand the customs and perquisites
of an agency. It was only when Clarence was alone, and reflected
on the matter by the light of experience gained on a similar expedition
to Liverpool, that he had perceived that Mr. Tooke had been throwing
dust in his eyes.</p>
<p>‘I shall only get into a scrape myself,’ said Clarence
despondently. ‘I have felt it coming ever since I have been
at Bristol;’ and he pushed his hair back with a weary hopeless
gesture.</p>
<p>‘But you don’t mean to let it alone?’ I cried indignantly.</p>
<p>He hesitated in a manner that painfully recalled his failing, and
said at last, ‘I don’t know; I suppose I ought not.’</p>
<p>‘Suppose?’ I cried.</p>
<p>‘It is not so easy as you think,’ he answered, ‘especially
for one who has forfeited the right to be believed. I must wait
till I have an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Castleford, and then I
can hardly do more than privately give him a hint to be watchful.
You don’t know how things are in such houses as ours. One
may only ruin oneself without doing any good.’</p>
<p>‘You cannot write to him?’</p>
<p>‘Certainly not. He has taken his family to Mrs. Castleford’s
home in the north of Ireland for a month or six weeks. I don’t
know the address, and I cannot run the risk of the letter being opened
at the office.’</p>
<p>‘Can’t you speak to my father?’</p>
<p>‘Impossible! it would be a betrayal. He would do things
for which I should never be forgiven. And, after all, remember,
it is no business of mine. I know of agents at the docks who do
such things as a matter of course. It is only that I happen to
know that Harris at Liverpool does not. Very possibly old Frith
knows all about it. I should only get scored down as a meddlesome
prig, worse hypocrite than they think me already.’</p>
<p>He said a good deal more to this effect, and I remember exclaiming,
‘Oh, Clarence, the old story!’ and then being frightened
at the whiteness that came over his face.</p>
<p>Little did I know the suffering to which those words of mine condemned
him. For not only had he to make up his mind to resistance, which
to his nature was infinitely worse than it was to Griffith to face a
raging mob, but he knew very well that it would almost inevitably produce
his own ruin, and renew the disgrace out of which he was beginning to
emerge. I did not - even while I prayed that he might do the right
- guess at his own agony of supplication, carried on incessantly, day
and night, sleeping and waking, that the Holy Spirit of might should
brace his will and govern his tongue, and make him say the right thing
at the right time, be the consequences what they might. No one,
not constituted as he was, can guess at the anguish he endured.
I knew no more. Clarence did not come home the next Saturday,
to my mother’s great vexation; but on Tuesday a small parcel was
given to me, brought from our point of contact with the Bristol coach.
It contained some pencils I had asked him to get, and a note marked
<i>private</i>. Here it is -</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘DEAR EDWARD - I am summoned to town. Tooke has no doubt
forestalled me. We have had some curious interviews, in which
he first, as I told you, persuaded me out of my senses that it was all
right, and then, finding me still dissatisfied, tried in a delicate
fashion to apprise me that I had a claim to a share of the plunder.
When I refused to appropriate anything without sanction from headquarters,
he threatened me with the consequences of presumptuous interference.
It came to bullying at last. I hardly know what I answered, but
I don’t think I gave in. Now, a sharp letter from old Frith
recalls me. Say nothing at home; and whatever you do, do not betray
Griff. He has more to lose than I. Help me in the true way,
as you know how. - Ever yours, W. C. W.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>I need not dwell on the misery of those days. It was well that
my father had ruled that our letters should not be family property.
Here were all the others discussing a proposed tour in the north of
Devon, to be taken conjointly with the Fordyces, as soon as Griff should
come home. My mother said it would do me good; she saw I was flagging,
but she little guessed at the continual torment of anxiety, and my wonder
at the warning about Griff.</p>
<p>At the end of the week came another letter.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘You need not speak yet. Papa and mamma will know soon
enough. I brought down £150 in specie, to be paid over to
Tooke. He avers that only £130 was received. What
is my word worth against his? I am told that if I am not prosecuted
it will only be out of respect to my father. I am not dismissed
yet, but shall get notice as soon as letters come from Ireland.
I have written, but it is not in the nature of things that Mr. Castleford
should not accept such proofs as have been sent him. I have no
hope, and shall be glad when it is over. The part of black sheep
is not a pleasant one. Say not a word, and do not let my father
come up. He could do no good, and to see him believing it all
would be the last drop in the bucket.</p>
<p><i>N.B</i>. - In this pass, nothing would be saved by bringing Griff
into it, so be silent on your life. Innocence does not seem to
be much comfort at present. Maybe it will come in time.
I know you will not drop me, dear Ted, wherever I may be.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Need I tell the distress of those days of suspense and silence, when
my only solace was in being left alone, and in writing letters to Clarence
which were mostly torn up again.</p>
<p>My horror was lest he should be driven to go off to the sea, which
he loved so well, knowing, as nobody else did, the longing that sometimes
seized him for it, a hereditary craving that curiously conflicted with
the rest of his disposition; and, indeed, his lack was more of moral
than of physical courage. It haunted me constantly that his entreaty
that my father should not come to London was a bad sign, and that he
would never face such another return home. And was I justified
in keeping all this to myself, when my father’s presence might
save him from the flight that would indeed be the surrender of his character,
and to the life of a common sailor? Never have I known such leaden
days as these, yet the misery was not a tithe of what Clarence was undergoing.</p>
<p>I was right in my forebodings. Prosecution and a second return
home in shame and disgrace were alike hideous to Clarence, and the present
was almost equally terrible, for nobody at the office had any doubt
of his guilt, and the young men who had sneered at his strictness and
religious habits regarded him as an unmasked hypocrite, only waiting
on sufferance till his greatly deceived patron should write to decide
on the steps to be taken with him, while he knew he was thought to be
brazening it out in hopes of again deceiving Mr. Castleford.</p>
<p>The sea began to exert its power over him, and he thought with longing
of its freedom, as if the sails of the vessels were the wings of a dove
to flee away and be at rest. He had no illusions as to the roughness
of the life and companionship; but in his present mood, the frank rudeness
and profanity of the sailors seemed preferable to his cramped life,
and the scowls of his fellows; and he knew himself to have seamanship
enough to rise quickly, even if he could not secure a mate’s berth
at first.</p>
<p>Mr. Castleford could not be heard from till the end of the week.
Friday, Saturday came and not a word. That was the climax!
When the consignment of cash, hitherto carried by Clarence to the Bank
of England, was committed to another clerk, the very office boy sniggered,
and the manager demonstratively waited to see him depart.</p>
<p>Unable to bear it any longer, he walked towards Wapping, bought a
Southwester, examined the lists of shipping, and entered into conversation
with one or two sailors about the vessels making up their crews; intending
to go down after dark, to meet the skipper of a craft bound for Lisbon,
who, he heard, was so much in want of a mate as perhaps to overlook
the lack of testimonials, and at any rate take him on board on Sunday.</p>
<p>Going home to pick up a few necessaries, a book lent to him by Miss
Newton came in his way, and he felt drawn to carry it home, and see
her face for the last time.</p>
<p>All unconscious of his trouble and of his intentions, the good lady
told him of her strong desire to hear a celebrated preacher at a neighbouring
church on the Sunday evening, but said that in her partial blindness
and weakness, she was afraid to venture, unless he would have the extreme
goodness, as she said, to take care of her. He saw that she wished
it so much that he had not the heart to refuse, and he recollected likewise
that very early on Monday morning would answer his purpose equally well.</p>
<p>It was the 7th of June. The Psalm was the 37th - the supreme
lesson of patience. ‘Hold thee still in the Lord; and abide
patiently on Him; and He shall bring it to pass. He shall make
thy righteousness as clear as the light, and thy just dealing as the
noonday.’</p>
<p>The awful sense of desolation seemed to pass away under those words,
with that gentle woman beside him. And the sermon was on ‘Oh
tarry thou the Lord’s leisure; be strong, and He shall comfort
thine heart; and put thou thy trust in the Lord.’</p>
<p>Clarence remembered nothing but the text. But it was borne
in upon him that his purpose of flight was ‘the old story,’
- cowardice and virtual distrust of the Lord, as well as absolute cruelty
to us who loved him.</p>
<p>When he had deposited Miss Newton at her own door, he whispered thanks,
and an entreaty for her prayers.</p>
<p>And then he went home, and fought the battle of his life, with his
own horrible dread of Mr. Castleford’s disappointment; of possible
prosecution; of the shame at home; the misery of a life a second time
blighted. He fought it out on his knees, many a time persuading
himself that flight would not be a sin, then returning to the sense
that it was a temptation of his worse self to be overcome. And
by morning he knew that it would be a surrender of himself to his lower
nature, and the evil spirit behind it; while, by facing the worst that
could befall him, he would be falling into the hand of the Lord.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXIV - AFTER THE TEMPEST</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘Nor deem the irrevocable past<br />As wholly wasted, wholly
vain,<br />If rising on its wrecks at last<br />To something nobler
we attain.’</p>
<p>LONGFELLOW.</p>
<p>All the rest of the family were out, and I was relieved by being
alone with my distress, not forced to hide it, when the door opened
and ‘Mr. Castleford’ was announced. After one moment’s
look at me, one touch of my hand, he must have seen that I was faint
with anxiety, and said, ‘It is all right, Edward; I see you know
all. I am come from Bristol to tell your father that he may be
proud of his son Clarence.’</p>
<p>I don’t know what I did. Perhaps I sobbed and cried,
but the first words I could get out were, ‘Does he know?
Oh! it may be too late. He may be gone off to sea!’ I cried,
breaking out with my chief fear. Mr. Castleford looked astounded,
then said, ‘I trust not. I sent off a special messenger
last night, as soon as I saw my way - ’</p>
<p>Then I breathed a little more freely, and could understand what he
was telling me, namely, that Tooke had accused Clarence of abstracting
£20 from the sum in his charge. The fellow accounted for
it by explaining that young Winslow had been paying extravagant bills
at a tavern, where the barmaid showed his presents, and boasted of her
conquest. All this had been written to Mr. Castleford by his partner,
and he was told that it was out of deference to himself that his <i>protégé</i>
was not in custody, nor had received notice of dismissal; but, no doubt,
he would give his sanction to immediate measures, and communicate with
the family.</p>
<p>The effect had been to make the good man hurry at once from the Giant’s
Causeway to Bristol, where he had arrived on Sunday, to investigate
the books and examine the underlings. In the midst Tooke attempted
to abscond, but he was brought back as he was embarking in an American
vessel; and he then confessed the whole, - how speculation had led to
dishonesty, and following evil customs not uncommon in other firms.
Then, when the fugitive found that young Winslow was too acute to be
blinded, and that it had been a still greater mistake to try to overcome
his integrity, self-defence required his ruin, or at any rate his expulsion,
before he could gain Mr. Castleford’s ear.</p>
<p>Tooke really believed that the discreditable bills were the young
man’s own, and proofs of concealed habits of dissipation; but
this excellent man had gone into the matter, repaired to the tradesfolk,
learnt the date, and whose the accounts really were, and had even hunted
up the barmaid, who was not married after all, and had no hesitation
in avowing that her beau had been the handsome young Yeomanry lieutenant.
Mr. Castleford had spent the greater part of Monday in this painful
task, but had not been clear enough till quite late in the evening to
despatch an express to his partner, and to Clarence, whom he desired
to meet him here.</p>
<p>‘He has acted nobly,’ said our kind friend. ‘His
only error seems to have been in being too good a brother.’</p>
<p>This made me implore that nothing should be said about Griffith’s
bills, showing those injunctions of Clarence’s which had so puzzled
me, and explaining the circumstances.</p>
<p>Mr. Castleford hummed and hawed, and perhaps wished he had seen my
father before me; but I prevailed at last, and when the others came
in from their drive, there was nothing to alloy the intelligence that
Clarence had shown rare discernment, as well as great uprightness, steadfastness,
and moral courage.</p>
<p>My mother, when she had taken in the fact, actually shed tears of
joy. Emily stood by me, holding my hand. My father said,
‘It is all owing to you, Castleford, and the helping hand you
gave the poor boy.’</p>
<p>‘Nay,’ was the answer, ‘it seems to me that it
was owing to his having the root of the matter in him to overcome his
natural failings.’</p>
<p>Still, in all the rejoicing, my heart failed me lest the express
should have come too late, and Clarence should be already on the high
seas, for there had been no letter from him on Sunday morning.
It was doubtful whether Mr. Castleford’s messenger could reach
London in time for tidings to come down by the coach - far less did
we expect Clarence - and we had nearly finished the first course at
dinner, when we heard the front door open, and a voice speaking to the
butler. Emily screamed ‘It’s he! Oh mamma, may
I?’ and flew out into the hall, dragging in a pale, worn and weary
wight, all dust and heat, having travelled down outside the coach on
a broiling day, and walked the rest of the way. He looked quite
bewildered at the rush at him; my father’s ‘Well done, Clarence,’
and strong clasp; and my mother’s fervent kiss, and muttered something
about washing his hands.</p>
<p>Formal folks, such as we were, had to sit in our chairs; and when
he came back apologising for not dressing, as he had left his portmanteau
for the carrier, he looked so white and ill that we were quite shocked,
and began to realise what he had suffered. He could not eat the
food that was brought back for him, and allowed that his head was aching
dreadfully; but, after a glass of wine had been administered, it was
extracted that he had met Mr. Frith at the office door, and been gruffly
told that Mr. Castleford was satisfied, and he might consider himself
acquitted.</p>
<p>‘And then I had your letter, sir, thank you,’ said Clarence,
scarcely restraining his tears.</p>
<p>‘The thanks are on our side, my dear boy,’ said Mr. Castleford.
‘I must talk it over with you, but not till you have had a night’s
rest. You look as if you had not known one for a good while.’</p>
<p>Clarence gave a sort of trembling smile, not trusting himself to
speak. Approbation at home was so new and strange to him that
he could scarcely bear it, worn out as he was by nearly a month of doubt,
distress, apprehension, and self-debate.</p>
<p>My mother went herself to hasten the preparation of his room, and
after she had sent him to bed went again to satisfy herself that he
was comfortable and not feverish. She came back wiping away a
tear, and saying he had looked up at her just as when she had the three
of us in our nursery cribs. In truth these two had seldom been
so happy together since those days, though the dear mother, while thankful
that he had not failed, was little aware of the conflict his resolution
had cost him, and the hot journey and long walk came in for more blame
for his exhaustion than they entirely deserved.</p>
<p>My father perhaps understood more of the trial; for when she came
back, declaring that all that was needed was sleep, and forbidding me
to go to my room before bedtime, he said he must bid the boy good-night.</p>
<p>And he spoke as his reserve would have never let him speak at any
other time, telling Clarence how deeply thankful he felt for the manifestation
of such truthfulness and moral courage as he said showed that the man
had conquered the failings of the boy.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, when I retired for the night, it was to find Clarence
asleep indeed, but most uneasily, tossing, moaning, and muttering broken
sentences about ‘disgracing his pennant,’ ‘never bearing
to see mamma’s face’ - and the like. I thought it
a kindness to wake him, and he started up. ‘Ted, is it you?
I thought I should never hear your dear old crutch again! Is it
really all right’ - then, sitting up and passing his hand over
his face, ‘I always mix it up with the old affair, and think the
court-martial is coming again.’</p>
<p>‘There’s all the difference now.’</p>
<p>‘Thank God! yes - He has dragged me through! But it did
not seem so in one’s sleep, nor waking neither - though sleep
is worst, and happily there was not much of that! Sit down, Ted;
I want to look at you. I can’t believe it is not three weeks
since I saw you last.’</p>
<p>We talked it all out, and I came to some perception of the fearful
ordeal it had been - first, in the decision neither to shut his eyes,
nor to conceal that they were open; and then in the lack of presence
of mind and the sense of confusion that always beset him when browbeaten
and talked down, so that, in the critical contest with Tooke, he felt
as if his feet were slipping from under him, and what had once been
clear to him was becoming dim, so that he had only been assured that
he had held his ground by Tooke’s redoubled persuasions and increased
anger. And for a clerk, whose years were only twenty-one, to oppose
a manager, who had been in the service more than the whole of that space,
was preposterous insolence, and likely to result in the utter ruin of
his own prospects, and the character he had begun to retrieve.
It was just after this, the real crisis, that he had the only dream
which had not been misery and distress. In it she - she yonder
- yes, the lady with the lamp, came and stood by him, and said, ‘Be
steadfast.’</p>
<p>‘It was a dream,’ said Clarence. ‘She was
not as she is in the mullion room, not crying, but with a sweet, sad
look, almost like Miss Fordyce - if Miss Fordyce ever looked sad.
It was only a dream.’</p>
<p>Yet it had so refreshed and comforted him that we have often since
discussed whether the spirit really visited him, or whether this was
the manner in which conscience and imagination acted on his brain.
Indeed, he always believed that the dream had been either heaven-sent
or heaven-permitted.</p>
<p>The die had been cast in that interview when he had let it be seen
that he was dangerous, and could not be bought over. The after
consequences had been the terrible distress and temptation I have before
described, only most inadequately. ‘But that,’ said
Clarence, half smiling, ‘only came of my being such a wretched
creature as I am. There, dear old Miss Newton saved me - yes,
she did - most unconsciously, dear old soul. Don’t you remember
how Griff used to say she maundered over the text. Well, she did
it all the way home in my ear, as she clung to my arm - “Be strong,
and He shall comfort thine heart.” And then I knew my despair
and determination to leave it all behind were a temptation - “the
old story,” as you told me, and I prayed God to help me, and just
managed to fight it out. Thank God for her!’</p>
<p>If it had not been for that good woman, he would have been out of
reach - already out in the river - before Mr. Castleford’s messenger
had reached London! He might call himself a poor creature - and
certainly a man of harder, bolder stuff would not have fared so badly
in the strife; but it always seemed to me in after years that much of
what he called the poor creature - the old, nervous, timid, diffident
self - had been shaken off in that desperate struggle, perhaps because
it had really given him more self-reliance, and certainly inspired others
with confidence in him.</p>
<p>We talked late enough to have horrified my mother, but I did not
leave him till he was sleeping like a child, nor did he wake till I
was leaving the room at the sound of the bell. It was alleged
that it was the first time in his life that he had been late for prayers.
Mr. Castleford said he was very glad, and my mother, looking severely
at me, said she knew we had been talking all night, and then went off
to satisfy herself whether he ought to be getting up.</p>
<p>There was no doubt on that score, for he was quite himself again,
though he was, in looks and in weariness, just as if he had recovered
from a bad illness, or, as he put it himself, he felt as tired and bruised
as if he had been in a stiff gale. Mr. Castleford was sorry to
be obliged to ask him to go through the whole matter with him in the
study, and the result was that he was pronounced to have an admirable
head for business, as well as the higher qualities that had been put
to the test. After that his good friend insisted that he should
have a long and complete holiday, at first proposing to take him to
Ireland, but giving the notion up on hearing of our projected excursion
to the north of Devon. Pending this, Clarence was, for nearly
a week, fit for nothing but lying on the grass in the shade, playing
with the cats and dogs, or with little Anne, looking over our drawings,
listening to Wordsworth, our reigning idol, - and enjoying, with almost
touching gratitude, the first approach to petting that had ever fallen
to his share.</p>
<p>The only trouble on his mind was the Quarter-Session. Mr. Castleford
would hardly have prosecuted an old employé, but Mr. Frith was
furious, and resolved to make an example. Tooke had, however,
so carefully entrenched himself that nothing could be actually made
a subject of prosecution but the abstraction of the £20 of which
he had accused Clarence, who had to prove the having received and delivered
it.</p>
<p>It was a very painful affair, and Tooke was sentenced to seven years’
transportation. I believe he became a very rich and prosperous
man in New South Wales, and founded a family. My father received
warm compliments upon his sons, and Clarence had the new sensation of
being honourably coupled with Griffith, though he laughed at the idea
of mere honesty with fierce struggles being placed beside heroism with
no struggle at all.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXV - HOLIDAY-MAKING</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘The child upon the mountain side<br /> Plays
fearless and at ease,<br />While the hush of purple evening<br /> Spreads
over earth and seas.<br />The valley lies in shadow,<br /> But
the valley lies afar;<br />And the mountain is a slope of light<br /> Upreaching
to a star.’</p>
<p>MENELLA SMEDLEY.</p>
<p>How pleasant it was to hear Griffith’s cheery voice, as he
swung himself down, out of a cloud of dust, from the top of the coach
at the wayside stage-house, whither Clarence and I had driven in the
new britshka to meet him. While the four fine coach-horses were
led off, and their successors harnessed in almost the twinkling of an
eye, Griff was with us; and we did nothing but laugh and poke fun at
each other all the way home, without a word of graver matters.</p>
<p>I was resolved, however, that Griff should know how terribly his
commission had added to Clarence’s danger, and how carefully the
secret had been guarded; and the first time I could get him alone, I
told him the whole.</p>
<p>The effect was one of his most overwhelming fits of laughter.
‘Poor old Bill! To think of his being accused of gallanting
about with barmaids!’ (an explosion at every pause) ‘and
revelling with officers! Poor old Bill! it was as bad as Malvolio
himself.’</p>
<p>When, indignant at the mirth excited by what had nearly cost us so
dear, I observed that these items had nearly turned the scale against
our brother, Griff demanded how we could have been such idiots as not
to have written to him; I might at least have had the sense to do so.
As to its doing him harm at Hillside, Parson Frank was no fool, and
knew what men were made of! Griff would have taken the risk, come
at once, and thrust the story down the fellow’s throat (as indeed
he would have done). The idea of Betsy putting up with a pious
young man like Bill, whose only flame had ever been old Miss Newton!
And he roared again at the incongruous pair. ‘Oh, wasn’t
she married after all, the hussy? She always had a dozen beaux,
and professed to be on the point of putting up her banns; so if the
earrings were not a wedding present, they might have been, ought to
have been, and would be some time or other.’</p>
<p>Then he patted me, and declared there was no occasion for my disgusted
looks, for no one knew better than himself that he had the best brace
of brothers in existence, wanting in nothing but common sense and knowledge
of the world. As to Betsy - faugh! I need not make myself
uneasy about her; she knew what a civil word was worth much better than
I did.</p>
<p>He showed considerable affection for Clarence after a fashion of
his own, which we three perfectly understood, and preferred to anything
more conventional. Griff was always delightful, and he was especially
so on that vacation, when every one was in high spirits; so that the
journey is, as I look back on it, like a spot of brilliant sunshine
in the distant landscape.</p>
<p>Mrs. Fordyce kept house with her father-in-law, little Anne, and
Martyn, whose holidays began a week after we had started. The
two children were allowed to make a desert island and a robbers’
cave in the beech wood; and the adventures which their imaginations
underwent there completely threw ours into the shade.</p>
<p>The three ladies and I started in the big Hillside open carriage,
with my brothers on the box and the two fathers on horseback.
Frank Fordyce was a splendid rider, as indeed was the old rector, who
had followed the hounds, made a leap over a fearful chasm, still known
as the Parson’s Stride, and had been an excellent shot.
The renunciation of field sports had been a severe sacrifice to Frank
Fordyce, and showed of what excellent stuff he was made. He used
to say that it was his own fault that he had to give them up; another
man would have been less engrossed by them. Though he only read
by fits and starts when his enthusiasm was excited, he was thorough,
able, and acute, and his intelligence and sympathy were my father’s
best compensation for the loss of London society.</p>
<p>The two riders were a great contrast. Mr. Winslow had the thoroughly
well-appointed, somewhat precise, and highly-polished air of a barrister,
and a thin, somewhat worn and colourless face, with grizzled hair and
white whiskers; and though he rode well, with full command of his horse,
he was old enough to have chosen Chancery for her sterling qualities.
Parson Frank, on the other hand, though a thorough gentleman, was as
ruddy and weather-browned as any farmer, and - albeit his features were
handsome and refined, and his figure well poised and athletic - he lost
something of dignity by easiness of gesture and carelessness of dress,
except on state occasions, when he discarded his beloved rusty old coat
and Oxford mixture trousers, and came out magnificent enough for an
archdeacon, if not an archbishop; while his magnificent horse, Cossack,
was an animal that a sporting duke might have envied.</p>
<p>Nothing ever tired that couple, but my father had stipulated for
exchanges with Griffith. On these occasions it almost invariably
happened that there was a fine view for Ellen to see, so that she was
exalted to the box with Griffith to show it to her, and Chancery was
consigned to Clarence. Griff was wont to say that Chancery deserved
her name, and that he would defy the ninety-ninth part of a tailor to
come to harm with her; but Clarence was utterly unpractised in riding,
did not like it, was tormented lest Cossack’s antics should corrupt
Chancery, and was mortally afraid of breaking the knees of the precious
mare. Not all Parson Frank’s good advice and kindly raillery
would induce him to risk riding her on a descent; and as our travels
were entirely up and down hill, he was often left leading her far behind,
in hot sun or misty rain, and then would come cantering hastily up,
reckless of parallels with John Gilpin, and only anxious to be in time
to help me out at the halting-place; but more than once only coming
in when the beefsteaks were losing their first charm, and then good-humouredly
serving as the general butt for his noble horsemanship. Did any
one fully comprehend how much pleasanter our journey was through the
presence of one person entirely at the service of the others?
For my own part, it made an immense difference to have one pair of strong
arms and dextrous well-accustomed hands always at my service, enabling
me to accomplish what no one else, kind as all were, would have ventured
on letting me attempt. Primarily, he was my devoted slave; but
he was at the beck and call of every one, making the inquiries, managing
the bargains, going off in search of whatever was wanting - taking in
fact all the ‘must be dones’ of the journal. The contemplation
of Cossack and Chancery being rubbed down, and devouring their oats
was so delightful to Frank Fordyce and Griffith that they seldom wished
to shirk it; but if there were any more pleasing occupation, it was
a matter of course that Clarence should watch to see that the ostlers
did their duty by the animals - an obsolete ceremony, by the bye.
He even succeeded in hunting up and hiring a side saddle when the lovers,
with the masterfulness of their nature, devised appropriating the horses
at all the most beautiful places, in spite of Frank’s murmur,
‘What will mamma say?’ But, as Griff said, it was
a real mercy, for Ellen was infinitely more at her ease with Chancery
than was Clarence. Then Emily had Clarence to walk up the hills
with her, and help her in botany - her special department in our tour.
Mine was sketching, Ellen’s, keeping the journal, though we all
shared in each other’s work at times; and Griff, whose line was
decidedly love-making, interfered considerably with us all, especially
with our chronicler. I spare you the tour, young people; it lies
before me on the table, profusely illustrated and written in many hands.
As I turn it over, I see noble Dunster on its rock; Clarence leading
Chancery down Porlock Hill; Parson Frank in vain pursuit of his favourite
ancient hat over that wild and windy waste, the sheep running away from
him; a boat tossing at lovely Minehead; a ‘native’ bargaining
over a crab with my mother; the wonderful Valley of Rocks, and many
another scene, ludicrous or grand; for, indeed, we were for ever taking
the one step between the sublime and the ridiculous! I am inclined
to believe it is as well worth reading as many that have rushed into
print, and it is full of precious reminiscences to Emily and me; but
the younger generation may judge for itself, and it would be an interruption
here. The country we saw was of utterly unimagined beauty to the
untravelled eyes of most of us. I remember Ellen standing on Hartland
Point, with her face to the infinite expanse of the Atlantic, and waving
back Griff with ‘Oh, don’t speak to me.’ Yet
the sea was a delight above all to my mother and Clarence. To
them it was a beloved friend; and magnificent as was Lynmouth, wonderful
as was Clovelly, and glorious as was Hartland, I believe they would
equally have welcomed the waves if they had been on the flattest of
muddy shores! The ripple, plash, and roar were as familiar voices,
the salt smell as native air; and my mother never had thawed so entirely
towards Clarence as when she found him the only person who could thoroughly
participate her feeling.</p>
<p>At Minehead they stayed out, walking up and down together in the
summer twilight till long after every one else was tired out, and had
gone in; and when at last they appeared she was leaning on Clarence’s
arm, an unprecedented spectacle!</p>
<p>At Appledore, the only place on that rugged coast where boating tempted
them, there was what they called a pretty little breeze, but quite enough
to make all the rest of us decline venturing out into Bideford bay.
They, however, found a boatman and made a trip, which was evidently
such enjoyment to them, that my father, who had been a little restless
and uneasy all the time, declared on their return that he felt quite
jealous of Neptune, and had never known what a cruelty he was committing
in asking a sea-nymph to marry a London lawyer.</p>
<p>Mr. Fordyce told him he was afraid of being like the fisherman who
wedded a mermaid, and made Ellen tell the story in her own pretty way;
but while we were laughing over it, I saw my mother steal her hand into
my father’s and give it a strong grasp. Such gestures, which
she denominated pawing, when she witnessed them in Emily, were so alien
to her in general that no doubt this little action was infinitely expressive
to her husband. She was wonderfully softened, and Clarence implied
to me that it was the first time she had ever seemed to grieve for him
more than she despised him, or to recognise his deprivation more than
his disgrace, - implied, I say, for the words he used were little more
than - ‘You can’t think how nice she was to me.’</p>
<p>The regaining of esteem and self-respect was lessening Clarence’s
bashfulness, and bringing out his powers of conversation, so that he
began to be appreciated as a pleasant companion, answering Griff’s
raillery in like fashion, and holding his own in good-natured repartee.
Mr. Fordyce got on excellently with him in their tête-à-têtes
(who would not with Parson Frank?), and held him in higher estimation
than did Ellen. To her, honesty was common, tame, and uninteresting
in comparison with heroism; and Griff’s vague statement that Clarence
was the best brother in the world did not go for much. Emily and
I longed to get the two better acquainted, but it did not become possible
while Griff absorbed the maiden as his exclusive property.</p>
<p>The engagement was treated as an avowed and settled thing, though
I do not know that there had been a formal ratification by the parents;
but in truth Mrs. Fordyce must have tacitly yielded her consent when
she permitted her daughter to make the journey under the guardianship
of Parson Frank. After a walk in the ravine of Lynton, we became
aware of a ring upon Ellen’s finger; and Emily was allowed at
night to hear how and when it had been put on.</p>
<p>Ellen only slightly deepened her lovely carnation tints when her
father indulged in a little tender teasing and lamentation over himself.
She was thoroughly happy and proud of her hero, and not ashamed of owning
it.</p>
<p>There was one evening when she and I were sitting with our sketchbooks
in the shade on the beech at Ilfracombe, while the rest had gone, some
to bathe, the others to make purchases in the town. We had been
condoling with one another over the impossibility of finding anything
among our water-colours that would express the wondrous tints before
our eyes.</p>
<p>‘No, nothing can do it,’ I said at last; ‘we can
only make a sort of blot to assist our memories.’</p>
<p>‘Sunshine outside and in!’ said Ellen. ‘The
memory of such days as these can never fade away, - no, nor thankfulness
for them, I hope.’</p>
<p>Something then passed about the fact that it was quite possible to
go on in complete content in a quiet monotonous life, in an oyster-like
way, till suddenly there was an unveiling and opening of unimagined
capacities of enjoyment - as by a scene like this before us, by a great
poem, an oratorio, or, as I supposed, by Niagara or the Alps.
Ellen put it - ‘Oh! and by feelings for the great and good!’
