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diff --git a/9471-8.txt b/9471-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c848def --- /dev/null +++ b/9471-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14440 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Vicar's Daughter, by George MacDonald + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Vicar's Daughter + +Author: George MacDonald + +Posting Date: August 8, 2012 [EBook #9471] +Release Date: December, 2005 +First Posted: October 3, 2003 +[Last updated: July 28, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VICAR'S DAUGHTER *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, William Flis, and the Project +Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + + + + +THE VICAR'S DAUGHTER + +BY GEORGE MACDONALD + + + + + + +The Vicar's Daughter was originally published in 1872 by Tinsley Brothers, +London. + + + + +[Illustration: "I've brought you the baby to kiss," I said, unfolding the +blanket. Page 98.] + + + +CONTENTS. + + +CHAPTER I. +INTRODUCTORY + +CHAPTER II. +I TRY + +CHAPTER III. +MY WEDDING + +CHAPTER IV. +JUDY'S VISIT + +CHAPTER V. +GOOD SOCIETY + +CHAPTER VI. +A REFUGE FROM THE HEAT + +CHAPTER VII. +CONNIE + +CHAPTER VIII. +CONNIE'S BABY + +CHAPTER IX. +THE FOUNDLING REFOUND + +CHAPTER X. +WAGTAIL COMES TO HONOR + +CHAPTER XI. +A STUPID CHAPTER + +CHAPTER XII. +AN INTRODUCTION + +CHAPTER XIII. +MY FIRST DINNER PARTY.--A NEGATIVED PROPOSAL + +CHAPTER XIV. +A PICTURE + +CHAPTER XV. +RUMORS + +CHAPTER XVI. +A DISCOVERY + +CHAPTER XVII. +MISS CLARE + +CHAPTER XVIII. +MISS CLARE'S HOME + +CHAPTER XIX. +HER STORY + +CHAPTER XX. +A REMARKABLE FACT + +CHAPTER XXI. +LADY BERNARD + +CHAPTER XXII. +MY SECOND DINNER PARTY + +CHAPTER XXIII. +THE END OF THE EVENING + +CHAPTER XXIV. +MY FIRST TERROR + +CHAPTER XXV. +ITS SEQUEL + +CHAPTER XXVI. +TROUBLES + +CHAPTER XXVII. +MISS CLARE AMONGST HER FRIENDS + +CHAPTER XXVIII. +MR. MORLEY + +CHAPTER XXIX. +A STRANGE TEXT + +CHAPTER XXX. +ABOUT SERVANTS + +CHAPTER XXXI. +ABOUT PERCIVALE + +CHAPTER XXXII. +MY SECOND TERROR + +CHAPTER XXXIII. +THE CLOUDS AFTER THE RAIN + +CHAPTER XXXIV. +THE SUNSHINE + +CHAPTER XXXV. +WHAT LADY BERNARD THOUGHT OF IT + +CHAPTER XXXVI. +RETROSPECTIVE + +CHAPTER XXXVII. +MRS. CROMWELL COMES + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. +MRS. CROMWELL GOES + +CHAPTER XXXIX. +ANCESTRAL WISDOM + +CHAPTER XL. +CHILD NONSENSE + +CHAPTER XLI. +"DOUBLE, DOUBLE, TOIL AND TROUBLE" + +CHAPTER XLII. +ROGER AND MARION + +CHAPTER XLIII. +A LITTLE MORE ABOUT ROGER, AND ABOUT MR. BLACKSTONE + +CHAPTER XLIV. +THE DEA EX + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +INTRODUCTORY. + + +I think that is the way my father would begin. My name is Ethelwyn +Percivale, and used to be Ethelwyn Walton. I always put the Walton in +between when I write to my father; for I think it is quite enough to have +to leave father and mother behind for a husband, without leaving their name +behind you also. I am fond of lumber-rooms, and in some houses consider +them far the most interesting spots; but I don't choose that my old name +should lie about in the one at home. + +I am much afraid of writing nonsense; but my father tells me that to see +things in print is a great help to recognizing whether they are nonsense or +not. And he tells me, too, that his friend the publisher, who,--but I will +speak of him presently,--his friend the publisher is not like any other +publisher he ever met with before; for he never grumbles at any alterations +writers choose to make,--at least he never says any thing, although it +costs a great deal to shift the types again after they are once set up. The +other part of my excuse for attempting to write lies simply in telling how +it came about. + +Ten days ago, my father came up from Marshmallows to pay us a visit. He is +with us now, but we don't see much of him all day; for he is generally out +with a friend of his in the east end, the parson of one of the poorest +parishes in London,--who thanks God that he wasn't the nephew of any bishop +to be put into a good living, for he learns more about the ways of God from +having to do with plain, yes, vulgar human nature, than the thickness of +the varnish would ever have permitted him to discover in what are called +the higher orders of society. Yet I must say, that, amongst those I have +recognized as nearest, the sacred communism of the early church--a phrase +of my father's--are two or three people of rank and wealth, whose names are +written in heaven, and need not be set down in my poor story. + +A few days ago, then, my father, coming home to dinner, brought with +him the publisher of the two books called, "The Annals of a Quiet +Neighborhood," and "The Seaboard Parish." The first of these had lain +by him for some years before my father could publish it; and then he +remodelled it a little for the magazine in which it came out, a portion +at a time. The second was written at the request of Mr. S., who wanted +something more of the same sort; and now, after some years, he had begun +again to represent to my father, at intervals, the necessity for another +story to complete the _trilogy_, as he called it: insisting, when my father +objected the difficulties of growing years and failing judgment, that +indeed he owed it to him; for he had left him in the lurch, as it were, +with an incomplete story, not to say an uncompleted series. My father still +objected, and Mr. S. still urged, until, at length, my father said--this +I learned afterwards, of course--"What would you say if I found you a +substitute?" "That depends on who the substitute might be, Mr. Walton," +said Mr. S. The result of their talk was that my father brought him home +to dinner that day; and hence it comes, that, with some real fear and much +metaphorical trembling, I am now writing this. I wonder if anybody will +ever read it. This my first chapter shall be composed of a little of the +talk that passed at our dinner-table that day. Mr. Blackstone was the only +other stranger present; and he certainly was not much of a stranger. + +"Do you keep a diary, Mrs. Percivale?" asked Mr. S., with a twinkle in his +eye, as if he expected an indignant repudiation. + +"I would rather keep a rag and bottle shop," I answered: at which Mr. +Blackstone burst into one of his splendid roars of laughter; for if ever a +man could laugh like a Christian who believed the world was in a fair way +after all, that man was Mr. Blackstone; and even my husband, who seldom +laughs at any thing I say with more than his eyes, was infected by it, and +laughed heartily. + +"That's rather a strong assertion, my love," said my father. "Pray, what do +you mean by it?" + +"I mean, papa," I answered, "that it would be a more profitable employment +to keep the one than the other." + +"I suppose you think," said Mr. Blackstone, "that the lady who keeps a +diary is in the same danger as the old woman who prided herself in keeping +a strict account of her personal expenses. And it always was correct; for +when she could not get it to balance at the end of the week, she brought it +right by putting down the deficit as _charity_." + +"That's just what I mean," I said. + +"But," resumed Mr. S., "I did not mean a diary of your feelings, but of the +events of the day and hour." + +"Which are never in themselves worth putting down," I said. "All that is +worth remembering will find for itself some convenient cranny to go to +sleep in till it is wanted, without being made a poor mummy of in a diary." + +"If you have such a memory, I grant that is better, even for my purpose, +much better," said Mr. S. + +"For your purpose!" I repeated, in surprise. "I beg your pardon; but what +designs can you have upon my memory?" + +"Well, I suppose I had better be as straightforward as I know you would +like me to be, Mrs. Percivale. I want you to make up the sum your father +owes me. He owed me three books; he has paid me two. I want the third from +you." + +I laughed; for the very notion of writing a book seemed preposterous. + +"I want you, under feigned names of course," he went on, "as are all the +names in your father's two books, to give me the further history of the +family, and in particular your own experiences in London. I am confident +the history of your married life must contain a number of incidents which, +without the least danger of indiscretion, might be communicated to the +public to the great advantage of all who read them." + +"You forget," I said, hardly believing him to be in earnest, "that I should +be exposing my story to you and Mr. Blackstone at least. If I were to make +the absurd attempt,--I mean absurd as regards my ability,--I should be +always thinking of you two as my public, and whether it would be right for +me to say this and say that; which you may see at once would render it +impossible for me to write at all." + +"I think I can suggest a way out of that difficulty, Wynnie," said my +father. "You must write freely, all you feel inclined to write, and then +let your husband see it. You may be content to let all pass that he +passes." + +"You don't say you really mean it, papa! The thing is perfectly impossible. +I never wrote a book in my life, and"-- + +"No more did I, my dear, before I began my first." + +"But you grew up to it by degrees, papa!" + +"I have no doubt that will make it the easier for you, when you try. I am +so far, at least, a Darwinian as to believe that." + +"But, really, Mr. S. ought to have more sense--I beg your pardon, Mr. S.; +but it is perfectly absurd to suppose me capable of finishing any thing my +father has begun. I assure you I don't feel flattered by your proposal. I +have got a man of more consequence for a father than that would imply." + +All this time my tall husband sat silent at the foot of the table, as if +he had nothing on earth to do with the affair, instead of coming to my +assistance, when, as I thought, I really needed it, especially seeing +my own father was of the combination against me; for what can be more +miserable than to be taken for wiser or better or cleverer than you know +perfectly well you are. I looked down the table, straight and sharp at him, +thinking to rouse him by the most powerful of silent appeals; and when he +opened his mouth very solemnly, staring at me in return down all the length +of the table, I thought I had succeeded. But I was not a little surprised, +when I heard him say,-- + +"I think, Wynnie, as your father and Mr. S. appear to wish it, you might at +least try." + +This almost overcame me, and I was very near,--never mind what. I bit my +lips, and tried to smile, but felt as if all my friends had forsaken me, +and were about to turn me out to beg my bread. How on earth could I write a +book without making a fool of myself? + +"You know, Mrs. Percivale," said Mr. S., "you needn't be afraid about the +composition, and the spelling, and all that. We can easily set those to +rights at the office." + +He couldn't have done any thing better to send the lump out of my throat; +for this made me angry. + +"I am not in the least anxious about the spelling," I answered; "and for +the rest, pray what is to become of me, if what you print should happen to +be praised by somebody who likes my husband or my father, and therefore +wants to say a good word for me? That's what a good deal of reviewing comes +to, I understand. Am I to receive in silence what doesn't belong to me, or +am I to send a letter to the papers to say that the whole thing was patched +and polished at the printing-office, and that I have no right to more than +perhaps a fourth part of the commendation? How would that do?" + +"But you forget it is not to have your name to it," he said; "and so it +won't matter a bit. There will be nothing dishonest about it." + +"You forget, that, although nobody knows my real name, everybody will know +that I am the daughter of that Mr. Walton who would have thrown his pen in +the fire if you had meddled with any thing he wrote. They would be praising +_me_, if they praised at all. The name is nothing. Of all things, to have +praise you don't deserve, and not to be able to reject it, is the most +miserable! It is as bad as painting one's face." + +"Hardly a case in point," said Mr. Blackstone. "For the artificial +complexion would be your own work, and the other would not." + +"If you come to discuss that question," said my father, "we must all +confess we have had in our day to pocket a good many more praises than +we had a right to. I agree with you, however, my child, that we must not +connive at any thing of the sort. So I will propose this clause in the +bargain between you and Mr. S.; namely, that, if he finds any fault with +your work, he shall send it back to yourself to be set right, and, if you +cannot do so to his mind, you shall be off the bargain." + +"But papa,--Percivale,--both of you know well enough that nothing ever +happened to me worth telling." + +"I am sorry your life has been so very uninteresting, wife," said my +husband grimly; for his fun is always so like earnest! + +"You know well enough what I mean, husband. It does _not_ follow that what +has been interesting enough to you and me will be interesting to people who +know nothing at all about us to begin with." + +"It depends on how it is told," said Mr. S. + +"Then, I beg leave to say, that I never had an original thought in my life; +and that, if I were to attempt to tell my history, the result would be +as silly a narrative as ever one old woman told another by the workhouse +fire." + +"And I only wish I could hear the one old woman tell her story to the +other," said my father. + +"Ah! but that's because you see ever so much more in it than shows. You +always see through the words and the things to something lying behind +them," I said. + +"Well, if you told the story rightly, other people would see such things +behind it too." + +"Not enough of people to make it worth while for Mr. S. to print it," I +said. + +"He's not going to print it except he thinks it worth his while; and you +may safely leave that to him," said my husband. + +"And so I'm to write a book as big as 'The Annals;' and, after I've been +slaving at it for half a century or so, I'm to be told it won't do, and all +my labor must go for nothing? I must say the proposal is rather a cool one +to make,--to the mother of a family." + +"Not at all; that's not it, I mean," said Mr. S.; "if you will write a +dozen pages or so, I shall be able to judge by those well enough,--at +least, I will take all the responsibility on myself after that." + +"There's a fair offer!" said my husband. "It seems to me, Wynnie, that +all that is wanted of you is to tell your tale so that other people can +recognize the human heart in it,--the heart that is like their own, and +be able to feel as if they were themselves going through the things you +recount." + +"You describe the work of a genius, and coolly ask me to do it. Besides, +I don't want to be set thinking about my heart, and all that," I said +peevishly. + +"Now, don't be raising objections where none exist," he returned. + +"If you mean I am pretending to object, I have only to say that I feel all +one great objection to the whole affair, and that I won't touch it." + +They were all silent; and I felt as if I had behaved ungraciously. Then +first I felt as if I might _have_ to do it, after all. But I couldn't see +my way in the least. + +"Now, what is there," I asked, "in all my life that is worth setting +down,--I mean, as I should be able to set it down?" + +"What do you ladies talk about now in your morning calls?" suggested Mr. +Blackstone, with a humorous glance from his deep black eyes. + +"Nothing worth writing about, as I am sure _you_ will readily believe, Mr. +Blackstone," I answered. + +"How comes it to be interesting, then?" + +"But it isn't. They--we--only talk about the weather and our children and +servants, and that sort of thing." + +"_Well!_" said Mr. S., "and I wish I could get any thing sensible about the +weather and children and servants, and that sort of thing, for my magazine. +I have a weakness in the direction of the sensible." + +"But there never is any thing sensible said about any of them,--not that I +know of." + +"Now, Wynnie, I am sure you are wrong," said my father. "There is your +friend, Mrs. Cromwell: I am certain she, sometimes at least, must say what +is worth hearing about such matters." + +"Well, but she's an exception. Besides, she hasn't any children." + +"Then," said my husband, "there's Lady Bernard"-- + +"Ah! but she was like no one else. Besides, she is almost a public +character, and any thing said about her would betray my original." + +"It would be no matter. She is beyond caring for that now; and not one of +her friends could object to any thing you who loved her so much would say +about her." + +The mention of this lady seemed to put some strength into me. I felt as if +I did know something worth telling, and I was silent in my turn. + +"Certainly," Mr. S. resumed, "whatever is worth talking about is worth +writing about,--though not perhaps in the way it is talked about. Besides, +Mrs. Percivale, my clients want to know more about your sisters, and little +Theodora, or Dorothea, or--what was her name in the book?" + +The end of it was, that I agreed to try to the extent of a dozen pages or +so. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +I TRY. + + +I hope no one will think I try to write like my father; for that would be +to go against what he always made a great point of,--that nobody whatever +should imitate any other person whatever, but in modesty and humility allow +the seed that God had sown in her to grow. He said all imitation tended to +dwarf and distort the plant, if it even allowed the seed to germinate at +all. So, if I do write like him, it will be because I cannot help it. + +I will just look how "The Seaboard Parish" ends, and perhaps that will put +into my head how I ought to begin. I see my father does mention that I had +then been Mrs. Percivale for many years. Not so very many though,--five or +six, if I remember rightly, and that is three or four years ago. Yes; I +have been married nine years. I may as well say a word as to how it came +about; and, if Percivale doesn't like it, the remedy lies in his pen. I +shall be far more thankful to have any thing struck out on suspicion than +remain on sufferance. + +After our return home from Kilkhaven, my father and mother had a good many +talks about me and Percivale, and sometimes they took different sides. I +will give a shadow of one of these conversations. I think ladies can write +fully as natural talk as gentlemen can, though the bits between mayn't be +so good. + +_Mother._--I am afraid, my dear husband [This was my mother's most solemn +mode of addressing my father], "they are too like each other to make a +suitable match." + +_Father_.--I am sorry to learn you consider me so very unlike yourself, +Ethelwyn. I had hoped there was a very strong resemblance indeed, and that +the match had not proved altogether unsuitable. + +_Mother._--Just think, though, what would have become of me by this time, +if you had been half as unbelieving a creature as I was. Indeed, I fear +sometimes I am not much better now. + +_Father._--I think I am, then; and I know you've done me nothing but good +with your unbelief. It was just because I was of the same sort precisely +that I was able to understand and help you. My circumstances and education +and superior years-- + +_Mother._--Now, don't plume yourself on that, Harry; for you know everybody +says you look much the younger of the two. + +_Father._--I had no idea that everybody was so rude. I repeat, that my more +years, as well as my severer education, had, no doubt, helped me a little +further on before I came to know you; but it was only in virtue of the +doubt in me that I was able to understand and appreciate the doubt in you. + +_Mother._--But then you had at least begun to leave it behind before I knew +you, and so had grown able to help me. And Mr. Percivale does not seem, by +all I can make out, a bit nearer believing in any thing than poor Wynnie +herself. + +_Father._--At least, he doesn't fancy he believes when he does not, as so +many do, and consider themselves superior persons in consequence. I don't +know that it would have done you any great harm, Miss Ethelwyn, to have +made my acquaintance when I was in the worst of my doubts concerning the +truth of things. Allow me to tell you that I was nearer making shipwreck of +my faith at a certain period than I ever was before or have been since. + +_Mother._--What period was that? + +_Father._--Just the little while when I had lost all hope of ever marrying +you,--unbeliever as you counted yourself. + +_Mother._--You don't mean to say you would have ceased to believe in God, +if he hadn't given you your own way? + +_Father._--No, my dear. I firmly believe, that, had I never married you, I +should have come in the end to say, "_Thy will be done_," and to believe +that it must be all right, however hard to bear. But, oh, what a terrible +thing it would have been, and what a frightful valley of the shadow of +death I should have had to go through first! + +[I know my mother _said_ nothing more just then, but let my father have it +all his own way for a while.] + +_Father._--You see, this Percivale is an honest man. I don't exactly know +how he has been brought up; and it is quite possible he may have had such +evil instruction in Christianity that he attributes to it doctrines which, +if I supposed they actually belonged to it, would make me reject it at once +as ungodlike and bad. I have found this the case sometimes. I remember once +being astonished to hear a certain noble-minded lady utter some indignant +words against what I considered a very weighty doctrine of Christianity; +but, listening, I soon found that what she supposed the doctrine to contain +was something considered vastly unchristian. This may be the case with +Percivale, though I never heard him say a word of the kind. I think his +difficulty comes mainly from seeing so much suffering in the world, that +he cannot imagine the presence and rule of a good God, and therefore lies +with religion rather than with Christianity as yet. I am all but certain, +the only thing that will ever make him able to believe in a God at all is +meditation on the Christian idea of God,--I mean the idea of God _in_ +Christ reconciling the world to himself,--not that pagan corruption of +Christ in God reconciling him to the world. He will then see that suffering +is not either wrath or neglect, but pure-hearted love and tenderness. But +we must give him time, wife; as God has borne with us, we must believe that +he bears with others, and so learn to wait in hopeful patience until they, +too, see as we see. + +And as to trusting our Wynnie with Percivale, he seems to be as good as +she is. I should for my part have more apprehension in giving her to one +who would be called a thoroughly religious man; for not only would the +unfitness be greater, but such a man would be more likely to confirm her +in doubt, if the phrase be permissible. She wants what some would call +homoeopathic treatment. And how should they be able to love one another, if +they are not fit to be married to each other? The fitness, seems inherent +to the fact. + +_Mother._--But many a two love each other who would have loved each other a +good deal more if they hadn't been married. + +_Father._--Then it was most desirable they should find out that what they +thought a grand affection was not worthy of the name. But I don't think +there is much fear of that between those two. + +_Mother._--I don't, however, see how that man is to do her any good, when +_you_ have tried to make her happy for so long, and all in vain. + +_Father._--I don't know that it has been all in vain. But it is quite +possible she does not understand me. She fancies, I dare say, that I +believe every thing without any trouble, and therefore cannot enter into +her difficulties. + +_Mother._--But you have told her many and many a time that you do. + +_Father._--Yes: and I hope I was right; but the same things look so +different to different people that the same words won't describe them to +both; and it may seem to her that I am talking of something not at all +like what she is feeling or thinking of. But when she sees the troubled +face of Percivale, she knows that he is suffering; and sympathy being thus +established between them, the least word of the one will do more to help +the other than oceans of argument. Love is the one great instructor. And +each will try to be good, and to find out for the sake of the other. + +_Mother._--I don't like her going from home for the help that lay at her +very door. + +_Father._--You know, my dear, you like the Dean's preaching much better +than mine. + +_Mother._--Now, that is unkind of you! + +_Father._--And why? [My father went on, taking no heed of my mother's +expostulation.] Because, in the first place, it _is_ better; because, in +the second, it comes in a newer form to you, for you have got used to all +my modes; in the third place, it has more force from the fact that it is +not subject to the doubt of personal preference; and lastly, because he has +a large, comprehensive way of asserting things, which pleases you better +than my more dubitant mode of submitting them,--all very sound and good +reasons: but still, why be so vexed with Wynnie? + +[My mother was now, however, so vexed with my father for saying she +preferred the Dean's preaching to his,--although I doubt very much whether +it wasn't true,--that she actually walked out of the octagon room where +they were, and left him to meditate on his unkindness. Vexed with herself +the next moment, she returned as if nothing had happened. I am only telling +what my mother told me; for to her grown daughters she is blessedly +trusting.] + +_Mother._--Then if you will have them married, husband, will you say how on +earth you expect them to live? He just makes both ends meet now: I suppose +he doesn't make things out worse than they are; and that is his own account +of the state of his affairs. + +_Father._--Ah, yes! that _is_--a secondary consideration, my dear. But I +have hardly begun to think about it yet. There will be a difficulty there, +I can easily imagine; for he is far too independent to let us do any thing +for him. + +_Mother._--And you can't do much, if they would. Really, they oughtn't to +marry yet. + +_Father._--Really, we must leave it to themselves. I don't think you and I +need trouble our heads about it. When Percivale considers himself prepared +to marry, and Wynnie thinks he is right, you may be sure they see their way +to a livelihood without running in hopeless debt to their tradespeople. + +_Mother._--Oh, yes! I dare say: in some poky little lodging or other! + +_Father._--For my part, Ethelwyn, I think it better to build castles in the +air than huts in the smoke. But seriously, a little poverty and a little +struggling would be a most healthy and healing thing for Wynnie. It hasn't +done Percivale much good yet, I confess; for he is far too indifferent to +his own comforts to mind it: but it will be quite another thing when he has +a young wife and perhaps children depending upon him. Then his poverty may +begin to hurt him, and so do him some good. + + * * * * * + +It may seem odd that my father and mother should now be taking such +opposite sides to those they took when the question of our engagement was +first started, as represented by my father in "The Seaboard Parish." But +it will seem inconsistent to none of the family; for it was no unusual +thing for them to take opposite sides to those they had previously +advocated,--each happening at the time, possibly enlightened by the +foregone arguments of the other, to be impressed with the correlate truth, +as my father calls the other side of a thing. Besides, engagement and +marriage are two different things; and although my mother was the first +to recognize the good of our being engaged, when it came to marriage she +got frightened, I think. Any how, I have her authority for saying that +something like this passed between her and my father on the subject. + +Discussion between them differed in this from what I have generally heard +between married people, that it was always founded on a tacit understanding +of certain unmentioned principles; and no doubt sometimes, if a stranger +had been present, he would have been bewildered as to the very meaning +of what they were saying. But we girls generally understood: and I fancy +we learned more from their differences than from their agreements; for +of course it was the differences that brought out their minds most, and +chiefly led us to think that we might understand. In our house there were +very few of those mysteries which in some houses seem so to abound; and +I think the openness with which every question, for whose concealment +there was no special reason, was discussed, did more than even any direct +instruction we received to develop what thinking faculty might be in us. +Nor was there much reason to dread that my small brothers might repeat any +thing. I remember hearing Harry say to Charley once, they being then eight +and nine years old, "That is mamma's opinion, Charley, not yours; and you +know we must not repeat what we hear." + +They soon came to be of one mind about Mr. Percivale and me: for indeed the +only _real_ ground for doubt that had ever existed was, whether I was good +enough for him; and for my part, I knew then and know now, that I was and +am dreadfully inferior to him. And notwithstanding the tremendous work +women are now making about their rights (and, in as far as they are their +rights, I hope to goodness they may get them, if it were only that certain +who make me feel ashamed of myself because I, too, am a woman, might +perhaps then drop out of the public regard),--notwithstanding this, I +venture the sweeping assertion, that every woman is not as good as every +man, and that it is not necessary to the dignity of a wife that she should +assert even equality with her husband. Let him assert her equality or +superiority if he will; but, were it a fact, it would be a poor one for +her to assert, seeing her glory is in her husband. To seek the chief place +is especially unfitting the marriage-feast. Whether I be a Christian or +not,--and I have good reason to doubt it every day of my life,--at least +I see that in the New Jerusalem one essential of citizenship consists in +knowing how to set the good in others over against the evil in ourselves. + +There, now, my father might have said that! and no doubt has said so twenty +times in my hearing. It is, however, only since I was married that I have +come to see it for myself; and, now that I do see it, I have a right to say +it. + +So we were married at last. My mother believes it was my father's good +advice to Percivale concerning the sort of pictures he painted, that +brought it about. For certainly soon after we were engaged, he began to +have what his artist friends called a run of luck: he sold one picture +after another in a very extraordinary and hopeful manner. But Percivale +says it was his love for me--indeed he does--which enabled him to see not +only much deeper into things, but also to see much better the bloom that +hangs about every thing, and so to paint much better pictures than before. +He felt, he said, that he had a hold now where before he had only a sight. +However this may be, he had got on so well for a while that he wrote +at last, that, if I was willing to share his poverty, it would not, he +thought, be absolute starvation; and I was, of course, perfectly content. +I can't put in words--indeed I dare not, for fear of writing what would +be, if not unladylike, at least uncharitable--my contempt for those women +who, loving a man, hesitate to run every risk with him. Of course, if +they cannot trust him, it is a different thing. I am not going to say +any thing about that; for I should be out of my depth,--not in the least +understanding how a woman can love a man to whom she cannot look up. I +believe there are who can; I see some men married whom I don't believe any +woman ever did or ever could respect; all I say is, I don't understand it. + +My father and mother made no objection, and were evidently at last quite +agreed that it would be the best thing for both of us; and so, I say, we +were married. + +I ought to just mention, that, before the day arrived, my mother went up +to London at Percivale's request, to help him in getting together the few +things absolutely needful for the barest commencement of housekeeping. For +the rest, it had been arranged that we should furnish by degrees, buying +as we saw what we liked, and could afford it. The greater part of modern +fashions in furniture, having both been accustomed to the stateliness of +a more artistic period, we detested for their ugliness, and chiefly, +therefore, we desired to look about us at our leisure. + +My mother came back more satisfied with the little house he had taken than +I had expected. It was not so easy to get one to suit us; for of course he +required a large room to paint in, with a good north light. He had however +succeeded better than he had hoped. + +"You will find things very different from what you have been used to, +Wynnie," said my mother. + +"Of course, mamma; I know that," I answered. "I hope I am prepared to meet +it. If I don't like it, I shall have no one to blame but myself; and I +don't see what right people have to expect what they have been used to." + +"There is just this advantage," said my father, "in having been used to +nice things, that it ought to be easier to keep from sinking into the +sordid, however straitened the new circumstances may be, compared with the +old." + +On the evening before the wedding, my father took me into the octagon room, +and there knelt down with me and my mother, and prayed for me in such a +wonderful way that I was perfectly astonished and overcome. I had never +known him to do any thing of the kind before. He was not favorable to +extempore prayer in public, or even in the family, and indeed had often +seemed willing to omit prayers for what I could not always count sufficient +reason: he had a horror at their getting to be a matter of course, and a +form; for then, he said, they ceased to be worship at all, and were a mere +pagan rite, better far left alone. I remember also he said, that those, +however good they might be, who urged attention to the forms of religion, +such as going to church and saying prayers, were, however innocently, just +the prophets of Pharisaism; that what men had to be stirred up to was to +lay hold upon God, and then they would not fail to find out what religious +forms they ought to cherish. "The spirit first, and then the flesh," +he would say. To put the latter before the former was a falsehood, and +therefore a frightful danger, being at the root of all declensions in +the Church, and making ever-recurring earthquakes and persecutions and +repentances and reformations needful. I find what my father used to say +coming back so often now that I hear so little of it,--especially as he +talks much less, accusing himself of having always talked too much,--and +I understand it so much better now, that I shall be always in danger +of interrupting my narrative to say something that he said. But when I +commence the next chapter, I shall get on faster, I hope. My story is like +a vessel I saw once being launched: it would stick on the stocks, instead +of sliding away into the expectant waters. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +MY WEDDING. + + +I confess the first thing I did when I knew myself the next morning was +to have a good cry. To leave the place where I had been born was like +forsaking the laws and order of the Nature I knew, for some other Nature it +might be, but not known to me as such. How, for instance, could one who has +been used to our bright white sun, and our pale modest moon, with our soft +twilights, and far, mysterious skies of night, be willing to fall in with +the order of things in a planet, such as I have read of somewhere, with +three or four suns, one red and another green and another yellow? Only +perhaps I've taken it all up wrong, and I do like looking at a landscape +for a minute or so through a colored glass; and if it be so, of course it +all blends, and all we want is harmony. What I mean is, that I found it +a great wrench to leave the dear old place, and of course loved it more +than I had ever loved it. But I would get all my crying about that over +beforehand. It would be bad enough afterwards to have to part with my +father and mother and Connie, and the rest of them. Only it wasn't like +leaving them. You can't leave hearts as you do rooms. You can't leave +thoughts as you do books. Those you love only come nearer to you when you +go away from them. The same rules don't hold with _thinks_ and _things_, as +my eldest boy distinguished them the other day. + +But somehow I couldn't get up and dress. I seemed to have got very fond of +my own bed, and the queer old crows, as I had called them from babyhood, on +the chintz curtains, and the Chinese paper on the wall with the strangest +birds and creeping things on it. It was a lovely spring morning, and the +sun was shining gloriously. I knew that the rain of the last night must be +glittering on the grass and the young leaves; and I heard the birds singing +as if they knew far more than mere human beings, and believed a great deal +more than they knew. Nobody will persuade me that the birds don't mean it; +that they sing from any thing else than gladness of heart. And if they +don't think about cats and guns, why should they? Even when they fall on +the ground, it is not without our Father. How horridly dull and stupid it +seems to say that "without your Father" means without _his knowing it_. The +Father's mere _knowledge_ of a thing--if that could be, which my father +says can't--is not the Father. The Father's tenderness and care and love of +it all the time, that is the not falling without him. When the cat kills +the bird, as I have seen happen so often in our poor little London garden, +God yet saves his bird from his cat. There is nothing so bad as it looks to +our half-sight, our blinding perceptions. My father used to say we are all +walking in a spiritual twilight, and are all more or less affected with +twilight blindness, as some people are physically. Percivale, for one, who +is as brave as any wife could wish, is far more timid than I am in crossing +a London street in the twilight; he can't see what is coming, and fancies +he sees what is not coming. But then he has faith in me, and never starts +when I am leading him. + +Well, the birds were singing, and Dora and the boys were making a great +chatter, like a whole colony of sparrows, under my window. Still I felt as +if I had twenty questions to settle before I could get up comfortably, and +so lay on and on till the breakfast-bell rang: and I was not more than half +dressed when my mother came to see why I was late; for I had not been late +forever so long before. + +She comforted me as nobody but a mother can comfort. Oh, I do hope I shall +be to my children what my mother has been to me! It would be such a blessed +thing to be a well of water whence they may be sure of drawing comfort. And +all she said to me has come true. + +Of course, my father gave me away, and Mr. Weir married us. + +It had been before agreed that we should have no wedding journey. We all +liked the old-fashioned plan of the bride going straight from her father's +house to her husband's. The other way seemed a poor invention, just for the +sake of something different. So after the wedding, we spent the time as we +should have done any other day, wandering about in groups, or sitting and +reading, only that we were all more smartly dressed; until it was time for +an early dinner, after which we drove to the station, accompanied only +by my father and mother. After they left us, or rather we left them, my +husband did not speak to me for nearly an hour: I knew why, and was very +grateful. He would not show his new face in the midst of my old loves and +their sorrows, but would give me time to re-arrange the grouping so as +myself to bring him in when all was ready for him. I know that was what he +was thinking, or feeling rather; and I understood him perfectly. At last, +when I had got things a little tidier inside me, and had got my eyes to +stop, I held out my hand to him, and then--knew that I was his wife. + +This is all I have got to tell, though I have plenty more to keep, till we +get to London. There, instead of my father's nice carriage, we got into a +jolting, lumbering, horrid cab, with my five boxes and Percivale's little +portmanteau on the top of it, and drove away to Camden Town. It _was_ +to a part of it near the Regent's Park; and so our letters were always, +according to the divisions of the post-office, addressed to Regent's Park, +but for all practical intents we were in Camden Town. It was indeed a +change from a fine old house in the country; but the street wasn't much +uglier than Belgrave Square, or any other of those heaps of uglinesses, +called squares, in the West End; and, after what I had been told to expect, +I was surprised at the prettiness of the little house, when I stepped out +of the cab and looked about me. It was stuck on like a swallow's nest to +the end of a great row of commonplace houses, nearly a quarter of a mile in +length, but itself was not the work of one of those wretched builders who +care no more for beauty in what they build than a scavenger in the heap of +mud he scrapes from the street. It had been built by a painter for himself, +in the Tudor style; and though Percivale says the idea is not very well +carried out, I like it much. + +I found it a little dreary when I entered though,--from its emptiness. +The only sitting-room at all prepared had just a table and two or three +old-fashioned chairs in it; not even a carpet on the floor. The bedroom and +dressing-room were also as scantily furnished as they well could be. + +"Don't be dismayed, my darling," said my husband. + +"Look here,"--showing me a bunch of notes,--"we shall go out to-morrow and +buy all we want,--as far as this will go,--and then wait for the rest. It +will be such a pleasure to buy the things with you, and see them come home, +and have you appoint their places. You and Sarah will make the carpets; +won't you? And I will put them down, and we shall be like birds building +their nest." + +"We have only to line it; the nest is built already." + +"Well, neither do the birds build the tree. I wonder if they ever sit in +their old summer nests in the winter nights." + +"I am afraid not," I answered; "but I'm ashamed to say I can't tell." + +"It is the only pretty house I know in all London," he went on, "with a +studio at the back of it. I have had my eye on it for a long time, but +there seemed no sign of a migratory disposition in the bird who had +occupied it for three years past. All at once he spread his wings and flew. +I count myself very fortunate." + +"So do I. But now you must let me see your study," I said. "I hope I may +sit in it when you've got nobody there." + +"As much as ever you like, my love," he answered. "Only I don't want to +make all my women like you, as I've been doing for the last two years. You +must get me out of that somehow." + +"Easily. I shall be so cross and disagreeable that you will get tired of +me, and find no more difficulty in keeping me out of your pictures." + +But he got me out of his pictures without that; for when he had me always +before him he didn't want to be always producing me. + +He led me into the little hall,--made lovely by a cast of an unfinished +Madonna of Michael Angelo's let into the wall,--and then to the back of it, +where he opened a small cloth-covered door, when there yawned before me, +below me, and above me, a great wide lofty room. Down into it led an almost +perpendicular stair. + +"So you keep a little private precipice here," I said. + +"No, my dear," he returned; "you mistake. It is a Jacob's ladder,--or will +be in one moment more." + +He gave me his hand, and led me down. + +"This is quite a banqueting-hall, Percivale!" I cried, looking round me. + +"It shall be, the first time I get a thousand pounds for a picture," he +returned. + +"How grand you talk!" I said, looking up at him with some wonder; for big +words rarely came out of his mouth. + +"Well," he answered merrily, "I had two hundred and seventy-five for the +last." + +"That's a long way off a thousand," I returned, with a silly sigh. + +"Quite right; and, therefore, this study is a long way off a +banqueting-hall." + +There was literally nothing inside the seventeen feet cube except one +chair, one easel, a horrible thing like a huge doll, with no end of joints, +called a lay figure, but Percivale called it his bishop; a number of +pictures leaning their faces against the walls in attitudes of grief that +their beauty was despised and no man would buy them; a few casts of legs +and arms and faces, half a dozen murderous-looking weapons, and a couple of +yards square of the most exquisite tapestry I ever saw. + +"Do you like being read to when you are at work?" I asked him. + +"Sometimes,--at certain kinds of work, but not by any means always," he +answered. "Will you shut your eyes for one minute," he went on, "and, +whatever I do, not open them till I tell you?" + +"You mustn't hurt me, then, or I may open them without being able to help +it, you know," I said, closing my eyes tight. + +"Hurt you!" he repeated, with a tone I would not put on paper if I could, +and the same moment I found myself in his arms, carried like a baby, for +Percivale is one of the strongest of men. + +It was only for a few yards, however. He laid me down somewhere, and told +me to open my eyes. + +I could scarcely believe them when I did. I was lying on a couch in a +room,--small, indeed, but beyond exception the loveliest I had ever seen. +At first I was only aware of an exquisite harmony of color, and could not +have told of what it was composed. The place was lighted by a soft lamp +that hung in the middle; and when my eyes went up to see where it was +fastened, I found the ceiling marvellous in deep blue, with a suspicion +of green, just like some of the shades of a peacock's feathers, with a +multitude of gold and red stars upon it. What the walls were I could not +for some time tell, they were so covered with pictures and sketches; +against one was a lovely little set of book-shelves filled with books, and +on a little carved table stood a vase of white hot-house flowers, with one +red camellia. One picture had a curtain of green silk before it, and by its +side hung the wounded knight whom his friends were carrying home to die. + +"O my Percivale!" I cried, and could say no more. + +"Do you like it?" he asked quietly, but with shining eyes. + +"Like it?" I repeated. "Shall I like Paradise when I get there? But what a +lot of money it must have cost you!" + +"Not much," he answered; "not more than thirty pounds or so. Every spot of +paint there is from my own brush." + +"O Percivale!" + +I must make a conversation of it to tell it at all; but what I really did +say I know no more than the man in the moon. + +"The carpet was the only expensive thing. That must be as thick as I could +get it; for the floor is of stone, and must not come near your pretty feet. +Guess what the place was before." + +"I should say, the flower of a prickly-pear cactus, full of sunlight from +behind, which a fairy took the fancy to swell into a room." + +"It was a shed, in which the sculptor who occupied the place before me used +to keep his wet clay and blocks of marble." + +"Seeing is hardly believing," I said. "Is it to be my room? I know you mean +it for my room, where I can ask you to come when I please, and where I can +hide when any one comes you don't want me to see." + +"That is just what I meant it for, my Ethelwyn,--and to let you know what I +_would_ do for you if I could." + +"I hate the place, Percivale," I said. "What right has it to come poking +in between you and me, telling me what I know and have known--for, well, I +won't say how long--far better than even you can tell me?" + +He looked a little troubled. + +"Ah, my dear!" I said, "let my foolish words breathe and die." + +I wonder sometimes to think how seldom I am in that room now. But there it +is; and somehow I seem to know it all the time I am busy elsewhere. + +He made me shut my eyes again, and carried me into the study. + +"Now," he said, "find your way to your own room." + +I looked about me, but could see no sign of door. He took up a tall +stretcher with a canvas on it, and revealed the door, at the same time +showing a likeness of myself,--at the top of the Jacob's ladder, as he +called it, with me foot on the first step, and the other half way to the +second. The light came from the window on my left, which he had turned into +a western window, in order to get certain effects from a supposed sunset. I +was represented in a white dress, tinged with the rose of the west; and he +had managed, attributing the phenomenon to the inequalities of the glass in +the window, to suggest one rosy wing behind me, with just the shoulder-roof +of another visible. + +"There!" he said. "It is not finished yet, but that is how I saw you one +evening as I was sitting here all alone in the twilight." + +"But you didn't really see me like that!" I said. + +"I hardly know," he answered. "I had been forgetting every thing else in +dreaming about you, and--how it was I cannot tell, but either in the body +or out of the body there I saw you, standing just so at the top of the +stair, smiling to me as much as to say, 'Have patience. My foot is on the +first step. I'm coming.' I turned at once to my easel, and before the +twilight was gone had sketched the vision. To-morrow, you must sit to me +for an hour or so; for I will do nothing else till I have finished it, and +sent it off to your father and mother." + +I may just add that I hear it is considered a very fine painting. It hangs +in the great dining-room at home. I wish I were as good as he has made it +look. + +The next morning, after I had given him the sitting he wanted, we set out +on our furniture hunt; when, having keen enough eyes, I caught sight of +this and of that and of twenty different things in the brokers' shops. We +did not agree about the merits of everything by which one or the other was +attracted; but an objection by the one always turned the other, a little at +least, and we bought nothing we were not agreed about. Yet that evening the +hall was piled with things sent home to line our nest. Percivale, as I have +said, had saved up some money for the purpose, and I had a hundred pounds +my father had given me before we started, which, never having had more than +ten of my own at a time, I was eager enough to spend. So we found plenty +to do for the fortnight during which time my mother had promised to say +nothing to her friends in London of our arrival. Percivale also keeping +out of the way of his friends, everybody thought we were on the Continent, +or somewhere else, and left us to ourselves. And as he had sent in his +pictures to the Academy, he was able to take a rest, which rest consisted +in working hard at all sorts of upholstery, not to mention painters' and +carpenters' work; so that we soon got the little house made into a very +warm and very pretty nest. I may mention that Percivale was particularly +pleased with a cabinet I bought for him on the sly, to stand in his study, +and hold his paints and brushes and sketches; for there were all sorts of +drawers in it, and some that it took us a good deal of trouble to find out, +though he was clever enough to suspect them from the first, when I hadn't a +thought of such a thing; and I have often fancied since that that cabinet +was just like himself, for I have been going on finding out things in +him that I had no idea were there when I married him. I had no idea that +he was a poet, for instance. I wonder to this day why he never showed me +any of his verses before we were married. He writes better poetry than +my father,--at least my father says so. Indeed, I soon came to feel very +ignorant and stupid beside him; he could tell me so many things, and +especially in art (for he had thought about all kinds of it), making me +understand that there is no end to it, any more than to the Nature which +sets it going, and that the more we see into Nature, and try to represent +it, the more ignorant and helpless we find ourselves, until at length I +began to wonder whether God might not have made the world so rich and full +just to teach his children humility. For a while I felt quite stunned. +He very much wanted me to draw; but I thought it was no use trying, and, +indeed, had no heart for it. I spoke to my father about it. He said it was +indeed of no use, if my object was to be able to think much of myself, for +no one could ever succeed in that in the long run; but if my object was to +reap the delight of the truth, it was worth while to spend hours and hours +on trying to draw a single tree-leaf, or paint the wing of a moth. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +JUDY'S VISIT. + + +The very first morning after the expiry of the fortnight, when I was in +the kitchen with Sarah, giving her instructions about a certain dish as +if I had made it twenty times, whereas I had only just learned how from a +shilling cookery-book, there came a double knock at the door. I guessed who +it must be. + +"Run, Sarah," I said, "and show Mrs. Morley into the drawing-room." + +When I entered, there she was,--Mrs. Morley, _alias_ Cousin Judy. + +"Well, little cozzie!" she cried, as she kissed me three or four times, +"I'm glad to see you gone the way of womankind,--wooed and married and a'! +Fate, child! inscrutable fate!" and she kissed me again. + +She always calls me little coz, though I am a head taller than herself. +She is as good as ever, quite as brusque, and at the first word apparently +more overbearing. But she is as ready to listen to reason as ever was woman +of my acquaintance; and I think the form of her speech is but a somewhat +distorted reflex of her perfect honesty. After a little trifling talk, +which is sure to come first when people are more than ordinarily glad to +meet, I asked after her children. I forget how many there were of them, but +they were then pretty far into the plural number. + +"Growing like ill weeds," she said; "as anxious as ever their grandfathers +and mothers were to get their heads up and do mischief. For my part I wish +I was Jove,--to start them full grown at once. Or why shouldn't they be +made like Eve out of their father's ribs? It would be a great comfort to +their mother." + +My father had always been much pleased with the results of Judy's training, +as contrasted with those of his sister's. The little ones of my aunt +Martha's family were always wanting something, and always looking care-worn +like their mother, while she was always reading them lectures on their +duty, and never making them mind what she said. She would represent the +self-same thing to them over and over, until not merely all force, but all +sense as well, seemed to have forsaken it. Her notion of duty was to tell +them yet again the duty which they had been told at least a thousand times +already, without the slightest result. They were dull children, wearisome +and uninteresting. On the other hand, the little Morleys were full of life +and eagerness. The fault in them was that they wouldn't take petting; and +what's the good of a child that won't be petted? They lacked that something +which makes a woman feel motherly. + +"When did you arrive, cozzie?" she asked. + +"A fortnight ago yesterday." + +"Ah, you sly thing! What have you been doing with yourself all the time?" + +"Furnishing." + +"What! you came into an empty house?" + +"Not quite that, but nearly." + +"It is very odd I should never have seen your husband. We have crossed each +other twenty times." + +"Not so _very_ odd, seeing he has been my husband only a fortnight." + +"What is he like?" + +"Like nothing but himself." + +"Is he tall?" + +"Yes." + +"Is he stout?" + +"No." + +"An Adonis?" + +"No." + +"A Hercules?" + +"No." + +"Very clever, I believe." + +"Not at all." + +For my father had taught me to look down on that word. + +"Why did you marry him then?" + +"I didn't. He married me." + +"What did you marry him for then?" + +"For love." + +"What did you love him for?" + +"Because he was a philosopher." + +"That's the oddest reason I ever heard for marrying a man." + +"I said for loving him, Judy." + +Her bright eyes were twinkling with fun. + +"Come, cozzie," she said, "give me a proper reason for falling in love with +this husband of yours." + +"Well, I'll tell you, then," I said; "only you mustn't tell any other body; +he's got such a big shaggy head, just like a lion's." + +"And such a huge big foot,--just like a bear's?" + +"Yes, and such great huge hands! Why, the two of them go quite round my +waist! And such big eyes, that they look right through me; and such a big +heart, that if he saw me doing any thing wrong, he would kill me, and bury +me in it." + +"Well, I must say, it is the most extraordinary description of a husband I +ever heard. It sounds to me very like an ogre." + +"Yes; I admit the description is rather ogrish. But then he's poor, and +that makes up for a good deal." + +I was in the humor for talking nonsense, and of course expected of all +people that Judy would understand my fun. + +"How does that make up for any thing?" + +"Because if he is a poor man, he isn't a rich man, and therefore not so +likely to be a stupid." + +"How do you make that out?" + +"Because, first of all, the rich man doesn't know what to do with his +money, whereas my ogre knows what to do without it. Then the rich man +wonders in the morning which waistcoat he shall put on, while my ogre has +but one, besides his Sunday one. Then supposing the rich man has slept +well, and has done a fair stroke or two of business, he wants nothing but +a well-dressed wife, a well-dressed dinner, a few glasses of his favorite +wine, and the evening paper, well-diluted with a sleep in his easy chair, +to be perfectly satisfied that this world is the best of all possible +worlds. Now my ogre, on the other hand"-- + +I was going on to point out how frightfully different from all this my ogre +was,--how he would devour a half-cooked chop, and drink a pint of ale from +the public-house, &c., &c., when she interrupted me, saying with an odd +expression of voice,-- + +"You are satirical, cozzie. He's not the worst sort of man you've just +described. A woman might be very happy with him. If it weren't such early +days, I should doubt if you were as comfortable as you would have people +think; for how else should you be so ill-natured?" + +It flashed upon me, that, without the least intention, I had been giving a +very fair portrait of Mr. Morley. I felt my face grow as red as fire. + +"I had no intention of being satirical, Judy," I replied. + +"I was only describing a man the very opposite of my husband." + +"You don't know mine yet," she said. "You may think"-- + +She actually broke down and cried. I had never in my life seen her cry, and +I was miserable at what I had done. Here was a nice beginning of social +relations in my married life! + +I knelt down, put my arms round her, and looked up in her face. + +"Dear Judy," I said, "you mistake me quite. I never thought of Mr. Morley +when I said that. How should I have dared to say such things if I had? He +is a most kind, good man, and papa and every one is glad when he comes to +see us. I dare say he does like to sleep well,--I know Percivale does; and +I don't doubt he likes to get on with what he's at: Percivale does, for +he's ever so much better company when he has got on with his picture; and +I know he likes to see me well dressed,--at least I haven't tried him with +any thing else yet, for I have plenty of clothes for a while; and then for +the dinner, which I believe was one of the points in the description I +gave, I wish Percivale cared a little more for his, for then it would be +easier to do something for him. As to the newspaper, there I fear I must +give him up, for I have never yet seen him with one in his hand. He's _so_ +stupid about some things!" + +"Oh, you've found that out! have you? Men _are_ stupid; there's no doubt of +that. But you don't know my Walter yet." + +I looked up, and, behold, Percivale was in the room! His face wore such a +curious expression that I could hardly help laughing. And no wonder: for +here was I on my knees, clasping my first visitor, and to all appearance +pouring out the woes of my wedded life in her lap,--woes so deep that they +drew tears from her as she listened. All this flashed upon me as I started +to my feet: but I could give no explanation; I could only make haste to +introduce my husband to my cousin Judy. + +He behaved, of course, as if he had heard nothing. But I fancy Judy caught +a glimpse of the awkward position, for she plunged into the affair at once. + +"Here is my cousin, Mr. Percivale, has been abusing my husband to my face, +calling him rich and stupid, and I don't know what all. I confess he is so +stupid as to be very fond of me, but that's all I know against him." + +And her handkerchief went once more to her eyes. + +"Dear Judy!" I expostulated, "you know I didn't say one word about him." + +"Of course I do, you silly coz!" she cried, and burst out laughing. "But I +won't forgive you except you make amends by dining with us to-morrow." + +Thus for the time she carried it off; but I believe, and have since had +good reason for believing, that she had really mistaken me at first, and +been much annoyed. + +She and Percivale got on very well. He showed her the portrait he was still +working at,--even accepted one or two trifling hints as to the likeness, +and they parted the best friends in the world. Glad as I had been to see +her, how I longed to see the last of her! The moment she was gone, I threw +myself into his arms, and told him how it came about. He laughed heartily. + +"I _was_ a little puzzled," he said, "to hear you informing a lady I had +never seen that I was so very stupid." + +"But I wasn't telling a story, either, for you know you are ve-e-e-ry +stupid, Percivale. You don't know a leg from a shoulder of mutton, and you +can't carve a bit. How ever you can draw as you do, is a marvel to me, when +you know nothing about the shapes of things. It was very wrong to say it, +even for the sake of covering poor Mrs. Morley's husband; but it was quite +true you know." + +"Perfectly true, my love," he said, with something else where I've only +put commas; "and I mean to remain so, in order that you may always have +something to fall back upon when you get yourself into a scrape by +forgetting that other people have husbands as well as you." + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +"GOOD SOCIETY." + + +We had agreed, rather against the inclination of both of us, to dine the +next evening with the Morleys. We should have preferred our own society, +but we could not refuse. + +"They will be talking to me about my pictures," said my husband, "and +that is just what I hate. People that know nothing of art, that can't +distinguish purple from black, will yet parade their ignorance, and expect +me to be pleased." + +"Mr. Morley is a well-bred man, Percivale," I said. + +"That's the worst of it,--they do it for good manners; I know the kind +of people perfectly. I hate to have my pictures praised. It is as bad as +talking to one's face about the nose upon it." + +I wonder if all ladies keep their husbands waiting. I did that night, I +know, and, I am afraid, a good many times after,--not, however, since +Percivale told me very seriously that being late for dinner was the only +fault of mine the blame of which he would not take on his own shoulders. +The fact on this occasion was, that I could not get my hair right. It was +the first time I missed what I had been used to, and longed for the deft +fingers of my mother's maid to help me. When I told him the cause, he said +he would do my hair for me next time, if I would teach him how. But I have +managed very well since without either him or a lady's-maid. + +When we reached Bolivar Square, we found the company waiting; and, as if +for a rebuke to us, the butler announced dinner the moment we entered. I +was seated between Mr. Morley and a friend of his who took me down, Mr. +Baddeley, a portly gentleman, with an expanse of snowy shirt from which +flashed three diamond studs. A huge gold chain reposed upon his front, and +on his finger shone a brilliant of great size. Every thing about him seemed +to say, "Look how real I am! No shoddy about me!" His hands were plump and +white, and looked as if they did not know what dust was. His talk sounded +very rich, and yet there was no pretence in it. His wife looked less of +a lady than he of a gentleman, for she betrayed conscious importance. I +found afterwards that he was the only son of a railway contractor, who +had himself handled the spade, but at last died enormously rich. He spoke +blandly, but with a certain quiet authority which I disliked. + +"Are you fond of the opera, Mrs. Percivale?" he asked me in order to make +talk. + +"I have never been to the opera," I answered. + +"Never been to the opera? Ain't you fond of music?" + +"Did you ever know a lady that wasn't?" + +"Then you must go to the opera." + +"But it is just because I fancy myself fond of music that I don't think I +should like the opera." + +"You can't hear such music anywhere else." + +"But the antics of the singers, pretending to be in such furies of passion, +yet modulating every note with the cunning of a carver in ivory, seems +to me so preposterous! For surely song springs from a brooding over past +feeling,--I do not mean lost feeling; never from present emotion." + +"Ah! you would change your mind after having once been. I should strongly +advise you to go, if only for once. You ought now, really." + +"An artist's wife must do without such expensive amusements,--except her +husband's pictures be very popular indeed. I might as well cry for the +moon. The cost of a box at the opera for a single night would keep my +little household for a fortnight." + +"Ah, well! but you should see 'The Barber,'" he said. + +"Perhaps if I could hear without seeing, I should like it better," I +answered. + +He fell silent, busying himself with his fish, and when he spoke again +turned to the lady on his left. I went on with my dinner. I knew that +our host had heard what I said, for I saw him turn rather hastily to his +butler. + +Mr. Morley is a man difficult to describe, stiff in the back, and long and +loose in the neck, reminding me of those toy-birds that bob head and tail +up and down alternately. When he agrees with any thing you say, down comes +his head with a rectangular nod; when he does not agree with you, he is +so silent and motionless that he leaves you in doubt whether he has heard +a word of what you have been saying. His face is hard, and was to me then +inscrutable, while what he said always seemed to have little or nothing to +do with what he was thinking; and I had not then learned whether he had a +heart or not. His features were well formed, but they and his head and face +too small for his body. He seldom smiled except when in doubt. He had, I +understood, been very successful in business, and always looked full of +schemes. + +"Have you been to the Academy yet?" he asked. + +"No; this is only the first day of it." + +"Are your husband's pictures well hung?" + +"As high as Haman," I answered; "skied, in fact. That is the right word, I +believe." + +"I would advise you to avoid slang, my dear cousin,--_professional_ slang +especially; and to remember that in London there are no professions after +six o clock." + +"Indeed!" I returned. "As we came along in the carriage,--cabbage, I +mean,--I saw no end of shops open." + +"I mean in society,--at dinner,--amongst friends, you know." + +"My dear Mr. Morley, you have just done asking me about my husband's +pictures; and, if you will listen a moment, you will hear that lady next +my husband talking to him about Leslie and Turner, and I don't know who +more,--all in the trade." + +"Hush! hush! I beg," he almost whispered, looking agonized. "That's Mrs. +Baddeley. Her husband, next to you, is a great picture-buyer. That's why I +asked him to meet you." + +"I thought there were no professions in London after six o'clock." + +"I am afraid I have not made my meaning quite clear to you." + +"Not quite. Yet I think I understand you." + +"We'll have a talk about it another time." + +"With pleasure." + +It irritated me rather that he should talk to me, a married woman, as to a +little girl who did not know how to behave herself; but his patronage of my +husband displeased me far more, and I was on the point of committing the +terrible blunder of asking Mr. Baddeley if he had any poor relations; but +I checked myself in time, and prayed to know whether he was a member of +Parliament. He answered that he was not in the house at present, and asked +in return why I had wished to know. I answered that I wanted a bill brought +in for the punishment of fraudulent milkmen; for I couldn't get a decent +pennyworth of milk in all Camden Town. He laughed, and said it would be a +very desirable measure, only too great an interference with the liberty of +the subject. I told him that kind of liberty was just what law in general +owed its existence to, and was there on purpose to interfere with; but he +did not seem to see it. + +The fact is, I was very silly. Proud of being the wife of an artist, I +resented the social injustice which I thought gave artists no place but one +of sufferance. Proud also of being poor for Percivale's sake, I made a show +of my poverty before people whom I supposed, rightly enough in many cases, +to be proud of their riches. But I knew nothing of what poverty really +meant, and was as yet only playing at being poor; cherishing a foolish, +though unacknowledged notion of protecting my husband's poverty with the +ægis of my position as the daughter of a man of consequence in his county. +I was thus wronging the dignity of my husband's position, and complimenting +wealth by making so much of its absence. Poverty or wealth ought to have +been in my eyes such a trifle that I never thought of publishing whether +I was rich or poor. I ought to have taken my position without wasting a +thought on what it might appear in the eyes of those about me, meeting them +on the mere level of humanity, and leaving them to settle with themselves +how they were to think of me, and where they were to place me. I suspect +also, now that I think of it, that I looked down upon my cousin Judy +because she had a mere man of business for her husband; forgetting that +our Lord had found a collector of conquered taxes,--a man, I presume, with +little enough of the artistic about him,--one of the fittest in his nation +to bear the message of his redemption to the hearts of his countrymen. It +is his loves and his hopes, not his visions and intentions, by which a man +is to be judged. My father had taught me all this; but I did not understand +it then, nor until years after I had left him. + +"Is Mrs. Percivale a lady of fortune?" asked Mr. Baddeley of my cousin Judy +when we were gone, for we were the first to leave. + +"Certainly not. Why do you ask?" she returned. + +"Because, from her talk, I thought she must be," he answered. + +Cousin Judy told me this the next day, and I could see she thought I had +been bragging of my family. So I recounted all the conversation I had had +with him, as nearly as I could recollect, and set down the question to an +impertinent irony. But I have since changed my mind: I now judge that he +could not believe any poor person would joke about poverty. I never found +one of those people who go about begging for charities believe me when I +told him the simple truth that I could not afford to subscribe. None but a +rich person, they seem to think, would dare such an excuse, and that only +in the just expectation that its very assertion must render it incredible. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +A REFUGE FROM THE HEAT. + + +There was a little garden, one side enclosed by the house, another by the +studio, and the remaining two by walls, evidently built for the nightly +convenience of promenading cats. There was one pear-tree in the grass-plot +which occupied the centre, and a few small fruit-trees, which, I may now +safely say, never bore any thing, upon the walls. But the last occupant had +cared for his garden; and, when I came to the cottage, it was, although you +would hardly believe it now that my garden is inside the house, a pretty +little spot,--only, if you stop thinking about a garden, it begins at once +to go to the bad. Used although I had been to great wide lawns and park and +gardens and wilderness, the tiny enclosure soon became to me the type of +the boundless universe. The streets roared about me with ugly omnibuses and +uglier cabs, fine carriages, huge earth-shaking drays, and, worse far, with +the cries of all the tribe, of costermongers,--one especially offensive +which soon began to haunt me. I almost hated the man who sent it forth to +fill the summer air with disgust. He always put his hollowed hand to his +jaw, as if it were loose and he had to hold it in its place, before he +uttered his hideous howl, which would send me hurrying up the stairs to +bury my head under all the pillows of my bed until, coming back across the +wilderness of streets and lanes like the cry of a jackal growing fainter +and fainter upon the wind, it should pass, and die away in the distance. +Suburban London, I say, was roaring about me, and I was confined to a few +square yards of grass and gravel-walk and flower-plot; but above was the +depth of the sky, and thence at night the hosts of heaven looked in upon +me with the same calm assured glance with which they shone upon southern +forests, swarming with great butterflies and creatures that go flaming +through the tropic darkness; and there the moon would come, and cast her +lovely shadows; and there was room enough to feel alone and to try to pray. +And what was strange, the room seemed greater, though the loneliness was +gone, when my husband walked up and down in it with me. True, the greater +part of the walk seemed to be the turnings, for they always came just when +you wanted to go on and on; but, even with the scope of the world for your +walk, you must turn and come back some time. At first, when he was smoking +his great brown meerschaum, he and I would walk in opposite directions, +passing each other in the middle, and so make the space double the size, +for he had all the garden to himself, and I had it all to myself; and so I +had his garden and mine too. That is how by degrees I got able to bear the +smoke of tobacco, for I had never been used to it, and found it a small +trial at first; but now I have got actually to like it, and greet a stray +whiff from the study like a message from my husband. I fancy I could tell +the smoke of that old black and red meerschaum from the smoke of any other +pipe in creation. + +"You _must_ cure him of that bad habit," said cousin Judy to me once. + +It made me angry. What right had she to call any thing my husband did a bad +habit? and to expect me to agree with her was ten times worse. I am saving +my money now to buy him a grand new pipe; and I may just mention here, +that once I spent ninepence out of my last shilling to get him a packet of +Bristol bird's-eye, for he was on the point of giving up smoking altogether +because of--well, because of what will appear by and by. + +England is getting dreadfully crowded with mean, ugly houses. If they were +those of the poor and struggling, and not of the rich and comfortable, one +might be consoled. But rich barbarism, in the shape of ugliness, is again +pushing us to the sea. There, however, its "control stops;" and since I +lived in London the sea has grown more precious to me than it was even in +those lovely days at Kilkhaven,--merely because no one can build upon it. +Ocean and sky remain as God made them. He must love space for us, though +it be needless for himself; seeing that in all the magnificent notions of +creation afforded us by astronomers,--shoal upon shoal of suns, each the +centre of complicated and infinitely varied systems,--the spaces between +are yet more overwhelming in their vast inconceivableness. I thank God for +the room he thus gives us, and hence can endure to see the fair face of his +England disfigured by the mud-pies of his children. + +There was in the garden a little summer-house, of which I was fond, chiefly +because, knowing my passion for the flower, Percivale had surrounded it +with a multitude of sweet peas, which, as they grew, he had trained over +the trellis-work of its sides. Through them filtered the sweet airs of the +summer as through an Æolian harp of unheard harmonies. To sit there in a +warm evening, when the moth-airs just woke and gave two or three wafts of +their wings and ceased, was like sitting in the midst of a small gospel. + +The summer had come on, and the days were very hot,--so hot and changeless, +with their unclouded skies and their glowing centre, that they seemed to +grow stupid with their own heat. It was as if--like a hen brooding over her +chickens--the day, brooding over its coming harvests, grew dull and sleepy, +living only in what was to come. Notwithstanding the feelings I have just +recorded, I began to long for a wider horizon, whence some wind might come +and blow upon me, and wake me up, not merely to live, but to know that I +lived. + +One afternoon I left my little summer-seat, where I had been sitting at +work, and went through the house, and down the precipice, into my husband's +study. + +"It is so hot," I said, "I will try my little grotto: it may be cooler." + +He opened the door for me, and, with his palette on his thumb, and a brush +in his hand, sat down for a moment beside me. + +"This heat is too much for you, darling," he said. + +"I do feel it. I wish I could get from the garden into my nest without +going up through the house and down the Jacob's ladder," I said. "It is so +hot! I never felt heat like it before." + +He sat silent for a while, and then said,-- + +"I've been thinking I must get you into the country for a few weeks. It +would do you no end of good." + +"I suppose the wind does blow somewhere," I returned. "But"-- + +"You don't want to leave me?" he said. + +"I don't. And I know with that ugly portrait on hand you can't go with me." + +"He happened to be painting the portrait of a plain red-faced lady, in a +delicate lace cap,--a very unfit subject for art,--much needing to be made +over again first, it seemed to me. Only there she was, with a right to have +her portrait painted if she wished it; and there was Percivale, with time +on his hands, and room in his pockets, and the faith that whatever God had +thought worth making could not be unworthy of representation. Hence he had +willingly undertaken a likeness of her, to be finished within a certain +time, and was now working at it as conscientiously as if it had been the +portrait of a lovely young duchess or peasant-girl. I was only afraid he +would make it too like to please the lady herself. His time was now getting +short, and he could not leave home before fulfilling his engagement. + +"But," he returned, "why shouldn't you go to the Hall for a week or two +without me? I will take you down, and come and fetch you." + +"I'm so stupid you want to get rid of me!" I said. + +I did not in the least believe it, and yet was on the edge of crying, which +is not a habit with me. + +"You know better than that, my Wynnie," he answered gravely. "You want your +mother to comfort you. And there must be some air in the country. So tell +Sarah to put up your things, and I'll take you down to-morrow morning. When +I get this portrait done, I will come and stay a few days, if they will +have me, and then take you home." + +The thought of seeing my mother and my father, and the old place, came +over me with a rush. I felt all at once as if I had been absent for years +instead of weeks. I cried in earnest now,--with delight though,--and there +is no shame in that. So it was all arranged; and next afternoon I was lying +on a couch in the yellow drawing-room, with my mother seated beside me, +and Connie in an easy-chair by the open window, through which came every +now and then such a sweet wave of air as bathed me with hope, and seemed +to wash all the noises, even the loose-jawed man's hateful howl, from my +brain. + +Yet, glad as I was to be once more at home, I felt, when Percivale +left me the next morning to return by a third-class train to his ugly +portrait,--for the lady was to sit to him that same afternoon,--that the +idea of home was already leaving Oldcastle Hall, and flitting back to the +suburban cottage haunted by the bawling voice of the costermonger. + +But I soon felt better: for here there was plenty of shadow, and in the +hottest days my father could always tell where any wind would be stirring; +for he knew every out and in of the place like his own pockets, as Dora +said, who took a little after cousin Judy in her way. It will give a notion +of his tenderness if I set down just one tiniest instance of his attention +to me. The forenoon was oppressive. I was sitting under a tree, trying to +read when he came up to me. There was a wooden gate, with open bars near. +He went and set it wide, saying,-- + +"There, my love! You will fancy yourself cooler if I leave the gate open." + +Will my reader laugh at me for mentioning such a trifle? I think not, for +it went deep to my heart, and I seemed to know God better for it ever +after. A father is a great and marvellous truth, and one you can never get +at the depth of, try how you may. + +Then my mother! She was, if possible, yet more to me than my father. I +could tell her any thing and every thing without fear, while I confess to a +little dread of my father still. He is too like my own conscience to allow +of my being quite confident with him. But Connie is just as comfortable +with him as I am with my mother. If in my childhood I was ever tempted to +conceal any thing from her, the very thought of it made me miserable until +I had told her. And now she would watch me with her gentle, dove-like eyes, +and seemed to know at once, without being told, what was the matter with +me. She never asked me what I should like, but went and brought something; +and, if she saw that I didn't care for it, wouldn't press me, or offer any +thing instead, but chat for a minute or two, carry it away, and return +with something else. My heart was like to break at times with the swelling +of the love that was in it. My eldest child, my Ethelwyn,--for my husband +would have her called the same name as me, only I insisted it should be +after my mother and not after me,--has her very eyes, and for years has +been trying to mother me over again to the best of her sweet ability. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +CONNIE. + + +It is high time, though, that I dropped writing about myself for a while. I +don't find my self so interesting as it used to be. + +The worst of some kinds especially of small illnesses is, that they make +you think a great deal too much about yourself. Connie's, which was a great +and terrible one, never made her do so. She was always forgetting herself +in her interest about others. I think I was made more selfish to begin +with; and yet I have a hope that a too-much-thinking about yourself may not +_always_ be pure selfishness. It may be something else wrong in you that +makes you uncomfortable, and keeps drawing your eyes towards the aching +place. I will hope so till I get rid of the whole business, and then I +shall not care much how it came or what it was. + +Connie was now a thin, pale, delicate-looking--not handsome, but lovely +girl. Her eyes, some people said, were too big for her face; but that +seemed to me no more to the discredit of her beauty than it would have been +a reproach to say that her soul was too big for her body. She had been +early ripened by the hot sun of suffering, and the self-restraint which +pain had taught her. Patience had mossed her over and made her warm and +soft and sweet. She never looked for attention, but accepted all that was +offered with a smile which seemed to say, "It is more than I need, but you +are so good I mustn't spoil it." She was not confined to her sofa now, +though she needed to lie down often, but could walk about pretty well, +only you must give her time. You could always make her merry by saying she +walked like an old woman; and it was the only way we could get rid of the +sadness of seeing it. We betook ourselves to her to laugh _her_ sadness +away from us. + +Once, as I lay on a couch on the lawn, she came towards me carrying a bunch +of grapes from the greenhouse,--a great bunch, each individual grape ready +to burst with the sunlight it had bottled up in its swollen purple skin. + +"They are too heavy for you, old lady," I cried. + +"Yes; I _am_ an old lady," she answered. "Think what good use of my time I +have made compared with you! I have got ever so far before you: I've nearly +forgotten how to walk!" + +The tears gathered in my eyes as she left me with the bunch; for how could +one help being sad to think of the time when she used to bound like a fawn +over the grass, her slender figure borne like a feather on its own slight +yet firm muscles, which used to knot so much harder than any of ours. She +turned to say something, and, perceiving my emotion, came slowly back. + +"Dear Wynnie," she said, "you wouldn't have me back with my old +foolishness, would you? Believe me, life is ten times more precious than it +was before. I feel and enjoy and love so much more! I don't know how often +I thank God for what befell me." + +I could only smile an answer, unable to speak, not now from pity, but from +shame of my own petulant restlessness and impatient helplessness. + +I believe she had a special affection for poor Sprite, the pony which threw +her,--special, I mean, since the accident,--regarding him as in some sense +the angel which had driven her out of paradise into a better world. If ever +he got loose, and Connie was anywhere about, he was sure to find her: he +was an omnivorous animal, and she had always something he would eat when +his favorite apples were unattainable. More than once she had been roused +from her sleep on the lawn by the lips and the breath of Sprite upon her +face; but, although one painful sign of her weakness was, that she started +at the least noise or sudden discovery of a presence, she never started at +the most unexpected intrusion of Sprite, any more than at the voice of my +father or mother. Need I say there was one more whose voice or presence +never startled her? + +The relation between them was lovely to see. Turner was a fine, healthy, +broad-shouldered fellow, of bold carriage and frank manners, above the +middle height, with rather large features, keen black eyes, and great +personal strength. Yet to such a man, poor little wan-faced, big-eyed +Connie assumed imperious airs, mostly, but perhaps not entirely, for the +fun of it; while he looked only enchanted every time she honored him with a +little tyranny. + +"There! I'm tired," she would say, holding out her arms like a baby. "Carry +me in." + +And the great strong man would stoop with a worshipping look in his eyes, +and, taking her carefully, would carry her in as lightly and gently and +steadily as if she had been but the baby whose manners she had for the +moment assumed. This began, of course, when she was unable to walk; but it +did not stop then, for she would occasionally tell him to carry her after +she was quite capable of crawling at least. They had now been engaged for +some months; and before me, as a newly-married woman, they did not mind +talking a little. + +One day she was lying on a rug on the lawn, with him on the grass beside +her, leaning on his elbow, and looking down into her sky-like eyes. She +lifted her hand, and stroked his mustache with a forefinger, while he kept +as still as a statue, or one who fears to scare the bird that is picking up +the crumbs at his feet. + +"Poor, poor man!" she said; and from the tone I knew the tears had begun to +gather in those eyes. + +"Why do you pity me, Connie?" he asked. + +"Because you will have such a wretched little creature for a wife some +day,--or perhaps never,--which would be best after all." + +He answered cheerily. + +"If you will kindly allow me my choice, I prefer just _such_ a wretched +little creature to any one else in the world." + +"And why, pray? Give a good reason, and I will forgive your bad taste." + +"Because she won't be able to hurt me much when she beats me." + +"A better reason, or she will." + +"Because I can punish her if she isn't good by taking her up in my arms, +and carrying her about until she gives in." + +"A better reason, or I shall be naughty directly." + +"Because I shall always know where to find her." + +"Ah, yes! she must leave _you_ to find _her_. But that's a silly reason. If +you don't give me a better, I'll get up and walk into the house." + +"Because there won't be any waste of me. Will that do?" + +"What do you mean?" she asked, with mock imperiousness. + +"I mean that I shall be able to lay not only my heart but my brute strength +at her feet. I shall be allowed to be her beast of burden, to carry her +whither she would; and so with my body her to worship more than most +husbands have a chance of worshipping their wives." + +"There! take me, take me!" she said, stretching up her arms to him. "How +good you are! I don't deserve such a great man one bit. But I _will_ love +him. Take me directly; for there's Wynnie listening to every word we say to +each other, and laughing at us. She can laugh without looking like it." + +The fact is, I was crying, and the creature knew it. Turner brought her to +me, and held her down for me to kiss; then carried her in to her mother. + +I believe the county people round considered our family far gone on the +inclined plane of degeneracy. First my mother, the heiress, had married +a clergyman of no high family; then they had given their eldest daughter +to a poor artist, something of the same standing as--well, I will be rude +to no order of humanity, and therefore avoid comparisons; and now it was +generally known that Connie was engaged to a country practitioner, a man +who made up his own prescriptions. We talked and laughed over certain +remarks of the kind that reached us, and compared our two with the +gentlemen about us,--in no way to the advantage of any of the latter, you +may be sure. It was silly work; but we were only two loving girls, with the +best possible reasons for being proud of the men who had honored us with +their love. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +CONNIE'S BABY. + + +It is time I told my readers something about the little Theodora. She was +now nearly four years old I think,--a dark-skinned, lithe-limbed, wild +little creature, very pretty,--at least most people said so, while others +insisted that she had a common look. I admit she was not like a lady's +child--only one has seen ladies' children look common enough; neither did +she look like the child of working people--though amongst such, again, +one sees sometimes a child the oldest family in England might be proud of. +The fact is, she had a certain tinge of the savage about her, specially +manifest in a certain furtive look of her black eyes, with which she seemed +now and then to be measuring you, and her prospects in relation to you. I +have seen the child of cultivated parents sit and stare at a stranger from +her stool in the most persistent manner, never withdrawing her eyes, as +if she would pierce to his soul, and understand by very force of insight +whether he was or was not one to be honored with her confidence; and I have +often seen the side-long glance of sly merriment, or loving shyness, or +small coquetry; but I have never, in any other child, seen _that_ look of +self-protective speculation; and it used to make me uneasy, for of course, +like every one else in the house, I loved the child. She was a wayward, +often unmanageable creature, but affectionate,--sometimes after an insane, +or, at least, very ape-like fashion. Every now and then she would take an +unaccountable preference for some one of the family or household, at one +time for the old housekeeper, at another for the stable-boy, at another for +one of us; in which fits of partiality she would always turn a blind and +deaf side upon every one else, actually seeming to imagine she showed the +strength of her love to the one by the paraded exclusion of the others. I +cannot tell how much of this was natural to her, and how much the result +of the foolish and injurious jealousy of the servants. I say _servants_, +because I know such an influencing was all but impossible in the +family itself. If my father heard any one utter such a phrase as "Don't +you love me best?"--or, "better than" such a one? or, "Ain't I your +favorite?"--well, you all know my father, and know him really, for he never +wrote a word he did not believe--but you would have been astonished, I +venture to think, and perhaps at first bewildered as well, by the look of +indignation flashed from his eyes. He was not the gentle, all-excusing man +some readers, I know, fancy him from his writings. He was gentle even to +tenderness when he had time to think a moment, and in any quiet judgment +he always took as much the side of the offender as was possible with any +likelihood of justice; but in the first moments of contact with what he +thought bad in principle, and that in the smallest trifle, he would speak +words that made even those who were not included in the condemnation +tremble with sympathetic fear. "There, Harry, you take it--quick, or +Charley will have it," said the nurse one day, little thinking who +overheard her. "Woman!" cried a voice of wrath from the corridor, "do you +know what you are doing? Would you make him twofold more the child of hell +than yourself?" An hour after, she was sent for to the study; and when she +came out her eyes were very red. My father was unusually silent at dinner; +and, after the younger ones were gone, he turned to my mother, and said, +"Ethel, I spoke the truth. All _that_ is of the Devil,--horribly bad; +and yet I am more to blame in my condemnation of them than she for the +words themselves. The thought of so polluting the mind of a child makes +me fierce, and the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God. +The old Adam is only too glad to get a word in, if even in behalf of his +supplanting successor." Then he rose, and, taking my mother by the arm, +walked away with her. I confess I honored him for his self-condemnation the +most. I must add that the offending nurse had been ten years in the family, +and ought to have known better. + +But to return to Theodora. She was subject to attacks of the most furious +passion, especially when any thing occurred to thwart the indulgence of the +ephemeral partiality I have just described. Then, wherever she was, she +would throw herself down at once,--on the floor, on the walk or lawn, or, +as happened on one occasion, in the water,--and kick and scream. At such +times she cared nothing even for my father, of whom generally she stood +in considerable awe,--a feeling he rather encouraged. "She has plenty of +people about her to represent the gospel," he said once. "I will keep the +department of the law, without which she will never appreciate the gospel. +My part will, I trust, vanish in due time, and the law turn out to have +been, after all, only the imperfect gospel, just as the leaf is the +imperfect flower. But the gospel is no gospel till it gets into the heart, +and it sometimes wants a torpedo to blow the gates of that open." For no +torpedo or Krupp gun, however, did Theodora care at such times; and, after +repeated experience of the inefficacy of coaxing, my father gave orders, +that, when a fit occurred, every one, without exception, should not merely +leave her alone, but go out of sight, and if possible out of hearing,--at +least out of her hearing--that she might know she had driven her friends +far from her, and be brought to a sense of loneliness and need. I am pretty +sure that if she had been one of us, that is, one of his own, he would have +taken sharper measures with her; but he said we must never attempt to treat +other people's children as our own, for they are not our own. We did not +love them enough, he said, to make severity safe either for them or for us. + +The plan worked so far well, that after a time, varied in length according +to causes inscrutable, she would always re-appear smiling; but, as to any +conscience of wrong, she seemed to have no more than Nature herself, who +looks out with _her_ smiling face after hours of thunder, lightning, and +rain; and, although this treatment brought her out of them sooner, the fits +themselves came quite as frequently as before. + +But she had another habit, more alarming, and more troublesome as well: she +would not unfrequently vanish, and have to be long sought, for in such case +she never reappeared of herself. What made it so alarming was that there +were dangerous places about our house; but she would generally be found +seated, perfectly quiet, in some out-of-the-way nook where she had never +been before, playing, not with any of her toys, but with something she had +picked up and appropriated, finding in it some shadowy amusement which no +one understood but herself. + +She was very fond of bright colors, especially in dress; and, if she found +a brilliant or gorgeous fragment of any substance, would be sure to hide +it away in some hole or corner, perhaps known only to herself. Her love of +approbation was strong, and her affection demonstrative; but she had not +yet learned to speak the truth. In a word, she must, we thought, have come +of wild parentage, so many of her ways were like those of a forest animal. + +In our design of training her for a maid to Connie, we seemed already +likely enough to be frustrated; at all events, there was nothing to +encourage the attempt, seeing she had some sort of aversion to Connie, +amounting almost to dread. We could rarely persuade her to go near her. +Perhaps it was a dislike to her helplessness,--some vague impression that +her lying all day on the sofa indicated an unnatural condition of being, +with which she could have no sympathy. Those of us who had the highest +spirits, the greatest exuberance of animal life, were evidently those whose +society was most attractive to her. Connie tried all she could to conquer +her dislike, and entice the wayward thing to her heart; but nothing would +do. Sometimes she would seem to soften for a moment; but all at once, with +a wriggle and a backward spasm in the arms of the person who carried her, +she would manifest such a fresh access of repulsion, that, for fear of an +outburst of fierce and objurgatory wailing which might upset poor Connie +altogether, she would be borne off hurriedly,--sometimes, I confess, rather +ungently as well. I have seen Connie cry because of the child's treatment +of her. + +You could not interest her so much in any story, but that if the buzzing of +a fly, the flutter of a bird, reached eye or ear, away she would dart on +the instant, leaving the discomfited narrator in lonely disgrace. External +nature, and almost nothing else, had free access to her mind: at the +suddenest sight or sound, she was alive on the instant. She was a most +amusing and sometimes almost bewitching little companion; but the delight +in her would be not unfrequently quenched by some altogether unforeseen +outbreak of heartless petulance or turbulent rebellion. Indeed, her +resistance to authority grew as she grew older, and occasioned my father +and mother, and indeed all of us, no little anxiety. Even Charley and Harry +would stand with open mouths, contemplating aghast the unheard-of atrocity +of resistance to the will of the unquestioned authorities. It was what they +could not understand, being to them an impossibility. Such resistance was +almost always accompanied by storm and tempest; and the treatment which +carried away the latter, generally carried away the former with it; after +the passion had come and gone, she would obey. Had it been otherwise,--had +she been sullen and obstinate as well,--I do not know what would have come +of it, or how we could have got on at all. Miss Bowdler, I am afraid, +would have had a very satisfactory crow over papa. I have seen him sit +for minutes in silent contemplation of the little puzzle, trying, no +doubt, to fit her into his theories, or, as my mother said, to find her a +three-legged stool and a corner somewhere in the kingdom of heaven; and we +were certain something or other would come out of that pondering, though +whether the same night or a twelvemonth after, no one could tell. I believe +the main result of his thinking was, that he did less and less with her. + +"Why do you take so little notice of the child?" my mother said to him one +evening. "It is all your doing that she is here, you know. You mustn't cast +her off now." + +"Cast her off!" exclaimed my father: "what _do_ you mean, Ethel?" + +"You never speak to her now." + +"Oh, yes I do, sometimes!" + +"Why only sometimes?" + +"Because--I believe because I am a little afraid of her. I don't know +how to attack the small enemy. She seems to be bomb-proof, and generally +impregnable." + +"But you mustn't therefore make _her_ afraid of _you_." + +"I don't know that. I suspect it is my only chance with her. She wants a +little of Mount Sinai, in order that she may know where the manna comes +from. But indeed I am laying myself out only to catch the little soul. I am +but watching and pondering how to reach her. I am biding my time to come in +with my small stone for the building up of this temple of the Holy Ghost." + +At that very moment--in the last fold of the twilight, with the moon rising +above the wooded brow of Gorman Slope--the nurse came through the darkening +air, her figure hardly distinguishable from the dusk, saying,-- + +"Please, ma'am, have you seen Miss Theodora?" + +"I don't want you to call her _Miss_," said my father. + +"I beg your pardon, sir," said the nurse; "I forgot." + +"I have not seen her for an hour or more," said my mother. + +"I declare," said my father, "I'll get a retriever pup, and train him to +find Theodora. He will be capable in a few months, and she will be foolish +for years." + +Upon this occasion the truant was found in the apple-loft, sitting in a +corner upon a heap of straw, quite in the dark. She was discovered only by +the munching of her little teeth; for she had found some wizened apples, +and was busy devouring them. But my father actually did what he had said: +a favorite spaniel had pups a few days after, and he took one of them in +hand. In an incredibly short space of time, the long-drawn nose of Wagtail, +as the children had named him, in which, doubtless, was gathered the +experience of many thoughtful generations, had learned to track Theodora to +whatever retreat she might have chosen; and very amusing it was to watch +the course of the proceedings. Some one would come running to my father +with the news that Theo was in hiding. Then my father would give a peculiar +whistle, and Wagtail, who (I must say _who_) very seldom failed to respond, +would come bounding to his side. It was necessary that my father should +_lay him on_ (is that the phrase?); for he would heed no directions from +any one else. It was not necessary to follow him, however, which would have +involved a tortuous and fatiguing pursuit; but in a little while a joyous +barking would be heard, always kept up until the ready pursuers were guided +by the sound to the place. There Theo was certain to be found, hugging +the animal, without the least notion of the traitorous character of his +blandishments: it was long before she began to discover that there was +danger in that dog's nose. Thus Wagtail became a very important member +of the family,--a bond of union, in fact, between its parts. Theo's +disappearances, however, became less and less frequent,--not that she made +fewer attempts to abscond, but that, every one knowing how likely she was +to vanish, whoever she was with had come to feel the necessity of keeping +both eyes upon her. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +THE FOUNDLING RE-FOUND. + + +One evening, during this my first visit to my home, we had gone to take tea +with the widow of an old servant, who lived in a cottage on the outskirts +of the home farm,--Connie and I in the pony carriage, and my father and +mother on foot. It was quite dark when we returned, for the moon was late. +Connie and I got home first, though we had a good round to make, and the +path across the fields was but a third of the distance; for my father and +mother were lovers, and sure to be late when left out by themselves. When +we arrived, there was no one to take the pony; and when I rung the bell, no +one answered. I could not leave Connie in the carriage to go and look; so +we waited and waited till we were getting very tired, and glad indeed we +were to hear the voices of my father and mother as they came through the +shrubbery. My mother went to the rear to make inquiry, and came back with +the news that Theo was missing, and that they had been searching for her in +vain for nearly an hour. My father instantly called Wagtail, and sent him +after her. We then got Connie in, and laid her on the sofa, where I kept +her company while the rest went in different directions, listening from +what quarter would come the welcome voice of the dog. This was so long +delayed, however, that my father began to get alarmed. At last he whistled +very loud; and in a little while Wagtail came creeping to his feet, +with his tail between his legs,--no wag left in it,--clearly ashamed of +himself. My father was now thoroughly frightened, and began questioning the +household as to the latest knowledge of the child. It then occurred to one +of the servants to mention that a strange-looking woman had been seen about +the place in the morning,--a tall, dark woman, with a gypsy look. She had +come begging; but my father's orders were so strict concerning such cases, +that nothing had been given her, and she had gone away in anger. As soon +as he heard this, my father ordered his horse, and told two of the men to +get ready to accompany him. In the mean time, he came to us in the little +drawing-room, trying to look calm, but evidently in much perturbation. He +said he had little doubt the woman had taken her. + +"Could it be her mother?" said my mother. + +"Who can tell?" returned my father. "It is the less likely that the deed +seems to have been prompted by revenge." + +"If she be a gypsy's child,"--said my mother. + +"The gypsies," interrupted my father, "have always been more given to +taking other people's children than forsaking their own. But one of them +might have had reason for being ashamed of her child, and, dreading the +severity of her family, might have abandoned it, with the intention of +repossessing herself of it, and passing it off as the child of gentlefolks +she had picked up. I don't know their habits and ways sufficiently; but, +from what I have heard, that seems possible. However, it is not so easy as +it might have been once to succeed in such an attempt. If we should fail in +finding her to-night, the police all over the country can be apprised of +the fact in a few hours, and the thief can hardly escape." + +"But if she _should_ be the mother?" suggested my mother. + +"She will have to _prove_ that." + +"And then?" + +"What then?" returned my father, and began pacing up and down the room, +stopping now and then to listen for the horses' hoofs. + +"Would you give her up?" persisted my mother. + +Still my father made no reply. He was evidently much agitated,--more, I +fancied, by my mother's question than by the present trouble. He left the +room, and presently his whistle for Wagtail pierced the still air. A moment +more, and we heard them all ride out of the paved yard. I had never known +him leave my mother without an answer before. + +We who were left behind were in evil plight. There was not a dry eye +amongst the women, I am certain; while Harry was in floods of tears, and +Charley was howling. We could not send them to bed in such a state; so we +kept them with us in the drawing-room, where they soon fell fast asleep, +one in an easy-chair, the other on a sheepskin mat. Connie lay quite still, +and my mother talked so sweetly and gently that she soon made me quiet +too. But I was haunted with the idea somehow,--I think I must have been +wandering a little, for I was not well,--that it was a child of my own that +was lost out in the dark night, and that I could not anyhow reach her. I +cannot explain the odd kind of feeling it was,--as if a dream had wandered +out of the region of sleep, and half-possessed my waking brain. Every now +and then my mother's voice would bring me back to my senses, and I would +understand it all perfectly; but in a few moments I would be involved +once more in a mazy search after my child. Perhaps, however, as it was by +that time late, sleep had, if such a thing be possible, invaded a part +of my brain, leaving another part able to receive the impressions of the +external about me. I can recall some of the things my mother said,--one in +particular. + +"It is more absurd," she said, "to trust God by halves, than it is not +to believe in him at all. Your papa taught me that before one of you was +born." + +When my mother said any thing in the way of teaching us, which was not +often, she would generally add, "Your papa taught me that," as if she would +take refuge from the assumption of teaching even her own girls. But we +set a good deal of such assertion down to her modesty, and the evidently +inextricable blending of the thought of my father with every movement of +her mental life. + +"I remember quite well," she went on, "how he made that truth dawn upon me +one night as we sat together beside the old mill. Ah, you don't remember +the old mill! it was pulled down while Wynnie was a mere baby." + +"No, mamma; I remember it perfectly," I said. + +"Do you really?--Well, we were sitting beside the mill one Sunday evening +after service; for we always had a walk before going home from church. +You would hardly think it now; but after preaching he was then always +depressed, and the more eloquently he had spoken, the more he felt as if he +had made an utter failure. At first I thought it came only from fatigue, +and wanted him to go home and rest; but he would say he liked Nature to +come before supper, for Nature restored him by telling him that it was not +of the slightest consequence if he had failed, whereas his supper only made +him feel that he would do better next time. Well, that night, you will +easily believe he startled me when he said, after sitting for some time +silent, 'Ethel, if that yellow-hammer were to drop down dead now, and God +not care, God would not be God any longer.' Doubtless I showed myself +something between puzzled and shocked, for he proceeded with some haste to +explain to me how what he had said was true. 'Whatever belongs to God is +essential to God,' he said. 'He is one pure, clean essence of being, to use +our poor words to describe the indescribable. Nothing hangs about him that +does not belong to him,--that he could part with and be nothing the worse. +Still less is there any thing he could part with and be the worse. Whatever +belongs to him is of his own kind, is part of himself, so to speak. +Therefore there is nothing indifferent to his character to be found in him; +and therefore when our Lord says not a sparrow falls to the ground without +our Father, that, being a fact with regard to God, must be an essential +fact,--one, namely, without which he could be no God.' I understood him, I +thought; but many a time since, when a fresh light has broken in upon me, +I have thought I understood him then only for the first time. I told him +so once; and he said he thought that would be the way forever with all +truth,--we should never get to the bottom of any truth, because it was a +vital portion of the all of truth, which is God." + +I had never heard so much philosophy from my mother before. I believe she +was led into it by her fear of the effect our anxiety about the child might +have upon us: with what had quieted her heart in the old time she sought +now to quiet ours, helping us to trust in the great love that never ceases +to watch. And she did make us quiet. But the time glided so slowly past +that it seemed immovable. + +When twelve struck, we heard in the stillness every clock in the house, and +it seemed as if they would never have done. My mother left the room, and +came back with three shawls, with which, having first laid Harry on the +rug, she covered the boys and Dora, who also was by this time fast asleep, +curled up at Connie's feet. + +Still the time went on; and there was no sound of horses or any thing to +break the silence, except the faint murmur which now and then the trees +will make in the quietest night, as if they were dreaming, and talked +in their sleep; for the motion does not seem to pass beyond them, but +to swell up and die again in the heart of them. This and the occasional +cry of an owl was all that broke the silent flow of the undivided +moments,--glacier-like flowing none can tell how. We seldom spoke, and at +length the house within seemed possessed by the silence from without; but +we were all ear,--one hungry ear, whose famine was silence,--listening +intently. + +We were not so far from the high road, but that on a night like this the +penetrating sound of a horse's hoofs might reach us. Hence, when my mother, +who was keener of hearing than any of her daughters, at length started up, +saying, "I hear them! They're coming!" the doubt remained whether it might +not be the sound of some night-traveller hurrying along that high road that +she had heard. But when _we_ also heard the sound of horses, we knew they +must belong to our company; for, except the riders were within the gates, +their noises could not have come nearer to the house. My mother hurried +down to the hall. I would have staid with Connie; but she begged me to go +too, and come back as soon as I knew the result; so I followed my mother. +As I descended the stairs, notwithstanding my anxiety, I could not +help seeing what a picture lay before me, for I had learned already to +regard things from the picturesque point of view,--the dim light of the +low-burning lamp on the forward-bent heads of the listening, anxious group +of women, my mother at the open door with the housekeeper and her maid, and +the men-servants visible through the door in the moonlight beyond. + +The first news that reached me was my father's shout the moment he rounded +the sweep that brought him in sight of the house. + +"All right! Here she is!" he cried. + +And, ere I could reach the stair to run up to Connie, Wagtail was jumping +upon me and barking furiously. He rushed up before me with the scramble +of twenty feet, licked Connie's face all over in spite of her efforts at +self-defence, then rushed at Dora and the boys one after the other, and +woke them all up. He was satisfied enough with himself now; his tail was +doing the wagging of forty; there was no tucking of it away now,--no +drooping of the head in mute confession of conscious worthlessness; he was +a dog self-satisfied because his master was well pleased with him. + +But here I am talking about the dog, and forgetting what was going on +below. + +My father cantered up to the door, followed by the two men. My mother +hurried to meet him, and then only saw the little lost lamb asleep in his +bosom. He gave her up, and my mother ran in with her; while he dismounted, +and walked merrily but wearily up the stair after her. The first thing he +did was to quiet the dog; the next to sit down beside Connie; the third to +say, "Thank God!" and the next, "God bless Wagtail!" My mother was already +undressing the little darling, and her maid was gone to fetch her night +things. Tumbled hither and thither, she did not wake, but was carried off +stone-sleeping to her crib. + +Then my father,--for whom some supper, of which he was in great need, had +been brought,--as soon as he had had a glass of wine and a mouthful or two +of cold chicken, began to tell us the whole story. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +WAGTAIL COMES TO HONOR. + + +As they rode out of the gate, one of the men, a trustworthy man, who cared +for his horses like his children, and knew all their individualities as few +men know those of their children, rode up along side of my father, and told +him that there was an encampment of gypsies on the moor about five miles +away, just over Gorman Slope, remarking, that if the woman had taken the +child, and belonged to them, she would certainly carry her thither. My +father thought, in the absence of other indication, they ought to follow +the suggestion, and told Burton to guide them to the place as rapidly as +possible. After half an hour's sharp riding, they came in view of the +camp,--or rather of a rising ground behind which it lay in the hollow. The +other servant was an old man, who had been whipper-in to a baronet in the +next county, and knew as much of the ways of wild animals as Burton did +of those of his horses; it was his turn now to address my father, who had +halted for a moment to think what ought to be done next. + +"She can't well have got here before us, sir, with that child to carry. But +it's wonderful what the likes of her can do. I think I had better have a +peep over the brow first. She may be there already, or she may not; but, if +we find out, we shall know better what to do." + +"I'll go with you," said my father. + +"No, sir; excuse me; that won't do. You can't creep like a sarpent. I can. +They'll never know I'm a stalking of them. No more you couldn't show fight +if need was, you know, sir." + +"How did you find that out, Sim?" asked my father, a little amused, +notwithstanding the weight at his heart. + +"Why, sir, they do say a clergyman mustn't show fight." + +"Who told you that, Sim?" he persisted. + +"Well, I can't say, sir. Only it wouldn't be respectable; would it, sir?" + +"There's nothing respectable but what's right, Sim; and what's right always +_is_ respectable, though it mayn't _look_ so one bit." + +"Suppose you was to get a black eye, sir?" + +"Did you ever hear of the martyrs, Sim?" + +"Yes, sir. I've heerd you talk on 'em in the pulpit, sir." + +"Well, they didn't get black eyes only,--they got black all over, you +know,--burnt black; and what for, do you think, now?" + +"Don't know, sir, except it was for doing right." + +"That's just it. Was it any disgrace to them?" + +"No, sure, sir." + +"Well, if I were to get a black eye for the sake of the child, would that +be any disgrace to me, Sim?" + +"None that I knows on, sir. Only it'd _look_ bad." + +"Yes, no doubt. People might think I had got into a row at the Griffin. +And yet I shouldn't be ashamed of it. I should count my black eye the more +respectable of the two. I should also regard the evil judgment much as +another black eye, and wait till they both came round again. Lead on, Sim." + +They left their horses with Burton, and went toward the camp. But when +they reached the slope behind which it lay, much to Sim's discomfiture, +my father, instead of lying down at the foot of it, as he expected, and +creeping up the side of it, after the doom of the serpent, walked right up +over the brow, and straight into the camp, followed by Wagtail. There was +nothing going on,--neither tinkering nor cooking; all seemed asleep; but +presently out of two or three of the tents, the dingy squalor of which no +moonshine could silver over, came three or four men, half undressed, who +demanded of my father, in no gentle tones, what he wanted there. + +"I'll tell you all about it," he answered. "I'm the parson of this parish, +and therefore you're my own people, you see." + +"We don't go to _your_ church, parson," said one of them. + +"I don't care; you're my own people, for all that, and I want your help." + +"Well, what's the matter? Who's cow's dead?" said the same man. + +"This evening," returned my father, "one of my children is missing; and a +woman who might be one of your clan,--mind, I say _might be_; I don't know, +and I mean no offence,--but such a woman was seen about the place. All +I want is the child, and if I don't find her, I shall have to raise the +county. I should be very sorry to disturb you; but I am afraid, in that +case, whether the woman be one of you or not, the place will be too hot for +you. I'm no enemy to honest gypsies; but you know there is a set of tramps +that call themselves gypsies, who are nothing of the sort,--only thieves. +Tell me what I had better do to find my child. You know all about such +things." + +The men turned to each other, and began talking in undertones, and in a +language of which what my father heard he could not understand. At length +the spokesman of the party addressed him again. + +"We'll give you our word, sir, if that will satisfy you," he said, more +respectfully than he had spoken before, "to send the child home directly if +any one should bring her to our camp. That's all we can say." + +My father saw that his best chance lay in accepting the offer. + +"Thank you," he said. "Perhaps I may have an opportunity of serving you +some day." + +They in their turn thanked him politely enough, and my father and Sim left +the camp. + +Upon this side the moor was skirted by a plantation which had been +gradually creeping up the hill from the more sheltered hollow. It was here +bordered by a deep trench, the bottom of which was full of young firs. +Through the plantation there was a succession of green rides, by which the +outskirts of my father's property could be reached. But, the moon being now +up, my father resolved to cross the trench, and halt for a time, watching +the moor from the shelter of the firs, on the chance of the woman's making +her appearance; for, if she belonged to the camp, she would most probably +approach it from the plantation, and might be overtaken before she could +cross the moor to reach it. + +They had lain ensconced in the firs for about half an hour, when suddenly, +without any warning, Wagtail rushed into the underwood and vanished. They +listened with all their ears, and in a few moments heard his joyous bark, +followed instantly, however, by a howl of pain; and, before they had got +many yards in pursuit, he came cowering to my father's feet, who, patting +his side, found it bleeding. He bound his handkerchief round him, and, +fastening the lash of Sim's whip to his collar that he might not go too +fast for them, told him to find Theodora. Instantly he pulled away through +the brushwood, giving a little yelp now and then as the stiff remnant of +some broken twig or stem hurt his wounded side. + +Before we reached the spot for which he was making, however, my father +heard a rustling, nearer to the outskirts of the wood, and the same moment +Wagtail turned, and tugged fiercely in that direction. The figure of a +woman rose up against the sky, and began to run for the open space beyond. +Wagtail and my father pursued at speed; my father crying out, that, if she +did not stop, he would loose the dog on her. She paid no heed, but ran on. + +"Mount and head her, Sim. Mount, Burton. Ride over every thing," cried my +father, as he slipped Wagtail, who shot through the underwood like a bird, +just as she reached the trench, and in an instant had her by the gown. My +father saw something gleam in the moonlight, and again a howl broke from +Wagtail, who was evidently once more wounded. But he held on. And now the +horsemen, having crossed the trench, were approaching her in front, and my +father was hard upon her behind. She gave a peculiar cry, half a shriek, +and half a howl, clasped the child to her bosom, and stood rooted like a +tree, evidently in the hope that her friends, hearing her signal, would +come to her rescue. But it was too late. My father rushed upon her the +instant she cried out. The dog was holding her by the poor ragged skirt, +and the horses were reined snorting on the bank above her. She heaved up +the child over her head, but whether in appeal to Heaven, or about to dash +her to the earth in the rage of frustration, she was not allowed time to +show; for my father caught both her uplifted arms with his, so that she +could not lower them, and Burton, having flung himself from his horse and +come behind her, easily took Theodora from them, for from their position +they were almost powerless. Then my father called off Wagtail; and the +poor creature sunk down in the bottom of the trench amongst the young firs +without a sound, and there lay. My father went up to her; but she only +stared at him with big blank black eyes, and yet such a lost look on her +young, handsome, yet gaunt face, as almost convinced him she was the mother +of the child. But, whatever might be her rights, she could not be allowed +to recover possession, without those who had saved and tended the child +having a word in the matter of her fate. + +As he was thinking what he could say to her, Sim's voice reached his ear. + +"They're coming over the brow, sir,--five or six from the camp. We'd better +be off." + +"The child is safe," he said, as he turned to leave her. + +"From _me_," she rejoined, in a pitiful tone; and this ambiguous utterance +was all that fell from her. + +My father mounted hurriedly, took the child from Burton, and rode away, +followed by the two men and Wagtail. Through the green rides they galloped +in the moonlight, and were soon beyond all danger of pursuit. When they +slackened pace, my father instructed Sim to find out all he could about the +gypsies,--if possible to learn their names and to what tribe or community +they belonged. Sim promised to do what was in his power, but said he did +not expect much success. + +The children had listened to the story wide awake. Wagtail was lying at my +father's feet, licking his wounds, which were not very serious, and had +stopped bleeding. + +"It is all your doing, Wagtail," said Harry, patting the dog. + +"I think he deserves to be called _Mr._ Wagtail," said Charley. + +And from that day he was no more called bare Wagtail, but Mr. Wagtail, much +to the amusement of visitors, who, hearing the name gravely uttered, as it +soon came to be, saw the owner of it approach on all fours, with a tireless +pendulum in his rear. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +A STUPID CHAPTER. + + +Before proceeding with my own story, I must mention that my father took +every means in his power to find out something about the woman and the gang +of gypsies to which she appeared to belong. I believe he had no definite +end in view further than the desire to be able at some future time to enter +into such relations with her, for her own and her daughter's sake,--if, +indeed, Theodora were her daughter,--as might be possible. But, the very +next day, he found that they had already vanished from the place; and all +the inquiries he set on foot, by means of friends and through the country +constabulary, were of no avail. I believe he was dissatisfied with himself +in what had occurred, thinking he ought to have laid himself out at the +time to discover whether she was indeed the mother, and, in that case, to +do for her what he could. Probably, had he done so, he would only have +heaped difficulty upon difficulty; but, as it was, if he was saved from +trouble, he was not delivered from uneasiness. Clearly, however, the child +must not be exposed to the danger of the repetition of the attempt; and the +whole household was now so fully alive to the necessity of not losing sight +of her for a moment, that her danger was far less than it had been at any +time before. + +I continued at the Hall for six weeks, during which my husband came several +times to see me; and, at the close of that period, took me back with him +to my dear little home. The rooms, all but the study, looked very small +after those I had left; but I felt, notwithstanding, that the place was +my home. I was at first a little ashamed of the feeling; for why should I +be anywhere more at home than in the house of such parents as mine? But I +presume there is a certain amount of the queenly element in every woman, so +that she cannot feel perfectly at ease without something to govern, however +small and however troublesome her queendom may be. At my father's, I had +every ministration possible, and all comforts in profusion; but I had no +responsibilities, and no rule; so that sometimes I could not help feeling +as if I was idle, although I knew I was not to blame. Besides, I could not +be at all sure that my big bear was properly attended to; and the knowledge +that he was the most independent of comforts of all the men I had ever come +into any relation with, made me only feel the more anxious that he should +not be left to his own neglect. For although my father, for instance, was +ready to part with any thing, even to a favorite volume, if the good reason +of another's need showed itself, he was not at all indifferent in his own +person to being comfortable. One with his intense power of enjoying the +gentleness of the universe could not be so. Hence it was always easy to +make him a little present; whereas I have still to rack my brains for weeks +before my bear's birthday comes round, to think of something that will +in itself have a chance of giving him pleasure. Of course, it would be +comparatively easy if I had plenty of money to spare, and hadn't "to muddle +it all away" in paying butchers and bakers, and such like people. + +So home I went, to be queen again. Friends came to see me, but I returned +few of their calls. I liked best to sit in my bedroom. I would have +preferred sitting in my wonderful little room off the study, and I tried +that first; but, the same morning, somebody called on Percivale, and +straightway I felt myself a prisoner. The moment I heard the strange voice +through the door, I wanted to get out, and could not, of course. Such a +risk I would not run again. And when Percivale asked me, the next day, if +I would not go down with him, I told him I could not bear the feeling of +confinement it gave me. + +"I did mean," he said, "to have had a door made into the garden for you, +and I consulted an architect friend on the subject; but he soon satisfied +me it would make the room much too cold for you, and so I was compelled to +give up the thought." + +"You dear!" I said. That was all; but it was enough for Percivale, who +never bothered me, as I have heard of husbands doing, for demonstrations +either of gratitude or affection. Such must be of the mole-eyed sort, who +can only read large print. So I betook myself to my chamber, and there sat +and worked; for I did a good deal of needle-work now, although I had never +been fond of it as a girl. The constant recurrence of similar motions of +the fingers, one stitch just the same as another in countless repetition, +varied only by the bother when the thread grew short and would slip out of +the eye of the needle, and yet not short enough to be exchanged with still +more bother for one too long, had been so wearisome to me in former days, +that I spent half my pocket-money in getting the needle-work done for me +which my mother and sister did for themselves. For this my father praised +me, and my mother tried to scold me, and couldn't. But now it was all so +different! Instead of toiling at plain stitching and hemming and sewing, +I seemed to be working a bit of lovely tapestry all the time,--so many +thoughts and so many pictures went weaving themselves into the work; while +every little bit finished appeared so much of the labor of the universe +actually done,--accomplished, ended: for the first time in my life, I began +to feel myself of consequence enough to be taken care of. I remember +once laying down the little--what I was working at--but I am growing too +communicative and important. + +My father used often to say that the commonest things in the world were +the loveliest,--sky and water and grass and such; now I found that the +commonest feelings of humanity--for what feelings could be commoner than +those which now made me blessed amongst women?--are those that are fullest +of the divine. Surely this looks as if there were a God of the whole +earth,--as if the world existed in the very foundations of its history +and continuance by the immediate thought of a causing thought. For simply +because the life of the world was moving on towards its unseen goal, and +I knew it and had a helpless share in it, I felt as if God was with me. I +do not say I always felt like this,--far from it: there were times when +life itself seemed vanishing in an abyss of nothingness, when all my +consciousness consisted in this, that I knew I was _not_, and when I could +not believe that I should ever be restored to the well-being of existence. +The worst of it was, that, in such moods, it seemed as if I had hitherto +been deluding myself with rainbow fancies as often as I had been aware +of blessedness, as there was, in fact, no wine of life apart from its +effervescence. But when one day I told Percivale--not while I was thus +oppressed, for then I could not speak; but in a happier moment whose +happiness I mistrusted--something of what I felt, he said one thing which +has comforted me ever since in such circumstances:-- + +"Don't grumble at the poverty, darling, by which another is made rich." + +I confess I did not see all at once what he meant; but I did after thinking +over it for a while. And if I have learned any valuable lesson in my life, +it is this, that no one's feelings are a measure of eternal facts. + +The winter passed slowly away,--fog, rain, frost, snow, thaw, succeeding +one another in all the seeming disorder of the season. A good many things +happened, I believe; but I don't remember any of them. My mother wrote, +offering me Dora for a companion; but somehow I preferred being without +her. One great comfort was good news about Connie, who was getting on +famously. But even this moved me so little that I began to think I was +turning into a crab, utterly incased in the shell of my own selfishness. +The thought made me cry. The fact that I could cry consoled me, for how +could I be heartless so long as I could cry? But then came the thought it +was for myself, my own hard-heartedness I was crying,--not certainly for +joy that Connie was getting better. "At least, however," I said to myself, +"I am not content to be selfish. I am a little troubled that I am not +good." And then I tried to look up, and get my needlework, which always did +me good, by helping me to reflect. It is, I can't help thinking, a great +pity that needlework is going so much out of fashion; for it tends more to +make a woman--one who thinks, that is--acquainted with herself than all the +sermons she is ever likely to hear. + +My father came to see me several times, and was all himself to me; but +I could not feel quite comfortable with him,--I don't in the least know +why. I am afraid, much afraid, it indicates something very wrong in me +somewhere. But he seemed to understand me; and always, the moment he +left me, the tide of confidence began to flow afresh in the ocean that +lay about the little island of my troubles. Then I knew he was my own +father,--something that even my husband could not be, and would not wish to +be to me. + +In the month of March, my mother came to see me; and that was all pleasure. +My father did not always see when I was not able to listen to him, though +he was most considerate when he did; but my mother--why, to be with her was +like being with one's own--_mother_, I was actually going to write. There +is nothing better than that when a woman is in such trouble, except it +be--what my father knows more about than I do: I wish I did know _all_ +about it. + +She brought with her a young woman to take the place of cook, or rather +general servant, in our little household. She had been kitchen-maid in a +small family of my mother's acquaintance, and had a good character for +honesty and plain cooking. Percivale's more experienced ear soon discovered +that she was Irish. This fact had not been represented to my mother; for +the girl had been in England from childhood, and her mistress seemed +either not to have known it, or not to have thought of mentioning it. +Certainly, my mother was far too just to have allowed it to influence her +choice, notwithstanding the prejudices against Irish women in English +families,--prejudices not without a general foundation in reason. For my +part, I should have been perfectly satisfied with my mother's choice, even +if I had not been so indifferent at the time to all that was going on in +the lower regions of the house. But while my mother was there, I knew well +enough that nothing could go wrong; and my housekeeping mind had never been +so much at ease since we were married. It was very delightful not to +be accountable; and, for the present, I felt exonerated from all +responsibilities. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +AN INTRODUCTION. + + +I woke one morning, after a sound sleep,--not so sound, however, but that +I had been dreaming, and that, when I awoke, I could recall my dream. It +was a very odd one. I thought I was a hen, strutting about amongst ricks +of corn, picking here and scratching there, followed by a whole brood +of chickens, toward which I felt exceedingly benevolent and attentive. +Suddenly I heard the scream of a hawk in the air above me, and instantly +gave the proper cry to fetch the little creatures under my wings. They +came scurrying to me as fast as their legs could carry them,--all but one, +which wouldn't mind my cry, although I kept repeating it again and again. +Meantime the hawk kept screaming; and I felt as if I didn't care for any +of those that were safe under my wings, but only for the solitary creature +that kept pecking away as if nothing was the matter. About it I grew so +terribly anxious, that at length I woke with a cry of misery and terror. + +The moment I opened my eyes, there was my mother standing beside me. The +room was so dark that I thought for a moment what a fog there must be; but +the next, I forgot every thing at hearing a little cry, which I verily +believe, in my stupid dream, I had taken for the voice of the hawk; whereas +it was the cry of my first and only chicken, which I had not yet seen, but +which my mother now held in her grandmotherly arms, ready to hand her to +me. I dared not speak; for I felt very weak, and was afraid of crying from +delight. I looked in my mother's face; and she folded back the clothes, and +laid the baby down beside me, with its little head resting on my arm. + +"Draw back the curtain a little bit, mother dear," I whispered, "and let me +see what it is like." + +I believe I said _it_, for I was not quite a mother yet. My mother did +as I requested; a ray of clear spring light fell upon the face of the +little white thing by my side,--for white she was, though most babies are +red,--and if I dared not speak before, I could not now. My mother went +away again, and sat down by the fireside, leaving me with my baby. Never +shall I forget the unutterable content of that hour. It was not gladness, +nor was it thankfulness, that filled my heart, but a certain absolute +contentment,--just on the point, but for my want of strength, of blossoming +into unspeakable gladness and thankfulness. Somehow, too, there was mingled +with it a sense of dignity, as if I had vindicated for myself a right +to a part in the creation; for was I not proved at least a link in the +marvellous chain of existence, in carrying on the designs of the great +Maker? Not that the thought was there,--only the feeling, which afterwards +found the thought, in order to account for its own being. Besides, the +state of perfect repose after what had passed was in itself bliss; the very +sense of weakness was delightful, for I had earned the right to be weak, to +rest as much as I pleased, to be important, and to be congratulated. + +Somehow I had got through. The trouble lay behind me; and here, for the +sake of any one who will read my poor words, I record the conviction, that, +in one way or other, special individual help is given to every creature +to endure to the end. I think I have heard my father say, and hitherto it +has been my own experience, that always when suffering, whether mental or +bodily, approached the point where further endurance appeared impossible, +the pulse of it began to ebb, and a lull ensued. I do not venture to found +any general assertion upon this: I only state it as a fact of my own +experience. He who does not allow any man to be tempted above that he is +able to bear, doubtless acts in the same way in all kinds of trials. + +I was listening to the gentle talk about me in the darkened room--not +listening, indeed, only aware that loving words were spoken. Whether I was +dozing, I do not know; but something touched my lips. I did not start. I +had been dreadfully given to starting for a long time,--so much so that I +was quite ashamed sometimes, for I would even cry out,--I who had always +been so sharp on feminine affectations before; but now it seemed as if +nothing could startle me. I only opened my eyes; and there was my great +big huge bear looking down on me, with something in his eyes I had never +seen there before. But even his presence could not ripple the waters of my +deep rest. I gave him half a smile,--I knew it was but half a smile, but I +thought it would do,--closed my eyes, and sunk again, not into sleep, but +into that same blessed repose. I remember wondering if I should feel any +thing like that for the first hour or two after I was dead. May there not +one day be such a repose for all,--only the heavenly counterpart, coming of +perfect activity instead of weary success? + +This was all but the beginning of endlessly varied pleasures. I dare say +the mothers would let me go on for a good while in this direction,--perhaps +even some of the fathers could stand a little more of it; but I must +remember, that, if anybody reads this at all, it will have multitudes of +readers in whom the chord which could alone respond to such experiences +hangs loose over the sounding-board of their being. + +By slow degrees the daylight, the light of work, that is, began to +penetrate me, or rather to rise in my being from its own hidden sun. First +I began to wash and dress my baby myself. One who has not tried that +kind of amusement cannot know what endless pleasure it affords. I do not +doubt that to the paternal spectator it appears monotonous, unproductive, +unprogressive; but then he, looking upon it from the outside, and regarding +the process with a speculative compassion, and not with sympathy, so cannot +know the communion into which it brings you with the baby. I remember well +enough what my father has written about it in "The Seaboard Parish;" but he +is all wrong--I mean him to confess that before this is printed. If things +were done as he proposes, the tenderness of mothers would be far less +developed, and the moral training of children would be postponed to an +indefinite period. There, papa! that's something in your own style! + +Next I began to order the dinners; and the very day on which I first +ordered the dinner, I took my place at the head of the table. A happier +little party--well, of course, I saw it all through the rose-mists of +my motherhood, but I am nevertheless bold to assert that my husband was +happy, and that my mother was happy; and if there was one more guest at +the table concerning whom I am not prepared to assert that he was happy, +I can confidently affirm that he was merry and gracious and talkative, +originating three parts of the laughter of the evening. To watch him with +the baby was a pleasure even to the heart of a mother, anxious as she must +be when any one, especially a gentleman, more especially a bachelor, and +most especially a young bachelor, takes her precious little wax-doll in +his arms, and pretends to know all about the management of such. It was he +indeed who introduced her to the dining-room; for, leaving the table during +dessert, he returned bearing her in his arms, to my astonishment, and even +mild maternal indignation at the liberty. Resuming his seat, and pouring +out for his charge, as he pretended, a glass of old port, he said in the +soberest voice:-- + +"Charles Percivale, with all the solemnity suitable to the occasion, I, +the old moon, with the new moon in my arms, propose the health of Miss +Percivale on her first visit to this boring bullet of a world. By the way, +what a mercy it is that she carries her atmosphere with her!" + +Here I, stupidly thinking he reflected on the atmosphere of baby, rose to +take her from him with suppressed indignation; for why should a man, who +assumes a baby unbidden, be so very much nicer than a woman who accepts her +as given, and makes the best of it? But he declined giving her up. + +"I'm not pinching her," he said. + +"No; but I am afraid you find her disagreeable." + +"On the contrary, she is the nicest of little ladies; for she lets you talk +all the nonsense you like, and never takes the least offence." + +I sat down again directly. + +"I propose her health," he repeated, "coupled with that of her mother, +to whom I, for one, am more obliged than I can explain, for at length +convincing me that I belong no more to the youth of my country, but am an +uncle with a homuncle in his arms." + +"Wifie, your health! Baby, yours too!" said my husband; and the ladies +drank the toast in silence. + +It is time I explained who this fourth--or should I say fifth?--person in +our family party was. He was the younger brother of my Percivale, by name +Roger,--still more unsuccessful than he; of similar trustworthiness, but +less equanimity; for he was subject to sudden elevations and depressions +of the inner barometer. I shall have more to tell about him by and by. +Meantime it is enough to mention that my daughter--how grand I thought it +when I first said _my daughter_!--now began her acquaintance with him. +Before long he was her chief favorite next to her mother and--I am sorry +I cannot conscientiously add _father_; for, at a certain early period of +her history, the child showed a decided preference for her uncle over her +father. + +But it is time I put a stop to this ooze of maternal memories. Having thus +introduced my baby and her Uncle Roger, I close the chapter. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +MY FIRST DINNER-PARTY. A NEGATIVED PROPOSAL. + + +It may well be believed that we had not yet seen much company in our +little house. To parties my husband had a great dislike; evening parties +he eschewed utterly, and never accepted an invitation to dinner, except +it were to the house of a friend, or to that of one of my few relatives +in London, whom, for my sake, he would not displease. There were not +many, even among his artist-acquaintances, whom he cared to visit; and, +altogether, I fear he passed for an unsociable man. I am certain he would +have sold more pictures if he had accepted what invitations came in his +way. But to hint at such a thing would, I knew, crystallize his dislike +into a resolve. + +One day, after I had got quite strong again, as I was sitting by him in the +study, with my baby on my knee, I proposed that we should ask some friends +to dinner. Instead of objecting to the procedure upon general principles, +which I confess I had half anticipated, he only asked me whom I thought of +inviting. When I mentioned the Morleys, he made no reply, but went on with +his painting as if he had not heard me; whence I knew, of course, that the +proposal was disagreeable to him. + +"You see, we have been twice to dine with them," I said. + +"Well, don't you think that enough for a while?" + +"I'm talking of asking them here now." + +"Couldn't you go and see your cousin some morning instead?" + +"It's not that I want to see my cousin particularly. I want to ask them to +dinner." + +"Oh!" he said, as if he couldn't in the least make out what I was after, "I +thought people asked people because they desired their company." + +"But, you see, we owe them a dinner." + +"Owe them a dinner! Did you borrow one, then?" + +"Percivale, why will you pretend to be so stupid?" + +"Perhaps I'm only pretending to be the other thing." + +"Do you consider yourself under no obligation to people who ask you to +dinner?" + +"None in the least--if I accept the invitation. That is the natural +acknowledgment of their kindness. Surely my company is worth my dinner. It +is far more trouble to me to put on black clothes and a white choker and go +to their house, than it is for them to ask me, or, in a house like theirs, +to have the necessary preparations made for receiving me in a manner +befitting their dignity. I do violence to my own feelings in going: is not +that enough? You know how much I prefer a chop with my wife alone to the +grandest dinner the grandest of her grand relations could give me." + +"Now, don't you make game of my grand relations. I'm not sure that you +haven't far grander relations yourself, only you say so little about them, +they might all have been transported for housebreaking. Tell me honestly, +don't you think it natural, if a friend asks you to dinner, that you should +ask him again?" + +"Yes, if it would give him any pleasure. But just imagine your Cousin +Morley dining at our table. Do you think he would enjoy it?" + +"Of course we must have somebody in to help Jemima." + +"And somebody to wait, I suppose?" + +"Yes, of course, Percivale." + +"And what Thackeray calls cold balls handed about?" + +"Well, I wouldn't have them cold." + +"But they would be." + +I was by this time so nearly crying, that I said nothing here. + +"My love," he resumed, "I object to the whole thing. It's all false +together. I have not the least disinclination to asking a few friends who +would enjoy being received in the same style as your father or my brother; +namely, to one of our better dinners, and perhaps something better to drink +than I can afford every day; but just think with what uneasy compassion Mr. +Morley would regard our poor ambitions, even if you had an occasional cook +and an undertaker's man. And what would he do without his glass of dry +sherry after his soup, and his hock and champagne later, not to mention his +fine claret or tawny port afterwards? I don't know how to get these things +good enough for him without laying in a stock; and, that you know, would be +as absurd as it is impossible." + +"Oh, you gentlemen always think so much of the wine!" + +"Believe me, it is as necessary to Mr. Morley's comfort as the dainties you +would provide him with. Indeed, it would be a cruelty to ask him. He would +not, could not, enjoy it." + +"If he didn't like it, he needn't come again," I said, cross with the +objections of which I could not but see the justice. + +"Well, I must say you have an odd notion of hospitality," said my bear. +"You may be certain," he resumed, after a moment's pause, "that a man so +well aware of his own importance will take it far more as a compliment that +you do not presume to invite him to your house, but are content to enjoy +his society when he asks you to his." + +"I don't choose to take such an inferior position," I said. + +"You can't help it, my dear," he returned. "Socially considered, you _are_ +his inferior. You cannot give dinners he would regard with any thing better +than a friendly contempt, combined with a certain mild indignation at your +having presumed to ask _him_, used to such different ways. It is far more +graceful to accept the small fact, and let him have his whim, which is not +a subversive one or at all dangerous to the community, being of a sort easy +to cure. Ha! ha! ha!" + +"May I ask what you are laughing at?" I said with severity. + +"I was only fancying how such a man must feel,--if what your blessed father +believes be true,--when he is stripped all at once of every possible source +of consequence,--stripped of position, funds, house, including cellar, +clothes, body, including stomach"-- + +"There, there! don't be vulgar. It is not like you, Percivale." + +"My love, there is far greater vulgarity in refusing to acknowledge the +inevitable, either in society or in physiology. Just ask my brother his +experience in regard of the word to which you object." + +"I will leave that to you." + +"Don't be vexed with me, my wife," he said. + +"I don't like not to be allowed to pay my debts." + +"Back to the starting-point, like a hunted hare! A woman's way," he said +merrily, hoping to make me laugh; for he could not doubt I should see the +absurdity of my position with a moment's reflection. But I was out of +temper, and chose to pounce upon the liberty taken with my sex, and regard +it as an insult. Without a word I rose, pressed my baby to my bosom as if +her mother had been left a widow, and swept away. Percivale started to his +feet. I did not see, but I knew he gazed after me for a moment; then I +heard him sit down to his painting as if nothing had happened, but, I knew, +with a sharp pain inside his great chest. For me, I found the precipice, +or Jacob's ladder, I had to climb, very subversive of my dignity; for when +a woman has to hold a baby in one arm, and with the hand of the other +lift the front of her skirt