Dear girl, her colour deepened, and I am sure she meant her bliss in
her connection with her hero. Presently, however, she passed on
to saying how such revelations of unsuspected powers of enjoyment helped
one to enter into what was meant by ‘Eye hath not seen, nor ear
heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive, the
things that God hath prepared for them that love him.’ Then
there was a silence, and an inevitable quoting of the <i>Christian Year</i>,
the guide to all our best thoughts -</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘But patience, there may come a time.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>And then a turning to the ‘Ode to Immortality,’ for Wordsworth
was our second leader, and we carried him on our tour as our one secular
book, as Keble was our one religious book. We felt that the principal
joy of all this beauty and delight was because there was something beyond.
Presently Ellen said, prettily and shyly, ‘I am sure all this
has opened much more to me than I ever thought of. I always used
to be glad that we had no brothers, because our cousins were not always
pleasant with us; but now I have learnt what valuable possessions they
are,’ she added, with the sweetest, prettiest glance of her bright
eyes.</p>
<p>I ventured to say that I was glad she said they, and hoped it was
a sign that she was finding out Clarence.</p>
<p>‘I have found out that I behaved so ill to him that I have
been ashamed ever since to look at him or speak to him,’ said
Ellen; ‘I long to ask his pardon, but I believe that would distress
him more than anything.’</p>
<p>In which she was right; and I was able to tell her of the excuses
there had been for the poor boy, how he had suffered, and how he had
striven to conquer his failings; and she replied that the words ‘Judge
not, that ye be not judged,’ always smote her with the remembrance
of her disdainfully cantering past him. There was a tear on her
eye-lashes, and it drew from me an apology for having brought a painful
recollection into our bright day.</p>
<p>‘There must be shade to throw up the lights,’ she said,
with her sparkling look.</p>
<p>Was it shade that we never fell into one of these grave talks when
Griffith was present, and that the slightest approach to them was sure
to be turned by him into jest?</p>
<p>We made our journey a little longer than we intended, crossing the
moors so as to spend a Sunday at Exeter; but Frank Fordyce left us,
not liking to give his father the entire duty of a third Sunday.</p>
<p>Emily says she has come to have a superstition that extensions of
original plans never turn out well, and certainly some of the charm
of our journey departed with the merry, genial Parson Frank. Our
mother was more anxious about Ellen, and put more restrictions on the
lovers than when the father was present to sanction their doings.
Griffith absolutely broke out against her in a way he had never ventured
before, when she forbade Ellen’s riding with him when he wanted
to hire a horse at Lydford and take an excursion on the moor before
joining us at Okehampton.</p>
<p>My father looked up, and said, ‘Griffith, I am surprised at
you.’ He was constrained to mutter some apology, and I believe
Ellen privately begged my mother’s pardon, owning her to have
been quite right; but, by the dear girl, the wonderful cascade and narrow
gorge were seen through swollen eyes. And poor Clarence must have
had a fine time of it when Griffith had to ride off with him <i>faute
de mieux.</i></p>
<p>All was cleared off, however, when we met again, for Griff’s
storms were very fleeting, and Ellen treated him as if she had to make
her own peace with him. She sacrificed her own enjoyment of Exeter
Cathedral to go about with him when he had had enough of it, but on
Sunday afternoon she altogether declined to walk with him till after
the second service. He laughed at her supposed passion for sacred
music, and offered to wait with her to hear the anthem from the nave.
‘No,’ she said, ‘that would be amusing ourselves instead
of worshipping.’</p>
<p>‘We’ve done our devoir in that way already,’ said
Griff. ‘Paid our dues.’</p>
<p>‘One can’t,’ cried Ellen, with an eager look.
‘One longs to do all the more when He has just let us have such
a taste of His beautiful things.’</p>
<p>‘<i>One</i>, perhaps, when one is a little saint,’ returned
Griff.</p>
<p>‘Oh don’t, Griff! I’m not <i>that</i>; but
you know every one wants all the help and blessing that can be got.
And then it is so delightful!’</p>
<p>He gave a long whistle. ‘Every one to his taste,’
he said; ‘especially you ladies.’</p>
<p>He did come to the Cathedral with us, but he had more than half spoilt
this last Sunday. Did he value her for what was best in her, or
was her influence raising him?</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXVI - C. MORBUS, ESQ.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears,<br />The plaintive
voice alone she hears,<br /> Sees but the dying man.’</p>
<p>SCOTT.</p>
<p>C. Morbus, Esq. Such was the card that some wicked wag, one
of Clarence’s fellow-clerks probably, left at his lodgings in
the course of the epidemic which was beginning its ravages even while
we were upon our pleasant journey - a shade indeed to throw out the
light.</p>
<p>In these days, the tidings of a visitation of cholera are heard with
compassion for crowded towns, but without special alarm for ourselves
or our friends, since its conditions and the mode of combating it have
come to be fairly understood.</p>
<p>In 1832, however, it was a disease almost unknown and unprecedented
except in its Indian abode, whence it had advanced city by city, seaport
by seaport, sweeping down multitudes before it; nor had science yet
discovered how to encounter or forestall it. We heard of it in
a helpless sort of way, as if it had been the plague or the Black Death,
and thought of its victims as doomed.</p>
<p>That terrible German engraving, ‘Death as a Foe,’ which
represents the grisly form as invading a ballroom in Paris, is an expression
of the feeling with which the scourge was regarded on that first occasion.
<i>Two Years Ago</i> gives some notion of the condition of things in
1849, but by that time there had been some experience, and means of
prevention were better understood. On the alarm in that year there
was a great inspection of cottages throughout Earlscombe and Hillside,
but in 1832 there was no notion of such precautions. Nevertheless,
on neither visitation, nor any subsequent one, has the disease come
nearer to us than Bristol.</p>
<p>As far as memory serves me, the idea was that wholesome food, regular
habits, and cleanliness were some protection, but one locality might
be as dangerous as another. There had been cases in London all
the spring, but no special anxiety was felt when Clarence returned to
his work in the end of July, much refreshed and invigorated by his holiday,
and with the understanding that he was to have a rise in position and
salary on Mr. Castleford’s return from Ireland, where he was still
staying with his wife’s relations. Clarence was received
at the office with a kind of shamefaced cordiality, as if every one
would fain forget the way in which he had been treated; and he was struck
by finding that all the talk was of the advances of the cholera, chiefly
at Rotherhithe. And a great shock awaited him. He went,
as soon as business hours were over, to thank good old Miss Newton for
the comfort and aid she had unwittingly given him, and to tell her from
what she had saved him. Alas! it was the last benefit she was
ever to confer on her old pupil. At the door he was told by a
weeping, terrified maid that she was very ill with cholera, and that
no hope was given. He tried to send up a message, but she was
in a state of collapse and insensible; and when he inquired the next
morning, the gentle spirit had passed away.</p>
<p>He attended her funeral that same evening. Griff said it was
a proof how your timid people will do the most foolhardy things; but
Clarence always held that the good woman had really done more for him
than any one in actually establishing a contact, so to say, between
his spirit and external truth, and he thought no mark of respect beyond
her deserts. She was a heavy loss to him, for no one else in town
gave him the sense of home kindness; and there was much more to depress
him, for several of his Sunday class were dead, and the school had been
broken up for the time, while the heats and the fruits of August contributed
to raise the mortality.</p>
<p>His return had released a couple more clerks for their holiday; it
was a slack time of year, with less business in hand than usual, and
the place looked empty. Mr. Frith worked on as usual, but preserved
an ungracious attitude, as though he were either still incredulous or,
if convinced against his will, resolved that ‘that prig of a Winslow’
should not presume upon his services. Altogether the poor fellow
was quite unhinged, and wrote such dismal bills of mortality, and meek,
resigned forebodings that my father was almost angry, declaring that
he would frighten himself into the sickness; yet I suppressed a good
deal, and never told them of the last will and testament in which he
distributed his possessions amongst us. Griff said he had a great
mind to go and shake old Bill up and row him well, but he never did.</p>
<p>More than a week passed by, two of Clarence’s regular days
for writing, but no letter came. My mother grew uneasy, and talked
of writing to Mrs. Robson, or, as we still called her, Gooch; but it
was doubtful whether the answer would contain much information, and
it was quite certain that any ill tidings would be sent to us.</p>
<p>At last we did hear, and found, as we had foreboded, that the letter
had not been written for fear of alarming us, or carrying infection,
though Clarence underlined the words ‘I am perfectly well.’</p>
<p>Having to take a message into the senior partner’s room, Clarence
had found the old man crouched over the table, writhing in the unmistakable
grip of the deadly enemy. No one else was available; Clarence
had to collect himself, send for the doctor, and manage the conveyance
of the patient to his rooms, which fortunately adjoined the office;
for, through all his influx of wealth, Mr. Frith had retained the habits
and expenditure of his early struggling days. His old housekeeper
and her drudge showed themselves terrified out of their senses, and
as incapable as unwilling. Naval experience, and waiting on me,
had taught Clarence helpfulness and handiness; and though this was the
very thing that had appalled his imagination, he seemed, as he said
afterwards, ‘to have got beyond his fright’ to the use of
his commonsense. And when at last the doctor came, and talked
of finding a nurse, if possible, for they were scarce articles, the
sufferer only entreated between his paroxysms, ‘Stay, Winslow!
Is Winslow there? Don’t go! Don’t leave me!’</p>
<p>No nurse was to be found, but to Clarence’s amazement Gooch
arrived. He had sent by the office boy to explain his absence;
and before night the faithful woman descended on him, intending, as
in her old days of authority, simply to put Master Clarry out of harm’s
way, and take the charge upon herself. Then, as he proved unmanageable
and would not leave his patient, neither would she leave him, and through
the frightful night that ensued, there was quite employment enough for
them both. Gooch fully thought the end would come before morning,
and was murmuring something about a clergyman, but was cut short by
a sharp prohibition. However, detecting Clarence’s lips
moving, the old man said, ‘Eh! speak it out!’ ‘And
with difficulty, feeling as if I were somebody else,’ said Clarence,
‘I did get out some short words of prayer. It seemed so
awful for him to die without any.’</p>
<p>When the doctor came in early morning, the watchers were astonished
to hear that their charge had taken a turn for the better, and might
recover if their admirable care were continued. The doctor had
brought a nurse; but Mr. Frith would not let her come into the room,
and there was plenty of need for her elsewhere.</p>
<p>Several days of unremitting care followed, during which Clarence
durst not write to us, so little were the laws of infection understood.
Good Mrs. Robson stayed all the time, and probably saved Clarence from
falling a victim to his zeal, for she looked after him as anxiously
as after the sick man; and with a wondering and thankful heart, he found
himself in full health, when both were set free to return home.
Clarence had written at the beginning of the illness to the only relations
of whose existence or address he was aware, an old sister, Mrs. Stevens,
and a young great-nephew in the office at Liverpool; and the consequence
was the arrival of a sour-looking, old widow sister, who came to take
charge of the convalescence, and, as the indignant Gooch overheard her
say, ‘to prevent that young Winslow from getting round him.’</p>
<p>There were no signs of such a feat having been performed, when, the
panic being past, my father went up to London with Griffith, who was
to begin eating his terms at the Temple. He was to share Clarence’s
lodgings, for the Robsons had plenty of room, and Gooch was delighted
to extend her cares to her special favourite, as she already reigned
over Clarence’s wardrobe and table as entirely as in nursery days;
and, to my great exultation, my father said it would be good for Griffith
to be with his brother; and, moreover, we should hear of the latter.
Nothing could be a greater contrast than his rare notifications or requests,
scrawled on a single side of the quarto sheet, with Clarence’s
regular weekly lines of clerkly manuscript, telling all that could interest
any of us, and covering every available flap up to the blank circle
left for the trim red seal.</p>
<p>Promotion had come to Clarence in the natural course of seniority,
and a small sum, due to him on his coming of age, was invested in the
house of business, so that the two brothers could take between them
all the Robsons’ available rooms. Clarence’s post
was one of considerable trust; but there were no tokens of special favour,
except that Mr. Frith was more civil to my father than usual, and when
he heard of the arrangement about the lodgings, he snarled out, ‘Hm!
Law student indeed! Don’t let him spoil his brother!’</p>
<p>Which was so far an expression of gratitude that it showed that he
considered that there was something to be spoilt. Mr. Castleford,
however, showed real satisfaction in the purchase of a share in the
concern for Clarence. His own eldest son inherited a good deal
of his mother’s Irish nature, and was evidently unfit to be anything
but a soldier, and the next was so young that he was glad to have a
promising and trustworthy young man, from whom a possible joint head
of the firm might be manufactured.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXVII - PETER’S THUNDERBOLT</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanours you are welcome
to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she
is very willing to bid you farewell.’</p>
<p><i>Twelfth Night.</i></p>
<p>In the early summer of 1833, we had the opportunity of borrowing
a friend’s house in Portman Square for six weeks, and we were
allowed to take Ellen with us for introduction to the Admiral and other
old friends, while we were to make acquaintance with her connections
- the family of Sir Horace Lester, M.P.</p>
<p>We were very civil; but there were a good many polite struggles for
the exclusive possession of Ellen, whom both parties viewed as their
individual right; and her unselfish good-humour and brightness must
have carried her over more worries than we guessed at the time.</p>
<p>She had stayed with the Lesters before, but in schoolroom days.
They were indolent and uninterested, and had never shown her any of
the permanent wonders of London, despising these as only fit for country
cousins, whereas we had grown up to think of them with intelligent affection.
To me, however, much was as new as to Ellen. Country life had
done so much for me that I could venture on what I had never attempted
before. The Admiral said it was getting away from doctors and
their experiments, but I had also done with the afflictions of attempts
at growth in wrong directions. Old friends did not know me, and
more than once, as I sat in the carriage, addressed me for one of my
brothers - a compliment which, Griff said, turned my head. Happily
I was too much accustomed to my own appearance, and people were too
kind, for me to have much shyness on that score. Our small dinner
parties were great enjoyment to me, and the two girls were very happy
in their little gaieties.</p>
<p>Braham and Catalani, Fanny Kemble, and Turner’s landscapes
at his best, rise in my memory as supreme delights and revelations in
their different lines, and awakening trains of thought; and then there
was that entertainment which Griffith and Clarence gave us in their
rooms, when they regaled us with all the delicacies of the season, and
Peter and Gooch looked all pride and hospitality! The dining-parlour,
or what served as such, was Griff’s property, as any one could
see by the pictures of horses, dogs, and ladies, the cups, whips, and
boxing-gloves that adorned it; the sitting-room had tokens of other
occupation, in Clarence’s piano, window-box of flowers, and his
one extravagance in engravings from Raffaelle, and a marine water-colour
or two, besides all my own attempts at family portraits, with a case
of well-bound books. Those two rooms were perfectly redolent of
their masters - I say it literally - for the scent of flowers was in
Clarence’s room, and in Griff’s, the odour of cigars had
not wholly been destroyed even by much airing. For in those days
it was regarded by parents and guardians as an objectionable thing.</p>
<p>Peter was radiant on that occasion; but a few evenings later, when
all were gone to an evening party except my father and myself, Mr. Robson
was announced as wishing to speak to Mr. Winslow. After the civilities
proper to the visit of an old servant had passed, he entered with obvious
reluctance on the purpose of his visit, namely, his dissatisfaction
with Griff as a lodger. His wife, he said, would not have had
him speak, she was <i>that</i> attached to Mr. Griffith, it couldn’t
be more if he was her own son; nor was it for want of liking for the
young gentleman on his part, as had known him from a boy, ‘but
the wife of one’s bosom must come first, sir, as stands to reason,
and it’s for the good of the young gentleman himself, and his
family, as some one should speak. I never said one word against
it when she would not be satisfied without running the risk of her life
after Mr. Clarence; hattending of Mr. Frith in the cholery. That
was only her dooty, sir, and I have never a word to say against dooty:
but I cannot see her nearly wore out, and for no good to nobody.’</p>
<p>It appeared that Mrs. Robson was ‘pretty nigh wore out, a setting
up for Mr. Griffith’s untimely hours.’ ‘He laughed
and coaxed - what I calls cajoling - did Mr. Griff, to get a latch-key;
but we knows our dooty too well for that, and Mrs. Winslow had made
us faithfully promise, when Master Clarence first came to us, that he
should never have a latch-key, - Mr. Clarence, as had only been five
times later than eleven o’clock, and then he was going to dine
with Mr. Castleford, or to the theayter, and spoke about it beforehand.
If he was not reading to poor Miss Newton, as was gone, or with some
of his language-masters, he was setting at home with his books and papers,
not giving no trouble to nobody, after he had had his bit of bread and
cheese and glass of beer to his supper.’</p>
<p>Ay, Peter knew what young gentlemen was. He did not expect
to see them all like poor Master Clarence, as had had his troubles;
the very life knocked out of him in his youth, as one might say.
Indeed Peter would be pleased to see him a bit more sprightly, and taking
more to society and hamusements of his hage. Nor would there be
any objection if the late ’ours was only once a week or so, and
things was done in a style fitting the family; but when it came to mostly
every night, often to two or three o’clock, it was too much for
Mrs. Robson, for she would never go to bed, being mortal afraid of fire,
and not always certain that Mr. Griffith was - to say - fit to put out
his candle. ‘What do you mean, Peter?’ thundered my
father, whose brow had been getting more and more furrowed every moment.
‘Say it out! - Drunk?’</p>
<p>‘Well sir, no, no, not to say that exactly, but a little excited,
sir, and women is timid. No sir, not to call intoxicated.’</p>
<p>‘No, that’s to come,’ muttered my father.
‘Has this often happened?’</p>
<p>Peter did not think that it had been noticed more than three times
at the most; but he went on to offer his candid and sensible advice
that Mr. Griffith should be placed in a family where there was a gentleman
or lady who would have some hauthority, and could not be put aside with
his good-’umoured haffability - ‘You’re an old fogy,
Peter.’ ‘Never mind, Nursey, I’ll be a good
boy next time,’ and the like. ‘It is a disadvantage
you see, sir, to have been in his service, and ’tis for the young
gentleman’s own good as I speaks; but it would be better if he
were somewheres else - unless you would speak to him, sir.’</p>
<p>To the almost needless question whether Clarence had been with his
brother on these occasions, there was a most decided negative.
He had never gone out with Griffith except once to the theatre, and
to dine at the Castlefords, and at first he had sat up for his return,
‘but it led to words between the young gentlemen,’ said
Peter, whose confidences were becoming reckless; and it appeared that
when Clarence had found that Gooch would not let him spare her vigil,
he had obeyed her orders and ceased to share it.</p>
<p>Peter was thanked for the revelations, which had been a grievous
effort to him, and dismissed. My father sat still in great distress
and perplexity, asking me whether Clarence had ever told me anything
of this, and I had barely time to answer ‘No’ before Clarence
himself came in, from what Peter called his language-master. He
was taking lessons in French and Spanish, finding a knowledge of these
useful in business. To his extreme distress, my father fell on
him at once, demanding what he knew of the way Griffith was spending
his time, ‘coming home at all sorts of hours in a disreputable
condition. No prevarication, sir,’ he added, as the only
too familiar look of consternation and bewilderment came over Clarence’s
face. ‘You are doing your brother no good by conniving at
his conduct. Speak truth, if you can,’ he added, with more
cruelty than he knew, in his own suffering.</p>
<p>‘Sir,’ gasped Clarence, ‘I know Griff often comes
home after I am in bed, but I do not know the exact time, nor anything
more.’</p>
<p>‘Is this all you can tell me? Really all?’</p>
<p>‘All I know - that is - of my own knowledge,’ said Clarence,
recovering a little, but still unable to answer without hesitation,
which vexed my father.</p>
<p>‘What do you mean by that? Do you hear nothing?’</p>
<p>‘I am afraid,’ said Clarence, ‘that I do not see
as much of him as I had hoped. He is not up till after I have
to be at our place, and he does not often spend an evening at home.
He is such a popular fellow, and has so many friends and engagements.’</p>
<p>‘Ay, and of what sort? Can’t you tell? or will
you not? I sent him up to you, thinking you a steady fellow who
might influence him for good.’</p>
<p>The colour rushed into Clarence’s face, as he answered, looking
up and speaking low, ‘Have I not forfeited all such hopes?’</p>
<p>‘Nonsense! You’ve lived down that old story long
ago. You would make your mark, if you only showed a little manliness
and force of character. Griffith was always fond of you.
Can’t you do anything to hinder him from ruining his own life
and that sweet girl’s happiness?’</p>
<p>‘I would - I would give my life to do so!’ exclaimed
Clarence, in warm, eager tones. ‘I have tried, but he says
I know nothing about it, and it is very dull at our rooms for him.
I have got used to it, but you can’t expect a fellow like Griff
to stay at home, with no better company than me, and do nothing but
read law.’</p>
<p>‘Then you <i>do</i> know,’ began my father; but Clarence,
with full self-possession, said, ‘I think you had better ask me
no more questions, papa. I really know nothing, or hardly anything,
personally of his proceedings. I went to one supper with him,
after going to the play, and did not fancy it; besides, it almost unfitted
me for my morning’s work; nor does it answer for me to sit up
for him - it only vexes him, as if I were watching him.’</p>
<p>‘Did you ever see him come home showing traces of excess?’</p>
<p>‘No!’ said Clarence, ‘I never saw!’ and,
under a stern, distressed look, ‘Once I heard tones that - that
startled me, and Mrs. Robson has grumbled a good deal - but I think
Peter takes it for more than it is worth.’</p>
<p>‘I see,’ said my father more gently; ‘I will not
press you farther. I believe I ought to be glad that these habits
are only hearsay to you.’</p>
<p>‘As far as I can see,’ said Clarence diffidently, but
quite restored to himself, ‘Griff is only like most of his set,
young men who go into society.’</p>
<p>‘Oh!’ said my father, in a ‘that’s your opinion’
kind of tone; and as at that moment the yell of a newsboy was heard
in the street, he exclaimed that he must go and get an evening paper.
Clarence made a step to go instead, but was thrust back, as apparently
my father merely wanted an excuse for rushing into the open air to recover
the shock or to think it over.</p>
<p>Clarence gave a kind of groan, and presently exclaimed, ‘If
only untruth were not such a sin!’ and, on my exclamation of dismay,
he added, ‘I don’t think a blowing up ever does good!’</p>
<p>‘But this state of things should not last.’</p>
<p>‘It will not. It would have come to an end without Peter’s
springing this mine. Griff says he can’t stand Gooch any
longer! And really she does worry him intolerably.’</p>
<p>‘Peter professed to come without her knowledge or consent.’</p>
<p>‘Exactly so. It will almost break the good old soul’s
heart for Griff to leave her; but she expects to have him in hand as
if he was in the nursery. She is ever so much worse than she was
with me, and he is really good-nature itself to laugh off her nagging
as he does - about what he chooses to put on, or eating, or smoking,
or leaving his room untidy, as well as other things.’</p>
<p>‘And those other things? Do you suspect more than you
told papa?’</p>
<p>‘It amounts to no more. Griff likes amusement, and everybody
likes him - that’s all. Yes, I know my father read law ten
hours a day, but his whole nature and circumstances were different.
I don’t believe Griff could go on in that way.’</p>
<p>‘Not with such a hope before him? You would, Clarence.’</p>
<p>His face and not his tongue answered me, but he added, ‘Griff
is sure of <i>that</i> without so much labour and trouble.’</p>
<p>‘And do you see so little of him?’</p>
<p>‘I can’t help it. I can’t keep his hours
and do my work. Yes, I know we are drifting apart; I wish I could
help it, but being coupled up together makes it rather worse than better.
It aggravates him, and he will really get on better without Gooch to
worry him, and thrust my droning old ways down his throat, - as if Prince
Hal could bear to be twitted with “that sober boy, Lord John of
Lancaster.” Not,’ he added, catching himself up, ‘that
I meant to compare him to the madcap Prince. He is the finest
of fellows, if they only would let him alone.’</p>
<p>And that was all I could get from Clarence.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII - A SQUIRE OF DAMES</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p> ‘Spited with a fool -<br />Spited and angered
both.’</p>
<p><i>Cymbeline.</i></p>
<p>This long stay of Ellen’s in our family had made our fraternal
relations with her nearer and closer. Familiarity had been far
from lessening our strong feeling for her goodness and sweetness.
Emily, who knew her best, used to confide to me little instances of
the spirit of devotion and self-discipline that underlay all her sunny
gaiety - how she never failed in her morning’s devout readings;
how she learnt a verse or two of Scripture every day, and persuaded
Emily to join with her in repeating it ere they went downstairs for
their evening’s pleasure; how she had set herself a little task
of plain work for the poor, which she did every day in her own room;
and the like dutiful habits, which seemed, as it were, to help her to
keep herself in hand, and not be carried away by what was a whirl of
pleasure to her, though a fashionable young lady would have despised
its mildness.</p>
<p>Indeed Lady Peacock, with whom we exchanged calls, made no secret
of her compassion when she found how many parties the ladies were <i>not</i>
going to; and Ellen’s own relations, the Lesters, would have taken
her out almost every night if she had not staunchly held to her promise
to her mother not to go out more than three evenings in the week, for
Mrs. Fordyce knew her to be delicate, and feared late hours for her.
The vexation her cousins manifested made her feel the more bound to
give them what time she could, at hours when Griffith was not at liberty.
She did not like them to be hurt, and jealous of us, or to feel forsaken,
and she tried to put her affection for us on a different footing by
averring that ‘it was not the same kind of thing - Emily was her
sister.’</p>
<p>One day she had gone to luncheon with the Lesters in Cavendish Square,
and was to be called for in the carriage by me, on the way to take up
the other two ladies, who were shopping in Regent Street.</p>
<p>Ellen came running downstairs, with her cheeks in a glow under the
pink satin lining of her pretty bonnet, and her eyes sparkling with
indignation, which could not but break forth.</p>
<p>‘I don’t know how I shall ever go there again!’
she exclaimed; ‘they have no right to say such things!’
Then she explained. Mary and Louisa had been saying horrid things
about Griffith - her Griff! It was always their way. Think
how Horace had made her treat Clarence! It was their way and habit
to tease, and call it fun, and she had never minded it before; but this
was too bad. Would not I put it in her power to give a flat contradiction,
such as would make them ashamed of themselves?</p>
<p>Contradict what?</p>
<p>Then it appeared that the Misses Lester had laughed at her, who was
so very particular and scrupulous, for having taken up with a regular
young man about town. Oh no, <i>they</i> did not think much of
it - no doubt he was only just like other people; only the funny thing
was that it should be Ellen, for whom it was always supposed that no
saint in the calendar, no knight in all the Waverley novels, would be
good enough! And then, on her hot desire to know what they meant,
they quoted John, the brother in the Guards, as having been so droll
about poor Ellen’s perfect hero, and especially at his straight-laced
Aunt Fordyce having been taken in, - but of course it was the convenience
of joining the estates, and it was agreeable to see that your very good
folk could wink at things like other people in such a case. Then,
when Ellen fairly drove her inquiries home, in her absolute trust of
confuting all slanders, she was told that Griffith did, what she called
‘all sorts of things - billiards and all that.’ And
even that he was always running after a horrid Lady Peacock, a gay widow.</p>
<p>‘They went on in fun,’ said Ellen, ‘and laughed
the more when - yes, I am afraid I did - I lost my temper. No,
don’t say I well might, I know I ought not; but I told them I
knew all about Lady Peacock, and that you were all old friends, even
before he rescued her from the Bristol riots and brought her home to
Chantry House; and that only made Mary merrier than ever, and say, “What,
another distressed damsel? Take care, Ellen; I would not trust
such a squire of dames.” And then Louisa chimed in, “Oh
no, you see this Peacock dame was only conducted, like Princess Micomicona
and all the rest of them, to the feet of his peerless Dulcinea!”
And then I heard the knock, and I was never so glad in my life!’</p>
<p>‘Well!’ I could not help remarking, ‘I have heard
of women’s spitefulness, but I never believed it till now.’</p>
<p>‘I really don’t think it was altogether what you call
malice, so much as the Lester idea of fun,’ said Ellen, recovering
herself after her outpouring. ‘A very odd notion I always
thought it was; and Mary and Louisa are not really ill-natured, and
cannot wish to do the harm they might have done, if I did not know Griff
too well.’</p>
<p>Then, after considering a little, she said, blushing, ‘I believe
I have told you more than I ought, Edward - I couldn’t help having
it out; but please don’t tell any one, especially that shocking
way of speaking of mamma, which they could not really mean.’</p>
<p>‘No one could who knew her.’</p>
<p>‘Of course not. I’ll tell you what I mean to do.
I will write to Mary when we go in, and tell her that I know she really
cares for me enough to be glad that her nonsense has done no mischief,
and, though I was so foolish and wrong as to fly into a passion, of
course I know it is only her way, and I do not believe one word of it.’</p>
<p>Somehow, as she looked with those radiant eyes full of perfect trust,
I could not help longing not to have heard Peter Robson’s last
night’s complaint; but family feeling towards outsiders overcomes
many a misgiving, and my wrath against the malignity of the Lesters
was quite as strong as if I had been devoid of all doubts whether Griff
wore to all other eyes the same halo of pure glory with which Ellen
invested him.</p>
<p>Such doubts were very transient. Dear old Griff was too delightful,
too bright and too brave, too ardent and too affectionate, not to dispel
all clouds by the sunshine he carried about with him. If rest
and reliance came with Clarence, zest and animation came with Griffith.
He managed to take the initiative by declining to remain any longer
with the Robsons, saying they had been spoilt by such a model lodger
as Clarence, who would let Gooch feed him on bread and milk and boiled
mutton, and put on his clean pinafore if she chose to insist; whereas
her indignation, when Griff found fault with the folding of his white
ties, amounted to ‘<i>Et tu Brute</i>,’ and he really feared
she would have had a fit when he ordered devilled kidneys for breakfast.
He was sure her determination to tuck him up every night and put out
his candle was shortening her life; and he had made arrangements to
share the chambers of a friend who had gone through school and college
with him. There was no objection to the friend, who had stayed
at Chantry House and was an agreeable, lively, young man, well reported
of, satisfactorily connected, fairly industrious, and in good society,
so that Griff was likely to be much less exposed to temptation of the
lower kinds than when left to his own devices, or only with Clarence,
who had neither time nor disposition to share his amusements.</p>
<p>There was a scene with my father, but in private; and all that came
to general knowledge was that Griff felt himself injured by any implication
that he was given to violent or excessive dissipation, such as could
wreck Ellen’s happiness or his own character.</p>
<p>He declared with all his heart that immediate marriage would be the
best thing for both, and pleaded earnestly for it; but my father could
not have arranged for it even if the Fordyces would have consented,
and there were matters of business, as well as other reasons, which
made it inexpedient for them to revoke their decision that the wedding
should not take place before Ellen was of age and Griffith called to
the bar.</p>
<p>So we took our young ladies home, loaded with presents for their
beloved school children, of whom Emily said she dreamt, as the time
for seeing them again drew near. After all the London enjoyment,
it was pretty to see the girls’ delight in the fresh country sights
and sounds in full summer glory, and how Ellen proved to have been hungering
after all her dear ones at home. When we left her at her own door,
our last sight of her was in her father’s arms, little Anne clinging
to her dress, mother and grandfather as close to her as could be - a
perfect tableau of a joyous welcome.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXIX - LOVE AND OBEDIENCE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘Unless he give me all in change<br /> I forfeit
all things by him;<br />The risk is terrible and strange.’</p>
<p>MRS. BROWNING.</p>
<p>You will be weary of my lengthiness; and perhaps I am lingering too
long over the earlier portion of my narrative. Something is due
to the disproportion assumed in our memories by the first twenty years
of existence - something, perhaps, to reluctance to passing from comparative
sunshine to shadow. There was still a period of brightness, but
it was so uneventful that I have no excuse for dwelling on it further
than to say that Henderson, our excellent curate, had already made a
great difference in the parish, and it was beginning to be looked on
as almost equal to Hillside. The children were devoted to Emily,
who was the source of all the amenities of their poor little lives.
The needlework of the school was my mother’s pride; and our church
and its services, though you would shudder at them now, were then thought
presumptuously superior ‘for a country parish.’ They
were a real delight and blessing to us, as well as to many more of the
flock, who still, in their old age, remember and revere Parson Henderson
as a sort of apostle.</p>
<p>The dawning of the new Poor-Law led to investigations which revealed
the true conditions of the peasant’s life - its destitution, recklessness,
and dependence. We tried to mend matters by inducing families
to emigrate, but this renewed the distrust which had at first beheld
in the schools an attempt to enslave the children. Even accounts,
sent home by the exceptionally enterprising who did go to Canada, were,
we found, scarcely trusted. Amos Bell, who would have gone, if
he had not been growing into my special personal attendant, was letter-writer
and reader to all his relations, and revealed to us that it had been
agreed that no letter should be considered as genuine unless it bore
a certain private mark. To be sure, the accounts of prosperity
might well sound fabulous to the toilers and moilers at home.
Harriet Martineau’s <i>Hamlets</i>, which we lent to many of our
neighbours, is a fair picture of the state of things. We much
enjoyed those tales, and Emily says they were the only political economy
she ever learnt.</p>
<p>The model arrangements of our vestries led to a summons to my father
and the younger Mr. Fordyce to London, to be examined on the condition
of the pauper, and the working of the old Elizabethan Poor-Law.</p>
<p>They were absent for about a fortnight of early spring, and Emily
and I could not help observing that our mother was unusually uncommunicative
about my father’s letters; and, moreover, there was a tremendous
revolution of the furniture, a far more ominous token in our household
than any comet.</p>
<p>The truth came on us when the two fathers returned. Mine told
me himself that Frank Fordyce was so much displeased with Griffith’s
conduct that he had declared that the engagement could not continue
with his consent.</p>
<p>This from good-natured, tender-hearted Parson Frank!</p>
<p>I cried out hotly that ‘those Lesters’ had done this.
They had always been set against us, and any one could talk over Mr.
Frank. My father shook his head. He said Frank Fordyce was
not weak, but all the stronger for his gentleness and charity; and,
moreover, that he was quite right - to our shame and grief be it spoken
- quite right.</p>
<p>It was true that the first information had been given by Sir Horace
Lester, Mrs. Fordyce’s brother, but it had not been lightly spoken
like the daughter’s chatter; and my father himself had found it
only too true, so that he could not conscientiously call Griffith worthy
of such a creature as Ellen Fordyce.</p>
<p>Poor Griff, he had been idle and impracticable over his legal studies,
which no persuasion would make him view as otherwise than a sort of
nominal training for a country gentleman; nor had he ever believed or
acted upon the fact that the Earlscombe property was not an unlimited
fortune, such as would permit him to dispense with any profession, and
spend time and money like the youths with whom he associated.
Still, this might have been condoned as part of the effervescence which
had excited him ever since my father had succeeded to the estate, and
patience might still have waited for greater wisdom; but there had been
graver complaints of irregularities, which were forcing his friend to
dissolve partnership with him. There was evidence of gambling,
which he not only admitted, but defended; and, moreover, he was known
at parties, at races, and at the theatre, as one of the numerous satellites
who revolved about that gay and conspicuous young fashionable widow,
Lady Peacock.</p>
<p>‘Yes, Frank has every right to be angry,’ said my father,
pacing the room. ‘I can’t wonder at him. I should
do the same; but it is destroying the best hope for my poor boy.’</p>
<p>Then he began to wish Clarence had more - he knew not what to call
it - in him; something that might keep his brother straight. For,
of course, he had talked to Clarence and discovered how very little
the brothers saw of one another. Clarence had been to look for
Griff in vain more than once, and they had only really met at a Castleford
dinner-party. In fact, Clarence’s youthful spirits, and
the tastes which would have made him companionable to Griff, had been
crushed out of him; and he was what more recent slang calls ‘such
a muff,’ that he had perforce drifted out of our elder brother’s
daily life, as much as if he had been a grave senior of fifty.
It was, as he owned, a heavy penalty of his youthful fall that he could
not help his brother more effectually.</p>
<p>It appeared that Frank Fordyce, thoroughly roused, had had it out
with Griffith, and had declared that his consent was withdrawn and the
engagement annulled. Griff, astounded at the resolute tone of
one whom he considered as the most good-natured of men, had answered
hotly and proudly that he should accept no dismissal except from Ellen
herself, and that he had done no more than was expected of any young
man of position and estate. On the other indictment he scorned
any defence, and the two had parted in mutual indignation. He
had, however, shown himself so much distressed at the threat of being
deprived of Ellen, that neither my father nor Clarence had the least
doubt of his genuine attachment to her, nor that his attentions to Lady
Peacock were more than the effect of old habit and love of amusement,
and that they had been much exaggerated. He scouted the bare idea
of preferring her to Ellen; and, in his second interview with my father,
was ready to make any amount of promises of reformation, provided his
engagement were continued.</p>
<p>This was on the last evening before leaving town, and he came to
the coach-office looking so pale, jaded, and unhappy that Parson Frank’s
kind heart was touched; and in answer to a muttered ‘I’ve
been ten thousand fools, sir, but if you will overlook it I will try
to be worthy of her,’ he made some reply that could be construed
into, ‘If you keep to that, all may yet be well. I’ll
talk to her mother and grandfather.’</p>
<p>Perhaps this was cruel kindness, for, as we well knew, Mrs. Fordyce
was far less likely to be tolerant of a young man’s failings than
was her husband; and she was, besides, a Lester, and might take the
same view.</p>
<p>Abusing the Lesters was our great resource; for we did not believe
either the sailor or the guardsman to be immaculate, and we knew them
to be jealous. We had to remain in ignorance of what we most wished
to know, for Ellen was kept away from us, and my mother would not let
Emily go in search of her. Only Anne, who was a high-spirited,
independent little person, made a sudden rush upon me as I sat in the
garden. She had no business to be so far from home alone; but,
said she, ‘I don’t care, it is all so horrid. Please,
Edward, is it true that Griff has been so very wicked? I heard
the maids talking, and they said papa had found out that he was a bad
lot, and that he was not to marry Ellen; but she would stick to him
through thick and thin, like poor Kitty Brown who would marry the man
that got transported for seven years.’ ‘Will he be
transported, Edward? and would Ellen go too, like the “nut-brown
maid?” Is that what she cries so about? Not by day,
but all night. I know she does, for her handkerchief is wet through,
and there is a wet place on her pillow always in the morning; but she
only says, “Never mind,” and nobody <i>will</i> tell me.
They only say little girls should not think about such things.
And I am not so very little. I am eight, and have read the <i>Lay
of the Last Minstrel</i> and I know all about people in love.
So you might tell me.’</p>
<p>I relieved Anne’s mind as to the chances of transportation,
and, after considering how many confidences might be honourably exchanged
with the child, I explained that her father thought Griff had been idle
and careless, and not fit as yet to be trusted with Ellen.</p>
<p>Her parish experience came into play. ‘Does papa think
he would be like Joe Sparks? But then gentlemen don’t beat
their wives, nor go to the public-house, nor let their children go about
in rags.’</p>
<p>I durst not inquire much, but I gathered that there was a heavy shadow
over the house, and that Ellen was striving to do as usual, but breaking
down when alone. Just then Parson Frank appeared. Anne had
run away from him while on a farming inspection, when the debate over
the turnips with the factotum had become wearisome. He looked
grave and sorrowful, quite unlike his usual hearty self, and came to
me, leaning over my chair, and saying, ‘This is sad work, Edward’;
and, on an anxious venture of an inquiry for Ellen, ‘Poor little
maid, it is very sore work with her. She is a good child and obedient
- wants to do her duty; but we should never have let it go on so long.
We have only ourselves to thank - taking the family character, you see’
- and he made a kindly gesture towards me. ‘Your father
sees how it is, and won’t let it make a split between us.
I believe that not seeing as much of your sister as usual is one of
my poor lassie’s troubles, but it may be best - it may be best.’</p>
<p>He lingered talking, unwilling to tear himself away, and ended by
disclosing, almost at unawares, that Ellen had held out for a long time,
would not understand nor take in what she was told, accepted nothing
on Lester authority, declared she understood all about Lady Peacock,
and showed a strength of resistance and independence of view that had
quite startled her parents, by proving how far their darling had gone
from them in heart. But they still held her by the bonds of obedience;
and, by dealing with her conscience, her mother had obtained from her
a piteous little note -</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘MY DEAR GRIFFITH - I am afraid it is true that you have not
always seemed to be doing right, and papa and mamma forbid our going
on as we are. You know I cannot be disobedient. It would
not bring a blessing on you. So I must break off, though - ’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>The ‘though’ could be read through an erasure, followed
by the initials, E. M. F. - as if the dismal conclusion had been felt
to be only too true - and there followed the postscript, ‘Forgive
me, and, if we are patient, it may come right.’</p>
<p>This letter was displayed, when, on the ensuing evening, it brought
Griff down in towering indignation, and trying to prove the coercion
that must have been exercised to extract even thus much from his darling.
Over he went headlong to Hillside to insist on seeing her, but to encounter
a succession of stormy scenes. Mrs. Fordyce was the most resolute,
but was ill for a week after. The old Rector was gentle, and somewhat
overawed Griff by his compassion, and by representations that were only
too true; and Parson Frank, with his tender heart torn to pieces, showed
symptoms of yielding another probation.</p>
<p>The interview with Ellen was granted. She, however, was intrenched
in obedience. She had promised submission to the rupture of her
engagement, and she kept her word, - though she declared that nothing
could hinder her love, and that she would wait patiently till her lover
had proved himself, to everybody’s satisfaction, as good and noble
as she knew him to be. When he told her she did not love him she
smiled. She was sure that whatever mistakes there might have been,
he would give no further occasion against himself, and then every one
would see that all had been mere misunderstanding, and they should be
happy again.</p>
<p>Such trust humbled him, and he was ready to make all promises and
resolutions; but he could not obtain the renewal of the engagement,
nor permission to correspond. Only there was wrung out of Parson
Frank a promise that if he could come in two years with a perfectly
unstained, unblotted character, the betrothal might be renewed.</p>
<p>We were very thankful for the hope and motive, and Griff had no doubts
of himself.</p>
<p>‘One can’t look at the pretty creature and think of disappointing
her,’ he said. ‘She is altered, you know, Ted; they’ve
bullied her till she is more ethereal than ever, but it only makes her
lovelier. I believe if she saw me kill some one on the spot she
would think it all my generosity; or, if she could not, she would take
and die. Oh no! I’ll not fail her. No, I won’t;
not if I have to spend seven years after the model of old Bill, whose
liveliest pastime is a good long sermon, when it is not a ghost.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXX - UNA OR DUESSA</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘Soone as the Elfin knight in presence came<br />And false
Duessa, seeming ladye fayre,<br />A gentle husher, Vanitie by name,<br />Made
roome, and passage did for them prepare.’</p>
<p>SPENSER.</p>
<p>The two families were supposed to continue on unbroken terms of friendship,
and we men did so; but Mrs. Fordyce told my mother that she had disapproved
of the probation, and Mrs. Winslow was hurt. Though the two girls
were allowed to be together as usual, it was on condition of silence
about Griff; and though, as Emily said, they really had not been always
talking about him in former times, the prohibition seemed to weigh upon
all they said.</p>
<p>Old Mr. Fordyce had long been talking of a round of visits among
relations whom he had not seen for many years; and it was decided to
send Ellen with him, chiefly, no doubt, to prevent difficulties about
Griffith in the long vacation.</p>
<p>There was no embargo on the correspondence with my sister, and letters
full of description came regularly, but how unlike they were to our
journal. They were clear, intelligent, with a certain liveliness,
but no ring of youthful joy, no echo of the heart, always as if under
restraint. Griff was much disappointed. He had been on his
good behaviour for two months, and expected his reward, and I could
not here repeat all that he said about her parents when he found she
was absent. Yet, after all, he got more pity and sympathy from
Parson Frank than from any one else. That good man actually sent
a message for him, when Emily was on honour to do no such thing.
Poor Emily suffered much in consequence, when she would neither afford
Griff a blank corner of her paper, nor write even a veiled message;
while as to the letters she received and gave to him, ‘what was
the use,’ he said, ‘of giving him what might have been read
aloud by the town-crier?’</p>
<p>‘You don’t understand, Griff; it is all dear Ellen’s
conscientiousness - ’</p>
<p>‘Oh, deliver me from such con-sci-en-tious-ness,’ he
answered, in a tone of bitter mimicry, and flung out of the room leaving
Emily in tears.</p>
<p>He could not appreciate the nobleness of Ellen’s self-command
and the obedience which was the security of future happiness, but was
hurt at what he thought weak alienation. One note of sympathy
would have done much for Griff just then. I have often thought
it over since, and come to the conclusion that Mrs. Fordyce was justified
in the entire separation she brought about. No one can judge of
the strength with which ‘true love’ has mastered any individual,
nor how far change may be possible; and, on the other hand, unless there
were full appreciation of Ellen’s character, she might only have
been looked on as -</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘Puppet to a father’s threat,<br />Servile to a shrewish
tongue.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Yet, after all, Frank Fordyce was very kind to Griff, making himself
as much of a medium of communication as he could consistently with his
conscience, but of course not satisfying one who believed that the strength
of love was to be proved not by obedience but disobedience.</p>
<p>Ellen’s letters showed increasing anxiety about her grandfather,
who was not favourably affected by the change of habits, consequent
on a long journey, and staying in different houses. His return
was fixed two or three times, and then delayed by slight attacks of
illness, till at last he became anxious to get home, and set off about
the end of September; but after sleeping a night at an inn at Warwick,
he was too ill to proceed any farther. His old man-servant was
with him; but poor Ellen went through a great deal of suspense and responsibility
before her parents reached her. The attack was paralysis, and
he never recovered the full powers of mind or body, though they managed
to bring him back to Hillside - as indeed his restlessness longed for
his native home. When once there he became calmer, but did not
rally; and a second stroke proved fatal just before Easter. He
was mourned alike by rich and poor, ‘He <i>was</i> a gentleman,’
said even Chapman, ‘always the same to rich or poor, though he
was one of they Fordys.’</p>
<p>My father wrote to summon both his elder sons to the funeral at Hillside,
and in due time Clarence appeared by the coach, but alone. He
had gone to Griffith’s chambers to arrange about coming down together,
but found my father’s letter lying unopened on the table, and
learnt that his brother was supposed to be staying at a villa in Surrey,
where there were to be private theatricals. He had forwarded the
letter thither, and it would still be possible to arrive in time by
the night mail.</p>
<p>So entirely was Griff expected that the gig was sent to meet him
at seven o’clock the next morning, but there was no sign of him.
My father and Clarence went without him to the gathering, which showed
how deeply the good old man was respected and loved.</p>
<p>It was the only funeral Clarence had attended except Miss Newton’s
hurried one, and his sensitive spirit was greatly affected. He
had learnt reserve when amongst others, but I found that he had a strong
foreboding of evil; he tossed and muttered in his sleep, and confessed
to having had a wretched night of dreams, though he would not describe
them otherwise than that he had seen the lady whose face he always looked
on as a presage of evil.</p>
<p>Two days later the <i>Morning Post</i> gave a full account of the
amateur theatricals at Bella Vista, the seat of Benjamin Bullock, Esquire,
and the Lady Louisa Bullock; and in the list of <i>dramatis personæ</i>,
there figured Griffith Winslow, Esquire, as Captain Absolute, and the
fair and accomplished Lady Peacock as Lydia Languish.</p>
<p>Amateur theatricals were much less common in those days than at present,
and were held as the <i>ne plus ultra</i> of gaiety. Moreover,
the Lady Louisa Bullock was noted for fashionable extravagance of the
semi-reputable style; and there would have been vexation enough at Griffith’s
being her guest, even had not the performance taken place on the very
day of the funeral of Ellen’s grandfather, so as to be an outrage
on decorum.</p>
<p>At the same time, there came a packet franked by a not very satisfactory
peer, brother to Lady Louisa. My father threw a note over to Clarence,
and proceeded to read a very properly expressed letter full of apologies
and condolences for the Fordyces.</p>
<p>‘He could not have got the letter in time’ was my father’s
comment. ‘When did you forward the letter? How was
it addressed? Clarence, I say, didn’t you hear?’</p>
<p>Clarence lifted up his face from his letter, so much flushed that
my mother broke in - ‘What’s the matter? A mistake
in the post-town would account for the delay. Has he had the letter?’</p>
<p>‘Oh yes.’</p>
<p>‘Not in time - eh?’</p>
<p>‘I’m afraid,’ and he faltered, ‘he did.’</p>
<p>‘Did he or did he not?’ demanded my mother.</p>
<p>‘What does he say?’ exclaimed my father.</p>
<p>‘Sir’ (always an unpropitious beginning for poor Clarence),
‘I should prefer not showing you.’</p>
<p>‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed my mother: ‘you do no good
by concealing it!’</p>
<p>‘Let me see his letter,’ said my father, in the voice
there was no gainsaying, and absolutely taking it from Clarence.
None of us will ever forget the tone in which he read it aloud at the
breakfast-table.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘DEAR BILL - What possessed you to send a death’s-head
to the feast? The letter would have bitten no one in my chambers.
A nice scrape I shall be in if you let out that your officious precision
forwarded it. Of course at the last moment I could not upset the
whole affair and leave Lydia to languish in vain. The whole thing
went off magnificently. Keep counsel and no harm is done.
You owe me that for sending on the letter. - Yours,</p>
<p>‘J. G. W.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Clarence had not read to the end when the letter was taken from him.
Indeed to inclose such a note in a dispatch sure to be opened <i>en
famille</i> was one of Griffith’s haphazard proceedings, which
arose from the present being always much more to him than the absent.
Clarence was much shocked at hearing these last sentences, and exclaimed,
‘He meant it in confidence, papa; I implore you to treat it as
unread!’</p>
<p>My father was always scrupulous about private letters, and said,
‘I beg your pardon, Clarence; I should not have forced it from
you. I wish I had not seen it.’</p>
<p>My mother gave something between a snort and a sigh. ‘It
is right for us to know the truth,’ she said, ‘but that
is enough. There is no need that they should know at Hillside
what was Griffith’s alternative.’</p>
<p>‘I would not add a pang to that dear girl’s grief,’
said my father; ‘but I see the Fordyces were right. I shall
never do anything to bring these two together again.’</p>
<p>My mother chimed in with something about preferring Lady Peacock
and the Bella Vista crew to Ellen and Hillside, which made us rush into
the breach with incoherent defence.</p>
<p>‘I know how it was,’ said Clarence. ‘His
acting is capital, and of course these people could not spare him, nor
understand how much it signified that he should be here. They
make so much of him.’</p>
<p>‘Who do?’ asked my mother. ‘Lady Peacock?
How do you know? Have you been with them?’</p>
<p>‘I have dined at Mr. Clarkson’s,’ Clarence avowed;
and, on further pressure, it was extracted that Griffith - handsome,
and with talents such as tell in society - was a general favourite,
and much engrossed by people who found him an enlivenment and ornament
to their parties. There had been little or nothing of late of
the former noisy, boyish dissipation; but that the more fashionable
varieties were getting a hold on him became evident under the cross-questioning
to which Clarence had to submit.</p>
<p>My father said he felt like a party to a falsehood when he sent Griff’s
letter up to Hillside, and he indemnified himself by writing a letter
more indignant - not than was just, but than was prudent, especially
in the case of one little accustomed to strong censure. Indeed
Clarence could not restrain a slight groan when he perceived that our
mother was shut up in the study to assist in the composition.
Her denunciations always outran my father’s, and her pain showed
itself in bitterness. ‘I ought to have had the presence
of mind to refuse to show the letter,’ he said; ‘Griff will
hardly forgive me.’</p>
<p>Ellen looked very thin, and with a transparent delicacy of complexion.
She had greatly grieved over her grandfather’s illness and the
first change in her happy home; and she must have been much disappointed
at Griffith’s absence. Emily dreaded her mention of the
subject when they first met.</p>
<p>‘But,’ said my sister, ‘she said no word of him.
All she cared to tell me was of the talks she had with her grandfather,
when he made her read his favourite chapters in the Bible; and though
he had no memory for outside things, his thoughts were as beautiful
as ever. Sometimes his face grew so full of glad contemplation
that she felt quite awestruck, as if it were becoming like the face
of an angel. It made her realise, she said, “how little
the ups and downs of this life matter, if there can be such peace at
the last.” And, after all, I could not help thinking that
it was better perhaps that Griff did not come. Any other sort
of talk would have jarred on her just now, and you know he would never
stand much of that.’</p>
<p>Much as we loved our Griff, we had come to the perception that Ellen
was a treasure he could not esteem properly.</p>
<p>The Lester cousins, never remarkable for good taste, forced on her
the knowledge of his employment. Her father could not refrain
from telling us that her exclamation had been, ‘Poor Griff, how
shocked he must be! He was so fond of dear grandpapa. Pray,
papa, get Mr. Winslow to let him know that I am not hurt, for I know
he could not help it. Or may I ask Emily to tell him so?’</p>
<p>I wish Mrs. Fordyce would have absolved her from the promise not
to mention Griff to us. That innocent reliance might have touched
him, as Emily would have narrated it; but it only rendered my father
more indignant, and more resolved to reserve the message till a repentant
apology should come. And, alas! none ever came. Just wrath
on a voiceless paper has little effect. There is reason to believe
that Griff did not like the air of my father’s letter, and never
even read it. He diligently avoided Clarence, and the pain and
shame his warm heart must have felt only made him keep out of reach.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXI - FACILIS DESCENSUS</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘The slippery verge her feet beguiled;<br /> She
tumbled headlong in.’</p>
<p>GRAY.</p>
<p>One of Griffith’s briefest notes in his largest hand announced
that he had accepted various invitations to country houses, for cricket
matches, archery meetings, and the like; nor did he even make it clear
where his address would be, except that he would be with a friend in
Scotland when grouse-shooting began.</p>
<p>Clarence, however, came home for a brief holiday. He was startled
at the first sight of Ellen. He said she was indeed lovelier than
ever, with an added sweetness in her clear eyes and the wild rose flush
in her delicate cheek; but that she looked as if she was being refined
away to nothing, and was more than ever like the vision with the lamp.</p>
<p>Of course the Fordyces had not been going into society, though Ellen
and Emily were as much together as before, helping one another in practising
their school children in singing, and sharing in one another’s
studies and pursuits. There had been in the spring a change at
Wattlesea; the old incumbent died, and the new one was well reported
of as a very earnest hardworking man. He seemed to be provided
with a large family, and there was no driving into Wattlesea without
seeing members of it scattered about the place.</p>
<p>The Fordyces being anxious to show them attention without a regular
dinner-party, decided on inviting all the family to keep Anne’s
ninth birthday, and Emily and Martyn were of course to come and assist
at the entertainment.</p>
<p>It was on the morning of the day fixed that a letter came to me whose
contents seemed to burn themselves into my brain. Martyn called
across the breakfast-table, ‘Look at Edward! Has any one
sent you a young basilisk?’</p>
<p>‘I wish it was,’ I gasped out.</p>
<p>‘Don’t look so,’ entreated Emily. ‘Tell
us! Is it Griff?’</p>
<p>‘Not ill-hurt?’ cried my mother. ‘Oh no,
no. Worse!’ and then somehow I articulated that he was married;
and Clarence exclaimed, ‘Not the Peacock!’ and at my gesture
my father broke out. ‘He has done for himself, the unhappy
boy. A disgraceful Scotch marriage. Eh?’</p>
<p>‘It was his sense of honour,’ I managed to utter.</p>
<p>‘Sense of fiddlestick!’ said my poor father. ‘Don’t
stop to excuse him. We’ve had enough of that! Let
us hear.’</p>
<p>I cannot give a copy of the letter. It was so painful that
it was destroyed; for there was a tone of bravado betraying his uneasiness,
but altogether unbecoming. All that it disclosed was, that some
one staying in the same house had paid insulting attentions to Lady
Peacock; she had thrown herself on our brother’s protection, and
after interfering on her behalf, he had found that there was no means
of sheltering her but by making her his wife. This had been effected
by the assistance of the lady of the house where they had been staying;
and Griffith had written to me two days later from Edinburgh, declaring
that Selina had only to be known to be loved, and to overcome all prejudices.</p>
<p>‘Prejudices,’ said my father bitterly. ‘Prejudices
in favour of truth and honour.’</p>
<p>And my mother uttered the worst reproach of all, when in my agitation,
I slipped and almost fell in rising - ‘Oh, my poor Edward! that
I should have lived to think yours the least misfortune that has befallen
my sons!’</p>
<p>‘Nay, mother,’ said Clarence, putting Martyn toward her,
‘here is one to make up for us all.’</p>
<p>‘Clarence,’ said my father, ‘your mother did not
mean anything but that you and Edward are the comfort of our lives.
I wish there were a chance of Griffith redeeming the past as you have
done; but I see no hope of that. A man is never ruined till he
is married.’</p>
<p>At that moment there was a step in the hall, a knock at the door,
and there stood Mr. Frank Fordyce. He looked at us and said, ‘It
is true then.’</p>
<p>‘To our shame and sorrow it is,’ said my father.
‘Fordyce, how can we look you in the face?’</p>
<p>‘As my dear good friend, and my father’s,’ said
the kind man, shaking him by the hand heartily. ‘Do you
think we could blame you for this youth’s conduct? Stay’
- for we young ones were about to leave the room. ‘My poor
girl knows nothing yet. Her mother luckily got the letter in her
bedroom. We can’t put off the Reynoldses, you know, so I
came to ask the young people to come up as if nothing had happened,
and then Ellen need know nothing till the day is over.’</p>
<p>‘If I can,’ said Emily.</p>
<p>‘You can be capable of self-command, I hope,’ said my
mother severely, ‘or you do not deserve to be called a friend.’</p>
<p>Such speeches might not be pleasant, but they were bracing, and we
all withdrew to leave the elders to talk it over together, when, as
I believe, kind Parson Frank was chiefly concerned to argue my parents
out of their shame and humiliation.</p>
<p>Clarence told us what he knew or guessed; and we afterwards understood
the matter to have come about chiefly through poor Griff’s weakness
of character, and love of amusement and flattery. The boyish flirtation
with Selina Clarkson had never entirely died away, though it had been
nothing more than the elder woman’s bantering patronage and easy
acceptance of the youth’s equally gay, jesting admiration.
It had, however, involved some raillery on his attachment to the little
Methodistical country girl, and this gradually grew into jealousy of
her - especially as Griff became more of a man, and a brilliant member
of society. The detention from the funeral had been a real victory
on the widow’s part, and the few times when Clarence had seen
them together he had been dismayed at the <i>cavaliere serviente</i>
terms on which Griff seemed to stand; but his words of warning were
laughed down. The rest was easy to gather. He had gone about
on the round of visits almost as an appendage to Lady Peacock, till
they came to a free and easy house, where her coquetry and love of admiration
brought on one of those disputes which rendered his championship needful;
and such defence could only have one conclusion, especially in Scotland,
where hasty private marriages were still legal. What an exchange!
Only had Griff ever comprehended the worth of his treasure?</p>
<p>Emily went as late as she could, that there might be the less chance
of a tête-à-tête, in which she might be surprised
into a betrayal of her secret: indeed she only started at last when
Martyn’s impatience had become intolerable.</p>
<p>What was our amazement when, much earlier than we expected, we saw
Mr. Fordyce driving up in his phaeton, and heard the story he had to
tell.</p>
<p>Emily’s delay had succeeded in bringing her only just in time
for the luncheon that was to be the children’s dinner. There
was a keen-looking, active, sallow clergyman, grizzled, and with an
air of having seen much service; a pale, worn wife, with a gentle, sensible
face; and a bewildering flock of boys and girls, all apparently under
the command of a very brisk, effective-looking elder sister of fourteen
or fifteen, who seemed to be the readiest authority, and to decide what
and how much each might partake of, among delicacies, evidently rare
novelties.</p>
<p>The day was late in August. The summer had broken; there had
been rain, and, though fine, the temperature was fitter for active sports
than anything else. Croquet was not yet invented, and, besides,
most of the party were of the age for regular games at play. Ellen
and Emily did their part in starting these - finding, however, that
the Reynolds boys were rather rough, in spite of the objurgations of
their sister, who evidently thought herself quite beyond the age for
romps. The sports led them to the great home-field on the opposite
slope of the ridge from our own. The new farm-buildings were on
the level ground at the bottom to the right, where the declivity was
much more gradual than to the left, which was very steep, and ended
in furze bushes and low copsewood. It was voted a splendid place
for hide-and-seek, and the game was soon in such full career that Ellen,
who had had quite running enough, could fall out of it, and with her,
the other two elder girls. Emily felt Fanny Reynolds’ presence
a sort of protection, ‘little guessing what she was up to,’
to use her own expression. Perhaps the girl had not earlier made
out who Emily was, or she had been too much absorbed in her cares; but,
as the three sat resting on a stump overlooking the hill, she was prompted
by the singular inopportuneness of precocious fourteen to observe, ‘I
ought to have congratulated you, Miss Winslow.’</p>
<p>Emily gabbled out, ‘Thank you, never mind,’ hoping thus
to put a stop to whatever might be coming; but there was no such good
fortune. ‘We saw it in the paper. It is your brother,
isn’t it?’</p>
<p>‘What?’ asked unsuspicious Ellen, thinking, no doubt,
of some fresh glory to Griffith.</p>
<p>And before Emily could utter a word, if there were any she could
have uttered, out it came. ‘The marriage - John Griffith
Winslow, Esquire, eldest son of John Edward Winslow of Chantry House,
to Selina, relict of Sir Henry Peacock and daughter of George Clarkson,
Esquire, Q.C. I didn’t think it could be you at first, because
you would have been at the wedding.’</p>
<p>Emily had not even time to meet Ellen’s eyes before they were
startled by a shriek that was not the merry ‘whoop’ and
‘I spy’ of the game, and, springing up, the girls saw little
Anne Fordyce rushing headlong down the very steepest part of the slope,
just where it ended in an extremely muddy pool, the watering-place of
the cattle. The child was totally unable to stop herself, and
so was Martyn, who was dashing after her. Not a word was said,
though, perhaps, there was a shriek or two, but the elder sisters flew
with one accord towards the pond. They also were some way above
it, but at some distance off, so that the descent was not so perpendicular,
and they could guard against over-running themselves. Ellen, perhaps
from knowing the ground better, was far before the other two; but already
poor little Anne had gone straight down, and fallen flat on her face
in the water, Martyn after her, perhaps with a little more free will,
for, though he too fell, he was already struggling to lift Anne up,
and had her head above water, when Ellen arrived and dashed in to assist.</p>
<p>The pond began by being shallow, but the bottom sloped down into
a deep hollow, and was besides covered several feet deep with heavy
cattle-trodden mire and weeds, in which it was almost impossible to
gain a footing, or to move. By the time Emily and Miss Reynolds
had come to the brink, Ellen and Martyn were standing up in the water,
leaning against one another, and holding poor little Anne’s head
up - all they could do. Ellen called out, ‘Don’t!
don’t come in! Call some one! The farm! We are
sinking in! You can’t help! Call - ’</p>
<p>The danger was really terrible of their sinking in the mud and weeds,
and being sucked into the deep part of the pool, and they were too far
in to be reached from the bank. Emily perceived this, and ran
as she had never run before, happily meeting on the way with the gentlemen,
who had been inspecting the new model farm-buildings, and had already
taken alarm from the screams.</p>
<p>They found the three still with their heads above water, but no more,
for every struggle to get up the slope only plunged them deeper in the
horrible mud. Moreover, Fanny Reynolds was up to her ankles in
the mud, holding by one of her brothers, but unable to reach Martyn.