in order to walk up an almost perpendicular +staircase, it is quite impossible for her to _sweep_ any more. + +When I reached the top, I don't know how it was, but the picture he had +made of me, with the sunset-shine coming through the window, flashed upon +my memory. All dignity forgotten, I bolted through the door at the top, +flung my baby into the arms of her nurse, turned, almost tumbled headlong +down the precipice, and altogether tumbled down at my husband's chair. I +couldn't speak; I could only lay my head on his knees. + +"Darling," he said, "you shall ask the great Pan Jan with his button atop, +if you like. I'll do my best for him." + +Between crying and laughing, I nearly did what I have never really done +yet,--I nearly _went off_. There! I am sure that phrase is quite as +objectionable as the word I wrote a little while ago; and there it shall +stand, as a penance for having called any word my husband used _vulgar_. + +"I was very naughty, Percivale," I said. "I will give a dinner-party, and +it shall be such as you shall enjoy, and I won't ask Mr. Morley." + +"Thank you, my love," he said; "and the next time Mr. Morley asks us I will +go without a grumble, and make myself as agreeable as I can." + + * * * * * + +It may have seemed, to some of my readers, occasion for surprise that the +mistress of a household should have got so far in the construction of a +book without saying a word about her own or other people's servants in +general. Such occasion shall no longer be afforded them; for now I am +going to say several things about one of mine, and thereby introduce a +few results of much experience and some thought. I do not pretend to have +made a single discovery, but only to have achieved what I count a certain +measure of success; which, however, I owe largely to my own poverty, and +the stupidity of my cook. + +I have had a good many servants since, but Jemima seems a fixture. How +this has come about, it would be impossible to say in ever so many words. +Over and over I have felt, and may feel again before the day is ended, a +profound sympathy with Sindbad the sailor, when the Old Man of the Sea was +on his back, and the hope of ever getting him off it had not yet begun to +dawn. She has by turns every fault under the sun,--I say _fault_ only; +will struggle with one for a day, and succumb to it for a month; while +the smallest amount of praise is sufficient to render her incapable of +deserving a word of commendation for a week. She is intensely stupid, with +a remarkable genius--yes, genius--for cooking. My father says that all +stupidity is caused, or at least maintained, by conceit. I cannot quite +accompany him to his conclusions; but I have seen plainly enough that the +stupidest people are the most conceited, which in some degree favors them. +It was long an impossibility to make her see, or at least own, that she was +to blame for any thing. If the dish she had last time cooked to perfection +made its appearance the next time uneatable, she would lay it all to the +_silly_ oven, which was too hot or too cold; or the silly pepper-pot, the +top of which fell off as she was using it. She had no sense of the value +of proportion,--would insist, for instance, that she had made the cake +precisely as she had been told, but suddenly betray that she had not +weighed the flour, which _could_ be of no consequence, seeing she had +weighed every thing else. + +"Please, 'm, could you eat your dinner now? for it's all ready," she came +saying an hour before dinner-time, the very first day after my mother +left. Even now her desire to be punctual is chiefly evidenced by absurd +precipitancy, to the danger of doing every thing either to a pulp or a +cinder. Yet here she is, and here she is likely to remain, so far as I see, +till death, or some other catastrophe, us do part. The reason of it is, +that, with all her faults--and they are innumerable--she has some heart; +yes, after deducting all that can be laid to the account of a certain +cunning perception that she is well off, she has yet a good deal of genuine +attachment left; and after setting down the half of her possessions to the +blarney which is the natural weapon of the weak-witted Celt, there seems +yet left in her of the vanishing clan instinct enough to render her a +jealous partisan of her master and mistress. + +Those who care only for being well-served will of course feel contemptuous +towards any one who would put up with such a woman for a single moment +after she could find another; but both I and my husband have a strong +preference for living in a family, rather than in a hotel. I know many +houses in which the master and mistress are far more like the lodgers, +on sufferance of their own servants. I have seen a worthy lady go about +wringing her hands because she could not get her orders attended to in the +emergency of a slight accident, not daring to go down to her own kitchen, +as her love prompted, and expedite the ministration. I am at least mistress +in my own house; my servants are, if not yet so much members of the family +as I could wish, gradually becoming more so; there is a circulation of +common life through the household, rendering us an organization, although +as yet perhaps a low one; I am sure of being obeyed, and there are no +underhand out-of-door connections. When I go to the houses of my rich +relations, and hear what they say concerning their servants, I feel as if +they were living over a mine, which might any day be sprung, and blow them +into a state of utter helplessness; and I return to my house blessed in +the knowledge that my little kingdom is my own, and that, although it is +not free from internal upheavings and stormy commotions, these are such as +to be within the control and restraint of the general family influences; +while the blunders of the cook seem such trifles beside the evil customs +established in most kitchens of which I know any thing, that they are +turned even into sources of congratulation as securing her services for +ourselves. More than once my husband has insisted on raising her wages, on +the ground of the endless good he gets in his painting from the merriment +her oddities afford him,--namely, the clear insight, which, he asserts, is +the invariable consequence. I must in honesty say, however, that I have +seen him something else than merry with her behavior, many a time. + +But I find the things I have to say so crowd upon me, that I must either +proceed to arrange them under heads,--which would immediately deprive them +of any right to a place in my story,--or keep them till they are naturally +swept from the bank of my material by the slow wearing of the current of my +narrative. I prefer the latter, because I think my readers will. + +What with one thing and another, this thing to be done and that thing to +be avoided, there was nothing more said about the dinner-party, until my +father came to see us in the month of July. I was to have paid them a visit +before then; but things had come in the way of that also, and now my father +was commissioned by my mother to arrange for my going the next month. + +As soon as I had shown my father to his little room, I ran down to +Percivale. + +"Papa is come," I said. + +"I am delighted to hear it," he answered, laying down his palette and +brushes. "Where is he?" + +"Gone up stairs," I answered. "I wouldn't disturb you till he came down +again." + +He answered with that world-wide English phrase, so suggestive of a hopeful +disposition, "All right!" And with all its grumbling, and the _tristesse_ +which the French consider its chief characteristic, I think my father is +right, who says, that, more than any other nation, England has been, is, +and will be, saved by hope. Resuming his implements, my husband added,-- + +"I haven't quite finished my pipe,--I will go on till he comes down." + +Although he laid it on his pipe, I knew well enough it was just that little +bit of paint he wanted to finish, and not the residue of tobacco in the +black and red bowl. + +"And now we'll have our dinner party," I said. + +I do believe, that, for all the nonsense I had talked about returning +invitations, the real thing at my heart even then was an impulse towards +hospitable entertainment, and the desire to see my husband merry with his +friends, under--shall I say it?--the protecting wing of his wife. For, as +mother of the family, the wife has to mother her husband also; to consider +him as her first-born, and look out for what will not only give him +pleasure but be good for him. And I may just add here, that for a long time +my bear has fully given in to this. + +"And who are you going to ask?" he said. "Mr. and Mrs. Morley to begin +with, and"-- + +"No, no," I answered. "We are going to have a jolly evening of it, +with nobody present who will make you either anxious or annoyed. Mr. +Blackstone,"--he wasn't married then,--"Miss Clare, I think,--and"-- + +"What do you ask her for?" + +"I won't if you don't like her, but"-- + +"I haven't had a chance of liking or disliking her yet." + +"That is partly why I want to ask her,--I am so sure you would like her if +you knew her." + +"Where did you tell me you had met her?" + +"At Cousin Judy's. I must have one lady to keep me in countenance with so +many gentlemen, you know. I have another reason for asking her, which I +would rather you should find out than I tell you. Do you mind?" + +"Not in the least, if you don't think she will spoil the fun." + +"I am sure she won't. Then there's your brother Roger." + +"Of course. Who more?" + +"I think that will do. There will be six of us then,--quite a large enough +party for our little dining-room." + +"Why shouldn't we dine here? It wouldn't be so hot, and we should have more +room." + +I liked the idea. The night before, Percivale arranged every thing, so +that not only his paintings, of which he had far too many, and which +were huddled about the room, but all his _properties_ as well, should be +accessory to a picturesque effect. And when the table was covered with the +glass and plate,--of which latter my mother had taken care I should not be +destitute,--and adorned with the flowers which Roger brought me from Covent +Garden, assisted by a few of our own, I thought the bird's-eye view from +the top of Jacob's ladder a very pretty one indeed. + +Resolved that Percivale should have no cause of complaint as regarded the +simplicity of my arrangements, I gave orders that our little Ethel, who at +that time of the evening was always asleep, should be laid on the couch in +my room off the study, with the door ajar, so that Sarah, who was now her +nurse, might wait with an easy mind. The dinner was brought in by the outer +door of the study, to avoid the awkwardness and possible disaster of the +private precipice. + +The principal dish, a small sirloin of beef, was at the foot of the table, +and a couple of boiled fowls, as I thought, before me. But when the covers +were removed, to my surprise I found they were roasted. + +"What have you got there, Percivale?" I asked. "Isn't it sirloin?" + +"I'm not an adept in such matters," he replied. "I should say it was." + +My father gave a glance at the joint. Something seemed to be wrong. I +rose and went to my husband's side. Powers of cuisine! Jemima had roasted +the fowls, and boiled the sirloin. My exclamation was the signal for an +outbreak of laughter, led by my father. I was trembling in the balance +between mortification on my own account and sympathy with the evident +amusement of my father and Mr. Blackstone. But the thought that Mr. Morley +might have been and was not of the party came with such a pang and such a +relief, that it settled the point, and I burst out laughing. + +"I dare say it's all right," said Roger. "Why shouldn't a sirloin be boiled +as well as roasted? I venture to assert that it is all a whim, and we are +on the verge of a new discovery to swell the number of those which already +owe their being to blunders." + +"Let us all try a slice, then," said Mr. Blackstone, "and compare results." + +This was agreed to; and a solemn silence followed, during which each sought +acquaintance with the new dish. + +"I am sorry to say," remarked my father, speaking first, "that Roger is +all wrong, and we have only made the discovery that custom is right. It is +plain enough why sirloin is always roasted." + +"I yield myself convinced," said Roger. + +"And I am certain," said Mr. Blackstone, "that if the loin set before the +king, whoever he was, had been boiled, he would never have knighted it." + +Thanks to the loin, the last possible touch of constraint had vanished, +and the party grew a very merry one. The apple-pudding which followed was +declared perfect, and eaten up. Percivale produced some good wine from +somewhere, which evidently added to the enjoyment of the gentlemen, my +father included, who likes a good glass of wine as well as anybody. But +a tiny little whimper called me away, and Miss Clare accompanied me; the +gentlemen insisting that we should return as soon as possible, and bring +the homuncle, as Roger called the baby, with us. + +When we returned, the two clergymen were in close conversation, and the +other two gentlemen were chiefly listening. My father was saying,-- + +"My dear sir, I don't see how any man can do his duty as a clergyman who +doesn't visit his parishioners." + +"In London it is simply impossible," returned Mr. Blackstone. "In the +country you are welcome wherever you go; any visit I might pay would most +likely be regarded either as an intrusion, or as giving the right to +pecuniary aid, of which evils the latter is the worse. There are portions +of every London parish which clergymen and their coadjutors have so +degraded by the practical teaching of beggary, that they have blocked +up every door to a healthy spiritual relation between them and pastor +possible." + +"Would you not give alms at all, then?" + +"One thing, at least, I have made up my mind upon,--that alms from any but +the hand of personal friendship tend to evil, and will, in the long run, +increase misery." + +"What, then, do you suppose the proper relation between a London clergyman +and his parishioners?" + +"One, I am afraid, which does not at present exist,--one which it is his +first business perhaps to bring about. I confess I regard with a repulsion +amounting to horror the idea of walking into a poor man's house, except +either I have business with him, or desire his personal acquaintance." + +"But if our office"-- + +"Makes it my business to serve--not to assume authority over them +especially to the degree of forcing service upon them. I will not say +how far intimacy may not justify you in immediate assault upon a man's +conscience; but I shrink from any plan that seems to take it for granted +that the poor are more wicked than the rich. Why don't we send missionaries +to Belgravia? The outside of the cup and platter may sometimes be dirtier +than the inside." + +"Your missionary could hardly force his way through the servants to the +boudoir or drawing-room." + +"And the poor have no servants to defend them." + +I have recorded this much of the conversation chiefly for the sake of +introducing Miss Clare, who now spoke. + +"Don't you think, sir," she asked, addressing my father, "that the help one +can give to another must always depend on the measure in which one is free +one's self?" + +My father was silent--thinking. We were all silent. I said to myself, +"There, papa! that is something after your own heart." With marked +deference and solemnity he answered at length,-- + +"I have little doubt you are right, Miss Clare. That puts the question +upon its own eternal foundation. The mode used must be of infinitely less +importance than the person who uses it." + +As he spoke, he looked at her with a far more attentive regard than +hitherto. Indeed, the eyes of all the company seemed to be scanning +the small woman; but she bore the scrutiny well, if indeed she was not +unconscious of it; and my husband began to find out one of my reasons for +asking her, which was simply that he might see her face. At this moment it +was in one of its higher phases. It was, at its best, a grand face,--at its +worst, a suffering face; a little too large, perhaps, for the small body +which it crowned with a flame of soul; but while you saw her face you never +thought of the rest of her; and her attire seemed to court an escape from +all observation. + +"But," my father went on, looking at Mr. Blackstone, "I am anxious from the +clergyman's point of view, to know what my friend here thinks he must try +to do in his very difficult position." + +"I think the best thing I could do," returned Mr. Blackstone, laughing, +"would be to go to school to Miss Clare." + +"I shouldn't wonder," my father responded. + +"But, in the mean time, I should prefer the chaplaincy of a suburban +cemetery." + +"Certainly your charge would be a less troublesome one. Your congregation +would be quiet enough, at least," said Roger. + +"'Then are they glad because they be quiet,'" said my father, as if +unconsciously uttering his own reflections. But he was a little cunning, +and would say things like that when, fearful of irreverence, he wanted to +turn the current of the conversation. + +"But, surely," said Miss Clare, "a more active congregation would be quite +as desirable." + +She had one fault--no, defect: she was slow to enter into the humor of a +thing. It seemed almost as if the first aspect of any bit of fun presented +to her was that of something wrong. A moment's reflection, however, almost +always ended in a sunny laugh, partly at her own stupidity, as she called +it. + +"You mistake my meaning," said Mr. Blackstone. "My chief, almost sole, +attraction to the regions of the grave is the sexton, and not the placidity +of the inhabitants; though perhaps Miss Clare might value that more highly +if she had more experience of how noisy human nature can be." + +Miss Clare gave a little smile, which after-knowledge enabled me to +interpret as meaning, "Perhaps I do know a trifle about it;" but she said +nothing. + +"My first inquiry," he went on, "before accepting such an appointment, +would be as to the character and mental habits of the sexton. If I found +him a man capable of regarding human nature from a stand-point of his +own, I should close with the offer at once. If, on the contrary, he was +a common-place man, who made faultless responses, and cherished the +friendship of the undertaker, I should decline. In fact, I should regard +the sexton as my proposed master; and whether I should accept the place +or not would depend altogether on whether I liked him or not. Think what +revelations of human nature a real man in such a position could give me: +'Hand me the shovel. You stop a bit,--you're out of breath. Sit down on +that stone there, and light your pipe; here's some tobacco. Now tell me +the rest of the story. How did the old fellow get on after he had buried +his termagant wife?' That's how I should treat him; and I should get, +in return, such a succession of peeps into human life and intent and +aspirations, as, in the course of a few years, would send me to the next +vicarage that turned up a sadder and wiser man, Mr. Walton." + +"I don't doubt it," said my father; but whether in sympathy with Mr. +Blackstone, or in latent disapproval of a tone judged unbecoming to a +clergyman, I cannot tell. Sometimes, I confess, I could not help suspecting +the source of the deficiency in humor which he often complained of in me; +but I always came to the conclusion that what seemed such a deficiency in +him was only occasioned by the presence of a deeper feeling. + +Miss Clare was the first to leave. + +"What a lovely countenance that is!" said my husband, the moment she was +out of hearing. + +"She is a very remarkable woman," said my father. + +"I suspect she knows a good deal more than most of us," said Mr. +Blackstone. "Did you see how her face lighted up always before she said any +thing? You can never come nearer to seeing a thought than in her face just +before she speaks." + +"What is she?" asked Roger. + +"Can't you see what she is?" returned his brother. "She's a saint,--Saint +Clare." + +"If you had been a Scotchman, now," said Roger "that fine name would have +sunk to _Sinkler_ in your mouth." + +"Not a more vulgar corruption, however, than is common in the mouths +of English lords and ladies, when they turn _St. John_ into _Singen_, +reminding one of nothing but the French for an ape," said my father. + +"But what does she do?" persisted Roger. + +"Why should you think she does any thing?" I asked. + +"She looks as if she had to earn her own living." + +"She does. She teaches music." + +"Why didn't you ask her to play?" + +"Because this is the first time she has been to the house." + +"Does she go to church, do you suppose?" + +"I have no doubt of it; but why do you ask?" + +"Because she looks as if she didn't want it. I never saw such an angelic +expression upon a countenance." + +"You must take me to call upon her," said my father. + +"I will with pleasure," I answered. + +I found, however, that this was easier promised than performed; for I had +asked her by word of mouth at Cousin Judy's, and had not the slightest +idea where she lived. Of course I applied to Judy; but she had mislaid her +address, and, promising to ask her for it, forgot more than once. My father +had to return home without seeing her again. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +A PICTURE. + + +Things went on very quietly for some time. Of course I was fully occupied, +as well I might be, with a life to tend and cultivate which must blossom at +length into the human flowers of love and obedience and faith. The smallest +service I did the wonderful thing that lay in my lap seemed a something in +itself so well worth doing, that it was worth living to do it. As I gazed +on the new creation, so far beyond my understanding, yet so dependent upon +me while asserting an absolute and divine right to all I did for her, I +marvelled that God should intrust me with such a charge, that he did not +keep the lovely creature in his own arms, and refuse her to any others. +Then I would bethink myself that in giving her into mine, he had not sent +her out of his own; for I, too, was a child in his arms, holding and +tending my live doll, until it should grow something like me, only ever so +much better. Was she not given to me that she might learn what I had begun +to learn, namely, that a willing childhood was the flower of life? How can +any mother sit with her child on her lap and not know that there is a God +over all,--know it by the rising of her own heart in prayer to him? But so +few have had parents like mine! If my mother felt thus when I lay in her +arms, it was no wonder I should feel thus when my child lay in mine. + +Before I had children of my own, I did not care about children, and +therefore did not understand them; but I had read somewhere,--and it clung +to me although I did not understand it,--that it was in laying hold of the +heart of his mother that Jesus laid his first hold on the world to redeem +it; and now at length I began to understand it. What a divine way of saving +us it was,--to let her bear him, carry him in her bosom, wash him and +dress him and nurse him and sing him to sleep,--offer him the adoration of +mother's love, misunderstand him, chide him, forgive him even for fancied +wrong! Such a love might well save a world in which were mothers enough. It +was as if he had said, "Ye shall no more offer vain sacrifices to one who +needs them not, and cannot use them. I will need them, so require them at +your hands. I will hunger and thirst and be naked and cold, and ye shall +minister to me. Sacrifice shall be no more a symbol, but a real giving +unto God; and when I return to the Father, inasmuch as ye do it to one of +the least of these, ye do it unto me." So all the world is henceforth the +temple of God; its worship is ministration; the commonest service is divine +service. + +I feared at first that the new strange love I felt in my heart came only of +the fact that the child was Percivale's and mine; but I soon found it had +a far deeper source,--that it sprung from the very humanity of the infant +woman, yea, from her relation in virtue of that humanity to the Father of +all. The fountain _appeared_ in my heart: it arose from an infinite store +in the unseen. + +Soon, however, came jealousy of my love for my baby. I feared lest it +should make me--nay, was making me--neglect my husband. The fear first +arose in me one morning as I sat with her half dressed on my knees. I was +dawdling over her in my fondness, as I used to dawdle over the dressing of +my doll, when suddenly I became aware that never once since her arrival +had I sat with my husband in his study. A pang of dismay shot through +me. "Is this to be a wife?" I said to myself,--"to play with a live love +like a dead doll, and forget her husband!" I caught up a blanket from the +cradle,--I am not going to throw away that good old word for the ugly +outlandish name they give it now, reminding one only of a helmet,--I caught +up a blanket from the cradle, I say, wrapped it round the treasure, which +was shooting its arms and legs in every direction like a polypus feeling +after its food,--and rushed down stairs, and down the precipice into the +study. Percivale started up in terror, thinking something fearful had +happened, and I was bringing him all that was left of the child. + +"What--what--what's the matter?" he gasped. + +I could not while he was thus frightened explain to him what had driven me +to him in such alarming haste. + +"I've brought you the baby to kiss," I said, unfolding the blanket, and +holding up the sprawling little goddess towards the face that towered above +me. + +"Was it dying for a kiss then?" he said, taking her, blanket and all, from +my arms. + +The end of the blanket swept across his easel, and smeared the face of the +baby in a picture of the _Three Kings_, at which he was working. + +"O Percivale!" I cried, "you've smeared your baby!" + +"But this is a real live baby; she may smear any thing she likes." + +"Except her own face and hands, please, then, Percivale." + +"Or her blessed frock," said Percivale. "She hasn't got one, though. Why +hasn't the little angel got her feathers on yet?" + +"I was in such a hurry to bring her." + +"To be kissed?" + +"No, not exactly. It wasn't her I was in a hurry to bring; it was myself." + +"Ah! you wanted to be kissed, did you?" + +"No, sir. I didn't want to be kissed; but I did so want to kiss you, +Percivale." + +"Isn't it all the same, though, darling?" he said. "It seems so to me." + +"Sometimes, Percivale, you are so very stupid! It's not the same at all. +There's a world of difference between the two; and you ought to know it, or +be told it, if you don't." + +"I shall think it over as soon as you leave me," he said. + +"But I'm not going to leave you for a long time. I haven't seen you paint +for weeks and weeks,--not since this little troublesome thing came poking +in between us." + +"But she's not dressed yet." + +"That doesn't signify. She's well wrapped up, and quite warm." + +He put me a chair where I could see his picture without catching the shine +of the paint. I took the baby from him, and he went on with his work. + +"You don't think I am going to sacrifice all my privileges to this little +tyrant, do you?" I said. + +"It would be rather hard for me, at least," he rejoined. + +"You did think I was neglecting you, then, Percivale?" + +"Not for a moment." + +"Then you didn't miss me?" + +"I did, very much." + +"And you didn't grumble?" + +"No." + +"Do I disturb you?" I asked, after a little pause. "Can you paint just as +well when I am here as when you are alone?" + +"Better. I feel warmer to my work somehow." + +I was satisfied, and held my peace. When I am best pleased I don't want +to talk. But Percivale, perhaps not having found this out yet, looked +anxiously in my face; and, as at the moment my eyes were fixed on his +picture, I thought he wanted to find out whether I liked the design. + +"I see it now!" I cried. "I could not make out where the Magi were." + +He had taken for the scene of his picture an old farm kitchen, or yeoman's +hall, with its rich brown rafters, its fire on the hearth, and its red +brick floor. A tub half full of bright water, stood on one side; and the +mother was bending over her baby, which, undressed for the bath, she was +holding out for the admiration of the Magi. Immediately behind the mother +stood, in the garb of a shepherd, my father, leaning on the ordinary +shepherd's crook; my mother, like a peasant-woman in her Sunday-best, with +a white handkerchief crossed upon her bosom, stood beside him, and both +were gazing with a chastened yet profound pleasure on the lovely child. + +In front stood two boys and a girl,--between the ages of five and +nine,--gazing each with a peculiar wondering delight on the baby. +The youngest boy, with a great spotted wooden horse in his hand, was +approaching to embrace the infant in such fashion as made the toy look +dangerous, and the left hand of the mother was lifted with a motion of +warning and defence. The little girl, the next youngest, had, in her +absorption, dropped her gaudily dressed doll at her feet, and stood sucking +her thumb, her big blue eyes wide with contemplation. The eldest boy had +brought his white rabbit to give the baby, but had forgotten all about it, +so full was his heart of his new brother. An expression of mingled love and +wonder and perplexity had already begun to dawn upon the face, but it was +as yet far from finished. He stood behind the other two peeping over their +heads. + +"Were you thinking of that Titian in the Louvre, with the white rabbit in +it?" I asked Percivale. + +"I did not think of it until after I had put in the rabbit," he replied. +"And it shall remain; for it suits my purpose, and Titian would not claim +all the white rabbits because of that one." + +"Did you think of the black lamb in it, then, when you laid that black +pussy on the hearth?" I asked. + +"Black lamb?" he returned. + +"Yes," I insisted; "a black lamb, in the dark background--such a very black +lamb, and in such a dark background, that it seems you never discovered +it." + +"Are you sure?" he persisted. + +"Absolutely certain," I replied. "I pointed it out to papa in the picture +itself in the Louvre; he had not observed it before either." + +"I am very glad to know there is such a thing there. I need not answer your +question, you see. It is odd enough I should have put in the black puss. +Upon some grounds I might argue that my puss is better than Titian's lamb." + +"What grounds? tell me." + +"If the painter wanted a contrast, a lamb, be he as black as ever paint +could make him, must still be a more Christian animal than a cat as white +as snow. Under what pretence could a cat be used for a Christian symbol?" + +"What do you make of her playfulness?" + +"I should count that a virtue, were it not for the fatal objection that it +is always exercised at the expense of other creatures." + +"A ball of string, or a reel, or a bit of paper, is enough for an +uncorrupted kitten." + +"But you must not forget that it serves only in virtue of the creature's +imagination representing it as alive. If you do not make it move, she will +herself set it in motion as the initiative of the game. If she cannot do +that, she will take no notice of it." + +"Yes, I see. I give in." + +All this time he had been painting diligently. He could now combine talking +and painting far better than he used. But a knock came to the study door; +and, remembering baby's unpresentable condition, I huddled her up, climbed +the stair again, and finished the fledging of my little angel in a very +happy frame of mind. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +RUMORS. + + +Hardly was it completed, when Cousin Judy called, and I went down to see +her, carrying my baby with me. As I went, something put me in mind that I +must ask her for Miss Clare's address. Lest I should again forget, as soon +as she had kissed and admired the baby, I said,-- + +"Have you found out yet where Miss Clare lives, Judy?" + +"I don't choose to find out," she answered. "I am sorry to say I have had +to give her up. It is a disappointment, I confess." + +"What do you mean?" I said. "I thought you considered her a very good +teacher." + +"I have no fault to find with her on that score. She was always punctual, +and I must allow both played well and taught the children delightfully. +But I have heard such questionable things about her!--very strange things +indeed!" + +"What are they?" + +"I can't say I've been able to fix on more than one thing directly against +her character, but"-- + +"Against her character!" I exclaimed. + +"Yes, indeed. She lives by herself in lodgings, and the house is not at all +a respectable one." + +"But have you made no further inquiry?" + +"I consider that quite enough. I had already met more than one person, +however, who seemed to think it very odd that I should have her to teach +music in my family." + +"Did they give any reason for thinking her unfit?" + +"I did not choose to ask them. One was Miss Clarke--you know her. She +smiled in her usual supercilious manner, but in her case I believe it was +only because Miss Clare looks so dowdy. But nobody knows any thing about +her except what I've just told you." + +"And who told you that?" + +"Mrs. Jeffreson." + +"But you once told me that she was a great gossip." + +"Else she wouldn't have heard it. But that doesn't make it untrue. In fact, +she convinced me of its truth, for she knows the place she lives in, and +assured me it was at great risk of infection to the children that I allowed +her to enter the house; and so, of course, I felt compelled to let her know +that I didn't require her services any longer." + +"There must be some mistake, surely!" I said. + +"Oh, no! not the least, I am sorry to say." + +"How did she take it?" + +"Very sweetly indeed. She didn't even ask me why, which was just as well, +seeing I should have found it awkward to tell her. But I suppose she knew +too many grounds herself to dare the question." + +I was dreadfully sorry, but I could not say much more then. I ventured +only to express my conviction that there could not be any charge to bring +against Miss Clare herself; for that one who looked and spoke as she did +could have nothing to be ashamed of. Judy, however, insisted that what she +had heard was reason enough for at least ending the engagement; indeed, +that no one was fit for such a situation of whom such things could be said, +whether they were true or not. + +When she left me, I gave baby to her nurse, and went straight to the study, +peeping in to see if Percivale was alone. + +He caught sight of me, and called to me to come down. + +"It's only Roger," he said. + +I was always pleased to see Roger. He was a strange creature,--one of those +gifted men who are capable of any thing, if not of every thing, and yet +carry nothing within sight of proficiency. He whistled like a starling, and +accompanied his whistling on the piano; but never played. He could copy a +drawing to a hair's-breadth, but never drew. He could engrave well on wood; +but although he had often been employed in that way, he had always got +tired of it after a few weeks. He was forever wanting to do something other +than what he was at; and the moment he got tired of a thing, he would work +at it no longer; for he had never learned to _make_ himself. He would +come every day to the study for a week to paint in backgrounds, or make a +duplicate; and then, perhaps, we wouldn't see him for a fortnight. At other +times he would work, say for a month, modelling, or carving marble, for a +sculptor friend, from whom he might have had constant employment if he had +pleased. He had given lessons in various branches, for he was an excellent +scholar, and had the finest ear for verse, as well as the keenest +appreciation of the loveliness of poetry, that I have ever known. He had +stuck to this longer than to any thing else, strange to say; for one would +have thought it the least attractive of employments to one of his volatile +disposition. For some time indeed he had supported himself comfortably in +this way; for through friends of his family he had had good introductions, +and, although he wasted a good deal of money in buying nick-nacks that +promised to be useful and seldom were, he had no objectionable habits +except inordinate smoking. But it happened that a pupil--a girl of +imaginative disposition, I presume--fell so much in love with him that +she betrayed her feelings to her countess-mother, and the lessons were of +course put an end to. I suspect he did not escape heart-whole himself; for +he immediately dropped all his other lessons, and took to writing poetry +for a new magazine, which proved of ephemeral constitution, and vanished +after a few months of hectic existence. + +It was remarkable that with such instability his moral nature should +continue uncorrupted; but this I believe he owed chiefly to his love and +admiration of his brother. For my part, I could not help liking him much. +There was a half-plaintive playfulness about him, alternated with gloom, +and occasionally with wild merriment, which made him interesting even when +one felt most inclined to quarrel with him. The worst of him was that he +considered himself a generally misunderstood, if not ill-used man, who +could not only distinguish himself, but render valuable service to society, +if only society would do him the justice to give him a chance. Were it +only, however, for his love to my baby, I could not but be ready to take +up his defence. When I mentioned what I had just heard about Miss Clare, +Percivale looked both astonished and troubled; but before he could speak, +Roger, with the air of a man of the world whom experience enabled to come +at once to a decision, said,-- + +"Depend upon it, Wynnie, there is falsehood there somewhere. You will +always be nearer the truth if you believe nothing, than if you believe the +half of what you hear." + +"That's very much what papa says," I answered. "He affirms that he never +searched into an injurious report in his own parish without finding it so +nearly false as to deprive it of all right to go about." + +"Besides," said Roger, "look at that face! How I should like to model it. +She's a good woman that, depend upon it." + +I was delighted with his enthusiasm. + +"I wish you would ask her again, as soon as you