It seems she had had some idea of forming a chain of hands to pull the
others out.</p>
<p>Even now the rescue was not too easy. Mr. Fordyce hurried in,
and took Anne in his arms; but, even with his height and strength, he
found his feet slipping away under him, and could only hand the little
insensible girl to Mr. Reynolds, bidding him carry her at once to the
house, while he lifted Martyn up only just in time, and Ellen clung
to him. Thus weighted, he could not get out, till the bailiff
and another man had brought some faggots and a gate that were happily
near at hand, and helped him to drag the two out, perfectly exhausted,
and Martyn hardly conscious. They both were carried to the Rectory,
- Ellen by her father, Martyn by the foreman, - and they were met at
the door by the tidings that little Anne was coming to herself.</p>
<p>Indeed, by the time Mr. Fordyce had put on dry clothes, all three
were safe in warm beds, and quite themselves again, so that he trusted
that no mischief was done; though he decided upon fetching my mother
to satisfy herself about Martyn. However, a ducking was not much
to a healthy fellow like Martyn, and my mother found him quite fit to
dress himself in the clothes she brought, and to return home with her.
Both the girls were asleep, but Ellen had had a shivering fit, and her
mother was with her, and was anxious. Emily told her mother of
Fanny Reynolds’ unfortunate speech, and it was thought right to
mention it. Mrs. Fordyce listened kindly, kissed Emily, and told
her not to be distressed, for possibly it might turn out to have been
the best thing for Ellen to have learnt the fact at such a moment; and,
at any rate, it had spared her parents some doubt and difficulty as
to the communication.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXII - WALY, WALY</h2>
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<p>‘And am I then forgot, forgot?<br />It broke the heart of Ellen!’</p>
<p>CAMPBELL</p>
<p>Clarence and Martyn walked over to Hillside the first thing the next
morning to inquire for the two sisters. As to one, they were quickly
reassured, for Anne was in the porch feeding the doves, and no sooner
did she see them than out she flew, and was clinging round Martyn’s
neck, her hat falling back as she kissed him on both cheeks, with an
eagerness that made him, as Clarence reported, turn the colour of a
lobster, and look shy, not to say sheepish, while she exclaimed, ‘
Oh, Martyn! mamma says she never thanked you, for you really and truly
did save my life, and I am so glad it was you - ’</p>
<p>‘It was not I, it was Ellen,’ gruffly muttered Martyn.</p>
<p>‘Oh yes! but papa says I should have been smothered in that
horrid mud, before Ellen could get to me if you had not pulled me up
directly.’</p>
<p>The elders came out by this time, and Clarence was able to get in
his inquiry. Ellen had had a feverish night, and her chest seemed
oppressed, but her mother did not think her seriously ill. Once
she had asked, ‘Is it true, what Fanny Reynolds said?’ and
on being answered, ‘Yes, my dear, I am afraid it is,’ she
had said no more; and as the Fordyce habit of treating colds was with
sedatives, her mother thought her scarcely awake to the full meaning
of the tidings, and hoped to prevent her dwelling on them till she had
recovered the physical shock. Having answered these inquiries,
the two parents turned upon Martyn, who, in an access of shamefacedness,
had crept behind Clarence and a great orange-tree, and was thence pulled
out by Anne’s vigorous efforts. The full story had come
to light. The Reynolds’ boys had grown boisterous as soon
as the restraint of the young ladies’ participation had been removed,
and had, whether intentionally or not, terrified little Anne in the
chases of hide-and-seek. Finally, one of them had probably been
unable to withstand the temptation of seeing her timid nervous way of
peeping and prying about; and had, without waiting to be properly found,
leapt out of his lair with a roar that scared the little girl nearly
out of her wits, and sent her flying, she knew not whither. Martyn
was a few steps behind, only not holding her hand, because the other
children had derided her for clinging to his protection. He had
instantly seen where she was going, and shouted to her to stop and take
care; but she was past attending to him, and he had no choice but to
dart after her, seeing what was inevitable; while George Reynolds had
sense to stop in time, and seek a safer descent. Had Martyn not
been there to raise the child instantly from the stifling mud, her sister
could hardly have been in time to save her.</p>
<p>Mrs. Fordyce tearfully kissed him; her husband called him a little
hero, as if in joke, then gravely blessed him; and he looked, Clarence
related, as if he had been in the greatest possible disgrace.</p>
<p>It was the second time that one of us had saved a life from drowning,
but there was none of the exultation we had felt that time before in
London. It was a much graver feeling, where the danger had really
been greater, and the rescue had been of one so dear to us. It
was tempered likewise by anxiety about our dear Ellen - ours, alas,
no longer! She was laid up for several days, and it was thought
better that she should not see Emily till she had recovered; but after
a week had passed, her father drove over to discuss some plans for the
Poor-Law arrangements, and begged my sister to go back in the carriage
and spend the day with his daughter.</p>
<p>We brothers could now look forward to some real intelligence; we
became restless; and in the afternoon Clarence and I set out with the
donkey-chair on the woodland path to meet Emily. We gained more
than we had hoped, for as we came round one of the turns in the winding
path, up the hanging beech-wood, we came on the two friends - Ellen,
a truly Una-like figure, in her white dress with her black scarf making
a sable stole. Perhaps we betrayed some confusion, for there was
a bright flush on her cheeks as she came towards us, and, standing straight
up, said, ‘Clarence, Edward, I am so glad you are here; I wanted
to see you. I wanted - to say - I know he could not help it.
It was his generosity - helping those that need it; and - and - I’m
not angry. And though that’s all over, you’ll always
be my brothers, won’t you?’</p>
<p>She held her outstretched hands to us both. I could not help
it, I drew her down, and kissed her brow; Clarence clasped her other
hand and held it to his lips, but neither of us could utter a word.</p>
<p>She turned back and went quietly away through the wood, while Emily
sank down under the beech-tree in a paroxysm of grief. You may
see which it was, for Clarence cut out ‘E. M. F., 1835’
upon the bark. He soothed and caressed poor Emily as in old nursery
troubles; and presently she told us that it would be long before we
saw that dear one again, for Mrs. Fordyce was going to take her away
on the morrow.</p>
<p>Mrs. Fordyce had seen Emily in private, before letting her go to
Ellen. There was evidently a great wish to be kind. Mrs.
Fordyce said she could never forget what she owed to us all, and could
not think of blaming any of us. ‘But,’ she said, ‘you
are a sensible girl, Emily,’ - ‘how I hate being called
a sensible girl,’ observed the poor child, in parenthesis, - ‘and
you must see that it is desirable not to encourage her to indulge in
needless discussion after she once understands the facts.’
She added that she thought a cessation of present intercourse would
be wise till the sore was in some degree healed. She had not been
satisfied about her daughter’s health for some time, and meant
to take her to Bath the next day to consult a physician, and then decide
what would be best. ‘And, my dear,’ she said, ‘if
there should be a slackening of correspondence, do not take it as unkindness,
but as a token that my poor child is recovering her tone. Do not
discontinue writing to her, but be guarded, and perhaps less rapid,
in replying.’</p>
<p>It was for her friendship that poor Emily wept so bitterly - the
first friendship that had been an enthusiasm to her; looking at it as
a cruel injustice that Griff’s misdoing should separate them.
The prediction that all might be lived down and forgotten was too vague
and distant to be much consolation; indeed, we were too young to take
it in.</p>
<p>We had it all over again in a somewhat grotesque form when, at another
turn in the wood, we came upon Martyn and Anne, loaded with treasures
from their robbers’ cave, some of which were bestowed in my chair,
the others carried off between Anne and her not very willing nursery-maid.</p>
<p>Anne kissed us all round, and augured cheerfully that she should
lay up a store of shells and rocks by the seaside to make ‘a perfect
Robinson Crusoe cavern,’ she said, ‘and then Clarence can
come and be the Spaniards and the savages. But that won’t
be till next summer,’ she added, shaking her head. ‘I
shall get Ellen to tell Emily what shells I find, and then she can tell
Martyn; for mamma says girls never write to boys unless they are their
brothers! And now Martyn will never be my brother,’ she
added ruefully.</p>
<p>‘You will always be our darling,’ I said.</p>
<p>‘That’s not the same as your sister,’ she answered.
However, amid auguries of the combination of robbers and Robinson Crusoe,
the parting was effected, and Anne borne off by the maid; while we had
Martyn on our hands, stamping about and declaring that it was very hard
that because Griff chose to be a faithless, inconstant ruffian, all
his pleasure and comfort in life should be stopped! He said such
outrageous things that, between scolding him and laughing at him, Emily
had been somewhat cheered by the time we reached the house.</p>
<p>My father had written to Griffith, in his first displeasure, curt
wishes that he might not have reason to repent of the step he had taken,
though he had not gone the right way to obtain a blessing. As
it was not suitable that a man should be totally dependent on his wife,
his allowance should be continued; but under present circumstances he
must perceive that he and Lady Peacock could not be received at Chantry
House. We were shown the letter, and thought it terribly brief
and cold; but my mother said it would be weak to offer forgiveness that
was not sought, and my father was specially exasperated at the absence
of all contrition as to the treatment of Ellen. All Griff had
vouchsafed on that head was - the rupture had been the Fordyces’
doing; he was not bound. As to intercourse with him, Clarence
and I might act as we saw fit.</p>
<p>‘Only,’ said my father, as Clarence was leaving home,
‘I trust you not to get yourself involved in this set.’</p>
<p>Clarence gave a queer smile, ‘They would not take me as a gift,
papa.’</p>
<p>And as my father turned from the hall door, he laid his hand on his
wife’s arm, and said, ‘Who would have told us what that
young fellow would be to us.’</p>
<p>She sighed, and said, ‘He is not twenty-three; he has plenty
of money, and is very fond of Griff.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXIII - THE RIVER’S BANK</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘And my friend rose up in the shadows,<br /> And
turned to me,<br />“Be of good cheer,” I said faintly,<br /> For
He called thee.’</p>
<p>B. M.</p>
<p>Mr. Fordyce waited at Hillside till after Sunday, and then went to
Bath to hear the verdict of the physician. He returned as much
depressed as it was in his sanguine nature to be, for great delicacy
of the lungs had been detected; and to prevent the recent chill from
leaving permanent injury, Ellen must have a winter abroad, and warm
sea or mountain air at once. Whether the disease were constitutional
and would have come on at all events no one could tell.</p>
<p>Consumption was much less understood half a century ago; codliver
oil was unknown; and stethoscopes were new inventions, only used by
the more advanced of the faculty. The only escape poor Parson
Frank had from accepting the doom was in disbelieving that a thing like
a trumpet could really reveal the condition of the chest. Moreover,
Mrs. Fordyce had had a brother who had, under the famous cowhouse cure,
recovered enough to return home, and be killed by the upsetting of a
stage coach.</p>
<p>Mrs. Fordyce took her daughter to Lyme, and waited there till her
husband had found a curate and made all arrangements. It must
have been very inconvenient not to come home; but, no doubt, she wanted
to prevent any more partings. Then they went abroad, travelling
slowly, and seeing all the sights that came in their way, to distract
Ellen’s thoughts. She was not allowed to hear what ailed
her; but believed her languor and want of interest in everything to
be the effect of the blow she had received, struggling to exert herself,
and to enter gratefully into the enjoyments provided for her.
She was not prevented from writing to Emily; indeed, no one liked to
hinder anything she wished, but they were guide-book letters, describing
all she saw as a kind of duty, but scarcely concealing the trouble it
was to look. Such sentences would slip out as ‘This is a
nice quiet place, and I am happy to say there is nothing that one ought
to see.’ Or, ‘I sat in the cathedral at Lucerne while
the others were going round. The organ was playing, and it was
such rest!’ Or, again, after a day on the Lago di Como,
‘It was glorious, and if you and Edward were here, perhaps the
beauty would penetrate my sluggish soul!’</p>
<p>Ellen’s sluggish soul! - when we remembered her keen ecstasy
at the Valley of Rocks.</p>
<p>Those letters were our chief interest in an autumn which seemed dreary
to us, in spite of friendly visitors; for had not our family hope and
joy been extinguished? There was no direct communication with
Griffith after his unpleasant reply to my father’s letter; but
Clarence saw the newly married pair on their return to Lady Peacock’s
house in London, and reported that they were very kind and friendly
to him, and gave him more invitations than he could accept. Being
cross-examined when he came home for Christmas, he declared his conviction
that Lady Peacock had married Griff entirely from affection, and that
he had been - well - flattered into it. They seemed very fond
of each other now, and were launching out into all sorts of gaieties;
but though he did not tell my father, he confided to me that he feared
that Griffith had been disappointed in the amount of fortune at his
wife’s disposal.</p>
<p>It was at that Christmas time, one night, having found an intrusive
cat upon my bed, Clarence carried her out at the back door close to
his room, and came back in haste and rather pale. ‘It is
quite true about the lady and the light being seen out of doors,’
he said in an awe-stricken voice, ‘I have just seen her flit from
the mullion room to the ruin.’</p>
<p>We only noted the fact in that ghost-diary of ours - we told nobody,
and looked no more. We already believed that these appearances
on the lawn must be the cause that every window, up to the attics on
the garden side of the house, were so heavily shuttered and barred that
there was no opening them without noise. Indeed, those on the
ground floor had in addition bells attached to them. No doubt
the former inhabitants had done their best to prevent any one from seeing
or inquiring into what was unacknowledged and unaccountable. It
might be only a coincidence, but we could not help remarking that we
had seen and heard nothing of her during the engagement which might
have united the two families; though, of course, it would be ridiculous
to suppose her cognisant of it, like the White Lady of Avenel, dancing
for joy at Mary’s marriage with Halbert Glendinning.</p>
<p>The Fordyces had settled at Florence, where they suffered a great
deal more from cold than they would have done at Hillside; and there
was such a cessation of Ellen’s letters that Emily feared that
Mrs. Fordyce had attained her wish and separated the friends effectually.
However, Frank Fordyce beguiled his enforced leisure with long letters
to my father on home business, Austrian misgovernment, and the Italian
Church and people, full of shrewd observations and new lights; and one
of these ended thus, ‘My poor lassie has been in bed for ten days
with a severe cold. She begs me to say that she has begun a letter
to Emily, and hopes soon to finish it. We had thought her gaining
ground, but she is sadly pulled down. <i>Fiat voluntas</i>.’</p>
<p>The letter, which had been begun, never came; but, after three long
weeks, there was one from the dear patient herself, mentioning her illness,
and declaring that it was so comfortable to be allowed to be tired,
and to go nowhere and see nothing except the fragment of beautiful blue
sky, and the corner of a campanile, and the flowers Anne brought in
daily.</p>
<p>As soon as she could be moved, they took her to Genoa, where she
revived enough to believe that she should be well if she were at home
again, and to win from her parents a promise to take her to Hillside
as soon as the spring winds were over. So anxious was she that,
as soon as there was any safety in travelling, the party began moving
northwards, going by sea to Marseilles to avoid the Corniche, so early
in the year. There were many fluctuations, and it was only her
earnest yearning for home and strong resolution that could have made
her parents persevere; but at last they were at Hillside, just after
Whitsuntide, in the last week of May.</p>
<p>Frank Fordyce walked over to see us on the very evening after their
arrival. He was much altered, his kindly handsome face looked
almost as if he had gone through an illness; and, indeed, apart from
all his anxiety and sorrow, he had pined in foreign parts for his human
flock, as well as his bullocks and his turnips. He had also read,
thought, and observed a great deal, and had left his long boyhood behind
him, during a space for study and meditation such as he had never had
before.</p>
<p>He was quite hopeless of his daughter’s recovery, and made
no secret of it. In passing through London the best advice had
been taken, but only to obtain the verdict that the case was beyond
all skill, and that it was only a matter of weeks, when all that could
be done was to give as much gratification as possible. The one
thing that Ellen did care about was to be at home - to have Emily with
her, and once more see her school children, her church, and her garden.
Tired as she was she had sprung up in the carriage at the first glimpse
of Hillside spire, and had leant forward at the window, nodding and
smiling her greetings to all the villagers.</p>
<p>She had been taken at once to her room and her bed, but her father
had promised to beg Emily to come up by noon on the morrow. Then
he sat talking of local matters, not able to help showing what infinite
relief it was to him to be at home, and what music to his ears was the
Somersetshire dialect and deep English voice ‘after all those
thin, shrill, screeching foreigners.’</p>
<p>Poor Emily! It was in mingled grief and gladness that she set
off the next day, with the trepidation of one to whom sickness and decay
were hitherto unknown. When she returned, it was in a different
mood, unable to believe the doctors could be right, and in the delight
of having her own bright, sweet Ellen back again, all herself.
They had talked, but more of home and village than of foreign experiences;
and though Ellen did not herself assist, she had much enjoyed watching
the unpacking of the numerous gifts which had cost a perfect fortune
at the Custom House. No one seemed forgotten - villagers, children,
servants, friends. Some of these tokens are before me still.
The Florentine mosaic paper-weight she brought me presses this very
sheet; the antique lamp she gave my father is on the mantelpiece; Clarence’s
engraving of Raffaelle’s St. Michael hangs opposite to me on the
wall. Most precious in our eyes was the collection of plants,
dried and labelled by herself, which she brought to Emily and me - poor
mummies now, but redolent of undying affection. Her desire was
to bestow all her keepsakes with her own hands, and in most cases she
actually did so - a few daily, as her strength served her. The
little figures in costume, coloured prints, Swiss carvings, French knicknacks,
are preserved in many a Hillside cottage as treasured relics of ‘our
young lady.’ Many years later, Martyn recognised a Hillside
native in a back street in London by a little purple-blue picture of
Vesuvius, and thereby reached the soft spot in a nearly dried-up heart.</p>
<p>So bright and playful was the dear girl over all her old familiar
interests that we inexperienced beings believed not only that the wound
to her affections was healed, but that she either did not know or did
not realise the sentence that had been pronounced on her; but when this
was repeated to her mother, it was met by a sad smile and the reply
that we only saw her in her best hours. Still, through the summer,
it was impossible to us to accept the truth; she looked so lovely, was
so cheerful, and took such delight in all that was about her.</p>
<p>With the first cold, however, she seemed to shrivel up, and the bad
nights extended into the days. Emily ascribed the change to the
lack of going out into the air, and always found reasons for the increased
languor and weakness; till at last there came a day when my poor little
sister seemed as if the truth had broken upon her for the first time,
when Ellen talked plainly to her of their parting, and had asked us
both, ‘her dear brother and sister,’ to be with her at her
Communion on All Saints’ Day.</p>
<p>She had written a little letter to Clarence, begging his forgiveness
for having cut him, and treated him with the scorn which, I believe,
was the chief fault that weighed upon her conscience; and, hearing my
father’s voice in the house, she sent a message to beg him to
come and see her in her mother’s dressing-room - that very window
where I had first heard her voice, refusing to come down to ‘those
Winslows.’ She had sent for him to entreat him to forgive
Griffith and recall the pair to Chantry House. ‘Not now,’
she said, ‘but when I am gone.’</p>
<p>My father could deny her nothing, though he showed that the sight
of her made the entreaty all the harder to him; and she pleaded, ‘But
you know this was not his doing. I never was strong, and it had
begun before. Only think how sad it would have been for him.’</p>
<p>My father would have promised anything with that wasted hand on his,
those fervent eyes gazing on him, and he told her he would have given
his pardon long ago, if it had been sought, as it never had been.</p>
<p>‘Ah! perhaps he did not dare!’ she said. ‘Won’t
you write when all this is over, and then you will be one family again
as you used to be?’</p>
<p>He promised, though he scarcely knew where Griffith was. Clarence,
however, did. He had answered Ellen’s letter, and it had
made him ask for a few days’ leave of absence. So he came
down on the Saturday, and was allowed a quarter of an hour beside Ellen’s
sofa in the Sunday evening twilight. He brought away the calm,
rapt expression I had sometimes seen on his face at church, and Ellen
made a special entreaty that he might share the morrow’s feast.</p>
<p>There are some things that cannot be written of, and that was one.
Still we had not thought the end near at hand, though on Tuesday morning
a message was sent that Ellen was suffering and exhausted, and could
not see Emily. It was a wild, stormy day, with fierce showers
of sleet, and we clung to the hope that consideration for my sister
had prompted the message. In the afternoon Clarence battled with
a severe gale, made his way to Hillside, and heard that the weather
affected the patient, and that there was much bodily distress.
For one moment he saw her father, who said in broken accents that we
could only pray that the spirit might be freed without much more suffering,
‘though no doubt it is all right.’</p>
<p>Before daylight, before any one in the house was up, Clarence was
mounting the hill in the gusts that had done their work on the trees
and were subsiding with the darkness. And just as he was beginning
the descent, as the sun tipped the Hillside steeple with light, he heard
the knell, and counted the twenty-one for the years of our Ellen - for
ours she will always be.</p>
<p>‘Somehow,’ he told me, ‘I could not help taking
off my hat and giving thanks for her, and then all the drops on all
the boughs began sparkling, and there was a hush on all around as if
she were passing among the angels, and a thrush broke out into a regular
song of jubilee!’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXIV - NOT IN VAIN</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘Then cheerly to your work again,<br /> With
hearts new braced and set<br />To run untired love’s blessed race,<br />As
meet for those who face to face<br /> Over the grave
their Lord have met.’</p>
<p>KEBLE.</p>
<p>That dying request could not but be held sacred, and overtures were
made to Griffith, who returned an odd sort of answer, friendly and affectionate,
but rather as if my father were the offending party in need of forgiveness.
He and his wife were obliged for the invitation, but could not accept
it, as they had taken a house near Melton-Mowbray for the hunting season,
and were entertaining friends.</p>
<p>In some ways it was disappointing, in others it was a relief, not
to have the restraint of Lady Peacock’s presence during the last
days we were to have with the Fordyces. For a fresh loss came
upon us. Beachharbour was a fishing-village on the north-western
coast, which, within the previous decade, had sprung into importance,
on the one hand as a fashionable resort, on the other as a minor port
for colliers. The living was wretchedly poor, and had been held
for many years by one of the old inferior stamp of clergy, scarcely
superior in habits or breeding to the farmers, and only outliving the
scandals of his youth to fall into a state of indolent carelessness.
It was in the gift of a child, for whom Sir Horace Lester was trustee,
and that gentleman had written, about a fortnight before Ellen’s
death, to consult Mr. Fordyce on its disposal, declaring the great difficulties
and deficiencies of the place, which made it impossible to offer it
to any one without considerable private means, and also able to attract
and improve the utterly demoralised population. He ended, almost
in joke, by saying, ‘In fact, I know no one who could cope with
the situation but yourself; I wish you could find me your own counterpart,
or come yourself in earnest. It is just the air that suits my
sister - bracing sea-breezes; the parsonage, though a wretched place,
is well situated, and she would be all the stronger; but in poor Ellen’s
state there is no use in talking of it, and besides I know you are wedded
to your fertile fields and Somersetshire clowns.’</p>
<p>That letter (afterwards shown to us) had worked on Mr. Fordyce’s
mind during those mournful days. He was still young enough to
leave behind him Parson Frank and the ‘squarson’ habits
of Hillside in which he had grown up; and the higher and more spiritual
side of his nature had been fostered by the impressions of the last
year. He was conscious, as he said, that his talk had been overmuch
of bullocks, and that his farm had engrossed him more than he wished
should happen again, though a change would be tearing himself up by
the roots; and as to his own people at Hillside, the curate, an active
young man, had well supplied his place, and, in his <i>truly</i> humble
opinion, though by no means in theirs, introduced several improvements
even in that model parish.</p>
<p>What had moved him most, however, was a conversation he had had with
Ellen, with whom during this last year he had often held deep and serious
counsel, with a growing reverence on his side. He had read her
uncle’s letter to her, and to his great surprise found that she
looked on it as a call. Devotedly fond as she herself was of Hillside,
she could see that her father’s abilities were wasted on so small
a field, in a manner scarcely good for himself, and she had been struck
with the greater force of his sermons when preaching to educated congregations
abroad. If no one else could or would take efficient charge of
these Beachharbour souls, she could see that it would weigh on his conscience
to take comparative ease in his own beloved meadows, among a flock almost
his vassals. Moreover, she relieved his mind about her mother.
She had discovered, what the good wife kept out of sight, that the north-country
woman never could entirely have affinities with the south, and she had
come to the conclusion that Mrs. Fordyce’s spirits would be heavily
tried by settling down at Hillside in the altered state of things.</p>
<p>After this talk, Mr. Fordyce had suggested a possible incumbent to
his brother-in-law, but left the matter open; and when Sir Horace came
down to the funeral, it was more thoroughly discussed; and, as soon
as Mrs. Fordyce saw that departure would not break her husband’s
heart, she made no secret of the way that both her opinion and her inclinations
lay. She told my mother that she had always believed her own ill-health
was caused by the southern climate, and that she hoped that Anne would
grow up stronger than her sister in the northern breezes.</p>
<p>Poor little Anne! Of all the family, to her the change was
the greatest grief. The tour on the Continent had been a dull
affair to her; she was of the age to weary of long confinement in the
carriage and in strange hotels, and too young to appreciate ‘grown-up’
sights. Picture-galleries and cathedrals were only a drag to her,
and if the experiences that were put into Rosella’s mouth for
the benefit of her untravelled sisters could have been written down,
they would have been as unconventional as Mark Twain’s adventures.
Rosella went through the whole tour, and left a leg behind in the hinge
of a door, but in compensation brought home a Paris bonnet and mantle.
She seemed to have been her young mistress’s chief comfort, next
to an occasional game of play with her father, or a walk, looking in
at the shop windows and watching marionettes, or, still better, the
wonderful sports of brown-legged street children, without trying to
make her speak French or Italian - in her eyes one of the inflictions
of the journey, in those of her elders the one benefit she might gain.
She had missed the petting to which she had been accustomed from her
grandfather and from all of us; and she had absolutely counted the days
till she could get home again, and had fallen into dire disgrace for
fits of crying when Ellen’s weakness caused delays. Martyn’s
holidays had been a time of rapture to her, for there was no one to
attend much to her at home, and she was too young to enter into the
weight of anxiety; so the two had run as wild together as a gracious
well-trained damsel of ten and a fourteen-year-old boy with tender chivalry
awake in him could well do. To be out of the way was all that
was asked of her for the time, and all old delights, such as the robbers’
cave, were renewed with fresh zest.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘It was the sweetest and the last.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>And though Martyn was gone back to school, the child felt the wrench
from home most severely. As she told me on one of those sorrowful
days, ‘She did think she had come back to live at dear, dear little
Hillside all the days of her life.’ Poor child, we became
convinced that this vehement attachment to Griffith’s brothers
was one factor in Mrs. Fordyce’s desire to make a change that
should break off these habits of intimacy and dependence.</p>
<p>Pluralities had not become illegal, and Frank Fordyce, being still
the chief landholder in Hillside, and wishing to keep up his connection
with his people, did not resign the rectory, though he put the curate
into the house, and let the farm. Once or twice a year he came
to fulfil some of a landlord’s duties, and was as genial and affectionate
as ever, but more and more absorbed in the needs of Beachharbour, and
unconsciously showing his own growth in devotion and activity; while
he brought his splendid health and vigour, his talent, his wealth, and,
above all, his winning charm of manner and address, to that magnificent
work at Beachharbour, well known to all of you; though, perhaps, you
never guessed that the foundation of all those churches and their grand
dependent works of piety, mercy, and beneficence was laid in one young
girl’s grave. I never heard of a fresh achievement there
without remembering how the funeral psalm ends with -</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘Prosper Thou the work of our hands upon us,<br />O prosper
Thou our handiwork.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>And Emily? Her drooping after the loss of her friend was sad,
but it would have been sadder but for the spirit Ellen had infused.
We found the herbs to heal our woe round our pathway, though the first
joyousness of life had departed. The reports Mr. Henderson and
the Hillside curate brought from Oxford were great excitements to us,
and we thought and puzzled over church doctrine, and tried to impart
it to our scholars. We I say, for Henderson had made me take a
lads’ class, which has been the chief interest of my life.
Even the roughest were good to their helpless teacher, and some men,
as gray-headed as myself, still come every Sunday to read with Mr. Edward,
and are among the most faithful friends of my life.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXV - GRIFF’S BIRD</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘Shall such mean little creatures pretend to the fashion?<br />Cousin
Turkey Cock, well may you be in a passion.’</p>
<p><i>The Peacock at Home.</i></p>
<p>It was not till the second Christmas after dear Ellen Fordyce’s
death that my eldest brother brought his wife and child to Chantry House,
after an urgent letter to Lady Peacock from my mother, who yearned for
a sight of Griffith’s boy.</p>
<p>I do not wish to dwell on that visit. Selina, or Griff’s
bird, as Martyn chose to term her, was certainly handsome and stylish;
but her complexion had lost freshness and delicacy, and the ladies said
her colour was rouge, and her fine figure due to other female mysteries.
She meant to be very gracious, and patronised everybody, especially
Emily, who, she said, would be quite striking if not sacrificed by her
dress, and whom she much wished to take to London, engaging to provide
her with a husband before the season was over, not for a moment believing
my mother’s assurance that it would be a trial to us all whenever
we had to resign our Emily. Nay, she tried to condole with the
poor moped family slave, and was received with such hot indignation
as made her laugh, for, to do her justice, she was good-natured and
easy-tempered. However, I saw less of her than did the others,
for I believe she thought the sight of me made her ill. Griff,
poor old fellow, was heartily glad to be with us again, but quite under
her dominion. He had lost his glow of youth and grace of figure,
his complexion had reddened, and no one would have guessed him only
a year older than Clarence, whose shoulders did indeed reveal something
of the desk, but whose features, though pale, were still fair and youthful.
The boy was another Clarence, not so much in compliment to his godfather
as because it was the most elegant name in the family, and favoured
an interesting belief, current among his mother’s friends, that
the king had actually stood sponsor to the uncle. Poor little
man, his grandmother shut herself into the bookroom and cried, after
her first sight of him. He was a wretched, pinched morsel of humanity,
though mamma and Emily detected wonderful resemblances; I never saw
them, but then he inherited his mother’s repulsion towards me,
and roared doubly at the sight of me. My mother held that he was
the victim of Selina’s dissipations and mismanagement of herself
and him, and gave many matronly groans at his treatment by the smart,
flighty nurse, who waged one continual warfare with the household.</p>
<p>Accustomed to absolute supremacy in domestic matters, it was very
hard for my mother to have her counsels and experience set at naught,
and, if she appealed to Griff, to find her notions treated with the
polite deference he might have shown to a cottage dame.</p>
<p>A course of dinner-parties could not hinder her ladyship from finding
Chantry House insufferably dull, ‘always like Sunday;’ and,
when she found that we were given to Saints’ Day services, her
pity and astonishment knew no bounds. ‘It was all very well
for a poor object like Edward,’ she held, ‘but as to Mr.
Winslow and Clarence, did they go for the sake of example? Though,
to be sure, Clarence might be a Papist any day.’</p>
<p>Popery, instead of Methodism, was just beginning to be the bugbear
set up for those whom the world held to be ultra-religious, and my mother
was so far disturbed at our interest in what was termed Oxford theology
that the warning would have alarmed her if it had come from any other
quarter. However, Lady Peacock was rather fond of Clarence, and
entertained him with schemes for improving Chantry House when it should
have descended to Griffith. The mullion rooms were her special
aversion, and were all to be swept away, together with the vaultings
and the ruin - ‘enough to give one the blues, if there were nothing
else,’ she averred.</p>
<p>We really felt it to the credit of our country that Sir George Eastwood
sent an invitation to an early dance to please his young daughters;
and for this our visitors prolonged their stay. My mother made
Clarence go, that she might have some one to take care of her and Emily,
since Griff was sure to be absorbed by his lady. Emily had not
been to a ball since those gay days in London with Ellen. She
shrank back from the contrast, and would have begged off; but she was
told that she must submit; and though she said she felt immeasurably
older than at that happy time, I believe she was not above being pleased
with the pale pink satin dress and wreath of white jessamine, which
my father presented to her, and in which, according to Martyn, she beat
‘Griff’s bird all to shivers.’</p>
<p>Clarence had grown much less bashful and embarrassed since the Tooke
affair had given him a kind of position and a sense of not being a general
disgrace. He really was younger in some ways at five-and-twenty
than at eighteen; he enjoyed dancing, and especially enjoyed the compliments
upon our sister, whom in our usual fashion we viewed as the belle of
the ball. He was standing by my fire, telling me the various humours
of the night, when a succession of shrieks ran through the house.
He dashed away to see what was the matter, and returned, in a few seconds,
saying that Selina had seen some one in the garden, and neither she
nor mamma would be satisfied without examination - ‘though, of
course, I know what it must be,’ he added, as he drew on his coat.</p>
<p>‘Bill, are you coming?’ said Griff at the door.
‘You needn’t, if you don’t like it. I bet it
is your old friend.’</p>
<p>‘I’m coming! I’m coming! I’m
sure it is,’ shouted Martyn from behind, with the inconsistent
addition, ‘I’ve got my gun.’</p>
<p>‘Enough to dispose of any amount of robbers or phantoms either,’
observed Griff as they went forth by the back door, reinforced by Amos
Bell with a lantern in one hand and a poker in the other.</p>
<p>My father was fortunately still asleep, and my mother came down to
see whether I was frightened.</p>
<p>She said she had no patience with Selina, and had left her to Emily
and her maid; but, before many words had been spoken, they all came
creeping down after her, feeling safety in numbers, or perhaps in her
entire fearlessness. The report of a gun gave us all a shock,
and elicited another scream or two. My mother, hoping that no
one was hurt, hastened into the hall, but only to meet Griff, hurrying
in laughing to reassure us with the tidings that it was only Martyn,
who had shot the old sun-dial by way of a robber; and he was presently
followed by the others, Martyn rather crestfallen, but arguing with
all his might that the sun-dial was exactly like a man; and my mother
hurried every one off upstairs without further discussion.</p>
<p>Clarence was rather white, and when Martyn demanded, ‘Do you
really think it was the ghost? Fancy her selection of the bird!’
he gravely answered, ‘Martyn, boy, if it were, it is not a thing
to speak of in that tone. You had better go to bed.’</p>
<p>Martyn went off, somewhat awed. Clarence was cold and shivering,
and stood warming himself. He was going to wind up his watch,
but his hand shook, and I did it for him, noting the hour - twenty minutes
past one.</p>
<p>It appeared that Selina, on going upstairs, recollected that she
had left her purse in Griff’s sitting-room before going to dress,
and had gone in quest of it. She heard strange shouts and screams
outside, and, going to one of the old windows, where the shutters were
less unmanageable than elsewhere, she beheld a woman rushing towards
the house pursued by at least a couple of men. Filled with terror
she had called out, and nearly fainted in Griff’s arms.</p>
<p>‘It agrees with all we have heard before,’ said Clarence,
‘the very day and hour!’</p>
<p>‘As Martyn said, the person is strange.’</p>
<p>‘Villagers, less concerned, have seen the like,’ he said;
‘and, indeed, all unconsciously poor Selina has cut away the hope
of redress,’ he sighed. ‘Poor, restless spirit! would
that I could do anything for her.’</p>
<p>‘Let me ask, do you ever see her now?’</p>
<p>‘N-no, I suppose not; but whenever I am anxious or worried,
the trouble takes her form in my dreams.’</p>
<p>Lady Peacock had soon extracted the ghost story from her husband,
and, though she professed to be above the vulgar folly of belief in
it, her nerves were so upset, she said, that nothing would have induced
her to sleep another night in the house. The rational theory on
this occasion was that one of the maids must have stolen out to join
in the Christmas entertainment at the Winslow Arms, and been pursued
home by some tipsy revellers; but this explanation was not productive
of goodwill between the mother and daughter-in-law, since mamma had
from the first so entirely suspected Selina’s smart nurse as actually
to have gone straight to the nursery on the plea of seeing whether the
baby had been frightened. The woman was found asleep - apparently
so - said my mother, but all her clothes were in an untidy heap on the
floor, which to my mother was proof conclusive that she had slipped
into the house in the confusion, and settled herself there. Had
not my mother with her own eyes watched from the window her flirtations
with the gardener, and was more evidence requisite to convict her?
Mamma entertained the hope that her proposal would be adopted of herself
taking charge of her grandson, and fattening his poor little cheeks
on our cows’ milk, while the rest of the party continued their
round of visits.</p>
<p>Lady Peacock, however, treated it as a personal imputation that <i>her</i>
nurse should be accused instead of any servant of Mrs. Winslow’s
own, though, as Griff observed, not only character, but years and features
might alike acquit them of any such doings; but even he could not laugh
long, for it was no small vexation to him that such offence should have
arisen between his mother and wife. Of course there was no open
quarrel - my mother had far too much dignity to allow it to come to
that - but each said in private bitter things of the other, and my lady’s
manner of declining to leave her baby at Chantry House was almost offensive.</p>
<p>Poor Griffith, who had been growing more like himself every day,
tried in vain to smooth matters, and would have been very glad to leave
his child to my mother’s management, though, of course, he acquitted
the nurse of the midnight adventure. He privately owned to us
that he had no opinion of the woman, but he defended her to my mother,
in whose eyes this was tantamount to accusing her own respectable maids,
since it was incredible that any rational person could accept the phantom
theory.</p>
<p>Gladly would he have been on better terms, for he had had to confess
that his wife’s fortune had turned out to be much less than common
report had stated, or than her style of living justified, and that his
marriage had involved him in a sea of difficulties, so that he had to
beg for a larger allowance, and for assistance in paying off debts.</p>
<p>The surrender of the London house and of some of the chief expenses
were made conditions of such favours, and Griffith had assented gratefully
when alone with his father; but after an interview with his wife, demonstrations
were made that it was highly economical to have a house in town, and
horses, carriages, and servants and that any change would be highly
derogatory to the heir of Earlscombe and the sacred wishes of the late
Sir Henry Peacock.</p>
<p>In fact, it was impressed on us that we were mere homely, countrified
beings, who could not presume to dictate to her ladyship, but who had
ill requited her condescension in deigning to beam upon us.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXVI - SLACK WATER</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘O dinna look, ye prideful queen, on a’ aneath your ken,<br />For
he wha seems the farthest <i>but</i> aft wins the farthest <i>ben</i>,<br />And
whiles the doubie of the schule tak’s lead of a’ the rest:<br />The
birdie sure to sing is the gorbal of the nest.</p>
<p>‘The cauld, grey, misty morn aft brings a sunny summer day;<br />The
tree wha’s buds are latest is longest to decay;<br />The heart
sair tried wi’ sorrow still endures the sternest test:<br />The
birdie sure to sing is the gorbal of the nest.</p>
<p>‘The wee wee stern that glints in heaven may be a lowin’
sun,<br />Though like a speck of light it seem amid the welkin dun;<br />The
humblest sodger on the field may win a warrior’s crest:<br />The
birdie sure to sing is the gorbal of the nest.’</p>
<p><i>Scotch Newspaper.</i></p>
<p>The wickedness of the nurse was confirmed in my mother’s eyes
when the doom on the first-born of the Winslows was fulfilled, and the
poor little baby, Clarence, succumbed to a cold on the chest caught
while his nurse was gossiping with a guardsman.</p>
<p>He was buried in London. ‘It was better for Selina to
get those things over as quickly as possible,’ said Griff; but
Clarence saw that he suffered much more than his wife would let him
show to her. ‘It is so bad for him to dwell on it,’
she said. ‘You see. I never let myself give way.’</p>
<p>And she was soon going out, nearly as usual, till their one other
infant came to open its eyes only for a few hours on this troublesome
world, and owe its baptism to Clarence’s exertions. My mother,
who was in London just after, attending on the good old Admiral’s
last illness, was greatly grieved and disgusted with all she heard and
saw of the young pair, and that was not much. She felt their disregard
of her uncle as heartless, or rather as insulting, on Selina’s
part, and weak on Griff’s; and on all sides she heard of their
reckless extravagance, which made her forebode the worst.</p>
<p>All these disappointments much diminished my father’s pleasure
and interest in his inheritance. He had little heart to build
and improve, when his eldest son’s wife made no secret of her
hatred to the place, or to begin undertakings only to be neglected by
those who came after; and thus several favourite schemes were dropped,
or prevented by Griffith’s applications for advances.</p>
<p>At last there was a crisis. At the end of the second season
after their visit to us, Clarence sent a hasty note, begging my father
to join him in averting an execution in Griffith’s house.
I cannot record the particulars, for just at that time I had a long
low fever, and did not touch my diary for many weeks; nor indeed did
I know much about the circumstances, since my good nurses withheld as
much as possible, and would not let me talk about what they believed
to make me worse. Nor can I find any letters about it. I
believe they were all made away with long ago, and thus I only know
that my father hurried up to town, remained for a fortnight, and came
back looking ten years older. The house in London had been given
up, and he had offered a vacant one of our own, near home, to Griff
to retrench in, but Selina would not hear of it, insisting on going
abroad.</p>
<p>This was a great grief to him and to us all. There was only
one side of our lives that was not saddened. Our old incumbent
had died about six months after the Fordyces had gone, and Mr. Henderson
had gladly accepted the living where the parsonage had been built.
The lady to whom he had been so long engaged was a great acquisition.
Her home had been at Oxford; and she was as thoroughly imbued with the
spirit that there prevailed as was the Hillside curate. She talked
to us of Littlemore, and of the sermons there and at St. Mary’s,
and Emily and I shared to the full her hero-worship. It was the
nearest compensation my sister had had for the loss of Ellen, with this
difference, that Mrs. Henderson was older, had read more, and had conversed
thoughtfully with some of the leading spirits in religious thought,
so that she opened a new world to us.</p>
<p>People would hardly believe in our eagerness and enthusiasm over
the revelations of church doctrine; how we debated, consulted our books,
and corresponded with Clarence over what now seems so trite; how we
viewed the <i>British Critic</i> and <i>Tracts for the Times</i> as
our oracles, and worried the poor Wattlesea bookseller to get them for
us at the first possible moment.</p>
<p>Church restoration was setting in. Henderson had always objected
to christening from a slop-basin on the altar, and had routed out a
dilapidated font; and now one, which was termed by the country paper
chaste and elegant, was by united efforts, in which Clarence had the
lion’s share, presented in time for the christening of the first
child at the Parsonage. It is that which was sent off to the Mission
Chapel as a blot on the rest of Earlscombe Church. Yet what an
achievement it was deemed at the time!</p>
<p>The same may be said of most of our doings at that era. We
effected them gradually, and have ever since been undoing them, as our
architectural and ecclesiastical perceptions have advanced. I
wonder how the next generation will deal with our alabaster reredos
and our stained windows, with which we are all as well pleased as we
were fifty years ago with the plain red cross with a target-like arrangement
above and below it in the east window, or as poor Margaret may have
been with her livery altar-cloth. Indeed, it seems to me that
we got more delight out of our very imperfect work, designed by ourselves
and sent to Clarence to be executed by men in back streets in London,
costing an immensity of trouble, than can be had now by simply choosing
out of a book of figures of cut and dried articles.</p>
<p>What an enthusiastic description Clarence sent of the illuminated
commandments in the new Church of St. Katharine in the Regent’s
Park! How Emily and I gloated over the imitation of them when
we replaced the hideous old tables, and how exquisite we thought the
initial I, which irreverent youngsters have likened, with some justice,
to an enormous overfed caterpillar, enwreathed with red and green cabbage
leaves!</p>
<p>My mother was startled at these innovations; but my father, who had
kept abreast with the thought of the day, owned to the doctrines as
chiming in with his unbroken belief, and transferred to the improvements
in the church the interest which he had lost in the estate. The
farmers had given up their distrust of him, and accepted him loyally
as friend and landlord, submitting to the reseating of the church, and
only growling moderately at decorations that cost them nothing.
Daily service began as soon as Henderson was his own master, and was
better attended than it is now; for the old people to whom it was a
novelty took up the habit more freely than their successors, to whom
the bell has been familiar through their days of toil. We were
too far off to be constant attendants; but evensong made an object for
our airings, and my father’s head, now quite white, was often
seen there. He felt it a great relief amid the cares of his later
years.</p>
<p>Perhaps it was with a view to him that Mr. Castleford arranged that
Clarence should become manager for the firm at Bristol, with a good
salary. The Robsons would not take a fresh lodger - they were
getting too old for fresh beginnings; but they kept their rooms ready
for him, whenever he had to be in town, and Gooch found him a trustworthy
widow as housekeeper. He took a little cottage at Clifton, availing
himself of the coach to spend his Sundays with us; and it was an acknowledged
joy to every one that I should drive to meet him every Saturday afternoon
at the Carpenter’s Arms, and bring him home to be my father’s
aid in all his business, and a most valuable help in Sunday parish work,
in which he had an amount of experience which astonished us.</p>
<p>What would have become of the singing without him? The first
hint against the remarkable anthems had long ago alienated our tuneful
choir placed on high, and they had deserted <i>en masse</i>. Then
Emily and the schoolmistress had toiled at the school children, whose
thin little pipes and provincialisms were a painful infliction, till
Mrs. Henderson, backed by Clarence, worked up a few promising men’s
voices to support them. We thought everything but the New and
Old Versions smacked of dissent, except the hymns at the end of the
Prayer-book, though we did not go as far as Chapman, who told Emily
he understood as how all the tunes was tried over in Doctor’s
Commons afore they were sent out, and it was not ‘liable’
to change them. One of Clarence’s amusements in his lonely
life had been the acquisition of a knowledge of music, and he had a
really good voice; while his adherence to our choir encouraged other
young men of the farmer and artisan class to join us. Choir, however,
did not mean surplices and cassocks, but a collection of our best voices,
male and female, in the gallery.</p>
<p>Martyn began to be a great help when at home, never having wavered
in his purpose of becoming a clergyman. On going to Oxford, he
became imbued with the influences that made Alma Mater the focus of
the religious life and progress of that generation which is now the
elder one. There might in some be unreality, in others extravagance,
in others mere imitation; but there was a truly great work on the minds
of the young men of that era - a work which has stood the test of time,
made saints and martyrs, and sown the seed whereof we have witnessed
a goodly growth, in spite of cruel shocks and disappointments, fightings
within and fears without, slanders and follies to provoke them, such
as we can now afford to laugh over. With Martyn, rubrical or extra-rubrical
observances were the outlet of the exuberance of youth, as chivalry
and romance had been to us; and on Frank Fordyce’s visits, it
was delightful to find that he too was in the full swing of these ideas
and habits, partly from his own convictions, partly from his parish
needs, and partly carried along by curates fresh from Oxford.</p>
<p>In the first of his summer vacations Martyn joined a reading party,
with a tutor of the same calibre, and assured them that if they took
up their quarters in a farmhouse not many miles by the map from Beachharbour,
they would have access to unlimited services, with the extraordinary
luxury of a surpliced choir, and intercourse with congenial spirits,
which to him meant the Fordyces.</p>
<p>On arriving, however, the bay proved to be so rocky and dangerous
that there was no boating across it, as he had confidently expected.
The farm depended on a market town in the opposite direction, and though
the lights of Beachharbour could be seen at night, there was no way
thither except by a six-miles walk along a cliff path, with a considerable
détour in order to reach a bridge and cross the rapid river which
was an element of danger in the bay, on the north side of the promontory
which sheltered the harbour to the south.</p>
<p>So when Martyn started as pioneer on the morning before the others
arrived, he descended into Beachharbour later than he intended, but
still he was in time to meet Anne Fordyce, a tall, bright-faced girl
of fourteen, taking her after-lessons turn on the parade with a governess,
who looked amazed as the two met, holding out both hands to one another,
with eager joy and welcome.</p>
<p>It was not the same when Anne flew into the Vicarage with the rapturous
announcement, ‘Here’s Martyn!’ The vicar was
gone to a clerical meeting, and Mrs. Fordyce said nothing about staying
to see him. The luncheon was a necessity, but with quiet courtesy
Martyn was made to understand that he was regarded as practically out
of reach, and ‘Oh, mamma, he could come and sleep,’ was
nipped in the utterance by ‘Martyn is busy with his studies; we
must not disturb him.’ This was a sufficient intimation
that Mrs. Fordyce did not intend to have the pupils dropping in on her
continually, and making her house their resort; and while Martyn was
digesting the rebuff, the governess carried Anne off to prepare for
a music lesson, and her mother gave no encouragement to lingering or
repeating the visit.</p>
<p>Still Martyn, on his way homewards, based many hopes on the return
of Mr. Fordyce; but all that ensued was, three weeks later, a note regretting
the not having been able to call, and inviting the whole party to a
great school-feast on the anniversary of the dedication of the first
of the numerous new churches of Beachharbour. There was no want
of cordiality on that occasion, but time was lacking for anything beyond
greetings and fleeting exchanges of words. Parson Frank tried
to talk to Martyn, bemoaned the not seeing more of him, declared his
intentions of coming to the farm, began an invitation, but was called
off a hundred ways; and Anne was rushing about with all the children
of the place, gentle and simple, on her hands. Whenever Martyn
tried to help her, he was called off some other way, and engaged at
last in the hopeless task of teaching cricket where these fisher boys
had never heard of it.</p>
<p>That was all he saw of our old friends, and he was much hurt by such
ingratitude. So were we all, and though we soon acquitted the
head of the family of more than the forgetfulness of over occupation,
the soreness at his wife’s coldness was not so soon passed over.
Yet from her own point of view, poor woman, she might be excused for
a panic lest her second daughter might go the way of the first.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXVII - OUTWARD BOUND</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘As slow our ship her foamy track<br /> Against
the wind was cleaving,<br />Her trembling pennant still looked back<br /> To
the dear isle ’twas leaving.<br />So loath we part from all we
love,<br /> From all the links that bind us,<br />So
turn our hearts as on we rove<br /> To those we’ve
left behind us.’</p>
<p>T. MOORE.</p>
<p>The first time I saw Clarence’s <i>ménage</i> was in
that same summer of poor Martyn’s repulse. My father had
come in for a small property in his original county of Shropshire, and
this led to his setting forth with my mother to make necessary arrangements,
and then to pay visits to old friends; leaving Emily and me to be guests
to our brother at Clifton.</p>
<p>We told them it was their harvest honeymoon, and it was funny to
see how they enjoyed the scheme when they had once made up their minds
to it, and our share in the project was equally new and charming, for
Emily and I, though both some way on in our twenties, were still in
many respects home children, nor had I ever been out on a visit on my
own account. The yellow chariot began by conveying Emily and me
to our destination.</p>
<p>Clifton has grown considerably since those days, and terraces have
swallowed up the site of what the post-office knew as Prospect Cottage,
but we were apt to term the doll’s house, for, as Emily said,
our visit there had something the same effect as a picnic or tea drinking
at little Anne’s famous baby house. In like manner, it was
tiny, square, with one sash-window on each side of the door, but it
was nearly covered with creepers, odds and ends which Clarence brought
from home, and induced to flourish and take root better than their parent
stocks. In his nursery days his precision had given him the name
of ‘the old bachelor,’ and he had all a sailor’s tidiness.
Even his black cat and brown spaniel each had its peculiar basket and
mat, and had been taught never to transgress their bounds or interfere
with one another; and the effect of his parlour, embellished as it was
in our honour, was delightful. The outlook was across the beautiful
ravine, into the wooded slopes on the further side, and, on the other
side, down the widening cleft to that giddy marvel, the suspension bridge,
with vessels passing under it, and the expanse beyond.</p>
<p>Most entirely we enjoyed ourselves, making merry over Clarence’s
housekeeping, employing ourselves after our wonted semi-student, semi-artist
fashion in the morning; and, when our host came home from business,
starting on country expeditions, taking a carriage whenever the distance
exceeded Emily’s powers of walking beside my chair; sketching,
botanising, or investigating church architecture, our newest hobby.
I sketched, and the other two rambled about, measuring and filling up
archæological papers, with details of orientation, style, and
all the rest, deploring barbarisms and dilapidations, making curious
and delightful discoveries, pitying those who thought the Dun Cow’s
rib and Chatterton’s loft the most interesting features of St.
Mary’s Redcliff, and above all rubbing brasses with heel ball,
and hanging up their grim effigies wherever there was a vacant space
on the walls of our doll’s house.</p>
<p>And though we grumbled when Clarence was detained at the office later
than we expected, this was qualified by pride at feeling his importance
there as a man in authority. It was, however, with much dismay
and some inhospitality that we learnt that a young man belonging to
the office - in fact, Mr. Frith’s great-nephew - was coming to
sail for Canton in one of the vessels belonging to the firm, and would
have to be ‘looked after.’ He could not be asked to
sleep at Prospect Cottage, for Emily had the only spare bedchamber,
and Clarence had squeezed himself into a queer little dressing closet
to give me his room; but the housekeeper (a treasure found by Gooch)
secured an apartment in the next house, and we were to act hosts, much
against our will. Clarence had barely seen the youth, who had
been employed in the office at Liverpool, living with his mother, who
was in ill-health and had died in the last spring. The only time
of seeing him, he had seemed to be a very shy raw lad; but, ‘poor
fellow, we can make the best of him,’ was the sentiment; ‘it
is only for one night.’ However, we were dismayed when,
as Emily was in the crisis of washing-in a sky, it was announced that
a gentleman was asking for Mr. Winslow. Churlishness bade us despatch
him to the office, but humanity prevailed to invite him previously to
share our luncheon. Yet we doubted whether it had not been a cruel
mercy when he entered, evidently unprepared to stumble on a young lady
and a deformed man, and stammering piteously as he hoped there was no
mistake - Mr. Winslow - Prospect, etc.</p>
<p>Emily explained, frustrating his desire to flee at once to the office,
and pointing out his lodging, close at hand, whence he was invited to
return in a few minutes to the meal.</p>
<p>We had time for some amiable exclamations, ‘The oaf!’
‘What a bore!’ ‘He has spoilt my sky!’
‘I shan’t finish this to-day!’ ‘Shall
we order a carriage and take him to the office; we can’t have
him on our hands all the afternoon?’ ‘And we might
get the new number of <i>Nicholas Nickleby</i>.’</p>
<p>N.B. - Perhaps it was <i>Oliver Twist</i> or <i>The Old Curiosity
Shop</i> - I am not certain which was the current excitement just then;
but I am quite sure it was Mrs. Nickleby who first disclosed to us that
our guest had a splendid pair of dark eyes. Hitherto he had kept
them averted in the studious manner I have often noticed in persons
who did not wish to excite suspicion of staring at my peculiarities;
but that lady’s feelings when her neighbour’s legs came
down her chimney were too much for his self-consciousness, and he gave
a glance that disclosed dark liquid depths, sparkling with mirth.
He was one number in advance of us, and could enlighten us on the next
stage in the coming story; and this went far to reconcile us to the
invasion, and to restore him to the proper use of his legs and arms
- and very shapely limbs they were, for he was a slim, well-made fellow,
with a dark gipsy complexion, and intelligent, honest face, altogether
better than we expected.</p>
<p>Yet we could have groaned when in the evening, Clarence brought him
back with tidings that something had gone wrong with the ship.
If I tried to explain, I might be twitted with,</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘The bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>But of course Clarence knew all about it, and he thought it unlikely
that the vessel would be in sailing condition for a week at soonest.
Great was our dismay! Getting through one evening by the help
of walking and then singing was one thing, having the heart of our visit
consumed by an interloper was another; though Clarence undertook to
take him to the office and find some occupation for him that might keep
him out of our way. But it was Clarence’s leisure hours
that we begrudged; though truly no one could be meeker than this unlucky
Lawrence Frith, nor more conscious of being an insufferable burthen.
I even detected a tear in his eye when Clarence and Emily were singing
‘Sweet Home.’</p>
<p>‘Do you know,’ said Clarence, on the second evening,
when his guest had gone to dress for dinner, ‘I am very sorry
for that poor lad. It is only six weeks since he lost his mother,
and he has not a soul to care for him, either here or where he is going.
I had fancied the family were under a cloud, but I find it was only
that old Frith quarrelled with the father for taking Holy Orders instead
of going into our house. Probably there was some imprudence; for
the poor man died a curate and left no provision for his family.
The only help the old man would give was to take the boy into the office
at Liverpool, stopping his education just as he was old enough to care
about it. There were a delicate mother and two sisters then, but
they are all gone now; scarlet fever carried off the daughters, and
Mrs. Frith never was well again. He seems to have spent his time
in waiting on her when off duty, and to have made no friends except
one or two contemporaries of hers; and his only belongings are old Frith
and Mrs. Stevens, who are packing him off to Canton without caring a
rap what becomes of him. I know what Mrs. Stevens is at; she comes
up to town much oftener now, and has got her husband’s nephew
into the office, and is trying to get everything for him; and that’s
the reason she wants to keep up the old feud, and send this poor Lawrence
off to the ends of the earth.’</p>
<p>‘Can’t you do anything for him?’ asked Emily.
‘I thought Mr. Frith did attend to you.’</p>
<p>Clarence laughed. ‘I know that Mrs. Stevens hates me
like poison; but that is the only reason I have for supposing I might
have any influence.’</p>
<p>‘And can’t you speak to Mr. Castleford?’</p>
<p>‘Set him to interfere about old Frith’s relations!
He would know better! Besides, the fellow is too old to get into
any other line - four-and-twenty he says, though he does not look it;
and he is as innocent as a baby, indifferent just now to what becomes
of him, or whither he goes; it is all the same to him, he says; there
is no one to care for him anywhere, and I think he is best pleased to
go where it is all new. And there, you see, the poor lad will
be left to drift to destruction - mother’s darling that he has
been - just for want of some human being to care about him, and hinder
his getting heartless and reckless!’</p>
<p>Clarence’s voice trembled, and Emily had tears in her eyes
as she asked if absolutely nothing could be done for him. Clarence
meant to write to Mr. Castleford, who would no doubt beg the chaplain
at the station to show the young man some kindness; also, perhaps, to
the resident partner, whom Clarence had looked at once over his desk,
but in his rawest and most depressed days. The only clerk out
there, whom he knew, would, he thought, be no element of safety, and
would not like the youth the better either for bringing his recommendation
or bearing old Frith’s name.</p>
<p>We were considerably softened towards our guest, though the next
time Emily came on him he was standing in the hall, transfixed in contemplation
of her greatest achievement in brass-rubbing, a severe and sable knight
with the most curly of nostrils, the stiffest and straightest of mouths,
hair straight on his brows, pointed toes joined together below, and
fingers touching over his breast. There he hung in triumph just
within the front door, fluttering and swaying a little on his pins whenever
a draught came in; and there stood Lawrence Frith, freshly aware of
him, and unable to repress the exclamation, ‘I say! isn’t
he a guy?’</p>
<p>‘Sir Guy de Warrenne,’ began Emily composedly; ‘don’t
you see his coat of arms? “chequy argent and azure.”’</p>
<p>‘Does your brother keep him there to scare away the tramps?’</p>
<p>Emily’s countenance was a study.</p>
<p>The subject of brasses was unfolded to Lawrence Frith, and before
the end of the week he had spent an entire day on his hands and knees,
scrubbing away with the waxy black compound at a figure in the Cathedral
- the office-work, as we declared, which Clarence gave him to do.
In fact he became so thoroughly infected that it was a pity that he
was going where there would be no exercise in ecclesiology - rather
the reverse. Embarrassment on his side, and hostility on ours,
may be said to have vanished under the influence of Sir Guy de Warrenne’s
austere countenance. The youth seemed to regard ‘Mr. Winslow’
in the light of a father, and to accept us as kindly beings. He
ceased to contort his limbs in our awful presence, looked at me like
as an ordinary person, and even ventured on giving me an arm.
He listened with unfeigned pleasure to our music, perilled his neck
on St. Vincent’s rocks in search of plants, and by and by took
to hanging back with Emily, while Clarence walked on with me, to talk
to her out of his full heart about his mother and sisters.</p>
<p>Three weeks elapsed before the <i>Hoang-ho</i> was ready to sail,
and by that time Lawrence knew that there were some who would rejoice
in his success, or grieve if things went ill with him. Clarence
and I had promised him long home letters, and impressed on him that
we should welcome his intelligence of himself. For verily he had
made his way into our hearts, as a thoroughly good-hearted, affectionate
being, yearning for something to cling to; intelligent and refined,
though his recent cultivation had been restricted, soundly principled,
and trained in religious feelings and habits, but so utterly inexperienced
that there was no guessing how it might be with him when cast adrift,
with no object save his own maintenance, and no one to take an interest
in him.</p>
<p>Clarence talked to him paternally, and took him to second-hand shops
to provide a cheap library of substantial reading, engaging to cater
for him for the future, not omitting Dickens; and Emily worked at providing
him with the small conveniences and comforts for the voyage that called
for a woman’s hand. He was so grateful that it was like
fitting out a dear friend or younger brother.</p>
<p>‘I wonder,’ said Clarence, as he walked by my chair on
one of the last days, ‘whether it was altogether wise to have
this young Frith here so much, though it could hardly have been helped.’</p>
<p>To which I rejoined that it could hardly have displeased the uncle,
and that if it did, the youth’s welfare was worth annoying him
for.</p>
<p>‘I meant something nearer home,’ said Clarence, and proceeded
to ask if I did not think Lawrence Frith a good deal smitten with Emily.</p>
<p>To me it seemed an idea not worth consideration. Any youth,
especially one who had lived so secluded a life, would naturally be
taken by the first pleasing young woman who came in his way, and took
a kindly interest in him; but I did not think Emily very susceptible,
being entirely wrapped up in home and parish matters; and I reminded
Clarence that she had not been loverless. She had rejected the
Curate of Hillside; and we all saw, though she did not, that only her
evident indifference kept Sir George Eastwood’s second son from
making further advances.</p>
<p>Clarence was not convinced. He said he had never seen our sister
look at either of these as she did when Lawrence came into the room;
and there was no denying that there was a soft and embellishing light
on her whole countenance, and a fresh sweetness in her voice.
But then he seemed such a boy as to make the notion ridiculous; and
yet, on reckoning, it proved that their years were equal. All
that could be hoped was that the sentiment, if it existed, would not
discover itself before they parted, so as to open their eyes to the
dreariness of the prospect, and cause our mother to think we had betrayed
our trust in the care of our sister. As we could do nothing, we
were not sorry that this was the last day. Clarence was to go
on board with Frith, see him out of the river, and come back with the
pilot; and we all drove down to the wharf together; nobody saying much
by the way, except the few jerky remarks we brothers felt bound to originate
and reply to.</p>
<p>Emily sat very still, her head bent under her shading bonnet - I
think she was trying to keep back tears for the solitary exile; and
Lawrence, opposite, was unable to help watching her with wistful eyes,
which would have revealed all, if we had not guessed it already.