can," said Percivale, who +always tended to embody his conclusions in acts rather than in words. "Your +cousin Judy is a jolly good creature, but from your father's description +of her as a girl, she must have grown a good deal more worldly since her +marriage. Respectability is an awful snare." + +"Yes," said Roger; "one ought to be very thankful to be a Bohemian, and +have nothing expected of him, for respectability is a most fruitful mother +of stupidity and injustice." + +I could not help thinking that _he_ might, however, have a little more and +be none the worse. + +"I should be very glad to do as you desire, husband," I said, "but how can +I? I haven't learned where she lives. It was asking Judy for her address +once more that brought it all out. I certainly didn't insist, as I might +have done, notwithstanding what she told me; but, if she didn't remember it +before, you may be sure she could not have given it me then." + +"It's very odd," said Roger, stroking his long mustache, the sole ornament +of the kind he wore. "It's very odd," he repeated thoughtfully, and then +paused again. + +"What's so very odd, Roger?" asked Percivale. + +"The other evening," answered Roger, after yet a short pause, "happening to +be in Tottenham Court Road, I walked for some distance behind a young woman +carrying a brown beer-jug in her hand--for I sometimes amuse myself in the +street by walking persistently behind some one, devising the unseen face in +my mind, until the recognition of the same step following causes the person +to look round at me, and give me the opportunity of comparing the two--I +mean the one I had devised and the real one. When the young woman at length +turned her head, it was only my astonishment that kept me from addressing +her as Miss Clare. My surprise, however, gave me time to see how absurd it +would have been. Presently she turned down a yard and disappeared." + +"Don't tell my cousin Judy," I said. "She would believe it _was_ Miss +Clare." + +"There isn't much danger," he returned. "Even if I knew your cousin, I +should not be likely to mention such an incident in her hearing." + +"Could it have been she?" said Percivale thoughtfully. + +"Absurd!" said Roger. "Miss Clare is a lady, wherever she may live." + +"I don't know," said his brother thoughtfully; "who can tell? It mightn't +have been beer she was carrying." + +"I didn't say it was beer," returned Roger. "I only said it was a +beer-jug,--one of those brown, squat, stone jugs,--the best for beer that I +know, after all,--brown, you know, with a dash of gray." + +"Brown jug or not, I wish I could get a few sittings from her. She would +make a lovely St. Cecilia," said my husband. + +"Brown jug and all?" asked Roger. + +"If only she were a little taller," I objected. + +"And had an aureole," said my husband. "But I might succeed in omitting the +jug as well as in adding the aureole and another half-foot of stature, if +only I could get that lovely countenance on the canvas,--so full of life +and yet of repose." + +"Don't you think it a little hard?" I ventured to say. + +"I think so," said Roger. + +"I don't," said my husband. "I know what in it looks like hardness; but I +think it comes of the repression of feeling." + +"You have studied her well for your opportunities," I said. + +"I have; and I am sure, whatever Mrs. Morley may say, that, if there be any +truth at all in those reports, there is some satisfactory explanation of +whatever has given rise to them. I wish we knew anybody else that knew her. +Do try to find some one that does, Wynnie." + +"I don't know how to set about it," I said. "I should be only too glad." + +"I will try," said Roger. "Does she sing?" + +"I have heard Judy say she sang divinely; but the only occasion on which +I met her--at their house, that time you couldn't go, Percivale--she was +never asked to sing." + +"I suspect," remarked Roger, "it will turn out to be only that she's +something of a Bohemian, like ourselves." + +"Thank you, Roger; but for my part, I don't consider myself a Bohemian at +all," I said. + +"I am afraid you must rank with your husband, wifie," said _mine_, as the +wives of the working people of London often call their husbands. + +"Then you do count yourself a Bohemian: pray, what significance do you +attach to the epithet?" I asked. + +"I don't know, except it signifies our resemblance to the gypsies," he +answered. + +"I don't understand you quite." + +"I believe the gypsies used to be considered Bohemians," interposed Roger, +"though they are doubtless of Indian origin. Their usages being quite +different from those amongst which they live, the name Bohemian came to be +applied to painters, musicians, and such like generally, to whom, save by +courtesy, no position has yet been accorded by society--so called." + +"But why have they not yet vindicated for themselves a social position," I +asked, "and that a high one?" + +"Because they are generally poor, I suppose," he answered; "and society is +generally stupid." + +"May it not be because they are so often, like the gypsies, lawless in +their behavior, as well as peculiar in their habits?" I suggested. + +"I understand you perfectly, Mrs. Percivale," rejoined Roger with mock +offence. "But how would that apply to Charlie?" + +"Not so well as to you, I confess," I answered. "But there is ground for it +with him too." + +"I have thought it all over many a time," said Percivale; "and I suppose it +comes in part from inability to understand the worth of our calling, and in +part from the difficulty of knowing where to put us." + +"I suspect," I said, "one thing is that so many of them are content to be +received as merely painters, or whatever they may be by profession. Many, +you have told me, for instance, accept invitations which do not include +their wives." + +"They often go to parties, of course, where there are no ladies," said +Roger. + +"That is not what I mean," I replied. "They go to dinner-parties where +there are ladies, and evening parties, too, without their wives." + +"Whoever does that," said Percivale, "has at least no right to complain +that he is regarded as a Bohemian; for in accepting such invitations, he +accepts insult, and himself insults his wife." + +Nothing irritated my bear so much as to be asked to dinner without me. He +would not even offer the shadow of a reason for declining the invitation. +"For," he would say, "if I give the real reason, namely, that I do not +choose to go where my wife is excluded, they will set it down to her +jealous ambition of entering a sphere beyond her reach; I will not give +a false reason, and indeed have no objection to their seeing that I am +offended; therefore, I assign none. If they have any chivalry in them, they +may find out my reason readily enough." + +I don't think I ever displeased him so much as once when I entreated him +to accept an invitation to dine with the Earl of H----. The fact was, I +had been fancying it my duty to persuade him to get over his offence at +the omission of my name, for the sake of the advantage it would be to +him in his profession. I laid it before him as gently and coaxingly as I +could, representing how expenses increased, and how the children would +be requiring education by and by,--reminding him that the reputation of +more than one of the most popular painters had been brought about in some +measure by their social qualities and the friendships they made. + +"Is it likely your children will be ladies and gentlemen," he said, "if you +prevail on their father to play the part of a sneaking parasite?" + +I was frightened. He had never spoken to me in such a tone, but I saw too +well how deeply he was hurt to take offence at his roughness. I could only +beg him to forgive me, and promise never to say such a word again, assuring +him that I believed as strongly as himself that the best heritage of +children was their father's honor. + +Free from any such clogs as the possession of a wife encumbers a husband +withal, Roger could of course accept what invitations his connection with +an old and honorable family procured him. One evening he came in late from +a dinner at Lady Bernard's. + +"Whom do you think I took down to dinner?" he asked, almost before he was +seated. + +"Lady Bernard?" I said, flying high. + +"Her dowager aunt?" said Percivale. + +"No, no; Miss Clare." + +"Miss Clare!" we both repeated, with mingled question and exclamation. + +"Yes, Miss Clare, incredible as it may appear," he answered. + +"Did you ask her if it was she you saw carrying the jug of beer in +Tottenham Court Road?" said Percivale. + +"Did you ask her address?" I said. "That is a question more worthy of an +answer." + +"Yes, I did. I believe I did. I think I did." + +"What is it, then?" + +"Upon my word, I haven't the slightest idea." + +"So, Mr. Roger! You have had a perfect opportunity, and have let it slip! +You are a man to be trusted indeed!" + +"I don't know how it could have been. I distinctly remember approaching +the subject more than once or twice; and now first I discover that I never +asked the question. Or if I did, I am certain I got no answer." + +"Bewitched!" + +"Yes, I suppose so." + +"Or," suggested Percivale, "she did not choose to tell you; saw the +question coming, and led you away from it; never let you ask it." + +"I have heard that ladies can keep one from saying what they don't want to +hear. But she sha'n't escape me so a second time." + +"Indeed, you don't deserve another chance," I said. "You're not half so +clever as I took you to be, Roger." + +"When I think of it, though, it wasn't a question so easy to ask, or one +you would like to be overheard asking." + +"Clearly bewitched," I said. "But for that I forgive you. Did she sing?" + +"No. I don't suppose any one there ever thought of asking such a +dingy-feathered bird to sing." + +"You had some music?" + +"Oh, yes! Pretty good, and very bad. Miss Clare's forehead was crossed by +no end of flickering shadows as she listened." + +"It wasn't for want of interest in her you forgot to find out where she +lived! You had better take care, Master Roger." + +"Take care of what?" + +"Why, you don't know her address." + +"What has that to do with taking care?" + +"That you won't know where to find your heart if you should happen to want +it." + +"Oh! I am past that kind of thing long ago. You've made an uncle of me." + +And so on, with a good deal more nonsense, but no news of Miss Clare's +retreat. + +I had before this remarked to my husband that it was odd she had never +called since dining with us; but he made little of it, saying that people +who gained their own livelihood ought to be excused from attending to rules +which had their origin with another class; and I had thought no more about +it, save in disappointment that she had not given me that opportunity of +improving my acquaintance with her. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +A DISCOVERY. + + +One Saturday night, my husband happening to be out, an event of rare +occurrence, Roger called; and as there were some things I had not been able +to get during the day, I asked him to go with me to Tottenham Court Road. +It was not far from the region where we lived, and I did a great part of my +small shopping there. The early closing had, if I remember rightly, begun +to show itself; anyhow, several of the shops were shut, and we walked a +long way down the street, looking for some place likely to supply what I +required. + +"It was just here I came up with the girl and the brown jug," said Roger, +as we reached the large dissenting chapel. + +"That adventure seems to have taken a great hold of you, Roger," I said. + +"She _was_ so like Miss Clare!" he returned. "I can't get the one face +clear of the other. When I met her at Lady Bernard's, the first thing I +thought of was the brown jug." + +"Were you as much pleased with her conversation as at our house?" I asked. + +"Even more," he answered. "I found her ideas of art so wide, as well +as just and accurate, that I was puzzled to think where she had had +opportunity of developing them. I questioned her about it, and found +she was in the habit of going, as often as she could spare time, to the +National Gallery, where her custom was, she said, not to pass from picture +to picture, but keep to one until it formed itself in her mind,--that is +the expression she used, explaining herself to mean, until she seemed to +know what the painter had set himself to do, and why this was and that was +which she could not at first understand. Clearly, without ever having taken +a pencil in her hand, she has educated herself to a keen perception of what +is demanded of a true picture. Of course the root of it lies in her musical +development.--There," he cried suddenly, as we came opposite a paved +passage, "that is the place I saw her go down." + +"Then you do think the girl with the beer-jug was Miss Clare, after all?" + +"Not in the least. I told you I could not separate them in my mind." + +"Well, I must say, it seems odd. A girl like that and Miss Clare! Why, as +often as you speak of the one, you seem to think of the other." + +"In fact," he returned, "I am, as I say, unable to dissociate them. But if +you had seen the girl, you would not wonder. The likeness was absolutely +complete." + +"I believe you do consider them one and the same; and I am more than half +inclined to think so myself, remembering what Judy said." + +"Isn't it possible some one who knows Miss Clare may have seen this girl, +and been misled by the likeness?" + +"But where, then, does Miss Clare live? Nobody seems to know." + +"You have never asked any one but Mrs. Morley." + +"You have yourself, however, given me reason to think she avoids the +subject. If she did live anywhere hereabout, she would have some cause to +avoid it." + +I had stopped to look down the passage. + +"Suppose," said Roger, "some one were to come past now and see Mrs. +Percivale, the wife of the celebrated painter, standing in Tottenham Court +Road beside the swing-door of a corner public-house, talking to a young +man." + +"Yes; it might have given occasion for scandal," I said. "To avoid it, let +us go down the court and see what it is like." + +"It's not a fit place for you to go into." + +"If it were in my father's parish, I should have known everybody in it." + +"You haven't the slightest idea what you are saying." + +"Come, anyhow, and let us see what the place is like," I insisted. + +Without another word he gave me his arm, and down the court we went, past +the flaring gin-shop, and into the gloom beyond. It was one of those places +of which, while the general effect remains vivid in one's mind, the salient +points are so few that it is difficult to say much by way of description. +The houses had once been occupied by people in better circumstances than +its present inhabitants; and indeed they looked all decent enough until, +turning two right angles, we came upon another sort. They were still as +large, and had plenty of windows; but, in the light of a single lamp at +the corner, they looked very dirty and wretched and dreary. A little shop, +with dried herrings and bull's-eyes in the window, was lighted by a tallow +candle set in a ginger-beer bottle, with a card of "Kinahan's LL Whiskey" +for a reflector. + +"They can't have many customers to the extent of a bottle," said Roger. +"But no doubt they have some privileges from the public-house at the corner +for hanging up the card." + +The houses had sunk areas, just wide enough for a stair, and the basements +seemed full of tenants. There was a little wind blowing, so that the +atmosphere was tolerable, notwithstanding a few stray leaves of cabbage, +suggestive of others in a more objectionable condition not far off. + +A confused noise of loud voices, calling and scolding, hitherto drowned by +the tumult of the street, now reached our ears. The place took one turn +more, and then the origin of it became apparent. At the farther end of the +passage was another lamp, the light of which shone upon a group of men and +women, in altercation, which had not yet come to blows. It might, including +children, have numbered twenty, of which some seemed drunk, and all more or +less excited. Roger turned to go back the moment he caught sight of them; +but I felt inclined, I hardly knew why, to linger a little. Should any +danger offer, it would be easy to gain the open thoroughfare. + +"It's not at all a fit place for a lady," he said. + +"Certainly not," I answered; "it hardly seems a fit place for human beings. +These are human beings, though. Let us go through it." + +He still hesitated; but as I went on, he could but follow me. I wanted to +see what the attracting centre of the little crowd was; and that it must +be occupied with some affair of more than ordinary interest, I judged from +the fact that a good many superterrestrial spectators looked down from +the windows at various elevations upon the disputants, whose voices now +and then lulled for a moment only to break out in fresh objurgation and +dispute. + +Drawing a little nearer, a slight parting of the crowd revealed its core to +us. It was a little woman, without bonnet or shawl, whose back was towards +us. She turned from side to side, now talking to one, and now to another +of the surrounding circle. At first I thought she was setting forth her +grievances, in the hope of sympathy, or perhaps of justice; but I soon +perceived that her motions were too calm for that. Sometimes the crowd +would speak altogether, sometimes keep silent for a full minute while she +went on talking. When she turned her face towards us, Roger and I turned +ours, and stared at each other. The face was disfigured by a swollen eye, +evidently from a blow; but clearly enough, if it was not Miss Clare, it was +the young woman of the beer-jug. Neither of us spoke, but turned once more +to watch the result of what seemed to have at length settled down into an +almost amicable conference. After a few more grumbles and protestations, +the group began to break up into twos and threes. These the young woman +seemed to set herself to break up again. Here, however, an ill-looking +fellow like a costermonger, with a broken nose, came up to us, and with a +strong Irish accent and offensive manner, but still with a touch of Irish +breeding, requested to know what our business was. Roger asked if the place +wasn't a thoroughfare. + +"Not for the likes o' you," he answered, "as comes pryin' after the likes +of us. We manage our own affairs down here--_we_ do. You'd better be off, +my lady." + +I have my doubts what sort of reply Roger might have returned if he had +been alone, but he certainly spoke in a very conciliatory manner, which, +however, the man did not seem to appreciate, for he called it blarney; +but the young woman, catching sight of our little group, and supposing, +I presume, that it also required dispersion, approached us. She had come +within a yard of us, when suddenly her face brightened, and she exclaimed, +in a tone of surprise,-- + +"Mrs. Percivale! You here?" + +It was indeed Miss Clare. Without the least embarrassment, she held out +her hand to me, but I am afraid I did not take it very cordially. Roger, +however, behaved to her as if they stood in a drawing-room, and this +brought me to a sense of propriety. + +"I don't look very respectable, I fear," she said, putting her hand over +her eye. "The fact is, I have had a blow, and it will look worse to-morrow. +Were you coming to find me?" + +I forget what lame answer either of us gave. + +"Will you come in?" she said. + +On the spur of the moment, I declined. For all my fine talk to Roger, I +shrunk from the idea of entering one of those houses. I can only say, in +excuse, that my whole mind was in a condition of bewilderment. + +"Can I do any thing for you, then?" she asked, in a tone slightly marked +with disappointment, I thought. + +"Thank you, no," I answered, hardly knowing what my words were. + +"Then good-night," she said, and, nodding kindly, turned, and entered one +of the houses. + +We also turned in silence, and walked out of the court. + +"Why didn't you go with her?" said Roger, as soon as we were in the street. + +"I'm sorry I didn't if you wanted to go, Roger; but"-- + +"I think you might have gone, seeing I was with you," he said. + +"I don't think it would have been at all a proper thing to do, without +knowing more about her," I answered, a little hurt. "You can't tell what +sort of a place it may be." + +"It's a good place, wherever she is, or I am much mistaken," he returned. + +"You may be much mistaken, Roger." + +"True. I have been mistaken more than once in my life. I am not mistaken +this time, though." + +"I presume you would have gone if I hadn't been with you?" + +"Certainly, if she had asked me, which is not very likely." + +"And you lay the disappointment of missing a glimpse into the sweet privacy +of such a home to my charge?" + +It was a spiteful speech; and Roger's silence made me feel it was, which, +with the rather patronizing opinion I had of Roger, I found not a little +galling. So I, too, kept silence, and nothing beyond a platitude had +passed between us when I found myself at my own door, my shopping utterly +forgotten, and something acid on my mind. + +"Don't you mean to come in?" I said, for he held out his hand at the top of +the stairs to bid me good-night. "My husband will be home soon, if he has +not come already. You needn't be bored with my company--you can sit in the +study." + +"I think I had better not," he answered. + +"I am very sorry, Roger, if I was rude to you," I said; "but how could +you wish me to be hand-and-glove with a woman who visits people who she +is well aware would not think of inviting her if they had a notion of her +surroundings. That can't be right, I am certain. I protest I feel just +as if I had been reading an ill-invented story,--an unnatural fiction. I +cannot get these things together in my mind at all, do what I will." + +"There must be some way of accounting for it," said Roger. + +"No doubt," I returned; "but who knows what that way may be?" + +"You may be wrong in supposing that the people at whose houses she visits +know nothing about her habits." + +"Is it at all likely they do, Roger? Do you think it is? I know at least +that my cousin dispensed with her services as soon as she came to the +knowledge of certain facts concerning these very points." + +"Excuse me--certain rumors--very uncertain facts." + +When you are cross, the slightest play upon words is an offence. I knocked +at the door in dudgeon, then turned and said,-- + +"My cousin Judy, Mr. Roger"-- + +But here I paused, for I had nothing ready. Anger makes some people +cleverer for the moment, but when I am angry I am always stupid. Roger +finished the sentence for me. + +--"Your cousin Judy is, you must allow, a very conventional woman," he +said. + +"She is very good-natured, anyhow. And what do you say to Lady Bernard?" + +"She hasn't repudiated Miss Clare's acquaintance, so far as I know." + +"But, answer me,--do you believe Lady Bernard would invite her to meet her +friends if she knew all?" + +"Depend upon it, Lady Bernard knows what she is about. People of her rank +can afford to be unconventional." + +This irritated me yet more, for it implied that I was influenced by the +conventionality which both he and my husband despised; and Sarah opening +the door that instant, I stepped in, without even saying good-night to him. +Before she closed it, however, I heard my husband's voice, and ran out +again to welcome him. + +He and Roger had already met in the little front garden. They did not shake +hands--they never did--they always met as if they had parted only an hour +ago. + +"What were you and my wife quarrelling about, Rodge?" I heard Percivale +ask, and paused on the middle of the stair to hear his answer. + +"How do you know we were quarrelling?" returned Roger gloomily. + +"I heard you from the very end of the street," said my husband. + +"That's not so far," said Roger; for indeed one house, with, I confess, +a good space of garden on each side of it, and the end of another house, +finished the street. But notwithstanding the shortness of the distance it +stung me to the quick. Here had I been regarding, not even with contempt, +only with disgust, the quarrel in which Miss Clare was mixed up; and half +an hour after, my own voice was heard in dispute with my husband's brother +from the end of the street in which we lived! I felt humiliated, and did +not rush down the remaining half of the steps to implore my husband's +protection against Roger's crossness. + +"Too far to hear a wife and a brother, though," returned Percivale +jocosely. + +"Go on," said Roger; "pray go on. _Let dogs delight_ comes next. I beg +Mrs. Percivale's pardon. I will amend the quotation: 'Let dogs delight to +worry'"-- + +"Cats," I exclaimed; and rushing down the steps, I kissed Roger before I +kissed my husband. + +"I meant--I mean--I was going to say _lambs_." + +"Now, Roger, don't add to your vices flattery and"-- + +"And fibbing," he subjoined. + +"I didn't say so." + +"You only meant it." + +"Don't begin again," interposed Percivale: "Come in, and refer the cause in +dispute to me." + +We did go in, and we did refer the matter to him. By the time we had +between us told him the facts of the case, however, the point in dispute +between us appeared to have grown hazy, the fact being that neither of us +cared to say any thing more about it. Percivale insisted that there was no +question before the court. At length Roger, turning from me to his brother, +said,-- + +"It's not worth mentioning, Charley; but what led to our irreconcilable +quarrel was this: I thought Wynnie might have accepted Miss Clare's +invitation to walk in and pay her a visit; and Wynnie thought me, I +suppose, too ready to sacrifice her dignity to the pleasure of seeing a +little more of the object of our altercation. There!" + +My husband turned to me and said,-- + +"Mrs. Percivale, do you accept this as a correct representation of your +difference?" + +"Well," I answered, hesitating--"yes, on the whole. All I object to is the +word _dignity_." + +"I retract it," cried Roger, "and accept any substitute you prefer." + +"Let it stand," I returned. "It will do as well as a better. I only wish to +say that it was not exactly my dignity"-- + +"No, no; your sense of propriety," said my husband; and then sat silent for +a minute or two, pondering like a judge. At length he spoke:-- + +"Wife," he said, "you might have gone with your brother, I think; but I +quite understand your disinclination. At the same time, a more generous +judgment of Miss Clare might have prevented any difference of feeling in +the matter." + +"But," I said, greatly inclined to cry, "I only postponed my judgment +concerning her." + +And I only postponed my crying, for I was very much ashamed of myself. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +MISS CLARE. + + +Of course my husband and I talked a good deal more about what I ought to +have done; and I saw clearly enough that I ought to have run any risk there +might be in accepting her invitation. I had been foolishly taking more care +of myself than was necessary. I told him I would write to Roger, and ask +him when he could take me there again. + +"I will tell you a better plan," he said. "I will go with you myself. And +that will get rid of half the awkwardness there would be if you went with +Roger, after having with him refused to go in." + +"But would that be fair to Roger? She would think I didn't like going with +him, and I would go with Roger anywhere. It was I who did not want to go. +He did." + +"My plan, however, will pave the way for a full explanation--or confession +rather, I suppose it will turn out to be. I know you are burning to make +it, with your mania for confessing your faults." + +I knew he did not like me the worse for that _mania_, though. + +"The next time," he added, "you can go with Roger, always supposing you +should feel inclined to continue the acquaintance, and then you will be +able to set him right in her eyes." + +The plan seemed unobjectionable. But just then Percivale was very busy; and +I being almost as much occupied with my baby as he was with his, day after +day and week after week passed, during which our duty to Miss Clare was, I +will not say either forgotten or neglected, but unfulfilled. + +One afternoon I was surprised by a visit from my father. He not +unfrequently surprised us. + +"Why didn't you let us know, papa?" I said. "A surprise is very nice; but +an expectation is much nicer, and lasts so much longer." + +"I might have disappointed you." + +"Even if you had, I should have already enjoyed the expectation. That would +be safe." + +"There's a good deal to be said in excuse of surprises," he rejoined; "but +in the present case, I have a special one to offer. I was taken with a +sudden desire to see you. It was very foolish no doubt, and you are quite +right in wishing I weren't here, only going to come to-morrow." + +"Don't be so cruel, papa. Scarcely a day passes in which _I_ do not long to +see _you_. My baby makes me think more about my home than ever." + +"Then she's a very healthy baby, if one may judge by her influences. But +you know, if I had had to give you warning, I could not have been here +before to-morrow; and surely you will acknowledge, that, however nice +expectation may be, presence is better." + +"Yes, papa. We will make a compromise, if you please. Every time you think +of coming to me, you must either come at once, or let me know you are +coming. Do you agree to that?" + +"I agree," he said. + +So I have the pleasure of a constant expectation. Any day he may walk in +unheralded; or by any post I may receive a letter with the news that he is +coming at such a time. + +As we sat at dinner that evening, he asked if we had lately seen Miss +Clare. + +"I've seen her only once, and Percivale not at all, since you were here +last, papa," I answered. + +"How's that?" he asked again, a little surprised. "Haven't you got her +address yet? I want very much to know more of her." + +"So do we. I haven't got her address, but I know where she lives." + +"What do you mean, Wynnie? Has she taken to dark sayings of late, +Percivale?" + +I told him the whole story of my adventure with Roger, and the reports +Judy had prejudiced my judgment withal. He heard me through in silence, +for it was a rule with him never to interrupt a narrator. He used to say, +"You will generally get at more, and in a better fashion, if you let +any narrative take its own devious course, without the interruption of +requested explanations. By the time it is over, you will find the questions +you wanted to ask mostly vanished." + +"Describe the place to me, Wynnie," he said, when I had ended. "I must go +and see her. I have a suspicion, amounting almost to a conviction, that she +is one whose acquaintance ought to be cultivated at any cost. There is some +grand explanation of all this contradictory strangeness." + +"I don't think I could describe the place to you so that you would find +it. But if Percivale wouldn't mind my going with you instead of with him, +I should be only too happy to accompany you. May I, Percivale?" + +"Certainly. It will do just as well to go with your father as with me. I +only stipulate, that, if you are both satisfied, you take Roger with you +next time." + +"Of course I will." + +"Then we'll go to-morrow morning," said my father. + +"I don't think she is likely to be at home in the morning," I said. "She +goes out giving lessons, you know; and the probability is, that at that +time we should not find her." + +"Then why not to-night?" he rejoined. + +"Why not, if you wish it?" + +"I do wish it, then." + +"If you knew the place, though, I think you would prefer going a little +earlier than we can to-night." + +"Ah, well! we will go to-morrow evening. We could dine early, couldn't we?" + +So it was arranged. My father went about some business in the morning. We +dined early, and set out about six o'clock. + +My father was getting an old man, and if any protection had been required, +he could not have been half so active as Roger; and yet I felt twice as +safe with him. I am satisfied that the deepest sense of safety, even in +respect of physical dangers, can spring only from moral causes; neither do +you half so much fear evil happening to you, as fear evil happening which +ought not to happen to you. I believe what made me so courageous was the +undeveloped fore-feeling, that, if any evil should overtake me in my +father's company, I should not care; it would be all right then, anyhow. +The repose was in my father himself, and neither in his strength nor his +wisdom. The former might fail, the latter might mistake; but so long as +I was with him in what I did, no harm worth counting harm could come to +me,--only such as I should neither lament nor feel. Scarcely a shadow of +danger, however, showed itself. + +It was a cold evening in the middle of November. The light, which had +been scanty enough all day, had vanished in a thin penetrating fog. Round +every lamp in the street was a colored halo; the gay shops gleamed like +jewel-caverns of Aladdin hollowed out of the darkness; and the people that +hurried or sauntered along looked inscrutable. Where could they live? Had +they anybody to love them? Were their hearts quiet under their dingy cloaks +and shabby coats? + +"Yes," returned my father, to whom I had said something to this effect, +"what would not one give for a peep into the mysteries of all these worlds +that go crowding past us. If we could but see through the opaque husk of +them, some would glitter and glow like diamond mines; others perhaps would +look mere earthy holes; some of them forsaken quarries, with a great pool +of stagnant water in the bottom; some like vast coal-pits of gloom, into +which you dared not carry a lighted lamp for fear of explosion. Some would +be mere lumber-rooms; others ill-arranged libraries, without a poets' +corner anywhere. But what a wealth of creation they show, and what infinite +room for hope it affords!" + +"But don't you think, papa, there may be something of worth lying even +in the earth-pit, or at the bottom of the stagnant water in the forsaken +quarry?" + +"Indeed I do; though I _have_ met more than one in my lifetime concerning +whom I felt compelled to say that it wanted keener eyes than mine to +discover the hidden jewel. But then there _are_ keener eyes than mine, +for there are more loving eyes. Myself I have been able to see good very +clearly where some could see none; and shall I doubt that God can see good +where my mole-eyes can see none? Be sure of this, that, as he is keen-eyed +for the evil in his creatures to destroy it, he would, if it were possible, +be yet keener-eyed for the good to nourish and cherish it. If men would +only side with the good that is in them,--will that the seed should grow +and bring forth fruit!" + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +MISS CLARE'S HOME. + + +We had now arrived at the passage. The gin-shop was flaring through the +fog. A man in a fustian jacket came out of it, and walked slowly down +before us, with the clay of the brick-field clinging to him as high as the +leather straps with which his trousers were confined, garter-wise, under +the knee. The place was quiet. We and the brickmaker seemed the only people +in it. When we turned the last corner, he was walking in at the very door +where Miss Clare had disappeared. When I told my father that was the house, +he called after the man, who came out again, and, standing on the pavement, +waited until we came up. + +"Does Miss Clare live in this house?" my father asked. + +"She do," answered the man curtly. + +"First floor?" + +"No. Nor yet the second, nor the third. She live nearer heaven than 'ere +another in the house 'cep' myself. I live in the attic, and so do she." + +"There is a way of living nearer to heaven than that," said my father, +laying his hand, "with a right old man's grace," on his shoulder. + +"I dunno, 'cep' you was to go up in a belloon," said the man, with a +twinkle in his eye, which my father took to mean that he understood him +better than he chose to acknowledge; but he did not pursue the figure. + +He was a rough, lumpish young man, with good but dull features--only his +blue eye was clear. He looked my father full in the face, and I thought I +saw a dim smile about his mouth. + +"You know her, then, I suppose?" + +"Everybody in the house knows _her_. There ain't many the likes o' her as +lives wi' the likes of us. You go right up to the top. I don't know if +she's in, but a'most any one'll be able to tell you. I ain't been home +yet." + +My father thanked him, and we entered the house, and began to ascend. The +stair was very much worn and rather dirty, and some of the banisters were +broken away, but the walls were tolerably clean. Half-way up we met a +little girl with tangled hair and tattered garments, carrying a bottle. + +"Do you know, my dear," said my father to her, "whether Miss Clare is at +home?" + +"I dunno," she answered. "I dunno who you mean. I been mindin' the baby. He +ain't well. Mother says his head's bad. She's a-going up to tell grannie, +and see if she can't do suthin' for him. You better ast mother.--Mother!" +she called out--"here's a lady an' a gen'lem'." + +"You go about yer business, and be back direckly," cried a gruff voice from +somewhere above. + +"That's mother," said the child, and ran down the stair. + +When we reached the second floor, there stood a big fat woman on the +landing, with her face red, and her hair looking like that of a doll ill +stuck on. She did not speak, but stood waiting to see what we wanted. + +"I'm told Miss Clare lives here," said my father. "Can you tell me, my good +woman, whether she's at home?" + +"I'm neither good woman nor bad woman," she returned in an insolent tone. + +"I beg your pardon," said my father; "but you see I didn't know your name." + +"An' ye don't know it yet. You've no call to know my name. I'll ha' nothing +to do wi' the likes o' you as goes about takin' poor folks's childer from +'em. There's my poor Glory's been an' took atwixt you an' grannie, and shet +up in a formatory as you calls it; an' I should like to know what right +you've got to go about that way arter poor girls as has mothers to help." + +"I assure you I had nothing to do with it," said my father. "I'm a country +clergyman myself, and have no duty in London." + +"Well, that's where they've took her--down in the country. I make no doubt +but you've had your finger in that pie. You don't come here to call upon +us for the pleasure o' makin' our acquaintance--ha! ha! ha!