It might be presumptuous, but it made us very sorry for him.</p>
<p>When the moment of parting came, there was a wringing of hands, and,
‘Thank you, thank you,’ in a low, broken, heartfelt voice,
and to Emily, ‘You have made life a new thing to me. I shall
never forget,’ and the showing of a tiny book in his waistcoat
pocket.</p>
<p>When the two had disappeared, Emily, no longer restraining her tears,
told me that she had exchanged Prayer-books with him, and they were
to read the Psalms at the same time every day. ‘I thought
it might be a help to him,’ she said simply.</p>
<p>Nor was there any consciousness in her talk as she related to me
what he had told her about his mother and sisters, and his dreary sense
of piteous loneliness, till we had adopted him as a brother - in which
capacity I trusted that she viewed him.</p>
<p>However, Clarence had been the recipient of all the poor lad’s
fervent feelings for Miss Winslow, how she had been a new revelation
to his desolate spirit, and was to be the guiding star of his life,
etc., etc., all from the bottom of his heart, though he durst not dream
of requital, and was to live, not on hope, but on memory of the angelic
kindness of these three weeks.</p>
<p>It was impossible not to be touched, though we strove to be worldly
wise old bachelors, and assured one another that the best and most probable
thing that could happen to Lawrence Frith would be to have his dream
blown away by the Atlantic breezes, and be left open to the charms of
some Chinese merchant’s daughter.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXVIII - TOO LATE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘Thus Esau-like, our Father’s blessing miss,<br />Then
wash with fruitless tears our faded crown.’</p>
<p>KEBLE.</p>
<p>After such a rebuff as Martyn had experienced at Beachharbour, he
no longer haunted its neighbourhood, but devoted the long vacation of
the ensuing year to a walking tour in Germany, with one or two congenial
spirits, who shared his delight in scenery, pictures, and architecture.</p>
<p>By and by he wrote to Clarence from Baden Baden -</p>
<p>‘Whom do you think I should find here but Griffith and his
bird? I first spotted the old fellow smoking under a tree in the
Grand Platz, but he looked so seedy and altered altogether that I was
not sure enough of him to speak, especially as he showed no signs of
knowing me. (He says it was my whiskers that stumped him.)
I made inquiries and found that they figured as “Sir Peacock and
lady,” but they were entered all right in the book. He is
taking the “Kür” - he looks as if he wanted it - and
she is taking <i>rouge et noir</i>. I saw her at the salon, with
her neck grown as long as her namesake’s, but not as pretty, claws
to match, thin and painted, as if the ruling passion was consuming her.
Poor old Griff! he was glad enough to see me, but he is wofully shaky,
and nearly came to tears when he asked after Ted and all at home.
They had an upset of their carriage in Vienna last winter, and he got
some twist, or other damage, which he thought nothing of, but it has
never righted itself; I am sure he is very ill, and ought to be looked
after. He has had only foreign doctoring, and you know he never
was strong in languages. I heard of the medico here inquiring
what precise symptom <i>der Englander</i> meant by being “down
in zie mout!” Poor Griff is that, whatever else he is, and
Selina does not see it, nor anything else but her <i>rouge et noir</i>
table. I am afraid he plays too, when he is up to it, but he can’t
stand much of the stuffiness of the place, and he respects my innocence,
poor old beggar; so he has kept out of it, since we have been here.
He seems glad to have me to look after him, but afraid to let me stay,
for fear of my falling a victim to the place. I can’t well
tell him that there is a perpetual warning to youth in the persons of
himself and his Peacock. His mind might be vastly relieved if
I were out of it, but scarcely his body; and I shall not leave him till
I hear from home. Thomson says I am right. I should like
to bring the poor old man home for advice, especially if my lady could
be left behind, and by all appearances she would not object. Could
not you come, or mamma? Speak to papa about it. It is all
so disgusting that I really could not write to him. It is enough
to break one’s heart to see Griff when he hears about home, and
Edward, and Emily. I told him how famously you were getting on,
and he said, “It has been all up, up with him, all down, down
with me,” and then he wanted me to fix my day for leaving Baden,
as if it were a sink of infection. I fancy he thinks me a mere
infant still, for he won’t heed a word of advice about taking
care of himself and <i>will</i> do the most foolish things imaginable
for a man in his state, though I can’t make out what is the matter
with him. I tried both French and Latin with his doctor, equally
in vain.’</p>
<p>There was a great consultation over this letter. Our parents
would fain have gone at once to Baden, but my father was far from well;
in fact, it was the beginning of the break-up of his constitution.
He had been ageing ever since his disappointment in Griffith, and though
he had so enjoyed his jaunt with my mother that he had seemed revived
for the time, he had been visibly failing ever since the winter, and
my mother durst not leave him. Indeed she was only too well aware
that her presence was apt to inspire Selina with the spirit of contradiction,
and that Clarence would have a better chance alone. He was to
go up to London by the mail train, see Mr. Castleford, and cross to
Ostend.</p>
<p>A valise from the lumber-room was wanted, and at bedtime he went
in quest of it. He came back white and shaken; and I said -</p>
<p>‘You have not seen <i>her</i>?’</p>
<p>‘Yes, I have.’</p>
<p>‘It is not her time of year.’</p>
<p>‘No; I was not even thinking of her. There was none of
the wailing, but when I looked up from my rummaging, there was her face
as if in a window or mirror on the wall.’</p>
<p>‘Don’t dwell on it’ was all I could entreat, for
the apparition at unusual times had been mentioned as a note of doom,
and not only did it weigh on me, but it might send Clarence off in a
desponding mood. Tidings were less rapid when telegraphs were
not, and railways incomplete. Clarence did not reach Baden till
ten days after the despatch of Martyn’s letter, and Griffith’s
condition had in the meantime become much more serious. Low fever
had set in, and he was confined to his dreary lodgings, where Martyn
was doing his best for him in an inexperienced, helpless sort of way,
while Lady Peacock was at the <i>salle</i>, persisting in her belief
that the ailment was a temporary matter. Martyn afterwards declared
that he had never seen anything more touching than poor Griff’s
look of intense rest and relief at Clarence’s entrance.</p>
<p>On the way through London, by the assistance of Mr. Castleford, Clarence
had ascertained how to procure the best medical advice attainable, and
he was linguist enough to be an adequate interpreter. Alas! all
that was achieved was the discovery that between difficulties of language,
Griff’s own indifference, and his wife’s carelessness, the
injury had developed into fatal disease. An operation <i>might</i>
yet save him, if he could rally enough for it, but the fever was rapidly
destroying his remaining strength. Selina ascribed it to excitement
at meeting Martyn, and indeed he had been subject to such attacks every
autumn. Any way, he had no spirits nor wish for improvement.
If his brothers told him he was better, he smiled and said it was like
a condemned criminal trying to recover enough for the gallows.
His only desire was to be let alone and have Clarence with him.
He had ceased to be uneasy as to Martyn’s exposure to temptation,
but he said he could hardly bear to watch that bright, fresh young manhood,
and recollect how few years had passed since he had been such another,
nor did he like to have any nurse save Clarence. His wife at first
acquiesced, holding fast to the theory of the periodical autumnal fever,
and then that the operation would restore him to health; and as her
presence fretted him, and he received her small attentions peevishly,
she persisted in her usual habits, and heard with petulance his brothers’
assurances of his being in a critical condition, declaring that it was
always thus with these fevers - he was always cross and low-spirited,
and no one could tell what she had undergone with him.</p>
<p>Then came days of positive pain, and nights of delirious, dreary
murmuring about home and all of us, more especially Ellen Fordyce.
Clarence had no time for letters, and Martyn’s became a call for
mamma, with the old childish trust in her healing and comforting powers,
declaring that he would meet her at Cologne, and steer her through the
difficulties of foreign travel.</p>
<p>Hesitation was over now. My father was most anxious to send
her, and she set forth, secure that she could infuse life, energy, and
resolution into her son, when those two poor boys had failed.</p>
<p>It was not, however, Martyn who met her, but his friend Thomson,
with the tidings that the suffering had become so severe as to prevent
Martyn from leaving Baden, not only on his brother’s account,
but because Lady Peacock had at last taken alarm, and was so uncontrollable
in her distress that he was needed to keep her out of the sickroom,
where her presence, poor thing, only did mischief.</p>
<p>She evidently had a certain affection for her husband; and it was
the more piteous that in his present state he only regarded her as the
tempter who had ruined his life - his false Duessa, who had led him
away from Una. On one unhappy evening he had been almost maddened
by her insisting on arguing with him; he called her a hag, declared
she had been the death of his children, the death of that dear one -
could she not let him alone now she had been the death of himself?</p>
<p>When Martyn took her away, she wept bitterly, and told enough to
make the misery of their life apparent, when the gaiety was over, and
regrets and recriminations set in.</p>
<p>However, there came a calmer interval, when the suffering passed
off, but in the manner which made the German doctor intimate that hope
was over. Would life last till his mother came?</p>
<p>His brothers had striven from the first to awaken thoughts of higher
things, and turn remorse into repentance; but every attempt resulted
in strange, sad wanderings about Esau, the birthright, and the blessing.
Indeed, these might not have been entirely wanderings, for once he said,
‘It is better this way, Bill. You don’t know what
you wish in trying to bring me round. Don’t be hard on me.
She drove me to it. It is all right now. The Jews will be
disappointed.’</p>
<p>For even at the crisis in London, he had concealed that he had raised
money on <i>post obits</i>, so that, had he outlived my father, Chantry
House would have been lost. Lady Peacock’s fortune had been
undermined when she married him; extravagance and gambling had made
short work of the rest.</p>
<p>Why should I speak of such things here, except to mourn over our
much-loved brother, with all his fine qualities and powers wasted and
overthrown? He clung to Clarence’s affection, and submitted
to prayers and psalms, but without response. He showed tender
recollection of us all, but scarcely durst think of his father, and
hardly appeared to wish to see his mother. Clarence’s object
soon came to be to obtain forgiveness for the wife, since bitterness
against her seemed the great obstacle to seeking pardon, peace, or hope;
but each attempt only produced such bitterness against her, and such
regrets and mourning for Ellen, as fearfully shook the failing frame,
while he moaned forth complaints of the blandishments and raillery with
which his temptress had beguiled him. Clarence tried in vain to
turn away this idea, but nothing had any effect till he bethought himself
of Ellen’s message, that she knew even this fatal act had been
prompted by generosity of spirit. There was truth enough in it
to touch Griff, but only so far as to cry, ‘What might I not have
been with her?’ Still, there was no real softening till
my mother came. He knew her at once, and all the old childish
relations were renewed between them. There was little time left
now, but he was wholly hers. Even Clarence was almost set aside,
save where strength was needed, and the mother seemed to have equal
control of spirit and body. It was she, who, scarcely aware of
what had gone before, caused him to admit Selina.</p>
<p>‘Tell her not to talk,’ he said. ‘But we
have each much to forgive one another.’</p>
<p>She came in, awed and silent, and he let her kiss him, sit near at
hand, and wait on my mother, whose coming had, as it were, insensibly
taken the bitterness away and made him as a little child in her hands.
He could follow prayers in which she led him, as he could not, or did
not seem to do, with any one else, for he was never conscious of the
presence of the clergyman whom Thomson hunted up and brought, and who
prayed aloud with Martyn while the physical agony claimed both my mother
and Clarence.</p>
<p>Once Griff looked about him and called out for our father, then recollecting,
muttered, ‘No - the birthright gone - no blessing.’</p>
<p>It grieved us much, it grieves me now, that this was his last distinct
utterance. He <i>looked</i> as if the comforting replies and the
appeals to the Source of all redemption did awaken a response, but he
never spoke articulately again; and only thirty-six hours after my mother’s
arrival, all was over.</p>
<p>Poor Selina went into passions of hysterics and transports of grief,
needing all the firmness of so resolute a woman as my mother to deal
with her. She was wild in self-accusation, and became so ill that
the care of her was a not unwholesome occupation for my mother, who
was one of those with whom sorrow has little immediate outlet, and is
therefore the more enduring.</p>
<p>She would not bring our brother’s coffin home, thinking the
agitation would be hurtful to my father, and anxious to get back to
him as soon as possible. So Griff was buried at Baden, and from
time to time some of us have visited his grave. Of course she
proposed Selina’s return to Chantry House with her; but Mr. Clarkson,
the brother, had come out to the funeral, and took his sister home with
him, certainly much to our relief, though all the sad party at Baden
had drawn much nearer together in these latter days.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXIX - A PURPOSE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p> ‘It then draws near the season<br />Wherein
the spirit held his wont to walk.’</p>
<p><i>Hamlet.</i></p>
<p>We had really lost our Griffith long before - our bright, generous,
warm-hearted, promising Griff, the brilliance of our home; but his actual
death made the first breach in a hitherto unbroken family, and was a
new and strange shock. It made my father absolutely an old man;
and it also changed Martyn. His first contact with responsibility,
suffering, and death had demolished the light-hearted boyishness which
had lasted in the youngest of the family through all his high aspirations.
Till his return to Oxford, his chief solace was in getting some one
of us alone, going through all the scenes at Baden, discussing his new
impressions of the trials and perplexities of life, and seeking out
passages in the books that were becoming our oracles. What he
had admired externally before, he was grasping from within; nor can
I describe what the <i>Lyra Apostolica</i>, and the two first volumes
of <i>Parochial Sermons preached at Littlemore</i>, became to us.</p>
<p>Mr. Clarkson had been rather dry with my brothers at Baden, evidently
considering that poor Griffith had been as fatal to his sister as we
thought Selina had been to our brother. It was hardly just, for
there had been much more to spoil in him than in her; and though she
would hardly have trod a much higher path, there is no saying what he
might have been but for her.</p>
<p>Griffith had said nothing about providing for her, not having forgiven
her till he was past recollecting the need, but her brother had intimated
that something was due from the family, and Clarence had assented -
not, indeed, as to her deserts, poor woman, but her claims and her needs
- well knowing that my father would never suffer Griff’s widow
to be in want.</p>
<p>He judged rightly. My father was nervously anxious to arrange
for giving her £500 a year, in the manner most likely to prevent
her from making away with it, and leaving herself destitute. But
there had already been heavy pulls on his funded property, and ways
and means had to be considered, making Clarence realise that he had
become the heir. Somehow, there still remained, especially with
my mother and himself, a sense of his being a failure, and an inferior
substitute, although my father had long come to lean upon him, as never
had been the case with our poor Griff.</p>
<p>The first idea of raising the amount required was by selling an outlying
bit of the estate near the Wattlesea Station, for which an enterprising
builder was making offers, either to purchase or take on a building
lease. My father had received several letters on the subject,
and only hesitated from a feeling against breaking up the estate, especially
if this were part of the original Chantry House property, and not a
more recent acquisition of the Winslows. Moreover, he would do
nothing without Clarence’s participation.</p>
<p>The title-deeds were not in the house, for my father had had too
much of the law to meddle more than he could help with his own affairs,
and had left them in the hands of the family solicitor at Bristol, where
Clarence was to go and look over them. He rejoiced in the opportunity
of being able to see whether anything would throw light on the story
of the mullion chamber; and the certainty that the Wattlesea property
had never been part of the old endowment of the Chantry did not seem
nearly so interesting as a packet of yellow letters tied with faded
red tape. Mr. Ryder made no difficulty in entrusting these to
him, and we read them by our midnight lamp.</p>
<p>Clarence had seen poor Margaret’s will, bequeathing her entire
property to her husband’s son, Philip Winslow, and had noted the
date, 1705; also the copy of the decision in the Court of Probate that
there was no sufficient evidence of entail on the Fordyce family to
bar her power of disposing of it. We eagerly opened the letters,
but found them disappointing, as they were mostly offerings of ‘Felicitations’
to Philip Winslow on having established his ‘Just Claim,’
and ‘refuted the malicious Accusations of Calumny.’
They only served to prove the fact that he had been accused of something,
and likewise that he had powerful friends, and was thought worth being
treated with adulation, according to the fashion of his day. Perhaps
it was hardly to be expected that he should have preserved evidence
against himself, but it was baffling to sift so little out of such a
mass of correspondence. If we could have had access to the Fordyce
papers, no doubt they would have given the other phase of the transaction,
but they were unattainable. The only public record that Clarence
could discover was much abbreviated, and though there was some allusion
to intimidation, the decision seemed to have been fixed by the non-existence
of any entail.</p>
<p>Christmas was drawing on, and gathering together what was left of
us. Though Griffith had spent only one Christmas at home in nine
years, it was wonderful how few we seemed, even when Martyn returned.
My father liked to have us about him, and even spoke of Clarence’s
giving up his post as manager at Bristol, and living entirely at home
to attend to the estate; but my mother did not encourage the idea.
She could not quite bear to accept any one in Griff’s place, and
rightly thought there was not occupation enough to justify bringing
Clarence home. I was competent to assist my father through all
the landlord’s business that came to him within doors, and Emily
had ridden and walked about enough with him to be an efficient inspector
of crops and repairs, besides that Clarence himself was within reach.</p>
<p>‘Indeed,’ he said to me, ‘I cannot loose my hold
on Frith and Castleford till I see my way into the future.’</p>
<p>I did not know what he intended either then or when he gave his voice
against dismembering the property by selling the Wattlesea estate, but
arranged for raising Selina’s income otherwise, persuading my
father to let him undertake the building of the required cottages out
of his own resources, on principles much more wholesome than were likely
to be employed by the speculator. Nor did grasp what was in his
mind when he made me look out my ‘ghost journal,’ as we
called my record of each apparition reported in the mullion chamber
or the lawn, with marks to those about which we had no reasonable doubt.
Separately there might be explanation, but conjointly and in connection
with the date they had a remarkable force.</p>
<p>‘I am resolved,’ said Clarence, ‘to see whether
that figure can have a purpose. I have thought of it all those
years. It has hitherto had no fair play. I was too much
upset by the sight, and beaten by the utter incredulity of everybody
else; but now I am determined to look into it.’</p>
<p>There was both awe and resolution in his countenance, and I only
stipulated that he should not be alone, or with no more locomotive companion
than myself. Martyn was as old as I had been at our former vigil,
and a person to be relied on.</p>
<p>A few months ago he would have treated the matter as a curious adventurous
enterprise - a concession to superstition or imagination; but now he
took it up with much grave earnestness. He had been discussing
the evidence for such phenomena with friends at Oxford, and the conclusion
had been that they were at times permitted, sometimes as warnings, sometimes
to accomplish the redress of a wrong, sometimes to teach us the reality
of the spiritual world about us; and, likewise, that some constitutions
were more susceptible than others to these influences. Of course
he had adduced all that he knew of his domestic haunted chamber, but
had found himself uncertain as to the amount of direct or trustworthy
evidence. So he eagerly read our jottings, and was very anxious
to keep watch with Clarence, though there were greater difficulties
in the way than when the outer chamber was Griffith’s sitting-room,
and always had a fire lighted.</p>
<p>To our disappointment, likewise, there came an invitation from the
Eastwoods for the evening of the 27th of December, the second of the
recurring days of the phantom’s appearance. My father could
not, and my mother would not go, but they so much wanted my brothers
and sister to accept it that it could not well be declined. It
was partly a political affair, and my father was anxious to put Clarence
forward, and make him take his place as the future squire; and my mother
thought depression had lasted long enough with her children, and did
not like to see Martyn so grave and preoccupied. ‘It was
quite right and very nice in him, dear boy, but it was not natural at
his age, though he was to be a clergyman.’</p>
<p>As to Emily, her gentle cheerfulness had helped us all through our
time of sorrow, and just now we had been gratified by the tidings of
young Lawrence Frith. That youth was doing extremely well.
There had been golden reports from manager and chaplain, addressed to
Mr. Castleford, the latter adding that the young man evidently owed
much to Mr. Winslow’s influence. Moreover, Lawrence had
turned out an excellent correspondent. Long letters, worthy of
forming a book of travels, came regularly to Clarence and me, indeed
they were thought worth being copied into that fat clasped MS. book
in the study. Writing them must have been a real solace to the
exile, in his island outside the town, whither all the outer barbarians
were relegated. So, no doubt, was the packing of the gifts that
were gradually making Prospect Cottage into a Chinese exhibition of
nodding mandarins, ivory balls, exquisite little cups, and faggots of
tea. Also, a Chinese walking doll was sent humbly as an offering
for the amusement of Miss Winslow’s school children, whom indeed
she astonished beyond measure; and though her wheels are out of order,
and her movements uncertain, she is still a stereotyped incident in
the Christmas entertainments.</p>
<p>There was no question but that these letters and remembrances gave
great pleasure to Emily; but I believe she was not in the least conscious
that though greater in degree, it was not of the same quality as that
she felt when a runaway scholar who had gone to sea presented her in
token of gratitude with a couple of dried sea-horses.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XL - THE MIDNIGHT CHASE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘What human creature in the dead of night<br /> Had
coursed, like hunted hare, that cruel distance,<br />Had sought the
door, the window in her flight<br /> Striving for dear
existence?’</p>
<p>HOOD.</p>
<p>On the night of the 26th of December, Clarence and Martyn, well wrapped
in greatcoats, stole into the outer mullion room; but though the usual
sounds were heard, and the mysterious light again appeared, Martyn perceived
nothing else, and even Clarence declared that if there were anything
besides, it was far less distinct to him than it had been previously.
Could it be that his spiritual perceptions were growing dimmer as he
became older, and outgrew the sensitiveness of nerves and imagination?</p>
<p>We came to the conclusion that it would be best to watch the outside
of the house, rather than within the chamber; and the dinner-party facilitated
this, since it accounted for being up and about nearer to the hour when
the ghost might be expected. Egress could be had through the little
garden door, and I undertook to sit up and keep up the fire.</p>
<p>All three came to my room on their return home, for Emily had become
aware of our scheme, and entreated to be allowed to watch with us.
Clarence had unfastened the alarum bell from my shutters, and taken
down the bar after the curtains had been drawn by the housemaid, and
he now opened them. It was a frosty moonlight night, and the lawn
lay white and crisp, marked with fantastic shadows. The others
looked grave and pale, Emily was in a thick white shawl and hood, with
a swan’s down boa over her black dress, a somewhat ghostly figure
herself, but we were in far too serious a mood for light observations.</p>
<p>There was something of a shudder about Clarence as he went to unbolt
the back door; Martyn kept close to him. We saw them outside,
and then Emily flew after them. From my window I could watch them
advancing on the central gravel walk, Emily standing still between her
brothers, clasping an arm of each. I saw the light near the ruin,
and caught some sounds as of shrieks and of threatening voices, the
light flitted towards the gable of the mullion rooms, and then was the
concluding scream. All was over, and the three came back much
agitated, Emily sinking into an armchair, panting, her hands over her
face, and a nervous trembling through her whole frame, Martyn’s
eyes looking wide and scared, Clarence with the well-known look of terror
on his face. He hurried to fetch the tray of wine and water that
was always left on the table when anyone went to a party at night, but
he shivered too much to prevent the glasses from jingling, and I had
to pour out the sherry and administer it to Emily. ‘Oh!
poor, poor thing,’ she gasped out.</p>
<p>‘You saw?’ I exclaimed.</p>
<p>‘They did,’ said Martyn; ‘I only saw the light,
and heard! That was enough!’ and he shuddered again.</p>
<p>‘Then Emily did,’ I began, but Clarence cut me short.
‘Don’t ask her to-night.’</p>
<p>‘Oh! let me tell,’ cried Emily; ‘I can’t
go away to bed till I have had it out.’</p>
<p>Then she gave the details, which were the more notable because she
had not, like Martyn, been studying our jottings, and had heard comparatively
little of the apparition.</p>
<p>‘When I joined the boys,’ she said, ‘I looked toward
the mullion rooms; I saw the windows lighted up, and heard a sobbing
and crying inside.’</p>
<p>‘So did I,’ put in Martyn, and Clarence bent his head.</p>
<p>‘Then,’ added Emily, ‘by the moonlight I saw the
gable end, not blank, and covered by the magnolia as it is now, but
with stone steps up to the bricked-up doorway. The door opened,
the light spread, and there came out a lady in black, with a lamp in
one hand, and a kind of parcel in the other, and oh, when she turned
her face this way, it was Ellen’s!’</p>
<p>‘So you called out,’ whispered Martyn.</p>
<p>‘Dear Ellen, not as she used to be,’ added Emily, ‘but
like what she was when last I saw her; no, hardly that either, for this
was sad, sad, scared, terrified, with eyes all tears, as Ellen never,
never was.’</p>
<p>‘I saw,’ added Clarence, ‘I saw the shape, but
not the countenance and expression as I used to do.’</p>
<p>‘She came down the steps,’ continued Emily, ‘looking
about her as if making her escape, but, just as she came opposite to
us, there was a sound of tipsy laughing and singing from the gate up
by the wood.’</p>
<p>‘I thought it real,’ said Martyn.</p>
<p>‘Then,’ continued Emily, ‘she wavered, then turned
and went under an arch in the ruin - I fancied she was hiding something
- then came out and fled across to the steps; but there were two dark
men rushing after her, and at the stone steps there was a frightful
shriek, and then it was all over, the steps gone, all quiet, and the
magnolia leaves glistening in the moonshine. Oh! what can it all
mean?’</p>
<p>‘Went under the arch,’ repeated Clarence. ‘Is
it what she hid there that keeps her from resting?’</p>
<p>‘Then you believe it really happened?’ said Emily, ‘that
some terrible scene is being acted over again. Oh! but can it
be the real spirits!’</p>
<p>‘That is one of the great mysteries,’ answered Martyn;
‘but I could tell you of other instances.’</p>
<p>‘Don’t now,’ I interposed; ‘Emily has had
quite enough.’</p>
<p>We reminded her that the ghastly tragedy was over and would not recur
again for another year; but she was greatly shaken, and we were very
sorry for her, when the clock warned her to go to her own room, whither
Martyn escorted her. He lighted every candle he could find, and
revived the fire; but she was sadly overcome by what she had witnessed,
she lay awake all the rest of the night, and in the morning, looked
so unwell, and had so little to tell about the party that my mother
thought her spirits had been too much broken for gaieties.</p>
<p>The real cause could not be confessed, for it would have been ascribed
to some kind of delirium, and have made a commotion for which my father
was unfit. Besides, we had reached an age when, though we would
not have disobeyed, liberty of thought and action had become needful.
All our private confabulations were on this extraordinary scene.
We looked for the arch in the ruin, but there was, as our morning senses
told us, nothing of the kind. She tried to sketch her remembrance
of both that and the gable of the mullion chamber, and Martyn prowled
about in search of some hiding-place. Our antiquarian friend,
Mr. Stafford, had made a conjectural drawing of the Chapel restored,
and all the portfolios about the house were searched for it, disquieting
mamma, who suspected Martyn’s Oxford notions of intending to rebuild
it, nor would he say that it ought not to be done. However, he
with his more advanced ecclesiology, pronounced Mr. Stafford’s
reconstruction to be absolutely mistaken and impossible, and set to
work on a fresh plan, which, by the bye, he derides at present.
It afforded, however, an excuse for routing under the ivy and among
the stones, but without much profit. From the mouldings on the
materials and in the stables and the front porch, it was evident that
the chapel had been used as a quarry, and Emily’s arch was very
probably that of the entrance door. In a dry summer, the foundations
of the walls and piers could be traced on the turf, and the stumps of
one or two columns remained, but the rest was only a confused heap of
fragments within which no one could have entered as in that strange
vision.</p>
<p>Another thing became clear. There had once been a wall between
the beech wood and the lawn, with a gate or door in it; Chapman could
just remember its being taken down, in James Winslow’s early married
life, when landscape gardening was the fashion. It must have been
through this that the Winslow brothers were returning, when poor Margaret
perhaps expected them to enter by the front.</p>
<p>We wished we could have consulted Dame Dearlove, but she had died
a few years before, and her school was extinct.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XLI - WILLS OLD AND NEW</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘And that to-night thou must watch with me<br /> To
win the treasure of the tomb.’</p>
<p>SCOTT.</p>
<p>Some seasons seem to be peculiarly marked, as if Death did indeed
walk forth in them.</p>
<p>Old Mr. Frith died in the spring of 1841, and it proved that he had
shown his gratitude to Clarence by a legacy of shares in the firm amounting
to about £2000. The rest of his interest therein went to
Lawrence Frith, and his funded property to his sister, Mrs. Stevens,
a very fair and upright disposition of his wealth.</p>
<p>Only six weeks later, my father had a sudden seizure, and there was
only time to summon Clarence from London and Martyn from Oxford, before
a second attack closed his righteous and godly career upon earth.</p>
<p>My mother was very still and calm, hardly shedding a tear, but her
whole demeanour was as if life were over for her, and she had nothing
to do save to wait. She seemed to care very little for tendernesses
or attentions on our part. No doubt she would have been more desolate
without them, but we always had a baffled feeling, as though our affection
were contrasted with her perfect union with her husband. Yet they
had been a singularly undemonstrative couple; I never saw a kiss pass
between them, except as greeting or farewell before or after a journey;
and if my mother could not use the terms papa or your father, she always
said, ‘Mr. Winslow.’ There was a large gathering at
the funeral, including Mr. Fordyce, but he slept at Hillside, and we
scarcely saw him - only for a few kind words and squeezes of the hand.
Holy Week was begun, and he had to hurry back to Beachharbour that very
night.</p>
<p>The will had been made on my father’s coming into the inheritance.
It provided a jointure of £800 per annum for my mother, and gave
each of the younger children £3000. A codicil had been added
shortly after Griffith’s death, written in my father’s hand,
and witnessed by Mr. Henderson and Amos Bell. This put Clarence
in the position of heir; secured £500 a year to Griffith’s
widow, charged on the estate, and likewise an additional £200
a year to Emily and to me, hers till marriage, mine for life, £300
a year to Martyn, until Earlscombe Rectory should be voided, when it
was to be offered to him. The executors had originally been Mr.
Castleford and my mother, but by this codicil, Clarence was substituted
for the former.</p>
<p>The legacies did not come out of the Chantry House property, for
my father had, of course, means of his own besides, and bequests had
accrued to both him and my mother; but Clarence was inheriting the estate
much more burthened than it had been in 1829, having £2000 a year
to raise out of its proceeds.</p>
<p>My mother was quite equal to business, with a sort of outside sense,
which she applied to it when needful. Clarence made it at once
evident to her that she was still mistress of Chantry House, and that
it was still to be our home; and she immediately calculated what each
ought to contribute to the housekeeping. She looked rather blank
when she found that Clarence did not mean to give up business, nor even
to become a sleeping partner; but when she examined into ways and means,
she allowed that he was prudent, and that perhaps it was due to Mr.
Castleford not to deprive him of an efficient helper under present circumstances.
Meantime she was content to do her best for Earlscombe ‘for the
present,’ by which she meant till her son brought home a wife;
but we knew that to him the words bore a different meaning, though he
was still in doubt and uncertainty how to act, and what might be the
wrong to be undone.</p>
<p>He was anxious to persuade her to go from home for a short time,
and prevailed on her at last to take Emily and me to Dawlish, while
the repairs went on which had been deferred during my father’s
feebleness; at least that was the excuse. We two, going with great
regret, knew that his real reason was to have an opportunity for a search
among the ruins.</p>
<p>It was in June, just as Martyn came back from Oxford, eager to share
in the quest. Those two brothers would trust no one to help them,
but one by one, in the long summer evenings, they moved each of those
stones; I believe the servants thought they were crazed, but they could
explain with some truth that they wanted to clear up the disputed points
as to the architecture, as indeed they succeeded in doing.</p>
<p>They had, however, nearly given up, having reached the original pavement
and disinterred the piscina of the side altar, also a beautiful coffin
lid with a floriated cross; when, in a kind of hollow, Martyn lit upon
the rotten remains of something silken, knotted together. It seemed
to have enclosed a bundle. There were some rags that might have
been a change of clothing, also a Prayer-book, decayed completely except
the leathern covering, inside which was the startling inscription, ‘Margaret
Winslow, her booke; Lord, have mercy on a miserable widow woman.’
There was also a thick leathern roll, containing needles, pins, and
scissors, entirely corroded, and within these a paper, carefully folded,
but almost destroyed by the action of damp and the rust of the steel,
so that only thus much was visible. ‘I, Margaret Winslow,
being of sound mind, do hereby give and bequeath - ’</p>
<p>Then came stains that defaced every line, till the extreme end, where
a seal remained; the date 1707 was legible, and there were some scrawls,
probably the poor lady’s signature, and perhaps that of witnesses.
Clarence and Martyn said very little to one another, but they set out
for Dawlish the next day.</p>
<p>‘Found’ was indicated to us, but no more, for they arrived
late, and had to sleep at the hotel, after an evening when we were delighted
to hear my mother ask so many questions about household and parish affairs.
In the morning she was pleased to send all ‘the children’
out on the beach, then free from the railway. It was a beautiful
day, with the intensely blue South Devon sea dancing in golden ripples,
and breaking on the shore with the sound Clarence loved so well, as,
in the shade of the dark crimson cliffs, Emily sat at my feet and my
brothers unfolded their strange discoveries into her lap. There
was a kind of solemnity in the thing; we scarcely spoke, except that
Emily said, ‘Oh, will she come again,’ and, as the tears
gathered at sight of the pathetic petition in the old book, ‘Was
that granted?’</p>
<p>We reconstructed our theory. The poor lady must have repented
of the unjust will forced from her by her stepsons, and contrived to
make another; but she must have been kept a captive until, during their
absence at some Christmas convivialities, she tried to escape; but hearing
sounds betokening their return, she had only time to hide the bundle
in the ruin before she was detected, and in the scuffle received a fatal
blow.</p>
<p>‘But why,’ I objected, ‘did she not remain hidden
till her enemies were safe in the house?’</p>
<p>‘Terrified beyond the use of her senses,’ said Clarence.</p>
<p>‘By all accounts,’ said Martyn, ‘the poor creature
must have been rather a silly woman.’</p>
<p>‘For shame, Martyn,’ cried Emily, ‘how can you
tell? They might have seen her go in, or she might have feared
being missed.’</p>
<p>‘Or if you watch next Christmas you may see it all explained.’</p>
<p>To which Emily replied with a shiver that nothing would induce her
to go through it again, and indeed she hoped the spirit would rest since
the discovery had been made.</p>
<p>‘And then?’ - one of us said, and there was a silence,
and another futile attempt to read the will.</p>
<p>‘I shall take it to London and see what an expert can do with
it,’ said Clarence. ‘I have heard of wonderful decipherings
in the Record Office; but you will remember that even if it can be made
out, it will hardly invalidate our possession after a hundred and thirty
years.’</p>
<p>‘Clarence!’ cried Emily in a horrified voice; and I asked
if the date were not later than that by which we inherited.</p>
<p>‘Three years,’ Clarence said, ‘yes; but as things
stand, it is absolutely impossible for me to make restitution at present.’</p>
<p>‘On account of the burthens on the estate?’ I said.</p>
<p>‘Oh, but we could give up,’ said Emily.</p>
<p>‘I dare say!’ said Clarence, smiling; ‘but to say
nothing of poor Selina, my mother would hardly see it in the same light,
nor should I deal rightly, even if I could make any alterations; I doubt
whether my father would have held himself bound - certainly not while
no one can read this document.’</p>
<p>‘It would simply outrage his legal mind,’ said Martyn.</p>
<p>‘Then what is to be done? Is the injustice to be perpetual?’
asked Emily.</p>
<p>‘This is what I have thought of,’ said Clarence.
‘We must leave matters as they are till I can realise enough either
to pay off all these bequests, or to offer Mr. Fordyce the value of
the estate.’</p>
<p>‘It is not the whole,’ I said.</p>
<p>‘Not the Wattlesea part. This means Chantry House and
the three farms in the village. £10,000 would cover it.’</p>
<p>‘Is it possible?’ asked Emily.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ returned Clarence, ‘God helping me.
You know our concern is bringing in good returns, and Mr. Castleford
will put me in the way of doing more with my available capital.’</p>
<p>‘We will save so as to help you!’ added Emily.
At which he smiled.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XLII - ON A SPREE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘Her eyes as stars of twilight fair,<br />Like twilight too,
her dusky hair,<br />But all things else about her drawn<br />From May-time
and the cheerful dawn,<br />A dancing shape, an image gay,<br />To haunt,
to startle, and waylay.’</p>
<p>WORDSWORTH.</p>
<p>Clarence went to London according to his determination, and as he
had for some time been urgent that I should try some newly-invented
mechanical appliances, he took me with him, this being the last expedition
of the ancient yellow chariot. One of his objects was that I should
see St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge, which was then the most distinguished
church of our school of thought, and where there was to be some special
preaching. The Castlefords had a seat there, and I was settled
there in good time, looking at the few bits of stained glass then in
the east window, when, as the clergy came in from the vestry, I beheld
a familiar face, and recognised the fine countenance and bearing of
our dear old friend Frank Fordyce.</p>
<p>Then, looking at the row of ladies in front of me, I beheld for a
moment an outline of a profile recalling many things. No doubt,
Anne Fordyce was there, though instead of barely emulating my stunted
stature, she towered above her companions, looking to my mind most fresh
and graceful in her pretty summer dress; and I knew that Clarence saw
her too.</p>
<p>I had never heard Mr. Fordyce preach before, as in his flying visits
his ministrations were due at Hillside; and I certainly should have
been struck with the force and beauty of his sermon if I had never known
him before. It was curious that it was on the 49th Psalm, meant
perhaps for the fashionable congregation, but remarkably chiming in
with the feelings of us, who were conscious of an inheritance of evil
from one who had ‘done well unto himself;’ though, no doubt,
that was the last thing honest Parson Frank was thinking of.</p>
<p>When the service was over, and Anne turned, she became aware of us,
and her face beamed all over. It was a charming face, with a general
likeness to dear Ellen’s, but without the fragile ethereal look,
and all health, bloom, and enjoyment recalling her father’s.
She was only moving to let her pew-fellows pass out, and was waiting
for him to come for her, as he did in a few moments, and he too was
all pleasure and cordiality. He told us when we were outside that
he had come up to preach, and ‘had brought Miss Anne up for a
spree.’ They were at a hotel, Mrs. Fordyce was at home,
and the Lesters were not in town this season - a matter of rejoicing
to us. Could we not come home and dine with them at once?
We were too much afraid of disappointing Gooch to do so, but they made
an appointment to meet us at the Royal Academy as soon as it was open
the next morning.</p>
<p>There was a fortnight of enjoyment. Parson Frank was like a
boy out for a holiday. He had not spent more than a day or two
in town for many years; Anne had not been there since early childhood,
and they adopted Clarence as their lioniser, going through such a country-cousin
course of delights as in that memorable time with Ellen. They
even went down to Eton and Windsor, Frank Fordyce being an old Etonian.
I doubt whether Clarence ever had a more thoroughly happy time, not
even in the north of Devon, for there was no horse on his mind, and
he was not suppressed as in those days. Indeed, I believe, it
is the experience of others besides ourselves that there is often more
unmixed pleasure on casual holidays like this than in those of early
youth; for even if spirits are less high (which is not always the case),
anticipations are less eager, there is more readiness to accept whatever
comes, more matured appreciation, and less fret and friction at <i>contretemps.</i></p>
<p>I was not much of a drag, for when I could not be with the others,
I had old friends, and the museum was as dear to me as ever, in those
recesses that had been the paradise of my youth; but there was a good
deal in which we could all share, and as usual they were all kind consideration.</p>
<p>Anne overflowed with minute remembrances of her old home, and Clarence
so basked in her sunshine that it began to strike me that here might
be the solution of all the perplexities especially after the first evening,
when he had shown his strange discovery to Mr. Fordyce, who simply laughed
and said we need not trouble ourselves about it. Illegible was
it? He was heartily glad to hear that it was. Even otherwise,
forty years’ possession was quite enough, and then he pointed
to the grate, and said that was the best place for such things.
There was no fire, but Clarence could hardly rescue the paper from being
torn up.</p>
<p>As to the ghost, he knew much less than his daughter Ellen had done.
He said his old aunt had some stories about Chantry House being haunted,
and had thought it incumbent on her to hate the Winslows, but he had
thought it all nonsense, and such stories were much better forgotten.
‘Would he not see if there were any letters?’</p>
<p>There might be, perhaps in the solicitor’s office at Bath,
but if he ever got hold of them, he should certainly burn them.
What was the use of being Christians, if such quarrels were to be remembered?</p>
<p>Anne knew nothing. Aunt Peggy had died before she could remember,
and even Martyn had been discreet. Clarence said no more after
that one conversation, and seemed to me engrossed between his necessary
business at the office, and the pleasant expeditions with the Fordyces.
Only when they were on the point of returning home, did he tell me that
the will had been pronounced utterly past deciphering, and that he thought
he saw a way of setting all straight. ‘So do I,’ was
my rejoinder, and there must have been a foolishly sagacious expression
about me that made him colour up, and say, ‘No such thing, Edward.
Don’t put that into my head.’</p>
<p>‘Isn’t it there already?’</p>
<p>‘It ought not to be. It would be mere treachery in these
sweet, fresh, young, innocent, days of hers, knowing too what her mother
would think of it and of me. Didn’t you observe in old Frank’s
unguarded way of reading letters aloud, and then trying to suppress
bits, that Mrs. Fordyce was not at all happy at our being so much about
with them, poor woman. No wonder! the child is too young,’
he added, showing how much, after all, he was thinking of it.
‘It would be taking a base advantage of them <i>now</i>.’</p>
<p>‘But by and by?’</p>
<p>‘If she should be still free when the great end is achieved
and the evil repaired, then I might dare.’</p>
<p>He broke off with a look of glad hope, and I could see it was forbearance
rather than constitutional diffidence that withheld him from awakening
the maiden’s feelings. He was a very fine looking man, in
his prime - tall, strong, and well made, with a singularly grave, thoughtful
expression, and a rare but most winning smile; and Anne was overflowing
with affectionate gladness at intercourse with one who belonged to the
golden age of her childhood. I could scarcely believe but that
in the friction of the parting the spark would be elicited, and I should
even have liked to kindle it for them myself, being tolerably certain
that warm-hearted, unguarded Parson Frank would forget all about his
lady and blow it with all his might.</p>
<p>We dined with the Fordyces at their hotel, and sat in the twilight
with the windows open, and we made Anne and Clarence sing, as both could
do without notes, but he would not undertake to remember anything with
an atom of sentiment in it, and when Anne did sing, ‘Auld lang
syne,’ with all her heart, he went and got into a dark corner,
and barely said, ‘Thank you.’</p>
<p>Not a definite answer could be extracted from him in reply to all
the warm invitations to Beachharbour that were lavished on us by the
father, while the daughter expatiated on its charms; the rocks I might
sketch, the waves and the delicious boating, and above all the fisher
children and the church. Nothing was wanting but to have us all
there! Why had we not brought Mrs. Winslow, and Emily, and Martyn,
instead of going to Dawlish?</p>
<p>Good creatures, they little knew the chill that had been cast upon
Martyn. They even bemoaned the having seen so little of him.
And we knew all the time that they were mice at play in the absence
of their excellent and cautious cat.</p>
<p>‘Now mind you do come!’ said Anne, as we were in the
act of taking leave. ‘It would be as good as Hillside to
have you by my Lion rock. He has a nose just like old Chapman’s,
and you must sketch it before it crumbles off. Yes, and I want
to show you all the dear old things you made for my baby-house after
the fire, your dear little wardrobe and all.’</p>
<p>She was coming out with us, oblivious that a London hotel was not
like her own free sea-side house. Her father was out at the carriage
door, prepared to help me in, Clarence halted a moment -</p>
<p>‘Please, pray, go back, Anne,’ he said, and his voice
trembled. ‘This is not home you know.’</p>
<p>She started back, but paused. ‘You’ll not forget.’</p>
<p>‘Oh no; no fear of my forgetting.’</p>
<p>And when seated beside me, he leant back with a sigh.</p>
<p>‘How could you help?’ I said.</p>
<p>‘How? Why the perfect, innocent, childish, unconsciousness
of the thing,’ he said, and became silent except for one murmur
on the way.</p>
<p>‘Consequences must be borne - ’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XLIII - THE PRICE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘With thee, my bark, I’ll swiftly go<br /> Athwart
the foaming brine.’</p>
<p>LORD BYRON.</p>
<p>Clarence would not tell me his purpose, he said, till he had considered
it more fully; nor could we have much conversation on the way home,
as my mother had arranged that we should bring an old friend of hers
back with us to pay her a visit. So I had to sit inside and make
myself agreeable to Mrs. Wrightson, while Clarence had plenty of leisure
for meditation outside on the box seat. The good lady said much
on the desirableness of marriage for Clarence, and the comfort it would
be to my mother to see Emily settled.</p>
<p>We had heard much in town of railway shares; and the fortunes of
Hudson, the railway king, were under discussion. I suspected Clarence
of cogitating the using his capital in this manner; and hoped that when
he saw his way, he might not think it dishonourable to come into further
contact with Anne, and reveal his hopes. He allowed that he was
considering of such investments, but would not say any more.</p>
<p>My mother and Emily had, in the meantime, been escorted home by Martyn.
The first thing Clarence did was to bespeak Emily’s company in
a turn in the garden. What passed then I never knew nor guessed
for years after. He consulted her whether, in case he were absent
from England for five, seven, or ten years, she would be equal to the
care of my mother and me. Martyn, when ordained, would have duties
elsewhere, and could only be reckoned upon in emergencies. My
mother, though vigorous and practical, had shown symptoms of gout, and
if she were ill, I could hardly have done much for her; and on the other
hand, though my health and powers of moving were at their best, and
I was capable of the headwork of the estate, I was scarcely fit to be
the representative member of the family. Moreover, these good
creatures took into consideration that poor mamma and I would have been
rather at a loss as each other’s sole companions. I could
sort shades for her Berlin work, and even solve problems of intricate
knitting, and I could read to her in the evening; but I could not trot
after her to her garden, poultry-yard, and cottages; nor could she enter
into the pursuits that Emily had shared with me for so many years.
Our connecting link, that dear sister, knew how sorely she would be
missed, and she told Clarence that she felt fully competent to undertake,
conjointly with us, all that would be incumbent on Chantry House, if
he really wanted to be absent. For the rest, Clarence believed
my mother would be the happier for being left regent over the estate;
and his scheme broke upon me that very forenoon, when my mother and
he were settling some executor’s business together, and he told
her that Mr. Castleford wished him to go out to Hong Kong, which was
then newly ceded to the English, and where the firm wished to establish
a house of business.</p>
<p>‘You can’t think of it,’ she exclaimed, and the
sound fell like a knell on my ears.</p>
<p>‘I think I must,’ was his answer. ‘We shall
be cut out if we do not get a footing there, and there is no one who
can quite answer the purpose.’</p>
<p>‘Not that young Frith - ’</p>
<p>‘Ten to one but he is on his way home. Besides, if not,
he has his own work at Canton. We see our way to very considerable
advantages, if - ’</p>
<p>‘Advantages!’ she interrupted. ‘I hate speculation.
I should have thought you might be contented with your station; but
that is the worst of merchants, - they never know when to stop.
I suppose your ambition is to make this a great overgrown mansion, so
that your father would not know it again.’</p>
<p>‘Certainly not that, mamma,’ said Clarence smiling; ‘it
is the last thing I should think of; but stopping would in this case
mean going backward.’</p>
<p>‘Why can’t Mr. Castleford send one of his own sons?’</p>
<p>‘Probably Walter may come out by and by, but he has not experience
enough for this.’</p>
<p>Clarence had not in the least anticipated my mother’s opposition,
for he had come to underestimate her affection for and reliance on him.
He had us all against him, for not only could we not bear to part with
him; but the climate of Hong-Kong was in evil repute, and I had become
persuaded that, with his knowledge of business, railway shares and scrip
might be made to realise the amount needed, but he said, ‘That
is what <i>I</i> call speculation. The other matter is trade in
which, with Heaven’s blessing, I can hope to prosper.’</p>
<p>He explained that Mr. Castleford had received him on his coming to
London with almost a request that he would undertake this expedition;
but with fears whether, in his new position, he could or would do so,
although his presence in China would be very important to the firm at
this juncture; and there would be opportunities which would probably
result in very considerable profits after a few years. If Clarence
had been, as before, a mere younger brother, it would have been thought
an excellent chance; and he would almost have felt bound by his obligations
to Mr. Castleford to undertake the first starting of the enterprise,
if it had not been for our recent loss, and the doubt whether he could
he spared from home.</p>
<p>He made light of the dangers of climate. He had never suffered
in that way in his naval days, and scarcely knew what serious illness
meant. Indeed, he had outgrown much of that sensibility of nerve
which had made him so curiously open to spiritual or semi-spiritual
impressions.</p>
<p>‘Any way,’ he said, ‘the thing is right to be done,
provided my mother does not make an absolute point of my giving it up;
and whether she does or not depends a good deal on how you others put
it to her.’</p>
<p>‘Right on Mr. Castleford’s account?’ I asked.</p>
<p>‘That is one side of it. To refuse would put him in a
serious difficulty; but I could perhaps come home sooner if it were
not for this other matter. I told him so far as that it was an
object with me to raise this sum in a few years, and he showed me how
there is every likelihood of my being able to do so out there.
So now I feel in your hands. If you all, and Edward chiefly, set
to and persuade my mother that this undertaking is a dangerous business,
and that I can only be led to it by inordinate love of riches - ’</p>
<p>‘No, no - ’</p>
<p>‘That’s what she thinks,’ pursued Clarence, ‘and
that I want to be a grander man than my father. That’s at
the bottom of her mind, I see. Well, if you deplore this, and
let her think the place can’t do without me, she will come out
in her strength and make it my duty to stay at home.’</p>
<p>‘It is very tempting,’ said Emily.</p>
<p>‘We all undertook to give up something.’</p>
<p>‘We never thought it would come in this way!’</p>
<p>‘We never do,’ said Clarence.</p>
<p>‘Tell me,’ said Martyn, ‘is this to content that
ghost, poor thing? For it is very hard to believe in her, except
in the mullion room in December.’</p>
<p>‘Exactly so, Martyn,’ he answered. ‘Impressions
fade, and the intellect fails to accept them. But I do not think
that is my motive. We know that a wicked deed was done by our
ancestor, and we hardly have the right to pray, “Remember not
the sins of our forefathers,” unless, now that we know the crime,
we attempt what restitution in us lies.’</p>
<p>There was no resisting after this appeal, and after the first shock,
my mother was ready to admit that as Clarence owed everything to Mr.
Castleford, he could not well desert the firm, if it were really needful
for its welfare that he should go out. We got her to look on Mr.
Castleford as captain of the ship, and Clarence as first lieutenant;
and when she was once convinced that he did not want to aggrandise the
family, but to do his duty, she dropped her objections; and we soon
saw that the occupations that his absence would impose on her would
be a fresh interest in life.</p>
<p>Just as the decision was thus ratified, a packet from Canton arrived
for Clarence from Bristol. It was the first reply of young Frith
to the tidings of the bequest which had changed the poor clerk to a
wealthy man, owning a large proportion of the shares of the prosperous
house.</p>
<p>I asked if he were coming home, and Clarence briefly replied that
he did not know, - ‘it depended - ’</p>
<p>‘Is he going to wed a fair Chinese with lily feet?’ asked
Martyn, to which the reply was an unusually discourteous ‘Bosh,’
as Clarence escaped with his letter. He was so reticent about
it that I required a solemn assurance that poor Lawrence’s head
had not been turned by his fortune, and that there was nothing wrong
with him. Indeed, there was great stupidity in never guessing
the purport of that thick letter, nor that it contained one for Emily,
where Lawrence Frith laid himself, and all that he had, at her feet,
ascribing to her all the resolution with which he had kept from evil,
and entreating permission to come home and endeavour to win her heart.
We lived so constantly together that it is surprising that Clarence
contrived to give the letter to Emily in private. She implored
him to say nothing to us, and brought him the next day her letter of
uncompromising refusal.</p>
<p>He asked whether it would have been the same if he had intended to
remain at home.</p>
<p>‘As if you were a woman, you conceited fellow,’ was all
the answer she vouchsafed him.</p>
<p>Nor could he ascertain, nor perhaps would she herself examine, on
which side lay her heart of hearts. The proof had come whether
she would abide by her pledge to him to accept the care of us in his
absence. When he asked it, it had not occurred to him that it
might be a renunciation of marriage. Now he perceived that so
it had been, but she kept her counsel and so did he. We others
never guessed at what was going on between those two.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XLIV - PAYING THE COST</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘But oh! the difference to me.’</p>
<p>WORDSWORTH.</p>
<p>So Clarence was gone, and our new life begun in its changed aspect.
Emily showed an almost feverish eagerness to make it busy and cheerful,
getting up a sewing class in the village, resuming the study of Greek,
grappling with the natural system in botany, all of which had been fitfully
proposed but hindered by interruptions and my father’s feebleness.</p>
<p>On a suggestion of Mr. Stafford’s, we set to work on that <i>History
of Letter Writing</i> which, what with collecting materials, and making
translations, lasted us three years altogether, and was a great resource
and pleasure, besides ultimately bringing in a fraction towards the
great purpose. Emily has confessed that she worked away a good
deal of vague, weary depression, and sense of monotony into those Greek
choruses: but to us she was always a sunbeam, with her ever ready attention,
and the playfulness which resumed more of genuine mirth after the first
effort and strain of spirits were over.</p>
<p>Then journal-letters on either side began to bridge the gulf of separation,
- those which, minus all the specially interesting portions, are to
be seen in the volume we culled from them, and which had considerable
success in its day.</p>
<p>Martyn worked in the parish and read with Mr. Henderson till he was
old enough for Ordination, and then took the curacy of St. Wulstan’s,
under a hardworking London vicar, and thenceforth his holidays were
our festivals. Our old London friends pitied us for what they
viewed as a fearfully dull life, and in the visits they occasionally
paid us thought they were doing us a great favour by bringing us new
ideas and shooting our partridges.</p>
<p>We hardly deserved their compassion: our lives were full of interest
to ourselves - that interest which comes of doing ever so feeble a stroke
of work in one great cause; and there was much keen participation in
the general life of the Church in the crisis through which she was passing.
We found that, what with drawing pictures, writing little books, preparing
lessons for teachers, and much besides which is now ready done by the
National Society and Sunday School Institute, we could do a good deal
to assist Martyn in his London work, and our own grew upon us.</p>
<p>For the first year of her widowhood, my mother shrank from society,
and afterwards had only spasmodic fits of doubt whether it were not
her duty to make my sister go out more. So that now and then Emily
did go to a party, or to make a visit of some days or weeks from home,
and then we knew how valuable she was. It would be hard to say
whether my mother were relieved or disappointed when Emily refused James
Eastwood, in spite of many persuasions, not only from himself, but his
family. I believe mamma thought it selfish to be glad, and that
it was a failure in duty not to have performed that weighty matter of
marrying her daughter; feeling in some way inferior to ladies who had
disposed of a whole flock under five and twenty, whereas she had not
been able to get rid of a single one!</p>
<p>Of Clarence’s doings in China I need not speak; you have read
of them in the book for yourselves, and you know how his work prospered,
so that the results more than fulfilled his expectations, and raised
the firm to the pitch of greatness and reputation which it has ever
since preserved, and this without soiling his hands with the miserable
opium traffic. Some of the subordinates were so set on the gains
to be thus obtained, that he and Lawrence Frith had a severe struggle
with them to prevent it, and were forced conjointly to use all their
authority as principals to make it impossible. Those two were
the greatest of friends. Their chief relaxation was one another’s
company, and their earnest aim was to support the Christian mission,
and to keep up the tone of their English dependants, a terribly difficult
matter, and one that made the time of their return somewhat doubtful,
even when Walter Castleford was gone out to relieve them. Their
health had kept up so well that we had ceased to be anxious on that
point, and it was through the Castlefords that we received the first
hint that Clarence might not be as well as his absence of complaint
had led us to believe.</p>
<p>In fact he had never been well since a terrible tempest, when he
had worked hard and exposed himself to save life. I never could
hear the particulars, for Lawrence was away, and Clarence could not
write about it himself, having been prostrated by one of those chills
so perilous in hot countries; but from all I have heard, no resident
in Hong-Kong would have believed that Mr. Winslow’s courage could
ever have been called in question. He ought to have come home
immediately after that attack of fever; for the five years were over,
and his work nearly done; but there was need to consolidate his achievements,
and a strong man is only too apt to trifle with his health. We
might have guessed something by the languor and brevity of his letters,
but we thought the absence of detail owing to his expectation of soon
seeing us; and had gone on for months expecting the announcement of
a speedy return, when an unexpected shock fell on us. Our dear
mother was still an active woman, with few signs of age about her, when,
in her sixty-seventh year, she was almost suddenly taken from us by
an attack of gout in the stomach.</p>
<p>I feel as if I had not done her justice, and as if she might seem
stern, unsympathising, and lacking in tenderness. Yet nothing
could be further from the truth. She was an old-fashioned mother,
who held it her duty to keep up her authority, and counted over-familiarity
and indulgence as sins. To her ‘the holy spirit of discipline
was the beginning of wisdom,’ and to make her children godly,
truthful, and honourable was a much greater object than to win their
love. And their love she had, and kept to a far higher degree
than seems to be the case with those who court affection by caresses
and indulgence. We knew that her approval was of a generous kind,
we prized enthusiastically her rare betrayals of her motherly tenderness,
and we depended on her in a manner we only realised in the desolation,
dreariness, and helplessness that fell upon us, when we knew that she
was gone. She had not, nor had any of us, understood that she
was dying, and she had uttered only a few words that could imply any
such thought. On hearing that there was a letter from Clarence,
she said, ‘Poor Clarence! I should like to have seen him.
He is a good boy after all. I’ve been hard on him, but it
will all be right now. God Almighty bless him!’</p>
<p>That was the only formal blessing she left among us. Indeed,
the last time I saw her was with an ordinary good-night at the foot
of the stairs. Emily said she was glad that I had not to carry
with me the remembrance of those paroxysms of suffering. My dear
Emily had alone the whole force of that trial - or shall I call it privilege?
Martyn did not reach home till some hours after all was over, poor boy.</p>
<p>And in the midst of our desolateness, just as we had let the daylight
in again upon our diminished numbers round the table, came a letter
from Hong-Kong, addressed to me in Lawrence Frith’s writing, and
the first thing I saw was a scrawl, as follows:-</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘DEAREST TED - All is in your hands. You can do <i>it</i>.
God bless you all. W. C. W.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>When I came to myself, and could see and hear, Martyn was impressing
on me that where there is life there is hope, though indeed, according
to poor Lawrence’s letter, there was little of either. He
feared our hearing indirectly, and therefore wrote to prepare us.</p>
<p>He had been summoned to Hong-Kong to find Clarence lying desperately
ill, for the most part semi-delirious, holding converse with invisible
forms, or entreating some one to let him alone - he had done his best.
In one of his more lucid intervals he had made Lawrence find that note
in a case that lay near him, and promise to send it; and he had tried
to send some messages, but they had become confused, and he was too
weak to speak further.</p>
<p>The next mail was sure to bring the last tidings of one who had given
his life for right and justice. It was only a reprieve that what
it actually brought was the intelligence that he was still alive, and
more sensible, and had been able to take much pleasure in seeing the
friend of his youth, Captain Coles, who was there with his ship, the
<i>Douro</i>. Then there had been a relapse. Captain Coles
had brought his doctor to see him, and it had been pronounced that the
best chance of saving him was a sea-voyage. The <i>Douro</i> had
just received orders to return to England, and Coles had offered to
take home both the friends as guests, though there was evidently little
hope that our brother would reach any earthly home. As we knew
afterwards, he had smiled and said it was like rehabilitation to have
the chance of dying on board one of H.M. ships. And he was held
in such respect, and was so entirely one of the leading men of the little
growing colony, and had been known as such a friend to the naval men,
and had so gallantly aided a Queen’s ship in that hurricane, that
his passage home in this manner only seemed a natural tribute of respect.
A few last words from Lawrence told us that he was safely on board,
all unconscious of the silent, almost weeping, procession that had escorted
his litter to the <i>Douro’s</i> boat, only too much as if it
were his bier. In fact, Captain Coles actually promised him that
if he died at sea he should be buried with the old flag.</p>
<p>We could not hope to hear more for at least six weeks, since our
letter had come by overland mail, and the <i>Douro</i> would take her
time. It was a comfort in this waiting time that Martyn could
be with us. His rector had been promoted; there was a general
change of curates; and as Martyn had been working up to the utmost limits
of his strength, we had no scruple in inducing him to remain with us,
and undertake nothing fresh till this crisis was past. Though
as to rest, not one Sunday passed without requests for his assistance
from one or more of the neighbouring clergy.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XLV - ACHIEVED</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘And hopes and fears that kindle hope,<br />An undistinguishable
throng,<br />And gentle wishes long subdued -<br />Subdued and cherished
long.’</p>
<p>S. T. COLERIDGE.</p>
<p>The first that we did hear of our brother was a letter with a Falmouth
postmark, which we scarcely dared to open. There was not much
in it, but that was enough. ‘D. G.- I shall see you all
again. We put in at Portsmouth.’</p>
<p>There was no staying at home after that. We three lost no time
in starting, for railways had become available, and by the time we had
driven from the station at Portsmouth the <i>Douro</i> had been signalled.</p>
<p>Martyn took a boat and went on board alone, for besides that Emily
did not like to leave me, her dress would have been a revelation that
<i>all</i> were no longer there to greet the arrival. The precaution
was, however, unnecessary. There stood Clarence on deck, and after
the first greeting, he laid his hand on Martyn’s arm and said,
‘My mother is gone?’ and on the wondering assent, ‘I
was quite sure of it.’</p>
<p>So they came ashore, Clarence lying in the man-of-war’s boat,
in which his friend insisted on sending him, able now to give a smiling
response and salute to the three cheers with which the crew took leave
of him. He was carried up to our hotel on a stretcher by half-a-dozen
blue jackets. Indeed he was grievously changed, looking so worn
and weak, so hollow-eyed and yellow, and so fearfully wasted, that the
very memory is painful; and able to do nothing but lie on the sofa holding
Emily’s hand, gazing at us with a face full of ineffable peace
and gladness. There was a misgiving upon me that he had only come
back to finish his work and bid us farewell.</p>
<p>Kindly and considerately they had sent him on before with Martyn.