--You're allus +arter somethin' troublesome. I'd adwise you, sir and miss, to let well +alone. Sleepin' dogs won't bite; but you'd better let 'em lie--and that I +tell you." + +"Believe me," said my father quite quietly, "I haven't the least knowledge +of your daughter. The country's a bigger place than you seem to think,--far +bigger than London itself. All I wanted to trouble you about was to tell us +whether Miss Clare was at home or not." + +"I don't know no one o' that name. If it's grannie you mean, she's at home, +I know--though it's not much reason I've got to care whether she's at home +or not." + +"It's a young--woman, I mean," said my father. + +"'Tain't a young lady, then?--Well, I don't care what you call her. I dare +say it'll be all one, come judgment. You'd better go up till you can't go +no further, an' knocks yer head agin the tiles, and then you may feel about +for a door, and knock at that, and see if the party as opens it is the +party you wants." + +So saying, she turned in at a door behind her, and shut it. But we could +hear her still growling and grumbling. + +"It's very odd," said my father, with a bewildered smile. "I think we'd +better do as she says, and go up till we knock our heads against the +tiles." + +We climbed two stairs more,--the last very steep, and so dark that when +we reached the top we found it necessary to follow the woman's directions +literally, and feel about for a door. But we had not to feel long or far, +for there was one close to the top of the stair. My father knocked. There +was no reply; but we heard the sound of a chair, and presently some one +opened it. The only light being behind her, I could not see her face, but +the size and shape were those of Miss Clare. + +She did not leave us in doubt, however; for, without a moment's hesitation, +she held out her hand to me, saying, "This _is_ kind of you, Mrs. +Percivale;" then to my father, saying, "I'm very glad to see you, Mr. +Walton. Will you walk in?" + +We followed her into the room. It was not very small, for it occupied +nearly the breadth of the house. On one side the roof sloped so nearly to +the floor that there was not height enough to stand erect in. On the other +side the sloping part was partitioned off, evidently for a bedroom. But +what a change it was from the lower part of the house! By the light of a +single mould candle, I saw that the floor was as clean as old boards could +be made, and I wondered whether she scrubbed them herself. I know now that +she did. The two dormer windows were hung with white dimity curtains. Back +in the angle of the roof, between the windows, stood an old bureau. There +was little more than room between the top of it and the ceiling for a +little plaster statuette with bound hands and a strangely crowned head. +A few books on hanging shelves were on the opposite side by the door to +the other room; and the walls, which were whitewashed, were a good deal +covered with--whether engravings or etchings or lithographs I could not +then see--none of them framed, only mounted on card-board. There was a +fire cheerfully burning in the gable, and opposite to that stood a tall +old-fashioned cabinet piano, in faded red silk. It was open; and on the +music-rest lay Handel's "Verdi Prati,"--for I managed to glance at it as we +left. A few wooden chairs, and one very old-fashioned easy-chair, covered +with striped chintz, from which not glaze only but color almost had +disappeared, with an oblong table of deal, completed the furniture of the +room. She made my father sit down in the easy-chair, placed me one in front +of the fire, and took another at the corner opposite my father. A moment of +silence followed, which I, having a guilty conscience, felt awkward. But my +father never allowed awkwardness to accumulate. + +"I had hoped to have been able to call upon you long ago, Miss Clare, but +there was some difficulty in finding out where you lived." + +"You are no longer surprised at that difficulty, I presume," she returned +with a smile. + +"But," said my father, "if you will allow an old man to speak freely"-- + +"Say what you please, Mr. Walton. I promise to answer _any_ question _you_ +think proper to ask me." + +"My dear Miss Clare, I had not the slightest intention of catechising you, +though, of course, I shall be grateful for what confidence you please +to put in me. What I meant to say might indeed have taken the form of a +question, but as such could have been intended only for you to answer +to yourself,--whether, namely, it was wise to place yourself at such a +disadvantage as living in this quarter must be to you." + +"If you were acquainted with my history, you would perhaps hesitate, Mr. +Walton, before you said I _placed myself_ at such disadvantage." + +Here a thought struck me. + +"I fancy, papa, it is not for her own sake Miss Clare lives here." + +"I hope not," she interposed. + +"I believe," I went on, "she has a grandmother, who probably has grown +accustomed to the place, and is unwilling to leave it." + +She looked puzzled for a moment, then burst into a merry laugh. + +"I see," she exclaimed. "How stupid I am! You have heard some of the people +in the house talk about _grannie_: that's me! I am known in the house as +grannie, and have been for a good many years now--I can hardly, without +thinking, tell for how many." + +Again she laughed heartily, and my father and I shared her merriment. + +"How many grandchildren have you then, pray, Miss Clare?" + +"Let me see." + +She thought for a minute. + +"I could easily tell you if it were only the people in this house I had +to reckon up. They are about five and thirty; but unfortunately the name +has been caught up in the neighboring houses, and I am very sorry that in +consequence I cannot with certainty say how many grandchildren I have. +I think I know them all, however; and I fancy that is more than many an +English grandmother, with children in America, India, and Australia, can +say for herself." + +Certainly she was not older than I was; and while hearing her merry laugh, +and seeing her young face overflowed with smiles, which appeared to come +sparkling out of her eyes as out of two well-springs, one could not help +feeling puzzled how, even in the farthest-off jest, she could have got the +name of grannie. But I could at the same time, recall expressions of her +countenance which would much better agree with the name than that which now +shone from it. + +"Would you like to hear," she said, when our merriment had a little +subsided, "how I have so easily arrived at the honorable name of +grannie,--at least all I know about it?" + +"I should be delighted," said my father. + +"You don't know what you are pledging yourself to when you say so," she +rejoined, again laughing. "You will have to hear the whole of my story from +the beginning." + +"Again I say I shall be delighted," returned my father, confident that her +history could be the source of nothing but pleasure to him. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +HER STORY. + + +Thereupon Miss Clare began. I do not pretend to give her very words, but I +must tell her story as if she were telling it herself. I shall be as true +as I can to the facts, and hope to catch something of the tone of the +narrator as I go on. + +"My mother died when I was very young, and I was left alone with my father, +for I was his only child. He was a studious and thoughtful man. It _may_ +be the partiality of a daughter, I know, but I am not necessarily wrong +in believing that diffidence in his own powers alone prevented him from +distinguishing himself. As it was, he supported himself and me by literary +work of, I presume, a secondary order. He would spend all his mornings for +many weeks in the library of the British Museum,--reading and making notes; +after which he would sit writing at home for as long or longer. I should +have found it very dull during the former of these times, had he not early +discovered that I had some capacity for music, and provided for me what I +now know to have been the best instruction to be had. His feeling alone had +guided him right, for he was without musical knowledge. I believe he could +not have found me a better teacher in all Europe. Her character was lovely, +and her music the natural outcome of its harmony. But I must not forget it +is about myself I have to tell you. I went to her, then, almost every day +for a time--but how long that was, I can only guess. It must have been +several years, I think, else I could not have attained what proficiency I +had when my sorrow came upon me. + +"What my father wrote I cannot tell. How gladly would I now read the +shortest sentence I knew to be his! He never told me for what journals he +wrote, or even for what publishers. I fancy it was work in which his brain +was more interested than his heart, and which he was always hoping to +exchange for something more to his mind. After his death I could discover +scarcely a scrap of his writings, and not a hint to guide me to what he had +written. + +"I believe we went on living from hand to mouth, my father never getting +so far ahead of the wolf as to be able to pause and choose his way. But I +was very happy, and would have been no whit less happy if he had explained +our circumstances, for that would have conveyed to me no hint of danger. +Neither has any of the suffering I have had--at least any keen enough to +be worth dwelling upon--sprung from personal privation, although I am not +unacquainted with hunger and cold. + +"My happiest time was when my father asked me to play to him while he +wrote, and I sat down to my old cabinet Broadwood,--the one you see there +is as like it as I could find,--and played any thing and every thing I +liked,--for somehow I never forgot what I had once learned,--while my +father sat, as he said, like a mere extension of the instrument, operated +upon, rather than listening, as he wrote. What I then _thought_, I cannot +tell. I don't believe I thought at all. I only _musicated_, as a little +pupil of mine once said to me, when, having found her sitting with her +hands on her lap before the piano, I asked her what she was doing: 'I am +only musicating,' she answered. But the enjoyment was none the less that +there was no conscious thought in it. + +"Other branches he taught me himself, and I believe I got on very fairly +for my age. We lived then in the neighborhood of the Museum, where I was +well known to all the people of the place, for I used often to go there, +and would linger about looking at things, sometimes for hours before my +father came to me but he always came at the very minute he had said, and +always found me at the appointed spot. I gained a great deal by thus +haunting the Museum--a great deal more than I supposed at the time. One +gain was, that I knew perfectly where in the place any given sort of thing +was to be found, if it were there at all: I had unconsciously learned +something of classification. + +"One afternoon I was waiting as usual, but my father did not come at the +time appointed. I waited on and on till it grew dark, and the hour for +closing arrived, by which time I was in great uneasiness; but I was forced +to go home without him. I must hasten over this part of my history, for +even yet I can scarcely bear to speak of it. I found that while I was +waiting, he had been seized with some kind of fit in the reading-room, and +had been carried home, and that I was alone in the world. The landlady, for +we only rented rooms in the house, was very kind to me, at least until she +found that my father had left no money. He had then been only reading for +a long time; and, when I looked back, I could see that he must have been +short of money for some weeks at least. A few bills coming in, all our +little effects--for the furniture was our own--were sold, without bringing +sufficient to pay them. The things went for less than half their value, in +consequence, I believe, of that well-known conspiracy of the brokers which +they call _knocking out_. I was especially miserable at losing my father's +books, which, although in ignorance, I greatly valued,--more miserable +even, I honestly think, than at seeing my loved piano carried off. + +"When the sale was over, and every thing removed, I sat down on the floor, +amidst the dust and bits of paper and straw and cord, without a single +idea in my head as to what was to become of me, or what I was to do next. +I didn't cry,--that I am sure of; but I doubt if in all London there was +a more wretched child than myself just then. The twilight was darkening +down,--the twilight of a November afternoon. Of course there was no fire +in the grate, and I had eaten nothing that day; for although the landlady +had offered me some dinner, and I had tried to please her by taking some, +I found I could not swallow, and had to leave it. While I sat thus on the +floor, I heard her come into the room, and some one with her; but I did +not look round, and they, not seeing me, and thinking, I suppose, that I +was in one of the other rooms, went on talking about me. All I afterwards +remembered of their conversation was some severe reflections on my father, +and the announcement of the decree that I must go to the workhouse. Though +I knew nothing definite as to the import of this doom, it filled me with +horror. The moment they left me alone, to look for me, as I supposed, I +got up, and, walking as softly as I could, glided down the stairs, and, +unbonneted and unwrapped, ran from the house, half-blind with terror. + +"I had not gone farther, I fancy, than a few yards, when I ran up against +some one, who laid hold of me, and asked me gruffly what I meant by it. I +knew the voice: it was that of an old Irishwoman who did all the little +charing we wanted,--for I kept the rooms tidy, and the landlady cooked for +us. As soon as she saw who it was, her tone changed; and then first I broke +out in sobs, and told her I was running away because they were going to +send me to the workhouse. She burst into a torrent of Irish indignation, +and assured me that such should never be my fate while she lived. I must go +back to the house with her, she said, and get my things; and then I should +go home with her, until something better should turn up. I told her I would +go with her anywhere, except into that house again; and she did not insist, +but afterwards went by herself and got my little wardrobe. In the mean time +she led me away to a large house in a square, of which she took the key +from her pocket to open the door. It looked to me such a huge place!--the +largest house I had ever been in; but it was rather desolate, for, except +in one little room below, where she had scarcely more than a bed and a +chair, a slip of carpet and a frying-pan, there was not an article of +furniture in the whole place. She had been put there when the last tenant +left, to take care of the place, until another tenant should appear to +turn her out. She had her houseroom and a trifle a week besides for her +services, beyond which she depended entirely on what she could make by +charing. When she had no house to live in on the same terms, she took a +room somewhere. + +"Here I lived for several months, and was able to be of use; for as Mrs. +Conan was bound to be there at certain times to show any one over the house +who brought an order from the agent, and this necessarily took up a good +part of her working time; and as, moreover, I could open the door and walk +about the place as well as another, she willingly left me in charge as +often as she had a job elsewhere. + +"On such occasions, however, I found it very dreary indeed, for few people +called, and she would not unfrequently be absent the whole day. If I had +had my piano, I should have cared little; but I had not a single book, +except one--and what do you think that was? An odd volume of the Newgate +Calendar. I need hardly say that it had not the effect on me which it +is said to have on some of its students: it moved me, indeed, to the +profoundest sympathy, not with the crimes of the malefactors, only with +the malefactors themselves, and their mental condition after the deed was +actually done. But it was with the fascination of a hopeless horror, making +me feel almost as if I had committed every crime as I perused its tale, +that I regarded them. They were to me like living crimes. It was not until +long afterwards that I was able to understand that a man's actions are not +the man, but may be separated from him; that his character even is not the +man, but may be changed while he yet holds the same individuality,--is the +man who was blind though he now sees; whence it comes, that, the deeds +continuing his, all stain of them may yet be washed out of him. I did not, +I say, understand all this until afterwards; but I believe, odd as it may +seem, that volume of the Newgate Calendar threw down the first deposit of +soil, from which afterwards sprung what grew to be almost a passion in me, +for getting the people about me clean,--a passion which might have done +as much harm as good, if its companion, patience, had not been sent me to +guide and restrain it. In a word, I came at length to understand, in some +measure, the last prayer of our Lord for those that crucified him, and the +ground on which he begged from his Father their forgiveness,--that they +knew not what they did. If the Newgate Calendar was indeed the beginning +of this course of education, I need not regret having lost my piano, and +having that volume for a while as my only aid to reflection. + +"My father had never talked much to me about religion; but when he did, it +was with such evident awe in his spirit, and reverence in his demeanor, as +had more effect on me, I am certain, from the very paucity of the words +in which his meaning found utterance. Another thing which had still more +influence upon me was, that, waking one night after I had been asleep for +some time, I saw him on his knees by my bedside. I did not move or speak, +for fear of disturbing him; and, indeed, such an awe came over me, that +it would have required a considerable effort of the will for any bodily +movement whatever. When he lifted his head, I caught a glimpse of a pale, +tearful face; and it is no wonder that the virtue of the sight should never +have passed away. + +"On Sundays we went to church in the morning, and in the afternoon, in fine +weather, went out for a walk; or, if it were raining or cold, I played to +him till he fell asleep on the sofa. Then in the evening, after tea, we +had more music, some poetry, which we read alternately, and a chapter of +the New Testament, which he always read to me. I mention this, to show you +that I did not come all unprepared to the study of the Newgate Calendar. +Still, I cannot think, that, under any circumstances, it could have done +an innocent child harm. Even familiarity with vice is not necessarily +pollution. There cannot be many women of my age as familiar with it in +every shape as I am; and I do not find that I grow to regard it with one +atom less of absolute abhorrence, although I neither shudder at the mention +of it, nor turn with disgust from the person in whom it dwells. But the +consolations of religion were not yet consciously mine. I had not yet begun +to think of God in any relation to myself. + +"The house was in an old square, built, I believe, in the reign of Queen +Anne, which, although many of the houses were occupied by well-to-do +people, had fallen far from its first high estate. No one would believe, +to look at it from the outside, what a great place it was. The whole of the +space behind it, corresponding to the small gardens of the other houses, +was occupied by a large music-room, under which was a low-pitched room of +equal extent, while all under that were cellars, connected with the sunk +story in front by a long vaulted passage, corresponding to a wooden gallery +above, which formed a communication between the drawing-room floor and the +music-room. Most girls of my age, knowing these vast empty spaces about +them, would have been terrified at being left alone there, even in mid-day. +But I was, I suppose, too miserable to be frightened. Even the horrible +facts of the Newgate Calendar did not thus affect me, not even when Mrs. +Conan was later than usual, and the night came down, and I had to sit, +perhaps for hours, in the dark,--for she would not allow me to have a +candle for fear of fire. But you will not wonder that I used to cry a good +deal, although I did my best to hide the traces of it, because I knew +it would annoy my kind old friend. She showed me a great deal of rough +tenderness, which would not have been rough had not the natural grace of +her Irish nature been injured by the contact of many years with the dull +coarseness of the uneducated Saxon. You may be sure I learned to love her +dearly. She shared every thing with me in the way of eating, and would have +shared also the tumbler of gin and water with which she generally ended the +day, but something, I don't know what, I believe a simple physical dislike, +made me refuse that altogether. + +"One evening I have particular cause to remember, both for itself, +and because of something that followed many years after. I was in the +drawing-room on the first floor, a double room with folding doors and a +small cabinet behind communicating with a back stair; for the stairs were +double all through the house, adding much to the _eeriness_ of the place +as I look back upon it in my memory. I fear, in describing the place so +minutely, I may have been rousing false expectations of an adventure; but +I have a reason for being rather minute, though it will not appear until +afterwards. I had been looking out of the window all the afternoon upon +the silent square, for, as it was no thoroughfare, it was only enlivened by +the passing and returning now and then of a tradesman's cart; and, as it +was winter, there were no children playing in the garden. It was a rainy +afternoon. A gray cloud of fog and soot hung from the whole sky. About a +score of yellow leaves yet quivered on the trees, and the statue of Queen +Anne stood bleak and disconsolate among the bare branches. I am afraid I +am getting long-winded, but somehow that afternoon seems burned into me +in enamel. I gazed drearily without interest. I brooded over the past; +I never, at this time, so far as I remember, dreamed of looking forward. +I had no hope. It never occurred to me that things might grow better. I +was dull and wretched. I may just say here in passing, that I think this +experience is in a great measure what has enabled me to understand the +peculiar misery of the poor in our large towns,--they have no hope, no +impulse to look forward, nothing to expect; they live but in the present, +and the dreariness of that soon shapes the whole atmosphere of their +spirits to its own likeness. Perhaps the first thing one who would help +them has to do is to aid the birth of some small vital hope in them; that +is better than a thousand gifts, especially those of the ordinary kind, +which mostly do harm, tending to keep them what they are,--a prey to +present and importunate wants. + +"It began to grow dark; and, tired of standing, I sat down upon the floor, +for there was nothing to sit upon besides. There I still sat, long after +it was quite dark. All at once a surge of self-pity arose in my heart. +I burst out wailing and sobbing, and cried aloud, 'God has forgotten me +altogether!' The fact was, I had had no dinner that day, for Mrs. Conan had +expected to return long before; and the piece of bread she had given me, +which was all that was in the house, I had eaten many hours ago. But I was +not thinking of my dinner, though the want of it may have had to do with +this burst of misery. What I was really thinking of was,--that I could do +nothing for anybody. My little ambition had always been to be useful. I +knew I was of some use to my father; for I kept the rooms tidy for him, and +dusted his pet books--oh, so carefully! for they were like household gods +to me. I had also played to him, and I knew he enjoyed that: he said so, +many times. And I had begun, though not long before he left me, to think +how I should be able to help him better by and by. For I saw that he +worked very hard,--so hard that it made him silent; and I knew that my +music-mistress made her livelihood, partly at least, by giving lessons; and +I thought that I might, by and by, be able to give lessons too, and then +papa would not require to work so hard, for I too should bring home money +to pay for what we wanted. But now I was of use to nobody, I said, and not +likely to become of any. I could not even help poor Mrs. Conan, except by +doing what a child might do just as well as I, for I did not earn a penny +of our living; I only gave the poor old thing time to work harder, that I +might eat up her earnings! What added to the misery was, that I had always +thought of myself as a lady; for was not papa a gentleman, let him be ever +so poor? Shillings and sovereigns in his pocket could not determine whether +a man was a gentleman or not! And if he was a gentleman, his daughter must +be a lady. But how could I be a lady if I was content to be a burden to a +poor charwoman, instead of earning my own living, and something besides +with which to help her? For I had the notion--_how_ it came I cannot tell, +though I know well enough _whence_ it came--that position depended on how +much a person was able to help other people; and here I was, useless, worse +than useless to anybody! Why did not God remember me, if it was only for my +father's sake? He was worth something, if I was not! And I would be worth +something, if only I had a chance!--'I am of no use,' I cried, 'and God has +forgotten me altogether!' And I went on weeping and moaning in my great +misery, until I fell fast asleep on the floor. + +"I have no theory about dreams and visions; and I don't know what you, Mr. +Walton, may think as to whether these ended with the first ages of the +church; but surely if one falls fast asleep without an idea in one's head, +and a whole dismal world of misery in one's heart, and wakes up quiet and +refreshed, without the misery, and with an idea, there can be no great +fanaticism in thinking that the change may have come from somewhere near +where the miracles lie,--in fact, that God may have had something--might +I not say every thing?--to do with it. For my part, if I were to learn +that he had no hand in this experience of mine, I couldn't help losing +all interest in it, and wishing that I had died of the misery which it +dispelled. Certainly, if it had a physical source, it wasn't that I was +more comfortable, for I was hungrier than ever, and, you may well fancy, +cold enough, having slept on the bare floor without any thing to cover me +on Christmas Eve--for Christmas Eve it was. No doubt my sleep had done me +good, but I suspect the sleep came to quiet my mind for the reception of +the new idea. + +"The way Mrs. Conan kept Christmas Day, as she told me in the morning, +was, to comfort her old bones in bed until the afternoon, and then to have +a good tea with a chop; after which she said she would have me read the +Newgate Calendar to her. So, as soon as I had washed up the few breakfast +things, I asked, if, while she lay in bed, I might not go out for a little +while to look for work. She laughed at the notion of my being able to do +any thing, but did not object to my trying. So I dressed myself as neatly +as I could, and set out. + +"There were two narrow streets full of small shops, in which those of +furniture-brokers predominated, leading from the two lower corners of the +square down into Oxford Street; and in a shop in one of these, I was not +sure which, I had seen an old piano standing, and a girl of about my own +age watching. I found the shop at last, although it was shut up; for I knew +the name, and knocked at the door. It was opened by a stout matron, with a +not unfriendly expression, who asked me what I wanted. I told her I wanted +work. She seemed amused at the idea,--for I was very small for my age then +as well as now,--but, apparently willing to have a chat with me, asked what +I could do. I told her I could teach her daughter music. She asked me what +made me come to her, and I told her. Then she asked me how much I should +charge. I told her that some ladies had a guinea a lesson; at which she +laughed so heartily, that I had to wait until the first transports of her +amusement were over before I could finish by saying, that for my part +I should be glad to give an hour's lesson for threepence, only, if she +pleased, I should prefer it in silver. But how was she to know, she asked, +that I could teach her properly. I told her I would let her hear me play; +whereupon she led me into the shop, through a back room in which her +husband sat smoking a long pipe, with a tankard at his elbow. Having taken +down a shutter, she managed with some difficulty to clear me a passage +through a crowd of furniture to the instrument, and with a struggle I +squeezed through and reached it; but at the first chord I struck, I gave +a cry of dismay. In some alarm she asked what was the matter, calling me +_child_ very kindly. I told her it was so dreadfully out of tune I couldn't +play upon it at all; but, if she would get it tuned, I should not be long +in showing her that I could do what I professed. She told me she could not +afford to have it tuned; and if I could not teach Bertha on it as it was, +she couldn't help it. This, however, I assured her, was utterly impossible; +upon which, with some show of offence, she reached over a chest of drawers, +and shut down the cover. I believe she doubted whether I could play at all, +and had not been merely amusing myself at her expense. Nothing was left but +to thank her, bid her good-morning, and walk out of the house, dreadfully +disappointed. + +"Unwilling to go home at once, I wandered about the neighborhood, through +street after street, until I found myself in another square, with a number +of business-signs in it,--one of them that of a piano-forte firm, at sight +of which, a thought came into my head. The next morning I went in, and +requested to see the master. The man to whom I spoke stared, no doubt; +but he went, and returning after a little while, during which my heart +beat very fast, invited me to walk into the counting-house. Mr. Perkins +was amused with the story of my attempt to procure teaching, and its +frustration. If I had asked him for money, to which I do not believe hunger +itself could have driven me, he would probably have got rid of me quickly +enough,--and small blame to him, as Mrs. Conan would have said; but to my +request that he would spare a man to tune Mrs. Lampeter's piano, he replied +at once that he would, provided I could satisfy him as to my efficiency. +Thereupon he asked me a few questions about music, of which some I could +answer and some I could not. Next he took me into the shop, set me a stool +in front of a grand piano, and told me to play. I could not help trembling +a good deal, but I tried my best. In a few moments, however, the tears were +dropping on the keys; and, when he asked me what was the matter, I told +him it was months since I had touched a piano. The answer did not, however, +satisfy him; he asked very kindly how that was, and I had to tell him my +whole story. Then he not only promised to have the piano tuned for me at +once, but told me that I might go and practise there as often as I pleased, +so long as I was a good girl, and did not take up with bad company. Imagine +my delight! Then he sent for a tuner, and I suppose told him a little about +me, for the man spoke very kindly to me as we went to the broker's. + +"Mr. Perkins has been a good friend to me ever since. + +"For six months I continued to give Bertha Lampeter lessons. They were +broken off only when she went to a dressmaker to learn her business. But +her mother had by that time introduced me to several families of her +acquaintance, amongst whom I found five or six pupils on the same terms. By +this teaching, if I earned little, I learned much; and every day almost I +practised at the music-shop. + +"When the house was let, Mrs. Conan took a room in the neighborhood, that +I might keep up my connection, she said. Then first I was introduced to +scenes and experiences with which I am now familiar. Mrs. Percivale might +well recoil if I were to tell her half the wretchedness, wickedness, and +vulgarity I have seen, and often had to encounter. For two years or so we +changed about, at one time in an empty house, at another in a hired room, +sometimes better, sometimes worse off, as regarded our neighbors, until, +Mrs. Conan having come to the conclusion that it would be better for her to +confine herself to charing, we at last settled down here, where I have now +lived for many years. + +"You may be inclined to ask why I had not kept up my acquaintance with my +music-mistress. I believe the shock of losing my father, and the misery +that followed, made me feel as if my former world had vanished; at all +events, I never thought of going to her until Mr. Perkins one day, after +listening to something I was playing, asked me who had taught me; and this +brought her back to my mind so vividly that I resolved to go and see her. +She welcomed me with more than kindness,--with tenderness,--and told me I +had caused her much uneasiness by not letting her know what had become of +me. She looked quite aghast when she learned in what sort of place and with +whom I lived; but I told her Mrs. Conan had saved me from the workhouse, +and was as much of a mother to me as it was possible for her to be, that we +loved each other, and that it would be very wrong of me to leave her now, +especially that she was not so well as she had been; and I believe she then +saw the thing as I saw it. She made me play to her, was pleased,--indeed +surprised, until I told her how I had been supporting myself,--and insisted +on my resuming my studies with her, which I was only too glad to do. I +now, of course, got on much faster; and she expressed satisfaction with my +progress, but continued manifestly uneasy at the kind of thing I had to +encounter, and become of necessity more and more familiar with. + +"When Mrs. Conan fell ill, I had indeed hard work of it. Unlike most of her +class, she had laid by a trifle of money; but as soon as she ceased to add +to it, it began to dwindle, and was very soon gone. Do what I could for +a while, if it had not been for the kindness of the neighbors, I should +sometimes have been in want of bread; and when I hear hard things said +of the poor, I often think that surely improvidence is not so bad as +selfishness. But, of course, there are all sorts amongst them, just as +there are all sorts in every class. When I went out to teach, now one, now +another of the women in the house would take charge of my friend; and when +I came home, except her guardian happened to have got tipsy, I never found +she had been neglected. Miss Harper said I must raise my terms; but I told +her that would be the loss of my pupils. Then she said she must see what +could be done for me, only no one she knew was likely to employ a child +like me, if I were able to teach ever so well. One morning, however, within +a week, a note came from Lady Bernard, asking me to go and see her. + +"I went, and found--a mother. You do not know her, I think? But you must +one day. Good people like you must come together. I will not attempt to +describe her. She awed me at first, and I could hardly speak to her,--I +was not much more than thirteen then; but with the awe came a certain +confidence which was far better than ease. The immediate result was, that +she engaged me to go and play for an hour, five days a week, at a certain +hospital for sick children in the neighborhood, which she partly supported. +For she had a strong belief that there was in music a great healing power. +Her theory was, that all healing energy operates first on the mind, and +from it passes to the body, and that medicines render aid only by removing +certain physical obstacles to the healing force. She believes that when +music operating on the mind has procured the peace of harmony, the peace +in its turn operates outward, reducing the vital powers also into the +harmonious action of health. _How much_ there may be in it, I cannot tell; +but I do think that good has been and is the result of my playing to those +children; for I go still, though not quite so often, and it is music to +me to watch my music thrown back in light from some of those sweet, pale, +suffering faces. She was too wise to pay me much for it at first. She +inquired, before making me the offer, how much I was already earning, asked +me upon how much I could support Mrs. Conan and myself comfortably, and +then made the sum of my weekly earnings up to that amount. At the same +time, however, she sent many things to warm and feed the old woman, so that +my mind was set at ease about her. She got a good deal better for a while, +but continued to suffer so much from rheumatism, that she was quite unfit +to go out charing any more; and I would not hear of her again exposing +herself to the damps and draughts of empty houses, so long as I was able to +provide for her,--of which ability you may be sure I was not a little proud +at first. + +"I have been talking for a long time, and yet may seem to have said nothing +to account for your finding me where she left me; but I will try to come to +the point as quickly as possible. + +"Before she was entirely laid up, we had removed to this place,--a rough +shelter, but far less so than some of the houses in which we had been. I +remember one in which I used to dart up and down like a hunted hare at one +time; at another to steal along from stair to stair like a well-meaning +ghost afraid of frightening people; my mode of procedure depending in part +on the time of day, and which of the inhabitants I had reason to dread +meeting. It was a good while before the inmates of this house and I began +to know each other. The landlord had turned out the former tenant of this +garret after she had been long enough in the house for all the rest to know +her; and, notwithstanding she had been no great favorite, they all took her +part against the landlord; and fancying, perhaps because we kept more to +ourselves, that we were his _protégées_, and that he had turned out Muggy +Moll, as