In a quarter of an hour’s time his good doctor came in with Lawrence
Frith, a considerable contrast to our poor Clarence, for the slim gypsy
lad had developed into a strikingly handsome man, still slender and
lithe, but with a fine bearing, and his bronzed complexion suiting well
with his dark shining hair and beautiful eyes. They had brought
some of the luggage, and the doctor insisted that his patient should
go to bed directly, and rest completely before trying to talk.</p>
<p>Then we heard that his condition, though still anxious, was far from
being hopeless, and that after the tropics had been passed, he had been
gradually improving. The kind doctor had got leave to go up to
London with us, and talk over the case with L---, and he hoped Clarence
might be able to bear the journey by the next afternoon.</p>
<p>Presently after came Captain Coles, whom we had not seen since the
short visit when we had idolised the big overgrown midshipman, whom
Clarence exhibited to our respectful and distant admiration nearly twenty
years ago. My mother used to call him a gentlemanly lad, and that
was just what he was still, with a singularly soft gentle manner, gallant
officer and post-captain as he was. He cheered me much, for he
made no doubt of Clarence’s ultimate recovery, and he added that
he had found the dear fellow so valued and valuable, so useful in all
good works, and so much respected by all the English residents, ‘that
really,’ said the captain, ‘I did not know whether to deplore
that the service should have lost such a man, or whether to think it
had been a good thing for him, though not for us, that - that he got
into such a scrape.’</p>
<p>I said something of our thanks.</p>
<p>‘To tell you the truth,’ said Coles, ‘I had my
doubts whether it had not been a cruel act, for he had a terrible turn
after we got him on board, and all the sounds of a Queen’s ship
revived the past associations, and always of a painful kind in his delirium,
till at last, just as I gave him up, the whole character of his fancies
seemed to change, and from that time he has been gaining every day.’</p>
<p>We kept the captain to dinner, and gathered a good deal more understanding
of the important position to which Clarence had risen by force of character
and rectitude of purpose in that strange little Anglo-Chinese colony;
and afterwards, I was allowed to make a long visit to Clarence, who,
having eaten and slept, was quite ready to talk.</p>
<p>It seemed that the great distress of his illness had been the recurrence
- nay, aggravation - of the strange susceptibility of brain and nerve
that had belonged to his earlier days, and with it either imagination
or perception of the spirit-world. Much that had seemed delirium
had belonged to that double consciousness, and he perfectly recollected
it. As Coles had said, the sights and sounds of the ship had been
a renewal of the saddest time in his life; he could not at night divest
himself of the impression that he was under arrest, and the sins of
his life gathered themselves in fearful and oppressive array, as if
to stifle him, and the phantom of poor Margaret with her lamp - which
had haunted him from the beginning of his illness - seemed to taunt
him with having been too fainthearted and tardy to be worthy to espouse
her cause. The faith to which he tried to cling <i>would</i> seem
to fail him in those awful hours, when he could only cry out mechanical
prayers for mercy. Then there had come a night when he had heard
my mother say, ‘All right now; God Almighty bless him.’
And therewith the clouds cleared from his mind. The power of <i>feeling</i>,
as well as believing in, the blotting out of sin, returned, the sense
of pardon and peace calmed him, and from that time he was fully himself
again, ‘though,’ he said, ‘I knew I should not see
my mother here.’</p>
<p>If she could only have seen him come home under the Union Jack, cheered
by sailors, and carried ashore by them, it would have been to her like
restoration. Perhaps Clarence in his dreamy weakness had so felt
it, for certainly no other mode of return to Portsmouth, the very place
of his degradation, could so have soothed him and effaced those memories.
The English sounds were a perfect charm to him, as well as to Lawrence,
the commonest street cry, the very slices of bread and butter, anything
that was not Chinese, was as water to the thirsty! And wasted
as was his face, the quiet rest and joy were ineffable.</p>
<p>Still Portsmouth was not the best place for him, and we were glad
that he was well enough to go up to London in the afternoon; intensely
delighting in the May beauty of the green meadows, and white blossoming
hedgerows, and the Church towers, especially the gray massiveness of
Winchester Cathedral. ‘Christian tokens,’ he said,
instead of the gay, gilded pagodas and quaint crumpled roofs he had
left. The soft haze seemed to be such a rest after the glare of
perpetual clearness.</p>
<p>We were all born Londoners, and looked at the blue fog, and the broad,
misty river, and the brooding smoke, with the affection of natives,
to the amazement of Lawrence, who had never been in town without being
browbeaten and miserable. That he hardly was now, as he sat beside
Emily all the way up, though they did not say much to one another.</p>
<p>He told us it was quite a new sensation to walk into the office without
timidity, and to have no fears of a biting, crushing speech about his
parents or himself; but to have the clerks getting up deferentially
as soon as he was known for Mr. Frith. He had hardly ever been
allowed by his old uncle to come across Mr. Castleford, who was of course
cordial and delighted to receive him, and, without loss of time, set
forth to see Clarence.</p>
<p>The consultation with the physician had taken place, and it was not
concealed from us that Clarence’s health was completely shattered,
and his state still very precarious, needing the utmost care to give
him any chance of recovering the effects of the last two years, when
he had persevered, in spite of warning, in his eagerness to complete
his undertaking, and then to secure what he had effected. The
upshot of the advice given him was to spend the summer by the seaside,
and if he had by that time gathered strength, and surmounted the symptoms
of disease, to go abroad, as he was not likely to be able as yet to
bear English cold. Business and cares were to be avoided, and
if he had anything necessary to be done, it had better be got over at
once, so as to be off his mind. Martyn and Frith gathered that
the case was thought doubtful, and entirely dependent on constitution
and rallying power. Clarence himself seemed almost passive, caring
only for our presence and the accomplishment of his task.</p>
<p>We had a blessed thanksgiving for mercies received in the Margaret
Street Chapel, as we called what is now All Saints; but he and I were
unfit for crowds, and on Sunday morning availed ourselves of a friend’s
seat in our old church, which felt so natural and homelike to us elders
that Martyn was scandalised at our taste. But it was the church
of our Confirmation and first Communion, and Clarence rejoiced that
it was that of his first home-coming Eucharist. What a contrast
was he now to the shrinking boy, scarcely tolerated under his stigmatised
name. Surely the Angel had led him all his life through!</p>
<p>How happy we two were in the afternoon, while the others conducted
Lawrence to some more noteworthy church.</p>
<p>‘Now,’ said Clarence, ‘let us go down to Beachharbour.
It must be done at once. I have been trying to write, and I can’t
do it,’ and his face lighted with a quiet smile which I understood.</p>
<p>So we wrote to the principal hotel to secure rooms, and set forth
on Tuesday, leaving Frith to finish with Mr. Castleford what could not
be settled in the one business interview that had been held with Clarence
on the Monday.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XLVI - RESTITUTION</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘Ah! well for us all some sweet hope lies<br />Deeply buried
from human eyes.’</p>
<p>WHITTIER.</p>
<p>Things always happen in unexpected ways. During the little
hesitation and difficulty that always attend my transits at a station,
a voice was heard to say, ‘Oh! Papa, isn’t that Edward
Winslow?’ Martyn gave a violent start, and Mr. Fordyce was
exclaiming, ‘Clarence, my dear fellow, it isn’t you!
I beg your pardon; you have strength enough left nearly to wring one’s
hand off!’</p>
<p>‘I - I wanted very much to see you, sir,’ said Clarence.
‘Could you be so good as to appoint a time?’</p>
<p>‘See you! We must always be seeing you of course.
Let me think. I’ve got three weddings and a funeral to-morrow,
and Simpson coming about the meeting. Come to luncheon - all of
you. Mrs. Fordyce will be delighted, and so will somebody else.’</p>
<p>There was no doubt about the somebody else, for Anne’s feet
were as nearly dancing round Emily as public propriety allowed, and
the radiance of her face was something to rejoice in. Say what
people will, Englishwomen in a quiet cheerful life are apt to gain rather
than lose in looks up to the borders of middle age. Our Emily
at two-and-thirty was fair and pleasant to look on; while as for Anne
Fordyce at twenty-three, words will hardly tell how lovely were her
delicate features, brown eyes, and carnation cheeks, illuminated by
that sunshine brightness of her father’s, which made one feel
better all day for having been beamed upon by either of them.
Clarence certainly did, when the good man turned back to say, ‘Which
hotel? Eh? That’s too far off. You must come
nearer. I would see you in, but I’ve got a woman to see
before church time, and I’m short of a curate, so I must be sharp
to the hour.’</p>
<p>‘Can I be of any use?’ eagerly asked Martyn. ‘I’ll
follow you as soon as I have got these fellows to their quarters.’</p>
<p>We had Amos with us, and were soon able to release Martyn, after
a few compliments on my not being as usual <i>the</i> invalid; and by
and by he came back to take Emily to inspect a lodging, recommended
by our friends, close to the beach, and not a stone’s throw from
the Rectory built by Mr. Fordyce. As we two useless beings sat
opposite to each other, looking over the roofs of houses at the blue
expanse and feeling the salt breeze, it was no fancy that Clarence’s
cheek looked less wan, and his eyes clearer, as a smile of content played
on his lips. ‘Years sit well on her,’ he said gaily;
and I thought of rewards in store for him.</p>
<p>Then he took this opportunity of consulting me on the chances for
Frith, telling of the original offer, and the quiet constancy of his
friend, and asking whether I thought Emily would relent. And I
answered that I suspected that she would, - ‘But you must get
well first.’</p>
<p>‘I begin to think that more possible,’ he answered, and
my heart bounded as he added, ‘she would be satisfied since you
would always have a home with <i>us</i>.’</p>
<p>Oh, how much was implied in that monosyllable. He knew it,
for a little faint colour came up, as he, shyly, laughed and hesitated,
‘That is - if - ’</p>
<p>‘If’ included Mrs. Fordyce’s not being ungracious.
Nor was she. Emily had found her as kind as in the old days at
Hillside, and perfectly ready to bring us into close vicinity.
It was not caprice that had made this change, but all possible doubt
and risk of character were over, the old wound was in some measure healed,
and the friendship had been brought foremost by our recent sorrow and
our present anxiety. Anne was in ecstasies over Emily. ‘It
is so odd,’ she said, ‘to have grown as old as you, whom
I used to think so very grown up,’ and she had all her pet plans
to display in the future. Moreover, Martyn had been permitted
to relieve the Rector from the funeral - a privilege which seemed to
gratify him as much as if it had been the liveliest of services.</p>
<p>We were to lunch at the Rectory, and the move of our goods was to
be effected while we were there. We found Mrs. Fordyce looking
much older, but far less of an invalid than in old times, and there
was something more genial and less exclusive in her ways, owing perhaps
to the difference of her life among the many classes with whom she was
called on to associate.</p>
<p>Somersetshire, Beachharbour, and China occupied our tongues by turns,
and we had to begin luncheon without the Rector, who had been hindered
by numerous calls; in fact, as Anne warned us, it was a wonder if he
got the length of the esplanade without being stopped half-a-dozen times.</p>
<p>His welcome was like himself, but he needed a reminder of Clarence’s
request for an interview. Then we repaired to the study, for Clarence
begged that his brothers might be present, and then the beginning was
made. ‘Do you remember my showing you a will that I found
in the ruins at Chantry House?’</p>
<p>‘A horrid old scrap that you chose to call one. Yes;
I told you to burn it.’</p>
<p>‘Sir, we have proved that a great injustice was perpetrated
by our ancestor, Philip Winslow, and that the poor lady who made that
will was cruelly treated, if not murdered. This is no fancy; I
have known it for years past, but it is only now that restitution has
become possible.’</p>
<p>‘Restitution? What are you talking about? I never
wanted the place nor coveted it.’</p>
<p>‘No, sir, but the act was our forefather’s. You
cannot bid us sit down under the consciousness of profiting by a crime.
I could not do so before, but I now implore you to let me restore you
either Chantry House and the three farms, or their purchase money, according
to the valuation made at my father’s death. I have it in
hand.’</p>
<p>Frank Fordyce walked about the room quite overcome. ‘You
foolish fellow!’ he said, ‘Was it for this that you have
been toiling and throwing away your health in that pestiferous place?
Edward, did you know this?’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Clarence has intended
this ever since he found the will.’</p>
<p>‘As if that was a will! You consented.’</p>
<p>‘We all thought it right.’</p>
<p>He made a gesture of dismay at such folly.</p>
<p>‘I do not think you understand how it was, Mr. Fordyce,’
said Clarence, who by this time was quivering and trembling as in his
boyish days.</p>
<p>‘No, nor ever wish to do so. Such matters ought to be
forgotten, and you don’t look fit to say another word.’</p>
<p>‘Edward will tell you,’ said Clarence, leaning back.</p>
<p>I had the whole written out, and was about to begin, when the person,
with whom there was an appointment, was reported, and we knew that the
rest of the day was mapped out.</p>
<p>‘Look here,’ said Mr. Fordyce, ‘leave that with
me; I can’t give any answer off-hand, except that Don Quixote
is come alive again, only too like himself.’</p>
<p>Which was true, for Clarence took long to rally from the effort,
and had to be kept quiet for some time in the study where we were left.
He examined me on the contents of my paper, and was vexed to hear that
I had mentioned the ghost, which he said would discredit the whole.
Never was the dear fellow so much inclined to be fretful, and when Martyn
restlessly observed that if we did not want him, he might as well go
back to the drawing-room, the reply was quite sharp - ‘Oh yes,
by all means.’</p>
<p>No wonder there was pain in the tone; for the next words, after some
interval, were, when two happy voices came ringing in from the garden
behind, ‘You see, Edward.’</p>
<p>Somehow I had never thought of Martyn. He had simply seemed
to me a boy, and I had decided that Anne would be the crown of Clarence’s
labours. I answered ‘Nonsense; they are both children together!’</p>
<p>‘The nonsense was elsewhere,’ he said. ‘They
always were devoted to each other. I saw how it was the moment
he came into the room.’</p>
<p>‘Don’t give up,’ I said; ‘it is only the
old habit. When she knows all, she must prefer - ’</p>
<p>‘Hush!’ he said. ‘An old scarecrow and that
beautiful young creature!’ and he laughed.</p>
<p>‘You won’t be an old scarecrow long.’</p>
<p>‘No,’ he said in an ominous way, and cut short the discussion
by going back to Mrs. Fordyce.</p>
<p>He was worn out, had a bad night, and did not get up to breakfast;
I was waiting for it in the sitting-room, when Mr. Fordyce came in after
matins with Emily and Martyn.</p>
<p>‘I feel just like David when they brought him the water of
Bethlehem,’ he said. ‘You know I think this all nonsense,
especially this - this ghost business; and yet, such - such doings as
your brother’s can’t go for nothing.’</p>
<p>His face worked, and the tears were in his eyes; then, as he partook
of our breakfast, he cross-examined us on my statement, and even tried
to persuade us that the phantom in the ruin was Emily; and on her observing
that she could not have seen herself, he talked of the Brocken Spectre
and fog mirages; but we declared the night was clear, and I told him
that all the rational theories I had ever heard were far more improbable
than the appearance herself, at which he laughed. Then he scrupulously
demanded whether this - this (he failed to find a name for it) would
be an impoverishment of our family, and I showed how Clarence had provided
that we should be in as easy circumstances as before. In the midst
came in Clarence himself, having hastened to dress, on hearing that
Mr. Fordyce was in the house, and looking none the better for the exertion.</p>
<p>‘Look here, my dear boy,’ said Frank, taking his hot
trembling hand, ‘you have put me in a great fix. You have
done the noblest deed at a terrible cost, and whatever I may think,
it ought not to be thrown away, nor you be hindered from freeing your
soul from this sense of family guilt. But here, my forefathers
had as little right to the Chantry as yours, and ever since I began
to think about such things, I have been thankful it was none of mine.
Let us join in giving it or its value to some good work for God - pour
it out to the Lord, as we may say. Bless me! what have I done
now.’</p>
<p>For Clarence, muttering ‘thank you,’ sank out of his
grasp on a chair, and as nearly as possible fainted; but he was soon
smiling and saying it was all relief, and he felt as if a load he had
been bearing had been suddenly removed.</p>
<p>Frank Fordyce durst stay no longer, but laid his hand on Clarence’s
head and blessed him.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XLVII - THE FORDYCE STORY</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘For soon as once the genial plain<br />Has drunk the life-blood
of the slain,<br />Indelible the spots remain,<br />And aye for vengeance
call.’</p>
<p>EURIPIDES - (<i>Anstice</i>).</p>
<p>Still all was not over, for by the next day our brother was as ill,
or worse, than ever. The doctor who came from London allowed that
he had expected something of the kind, but thought we must have let
him exert himself perilously. Poor innocent Martyn and Anne, they
little suspected that their bright eyes and happy voices had something
to do with the struggle and disappointment, which probably was one cause
of the collapse. As to poor Frank Fordyce, I never saw him so
distressed; he felt as if it were all his own fault, or that of his
ancestors, and, whenever he was not required by his duties, was lingering
about for news. I had little hope, though Clarence seemed to me
the very light of my eyes; it was to me as though, his task being accomplished,
and the earthly reward denied, he must be on his way to the higher one.</p>
<p>His complete quiescence confirmed me in the assurance that he thought
so himself. He was too ill for speech, but Lawrence, who could
not stay away, was struck with the difference from former times.
Not only were there no delusions, but there was no anxiety or uneasiness,
as there had always been in the former attacks, when he was evidently
eager to live, and still more solicitous to be told if he were in a
hopeless state. Now he had plainly resigned himself -</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘Content to live, but not afraid to die;’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>and perhaps, dear fellow, it was chiefly for my sake that he was
willing to live. At least, I know that when the worst was over,
he announced it by putting those wasted fingers into mine, and saying
-</p>
<p>‘Well, dear old fellow, I believe we shall jog on together,
after all.’</p>
<p>That attack, though the most severe of all, brought, either owing
to skilful treatment or to his own calm, the removal of the mischief,
and the beginning of real recovery. Previously he had given himself
no time, but had hurried on to exertions which retarded his cure, so
as very nearly to be fatal; but he was now perfectly submissive to whatever
physicians or nurses desired, and did not seem to find his slow convalescence
in the least tedious, since he was amongst us all again.</p>
<p>It was nearly a month before he was disposed to recur to the subject
of his old solicitude again, and then he asked what Mr. Fordyce had
said or done. Just nothing at all; but on the next visit paid
to the sick-room, Parson Frank yielded to his earnest request to send
for any documents that might throw light on the subject, and after a
few days he brought us a packet of letters from his deed-box.
They were written from Hillside Rectory to the son in the army in Flanders,
chiefly by his mother, and were full of hot, angry invective against
our family, and pity for poor, foolish ‘Madam,’ or ‘Cousin
Winslow,’ as she was generally termed, for having put herself
in their power.</p>
<p>The one most to the purpose was an account of the examination of
Molly Cox, the waiting-woman, who had been in attendance on the unfortunate
Margaret, and whose story tallied fairly with Aunt Peggy’s tradition.
She declared that she was sure that her mistress had met with foul play.
She had left her as usual at ten o’clock on the fatal 27th of
December 1707, in the inner one of the old chambers; and in the night
had heard the tipsy return home of the gentlemen, followed by shrieks.
In the morning she (the maid) who usually was the first to go to her
room, was met by Mistress Betty Winslow, and told that Madam was ill,
and insensible. The old nurse of the Winslows was called in; and
Molly was never left alone in the sick-room, scarcely permitted to approach
the bed, and never to touch her lady. Once, when emptying out
a cup at the garden-door, she saw a mark of blood on the steps, but
Mr. Philip came up and swore at her for a prying fool. Doctor
Tomkins was sent for, but he barely walked through the room, and ‘all
know that he is a mere creature of Philip Winslow,’ wrote the
Mrs. Fordyce of that date to her son. And presently after, ‘Justice
Eastwood declared there is no case for a Grand Jury; but he is a known
Friend and sworn Comrade of the Winslows, and bound to suppress all
evidence against them. Nay, James Dearlove swears he saw Edward
Winslow slip a golden Guinea into his Clerk’s Hand. But
as sure as there is a Heaven above us, Francis, poor Cousin Winslow
was trying to escape to us of her own Kindred, and met with cruel Usage.
Her Blood is on their Heads.’</p>
<p>‘There!’ said Frank Fordyce. ‘This Francis
challenged Philip Winslow’s eldest son, a mere boy, three days
after he joined the army before Lille, and shot him like a dog.
I turned over the letter about it in searching for these. I can’t
boast of my ancestors more than you can. But may God accept this
work of yours, and take away the guilt of blood from both of us.’</p>
<p>‘And have you thought what is best to be done?’ asked
Clarence, raising himself on his cushions.</p>
<p>‘Have you?’ asked the Vicar.</p>
<p>‘Oh yes; I have had my dreams.’</p>
<p>They put their castles together, and they turned out to be for an
orphanage, or rather asylum, not too much hampered with strict rules,
combined with a convalescent home. The battle of sisterhoods was
not yet fought out, and we were not quite prepared for them; but Frank
Fordyce had, as he said, ‘the two best women in the world in his
eye’ to make a beginning.</p>
<p>There was full time to think and discuss the scheme, for our patient
was in no condition to move for many weeks, lying day after day on a
couch just within the window of our sitting-room, which was as nearly
as possible in the sea, so that he constantly had the freshness of its
breezes, the music of its ripple, and the sight of its waves, and seemed
to find endless pleasure in watching the red sails, the puffs of steam,
and the frolics of the children, simple or gentle, on the beach.</p>
<p>Something else was sometimes to be watched. Martyn, all this
time, was doing the work of two curates, and was to be seen walking
home with Anne from church or school, carrying her baskets and bags,
and, as we were given to understand, discussing by turns ecclesiastical
questions, visionary sisterhoods, and naughty children. At first
I wished it were possible to remove Clarence from the perpetual spectacle,
but we had one last talk over the matter, and this was quite satisfactory.</p>
<p>‘It does me no harm,’ he said; ‘I like to see it.
Yes, it is quite true that I do. What was personal and selfish
in my fancies seems to have been worn out in the great lull of my senses
under the shadow of death; and now I can revert with real joy and thankfulness
to the old delight of looking on our dear Ellen as our sister, and watch
those two children as we used when they talked of dolls’ fenders
instead of the surplice war. I have got you, Edward; and you know
there is a love “passing the love of women.”’</p>
<p>A lively young couple passed by the window just then, and with untamed
voices observed -</p>
<p>‘There are those two poor miserable objects! It is enough
to make one melancholy only to look at them.’</p>
<p>Whereat we simultaneously burst out laughing; perhaps because a choking,
very far from misery, was in our throats.</p>
<p>At any rate, Clarence was prepared to be the cordial, fatherly brother,
when Martyn came headlong in upon us with the tidings that utterly indescribable,
unimaginable joy had befallen him. A revelation seemed simultaneously
to have broken upon him and Anne while they were copying out the Sunday
School Registers, that what they had felt for each other all their lives
was love - ‘real, true love,’ as Anne said to Emily, ‘that
never could have cared for anybody else.’</p>
<p>Mrs. Fordyce’s sharp eyes had seen what was coming, and accepted
the inevitable, quite as soon as Clarence had. She came and talked
it over with us, saying she was perfectly satisfied and happy.
Martyn was all that could be wished, and she was sincerely glad of the
connection with her old friends. So, in fact, was dear old Frank,
but he had been running about with his head full, and his eyes closed,
so that it was quite a shock to him to find that his little Anne, his
boon companion and playfellow, was actually grown up, and presuming
to love and be loved; and he could hardly believe that she was really
seven years older than her sister had been when the like had begun with
her. But if Anne must be at those tricks, he said, shaking his
head at her, he had rather it was with Martyn than anybody else.</p>
<p>There was no difficulty as to money matters. In truth, Martyn
was not so good a match as an heiress, such as was Anne Fordyce, might
have aspired to, and her Lester kin were sure to be shocked; but even
if Clarence married, the Earlscombe living went for something (though,
by the bye, he has never held it), and the Fordyces only cared that
there should be easy circumstances. The living of Hillside would
be resigned in favour of Martyn in the spring, and meantime he would
gain more experience at Beachharbour, and this would break the separation
to the Fordyces.</p>
<p>After all, however, theirs was not to be our first wedding.
I have said little of Emily. The fact was, that after that week
of Clarence’s danger, we said she lived in a kind of dream.
She fulfilled all that was wanted of her, nursing Clarence, waiting
on me, ordering dinner, making the tea, and so forth; but it was quite
evident that life began for her on the Saturdays, when Lawrence came
down, and ended on the Mondays, when he went away. If, in the
meantime, she sat down to work, she went off into a trance; if she was
sent out for fresh air, she walked quarter-deck on the esplanade, neither
seeing nor hearing anything, we averred, but some imaginary Lawrence
Frith.</p>
<p>If she had any drawback, good girl, it was the idea of deserting
me; but then, as I could honestly tell her, nobody need fear for my
happiness, since Clarence was given back to me. And she believed,
and was ready to go to China with her Lawrence.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XLVIII - THE LAST DISCOVERY</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘Grief will be joy if on its edge<br />Fall soft that holiest
ray,<br />Joy will be grief, if no faint pledge<br />Be there of heavenly
day.’</p>
<p>KEBLE.</p>
<p>We did not move from Beachharbour till September, and by that time
it had been decided that Chantry House itself should be given up to
the new scheme. It was too large for us, and Clarence had never
lived there enough to have any strong home feeling for it; but he rather
connected it with disquiet and distress, and had a longing to make actual
restitution thereof, instead of only giving an equivalent, as he did
in the case of the farms. Our feelings about the desecrated chapel
were also considerably changed from the days when we regarded it merely
as a picturesque ruin, and it was to be at once restored both for the
benefit of the orphanage, and for that of the neighbouring households.
For ourselves, a cottage was to be built, suited to our idiosyncrasies;
but that could wait till after the yacht voyage, which we were to make
together for the winter.</p>
<p>Thus it came to pass that the last time we inhabited Chantry House
was when we gave Emily to Lawrence Frith. We would fain have made
it a double wedding, but the Fordyces wished to wait for Easter, when
Martyn would have been inducted to Hillside. They came, however,
that Mrs. Fordyce might act lady of the house, and Anne be bridesmaid,
as well as lay the first stone of St. Cecily’s restored chapel.</p>
<p>It was on the day on which they were expected, when the workmen were
digging foundations, and clearing away rubbish, that the foreman begged
Mr. Winslow to come out to see something they had found. Clarence
came back, very grave and awe-struck. It was an old oak chest,
and within lay a skeleton, together with a few fragments of female clothing,
a wedding ring, and some coins of the later Stewarts, in a rotten leathern
purse. This was ghastly confirmation, though there was nothing
else to connect the bones with poor Margaret. We had some curiosity
as to the coffin in the niche in the family vault which bore her name,
but both Clarence and Mr. Fordyce shrank from investigations which could
not be carried out without publicity, and might perhaps have disturbed
other remains.</p>
<p>So on the ensuing night there was a strange, quiet funeral service
at Earlscombe Church. Mr. Henderson officiated, and Chapman acted
as clerk. These, with Amos Bell, alone knew the tradition, or
understood what the discovery meant to the two Fordyces and three Winslows
who stood at the opening of the vault, and prayed that whatever guilt
there might be should be put away from the families so soon to be made
one. The coins were placed with those of Victoria, which the next
day Anne laid beneath the foundation-stone of St. Cecily’s.
I need not say that no one has ever again heard the wailings, nor seen
the lady with the lamp.</p>
<p>What more is there to tell? It was of this first half of our
lives that I intended to write, and though many years have since passed,
they have not had the same character of romance and would not interest
you. Our honeymoon, as Mr. Fordyce called the expedition we two
brothers made in the Mediterranean, was a perfect success; and Clarence
regained health, and better spirits than had ever been his; while contriving
to show me all that I was capable of being carried to see. It
was complete enjoyment, and he came home, not as strong as in old times,
but with fair comfort and capability for the work of life, so as to
be able to take Mr. Castleford’s place, when our dear old friend
retired from active direction of the firm.</p>
<p>You all know how the two old bachelors have kept house together in
London and at Earlscombe cottage, and you are all proud of the honoured
name Clarence Winslow has made for himself, foremost in works for the
glory of God and the good of men - as one of those merchant princes
of England whose merchandise has indeed been Holiness unto the Lord.</p>
<p>Thus you must all have felt a shock on finding that he always looked
on that name as blotted, and that one of the last sayings I heard from
him was, ‘O remember not the sins and offences of my youth, but
according to Thy mercy, think upon me, O Lord, for Thy goodness.’</p>
<p>Then he almost smiled, and said, ‘Yes, He has so looked on
me, and I am thankful.’</p>
<p>Thankful, and so am I, for those thirty-four peaceful years we spent
together, or rather for the seventy years of perfect brotherhood that
we have been granted, and though he has left me behind him, I am content
to wait. It cannot be for long. My brothers and sisters,
their children, and my faithful Amos Bell, are very good to me; and
in writing up to that <i>mezzo termine</i> of our lives, I have been
living it over again with my brother of brothers, through the troubles
that have become like joys.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>REMARKS.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Uncle Edward has not said half enough about his dear old self.
I want to know if he never was unhappy when he was young about being
<i>like that</i>, though mother says his face was always nearly as beautiful
as it is now. And it is not only goodness. It <i>is</i>
beautiful with his sweet smile and snowy white hair. ELLEN WINSLOW.</p>
<p>And I wonder, though perhaps he could not have told, what Aunt Anne
would have done if Uncle Clarence had not been so forbearing before
he went to China. CLARE FRITH.</p>
<p>The others are highly impertinent questions, but we ought to know
what became of Lady Peacock. ED. G. W.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>REPLY.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Poor woman, she drifted back to London after about ten years, with
an incurable disease. Clarence put her into lodgings near us,
and did his best for her as long as she lived. He had a hard task,
but she ended by saying he was her only friend.</p>
<p>To question No. 2 I have nothing to say; but as to No. 1, with its
extravagant compliment, Nature, or rather God, blessed me with even
spirits, a methodical nature that prefers monotony, and very little
morbid shyness; nor have I ever been devoid of tender care and love.
So that I can only remember three severe fits of depression. One,
when I had just begun to be taken out in the Square Gardens, and Selina
Clarkson was heard to say I was a hideous little monster. It was
a revelation, and must have given frightful pain, for I remember it
acutely after sixty-five years.</p>
<p>The second fit was just after Clarence was gone to sea, and some
very painful experiments had been tried in vain for making me like other
people. For the first time I faced the fact that I was set aside
from all possible careers, and should be, as I remember saying, ‘no
better than a girl.’ I must have been a great trial to all
my friends. My father tried to reason on resignation, and tell
me happiness could be <i>in</i> myself, till he broke down. My
mother attempted bracing by reproof. Miss Newton endeavoured to
make me see that this was my cross. Every word was true, and came
round again, but they only made me for the time more rebellious and
wretched. That attack was ended, of all things in the world, by
heraldry. My attention somehow was drawn that way, and the study
filled up time and thought till my misfortunes passed into custom, and
haunted me no more.</p>
<p>My last was a more serious access, after coming into the country,
when improved health and vigour inspired cravings that made me fully
sensible of my blighted existence. I had gone the length of my
tether and overdone myself; I missed London life and Clarence; and the
more I blamed myself, and tried to rouse myself, the more despondent
and discontented I grew.</p>
<p>This time my physician was Mr. Stafford; I had deciphered a bit of
old French and Latin for him, and he was very much pleased. ‘Why,
Edward,’ he said, ‘you are a very clever fellow; you can
be a distinguished - or what is better - a useful man.’</p>
<p>Somehow that saying restored the spring of hope, and gave an impulse!
I have not been a distinguished man, but I think in my degree I have
been a fairly useful one, and I am sure I have been a happy one.
E. W.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>‘Useful! that you have, dear old fellow. Even if you
had done nothing else, and never been an unconscious backbone to Clarence;
your influence on me and mine has been unspeakably blest. But
pray, Mistress Anne, how about that question of naughty little Clare’s?’
M. W.</p>
<p>‘Don’t you think you had better let alone that question,
reverend sir? Youngest pets are apt to be saucy, especially in
these days, but I didn’t expect it of you! It might have
been the worse for you if W. C. W. had not held his tongue in those
days. Just like himself, but I am heartily glad that so he did.
A. W.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
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