they called her, to make room for us, regarded us from the first +with disapprobation. The little girls would make grimaces at me, and the +bigger girls would pull my hair, slap my face, and even occasionally +push me down stairs, while the boys made themselves far more terrible in +my eyes. But some remark happening to be dropped one day, which led the +landlord to disclaim all previous knowledge of us, things began to grow +better. And this is not by any means one of the worst parts of London. I +could take Mr. Walton to houses in the East End, where the manners are +indescribable. We are all earning our bread here. Some have an occasional +attack of drunkenness, and idle about; but they are sick of it again after +a while. I remember asking a woman once if her husband would be present at +a little entertainment to which Lady Bernard had invited them: she answered +that he would be there if he was drunk, but if he was sober he couldn't +spare the time. + +"Very soon they began to ask me after Mrs. Conan; and one day I invited one +of them, who seemed a decent though not very tidy woman, to walk up and see +her; for I was anxious she should have a visitor now and then when I was +out, as she complained a good deal of the loneliness. The woman consented, +and ever after was very kind to her. But my main stay and comfort was an +old woman who then occupied the room opposite to this. She was such a good +creature! Nearly blind, she yet kept her room the very pink of neatness. I +never saw a speck of dust on that chest of drawers, which was hers then, +and which she valued far more than many a rich man values the house of his +ancestors,--not only because it had been her mother's, but because it bore +testimony to the respectability of her family. Her floor and her little +muslin window-curtain, her bed and every thing about her, were as clean as +lady could desire. She objected to move into a better room below, which the +landlord kindly offered her,--for she was a favorite from having been his +tenant a long time and never having given him any trouble in collecting her +rent,--on the ground that there were two windows in it, and therefore too +much light for her bits of furniture. They would, she said, look nothing +in that room. She was very pleased when I asked her to pay a visit to Mrs. +Conan; and as she belonged to a far higher intellectual grade than my +protectress, and as she had a strong practical sense of religion, chiefly +manifested in a willing acceptance of the decrees of Providence, I think +she did us both good. I wish I could draw you a picture of her coming in +at that door, with her all but sightless eyes, the broad borders of her +white cap waving, and her hands stretched out before her; for she was +more apprehensive than if she had been quite blind, because she could see +things without knowing what, or even in what position they were. The most +remarkable thing to me was the calmness with which she looked forward to +her approaching death, although without the expectation which so many +good people seem to have in connection with their departure. I talked to +her about it more than once,--not with any presumption of teaching her, +for I felt she was far before me, but just to find out how she felt and +what she believed. Her answer amounted to this, that she had never known +beforehand what lay round the next corner, or what was going to happen to +her, for if Providence had meant her to know, it could not be by going to +fortune-tellers, as some of the neighbors did; but that she always found +things turn out right and good for her, and she did not doubt she would +find it so when she came to the last turn. + +"By degrees I knew everybody in the house, and of course I was ready to +do what I could to help any of them. I had much to lift me into a higher +region of mental comfort than was open to them; for I had music, and Lady +Bernard lent me books. + +"Of course also I kept my rooms as clean and tidy as I could; and indeed, +if I had been more carelessly inclined in that way, the sight of the blind +woman's would have been a constant reminder to me. By degrees also I was +able to get a few more articles of furniture for it, and a bit of carpet +to put down before the fire. I whitewashed the walls myself, and after a +while began to whitewash the walls of the landing as well, and all down +the stair, which was not of much use to the eye, for there is no light. +Before long some of the other tenants began to whitewash their rooms also, +and contrive to keep things a little tidier. Others declared they had no +opinion of such uppish notions; they weren't for the likes of them. These +were generally such as would rejoice in wearing finery picked up at the +rag-shop; but even some of them began by degrees to cultivate a small +measure of order. Soon this one and that began to apply to me for help in +various difficulties that arose. But they didn't begin to call me grannie +for a long time after this. They used then to call the blind woman grannie, +and the name got associated with the top of the house; and I came to be +associated with it because I also lived there and we were friends. After +her death, it was used from habit, at first with a feeling of mistake, +seeing its immediate owner was gone; but by degrees it settled down upon +me, and I came to be called grannie by everybody in the house. Even Mrs. +Conan would not unfrequently address me, and speak of me too, as grannie, +at first with a laugh, but soon as a matter of course. + +"I got by and by a few pupils amongst tradespeople of a class rather +superior to that in which I had begun to teach, and from whom I could ask +and obtain double my former fee; so that things grew, with fluctuations, +gradually better. Lady Bernard continued a true friend to me--but she never +was other than that to any. Some of her friends ventured on the experiment +whether I could teach their children; and it is no wonder if they were +satisfied, seeing I had myself such a teacher. + +"Having come once or twice to see Mrs. Conan, she discovered that we were +gaining a little influence over the people in the house; and it occurred +to her, as she told me afterwards, that the virtue of music might be tried +there with a _moral_ end in view. Hence it came that I was beyond measure +astonished and delighted one evening by the arrival of a piano,--not that +one, for it got more worn than I liked, and I was able afterwards to +exchange it for a better. I found it an invaluable aid in the endeavor to +work out my glowing desire of getting the people about me into a better +condition. First I asked some of the children to come and listen while I +played. Everybody knows how fond the least educated children are of music; +and I feel assured of its elevating power. Whatever the street-organs +may be to poets and mathematicians, they are certainly a godsend to the +children of our courts and alleys. The music takes possession of them at +once, and sets them moving to it with rhythmical grace. I should have been +very sorry to make it a condition with those I invited, that they should +sit still: to take from them their personal share in it would have been to +destroy half the charm of the thing. A far higher development is needful +before music can be enjoyed in silence and motionlessness. The only +condition I made was, that they should come with clean hands and faces, and +with tidy hair. Considerable indignation was at first manifested on the +part of those parents whose children I refused to admit because they had +neglected the condition. This necessity, however, did not often occur; and +the anger passed away, while the condition gathered weight. After a while, +guided by what some of the children let fall; I began to invite the mothers +to join them; and at length it came to be understood that, every Saturday +evening, whoever chose to make herself tidy would be welcome, to an hour or +two of my music. Some of the husbands next began to come, but there were +never so many of them present. I may just add, that although the manners +of some of my audience would be very shocking to cultivated people, and I +understand perfectly how they must be so, I am very rarely annoyed on such +occasions. + +"I must now glance at another point in my history, one on which I cannot +dwell. Never since my father's death had I attended public worship. Nothing +had drawn me thither; and I hardly know what induced me one evening to step +into a chapel of which I knew nothing. There was not even Sunday to account +for it. I believe, however, it had to do with this, that all day I had been +feeling tired. I think people are often ready to suppose that their bodily +condition is the cause of their spiritual discomfort, when it may be only +the occasion upon which some inward lack reveals itself. That the spiritual +nature should be incapable of meeting and sustaining the body in its +troubles is of itself sufficient to show that it is not in a satisfactory +condition. For a long time the struggle for mere existence had almost +absorbed my energies; but things had been easier for some time, and a +re-action had at length come. It was not that I could lay any thing +definite to my own charge; I only felt empty all through; I felt that +something was not right with me, that something was required of me which +I was not rendering. I could not, however, have told you what it was. +Possibly the feeling had been for some time growing; but that day, so far +as I can tell, I was first aware of it; and I presume it was the dim cause +of my turning at the sound of a few singing voices, and entering that +chapel. I found about a dozen people present. Something in the air of the +place, meagre and waste as it looked, yet induced me to remain. An address +followed from a pale-faced, weak-looking man of middle age, who had no gift +of person, voice, or utterance, to recommend what he said. But there dwelt +a more powerful enforcement in him than any of those,--that of earnestness. +I went again, and again; and slowly, I cannot well explain how, the sense +of life and its majesty grew upon me. Mr. Walton will, I trust, understand +me when I say, that to one hungering for bread, it is of little consequence +in what sort of platter it is handed him. This was a dissenting chapel,--of +what order, it was long before I knew,--and my predilection was for the +Church-services, those to which my father had accustomed me; but any +comparison of the two to the prejudice of either, I should still--although +a communicant of the Church of England--regard with absolute indifference. + +"It will be sufficient for my present purpose to allude to the one +practical thought which was the main fruit I gathered from this good +man,--the fruit by which I know that he was good. [Footnote: Something like +this is the interpretation of the word: "By their fruits ye shall know +them" given by Mr. Maurice,--an interpretation which opens much.--G.M.D.] +It was this,--that if all the labor of God, as my teacher said, was to +bring sons into glory, lifting them out of the abyss of evil bondage up to +the rock of his pure freedom, the only worthy end of life must be to work +in the same direction,--to be a fellow-worker with God. Might I not, then, +do something such, in my small way, and lose no jot of my labor? I thought. +The urging, the hope, grew in me. But I was not left to feel blindly after +some new and unknown method of labor. My teacher taught me that the way for +_me_ to help others was not to tell them their duty, but myself to learn +of Him who bore our griefs and carried our sorrows. As I learned of him, +I should be able to help them. I have never had any theory but just to be +their friend,--to do for them the best I can. When I feel I may, I tell +them what has done me good, but I never urge any belief of mine upon their +acceptance. + +"It will now seem no more wonderful to you than to me, that I should remain +where I am. I simply have no choice. I was sixteen when Mrs. Conan died. +Then my friends, amongst whom Lady Bernard and Miss Harper have ever been +first, expected me to remove to lodgings in another neighborhood. Indeed, +Lady Bernard came to see me, and said she knew precisely the place for me. +When I told her I should remain where I was, she was silent, and soon left +me?--I thought offended. I wrote to her at once, explaining why I chose +my part here; saying that I would not hastily alter any thing that had +been appointed me; that I loved the people; that they called me grannie; +that they came to me with their troubles; that there were few changes in +the house now; that the sick looked to me for help, and the children for +teaching; that they seemed to be steadily rising in the moral scale; that I +knew some of them were trying hard to be good; and I put it to her whether, +if I were to leave them, in order merely, as servants say, to better +myself, I should not be forsaking my post, almost my family; for I knew +it would not be to better either myself or my friends: if I was at all +necessary to them, I knew they were yet more necessary to me. + +"I have a burning desire to help in the making of the world clean,--if it +be only by sweeping one little room in it. I want to lead some poor stray +sheep home--not home to the church, Mr. Walton--I would not be supposed to +curry favor with you. I never think of what they call the church. I only +care to lead them home to the bosom of God, where alone man is true man. + +"I could talk to you till night about what Lady Bernard has been to me +since, and what she has done for me and my grandchildren; but I have said +enough to explain how it is that I am in such a questionable position. +I fear I have been guilty of much egotism, and have shown my personal +feelings with too little reserve. But I cast myself on your mercy." + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +A REMARKABLE FACT. + + +A silence followed. I need hardly say we had listened intently. During the +story my father had scarcely interrupted the narrator. I had not spoken a +word. She had throughout maintained a certain matter-of-fact, almost cold +style, no doubt because she was herself the subject of her story; but we +could read between the lines, imagine much she did not say, and supply +color when she gave only outline; and it moved us both deeply. My father +sat perfectly composed, betraying his emotion in silence alone. For myself, +I had a great lump in my throat, but in part from the shame which mingled +with my admiration. The silence had not lasted more than a few seconds, +when I yielded to a struggling impulse, rose, and kneeling before her, put +my hands on her knees, said, "Forgive me," and could say no more. She put +her hand on my shoulder, whispered. "My dear Mrs. Percivale!" bent down her +face, and kissed me on the forehead. + +"How could you help being shy of me?" she said. "Perhaps I ought to have +come to you and explained it all; but I shrink from self-justification,--at +least before a fit opportunity makes it comparatively easy." + +"That is the way to give it all its force," remarked my father. + +"I suppose it may be," she returned. "But I hate talking about myself: it +is an unpleasant subject." + +"Most people do not find it such," said my father. "I could not honestly +say that I do not enjoy talking of my own experiences of life." + +"But there are differences, you see," she rejoined. "My history looks to me +such a matter of course, such a something I could not help, or have avoided +if I would, that the telling of it is unpleasant, because it implies an +importance which does not belong to it." + +"St. Paul says something of the same sort,--that a necessity of preaching +the gospel was laid upon him," remarked my father; but it seemed to make no +impression on Miss Clare, for she went on as if she had not heard him. + +"You see, Mr. Walton, it is not in the least as if, living in comfort, I +had taken notice of the misery of the poor for the want of such sympathy +and help as I could give them, and had therefore gone to live amongst them +that I might so help them: it is quite different from that. If I had done +so, I might be in danger of magnifying not merely my office but myself. On +the contrary, I have been trained to it in such slow and necessitous ways, +that it would be a far greater trial to me to forsake my work than it has +ever been to continue it." + +My father said no more, but I knew he had his own thoughts. I remained +kneeling, and felt for the first time as if I understood what had led to +saint-worship. + +"Won't you sit, Mrs. Percivale?" she said, as if merely expostulating with +me for not making myself comfortable. + +"Have you forgiven me?" I asked. + +"How can I say I have, when I never had any thing to forgive?" + +"Well, then, I must go unforgiven, for I cannot forgive myself," I said. + +"O Mrs. Percivale! if you think how the world is flooded with forgiveness, +you will just dip in your cup, and take what you want." + +I felt that I was making too much even of my own shame, rose humbled, and +took my former seat. + +Narration being over, and my father's theory now permitting him to ask +questions, he did so plentifully, bringing out many lights, and elucidating +several obscurities. The story grew upon me, until the work to which Miss +Clare had given herself seemed more like that of the Son of God than any +other I knew. For she was not helping her friends from afar, but as one of +themselves,--nor with money, but with herself; she was not condescending to +them, but finding her highest life in companionship with them. It seemed at +least more like what his life must have been before he was thirty, than any +thing else I could think of. I held my peace however; for I felt that to +hint at such a thought would have greatly shocked and pained her. + +No doubt the narrative I have given is plainer and more coherent for the +questions my father put; but it loses much from the omission of one or two +parts which she gave dramatically, with evident enjoyment of the fun that +was in them. I have also omitted all the interruptions which came from her +not unfrequent reference to my father on points that came up. At length I +ventured to remind her of something she seemed to have forgotten. + +"When you were telling us, Miss Clare," I said, "of the help that came to +you that dreary afternoon in the empty house, I think you mentioned that +something which happened afterwards made it still more remarkable." "Oh, +yes!" she answered: "I forgot about that. I did not carry my history far +enough to be reminded of it again. + +"Somewhere about five years ago, Lady Bernard, having several schemes on +foot for helping such people as I was interested in, asked me if it would +not be nice to give an entertainment to my friends, and as many of the +neighbors as I pleased, to the number of about a hundred. She wanted to +put the thing entirely in my hands, and it should be my entertainment, she +claiming only the privilege of defraying expenses. I told her I should +be delighted to convey _her_ invitation, but that the entertainment must +not pretend to be mine; which, besides that it would be a falsehood, and +therefore not to be thought of, would perplex my friends, and drive them to +the conclusion either that it was not mine, or that I lived amongst them +under false appearances. She confessed the force of my arguments, and let +me have it my own way. + +"She had bought a large house to be a home for young women out of +employment, and in it she proposed the entertainment should be given: there +were a good many nice young women inmates at the time, who, she said, would +be all willing to help us to wait upon our guests. The idea was carried +out, and the thing succeeded admirably. We had music and games, the latter +such as the children were mostly acquainted with, only producing more +merriment and conducted with more propriety than were usual in the court or +the streets. I may just remark, in passing, that, had these been children +of the poorest sort, we should have had to teach them; for one of the +saddest things is that such, in London at least, do not know how to +play. We had tea and coffee and biscuits in the lower rooms, for any who +pleased; and they were to have a solid supper afterwards. With none of the +arrangements, however, had I any thing to do; for my business was to be +with them, and help them to enjoy themselves. All went on capitally; the +parents entering into the merriment of their children, and helping to keep +it up. + +"In one of the games, I was seated on the floor with a handkerchief tied +over my eyes, waiting, I believe, for some gentle trick to be played upon +me, that I might guess at the name of the person who played it. There +was a delay--of only a few seconds--long enough, however, for a sudden +return of that dreary November afternoon in which I sat on the floor too +miserable even to think that I was cold and hungry. Strange to say, it +was not the picture of it that came back to me first, but the sound of my +own voice calling aloud in the ringing echo of the desolate rooms that +I was of no use to anybody, and that God had forgotten me utterly. With +the recollection, a doubtful expectation arose which moved me to a scarce +controllable degree. I jumped to my feet, and tore the bandage from my +eyes. + +"Several times during the evening I had had the odd yet well-known feeling +of the same thing having happened before; but I was too busy entertaining +my friends to try to account for it: perhaps what followed may suggest the +theory, that in not a few of such cases the indistinct remembrance of the +previous occurrence of some portion of the circumstances may cast the hue +of memory over the whole. As--my eyes blinded with the light and straining +to recover themselves--I stared about the room, the presentiment grew +almost conviction that it was the very room in which I had so sat in +desolation and despair. Unable to restrain myself, I hurried into the back +room: there was the cabinet beyond! In a few moments more I was absolutely +satisfied that this was indeed the house in which I had first found refuge. +For a time I could take no further share in what was going on, but sat down +in a corner, and cried for joy. Some one went for Lady Bernard, who was +superintending the arrangements for supper in the music-room behind. She +came in alarm. I told her there was nothing the matter but a little too +much happiness, and, if she would come into the cabinet, I would tell her +all about it. She did so, and a few words made her a hearty sharer in my +pleasure. She insisted that I should tell the company all about it; 'for' +she said, 'you do not know how much it may help some poor creature to +trust in God.' I promised I would, if I found I could command myself +sufficiently. She left me alone for a little while, and after that I was +able to join in the games again. + +"At supper I found myself quite composed, and, at Lady Bernard's request, +stood up, and gave them all a little sketch of grannie's history, of which +sketch what had happened that evening was made the central point. Many +of the simpler hearts about me received it, without question, as a divine +arrangement for my comfort and encouragement,--at least, thus I interpreted +their looks to each other, and the remarks that reached my ear; but +presently a man stood up,--one who thought more than the rest of them, +perhaps because he was blind,--a man at once conceited, honest, and +sceptical; and silence having been made for him,--'Ladies and gentlemen,' +he began, as if he had been addressing a public meeting, 'you've all heard +what grannie has said. It's very kind of her to give us so much of her +history. It's a very remarkable one, _I_ think, and she deserves to have +it. As to what upset her this very night as is,--and I must say for +her, I've knowed her now for six years, and I never knowed _her_ upset +afore,--and as to what upset her, all I can say is, it may or may not ha' +been what phylosophers call a coincydence; but at the same time, if it +wasn't a coincydence, and if the Almighty had a hand in it, it were no more +than you might expect. He would look at it in this light, you see, that +maybe she was wrong to fancy herself so down on her luck as all that, but +she was a good soul, notwithstandin,' and he would let her know he hadn't +forgotten her. And so he set her down in that room there,--wi' her eyes +like them here o' mine, as never was no manner o' use to me,--for a minute, +jest to put her in mind o' what had been, and what she had said there, an' +how it was all so different now. In my opinion, it were no wonder as she +broke down, God bless her! I beg leave to propose her health.' So they +drank my health in lemonade and ginger-beer; for we were afraid to give +some of them stronger drink than that, and therefore had none. Then we had +more music and singing; and a clergyman, who knew how to be neighbor to +them that had fallen among thieves, read a short chapter and a collect or +two, and said a few words to them. Then grannie and her children went home +together, all happy, but grannie the happiest of them all." + +"Strange and beautiful!" said my father. "But," he added, after a pause, +"you must have met with many strange and beautiful things in such a life as +yours; for it seems to me that such a life is open to the entrance of all +simple wonders. Conventionality and routine and arbitrary law banish their +very approach." + +"I believe," said Miss Clare, "that every life has its own private +experience of the strange and beautiful. But I have sometimes thought that +perhaps God took pains to bar out such things of the sort as we should be +no better for. The reason why Lazarus was not allowed to visit the brothers +of Dives was, that the repentance he would have urged would not have +followed, and they would have been only the worse in consequence." + +"Admirably said," remarked my father. + +Before we took our leave, I had engaged Miss Clare to dine with us while my +father was in town. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +LADY BERNARD. + + +When she came we had no other guest, and so had plenty of talk with her. +Before dinner I showed her my husband's pictures; and she was especially +pleased with that which hung in the little room off the study, which I +called my boudoir,--a very ugly word, by the way, which I am trying to give +up,--with a curtain before it. My father has described it in "The Seaboard +Parish:" a pauper lies dead, and they are bringing in his coffin. She said +it was no wonder it had not been sold, notwithstanding its excellence +and force; and asked if I would allow her to bring Lady Bernard to see +it. After dinner Percivale had a long talk with her, and succeeded in +persuading her to sit to him; not, however, before I had joined my +entreaties with his, and my father had insisted that her face was not her +own, but belonged to all her kind. + +The very next morning she came with Lady Bernard. The latter said she +knew my husband well by reputation, and had, before our marriage, asked +him to her house, but had not been fortunate enough to possess sufficient +attraction. Percivale was much taken with her, notwithstanding a +certain coldness, almost sternness of manner, which was considerably +repellent,--but only for the first few moments, for, when her eyes lighted +up, the whole thing vanished. She was much pleased with some of his +pictures, criticising freely, and with evident understanding. The immediate +result was, that she bought both the pauper picture and that of the dying +knight. + +"But I am sorry to deprive your lovely room of such treasures, Mrs. +Percivale," she said, with a kind smile. + +"Of course I shall miss them," I returned; "but the thought that you have +them will console me. Besides, it is good to have a change; and there are +only too many lying in the study, from which he will let me choose to +supply their place." + +"Will you let me come and see which you have chosen?" she asked. + +"With the greatest pleasure," I answered. + +"And will you come and see me? Do you think you could persuade your husband +to bring you to dine with me?" + +I told her I could promise the one with more than pleasure, and had little +doubt of being able to do the other, now that my husband had seen her. + +A reference to my husband's dislike to fashionable society followed, and I +had occasion to mention his feeling about being asked without me. Of the +latter, Lady Bernard expressed the warmest approval; and of the former, +said that it would have no force in respect of her parties, for they were +not at all fashionable. + +This was the commencement of a friendship for which we have much cause to +thank God. Nor did we forget that it came through Miss Clare. + +I confess I felt glorious over my cousin Judy; but I would bide my time. +Now that I am wiser, and I hope a little better, I see that I was rather +spiteful; but I thought then I was only jealous for my new and beautiful +friend. Perhaps, having wronged her myself, I was the more ready to take +vengeance on her wrongs from the hands of another; which was just the +opposite feeling to that I ought to have had. + +In the mean time, our intimacy with Miss Clare grew. She interested me in +many of her schemes for helping the poor; some of which were for providing +them with work in hard times, but more for giving them an interest in life +itself, without which, she said, no one would begin to inquire into its +relations and duties. One of her positive convictions was, that you ought +not to give them any thing they _ought_ to provide for themselves, such +as food or clothing or shelter. In such circumstances as rendered it +impossible for them to do so, the _ought_ was in abeyance. But she heartily +approved of making them an occasional present of something they could not +be expected to procure for themselves,--flowers, for instance. "You would +not imagine," I have heard her say, "how they delight in flowers. All the +finer instincts of their being are drawn to the surface at the sight of +them. I am sure they prize and enjoy them far more, not merely than most +people with gardens and greenhouses do, but far more even than they would +if they were deprived of them. A gift of that sort can only do them good. +But I would rather give a workman a gold watch than a leg of mutton. By +a present you mean a compliment; and none feel more grateful for such an +acknowledgment of your human relation to them, than those who look up to +you as their superior." + +Once, when she was talking thus, I ventured to object, for the sake of +hearing her further. + +"But," I said, "sometimes the most precious thing you can give a man is +just that compassion which you seem to think destroys the value of a gift." + +"When compassion itself is precious to a man," she answered, "it must be +because he loves you, and believes you love him. When that is the case, you +may give him any thing you like, and it will do neither you nor him harm. +But the man of independent feeling, except he be thus your friend, will not +unlikely resent your compassion, while the beggar will accept it chiefly as +a pledge for something more to be got from you; and so it will tend to keep +him in beggary." + +"Would you never, then, give money, or any of the necessaries of life, +except in extreme, and, on the part of the receiver, unavoidable +necessity?" I asked. + +"I would not," she answered; "but in the case where a man _cannot_ help +himself, the very suffering makes a way for the love which is more than +compassion to manifest itself. In every other case, the true way is to +provide them with work, which is itself a good thing, besides what they +gain by it. If a man will not work, neither should he eat. It must be work +with an object in it, however: it must not be mere labor, such as digging +a hole and filling it up again, of which I have heard. No man could help +resentment at being set to such work. You ought to let him feel that he is +giving something of value to you for the money you give to him. But I have +known a whole district so corrupted and degraded by clerical alms-giving, +that one of the former recipients of it declared, as spokesman for the +rest; that threepence given was far more acceptable than five shillings +earned." + +A good part of the little time I could spare from my own family was now +spent with Miss Clare in her work, through which it was chiefly that we +became by degrees intimate with Lady Bernard. If ever there was a woman who +lived this outer life for the sake of others, it was she. Her inner life +was, as it were, sufficient for herself, and found its natural outward +expression in blessing others. She was like a fountain of living water that +could find no vent but into the lives of her fellows. She had suffered +more than falls to the ordinary lot of women, in those who were related to +her most nearly, and for many years had looked for no personal blessing +from without. She said to me once, that she could not think of any thing +that could happen to herself to make her very happy now, except a loved +grandson, who was leading a strange, wild life, were to turn out a Harry +the Fifth,--a consummation which, however devoutly wished, was not granted +her; for the young man died shortly after. I believe no one, not even +Miss Clare, knew half the munificent things she did, or what an immense +proportion of her large income she spent upon other people. But, as she +said herself, no one understood the worth of money better; and no one +liked better to have the worth of it: therefore she always administered +her charity with some view to the value of the probable return,--with some +regard, that is, to the amount of good likely to result to others from the +aid given to one. She always took into consideration whether the good was +likely to be propagated, or to die with the receiver. She confessed to +frequent mistakes; but such, she said, was the principle upon which she +sought to regulate that part of her stewardship. + +I wish I could give a photograph of her. She was slight, and appeared +taller than she was, being rather stately than graceful, with a commanding +forehead and still blue eyes. She gave at first the impression of coldness, +with a touch of haughtiness. But this was, I think, chiefly the result of +her inherited physique; for the moment her individuality appeared, when her +being, that is, came into contact with that of another, all this impression +vanished in the light that flashed into her eyes, and the smile that +illumined her face. Never did woman of rank step more triumphantly over +the barriers which the cumulated custom of ages has built between the +classes of society. She laid great stress on good manners, little on what +is called good birth; although to the latter, in its deep and true sense, +she attributed the greatest _à priori_ value, as the ground of obligation +in the possessor, and of expectation on the part of others. But I shall +have an opportunity of showing more of what she thought on this subject +presently; for I bethink me that it occupied a great part of our +conversation at a certain little gathering, of which I am now going to give +an account. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +MY SECOND DINNER-PARTY. + + +For I judged that I might now give another little dinner: I thought, that, +as Percivale had been doing so well lately, he might afford, with his +knowing brother's help, to provide, for his part of the entertainment, +what might be good enough to offer even to Mr. Morley; and I now knew Lady +Bernard sufficiently well to know also that she would willingly accept an +invitation from me, and would be pleased to meet Miss Clare, or, indeed, +would more likely bring her with her. + +I proposed the dinner, and Percivale consented to it. My main object being +the glorification of Miss Clare, who had more engagements of one kind and +another than anybody I knew, I first invited her, asking her to fix her own +day, at some considerable remove. Next I invited Mr. and Mrs. Morley, and +next Lady Bernard, who went out very little. Then I invited Mr. Blackstone, +and last of all Roger--though I was almost as much interested in his +meeting Miss Clare as in any thing else connected with the gathering. For +he had been absent from London for some time on a visit to an artist friend +at the Hague, and had never seen Miss Clare since the evening on which +he and I quarrelled--or rather, to be honest, I quarrelled with him. All +accepted, and I looked forward to the day with some triumph. + +I had better calm the dread of my wifely reader by at once assuring her +that I shall not harrow her feelings with any account of culinary blunders. +The moon was in the beginning of her second quarter, and my cook's brain +tolerably undisturbed. Lady Bernard offered me her cook for the occasion; +but I convinced her that my wisdom would be to decline the offer, seeing +such external influence would probably tend to disintegration. I went over +with her every item of every dish and every sauce many times,--without any +resulting sense of security, I confess; but I had found, that, odd as it +may seem, she always did better the more she had to do. I believe that her +love of approbation, excited by the difficulty before her, in its turn +excited her intellect, which then arose to meet the necessities of the +case. + +Roger arrived first, then Mr. Blackstone; Lady Bernard brought Miss Clare; +and Mr. and Mrs. Morley came last. There were several introductions to be +gone through,--a ceremony in which Percivale, being awkward, would give me +no assistance; whence I failed to observe how the presence of Miss Clare +affected Mr. and Mrs. Morley; but my husband told me that Judy turned red, +and that Mr. Morley bowed to her with studied politeness. I took care that +Mr. Blackstone should take her down to dinner, which was served in the +study as before. + +The conversation was broken and desultory at first, as is generally the +case at a dinner-party--and perhaps ought to be; but one after another +began to listen to what was passing between Lady Bernard and my husband at +the foot of the table, until by degrees every one became interested, and +took a greater or less part in the discussion. The first of it I heard was +as next follows. + +"Then you do believe," my husband was saying, "in the importance of what +some of the Devonshire people call _havage_?" + +"Allow me to ask what they mean by the word," Lady Bernard returned. + +"Birth, descent,--the people you come of," he answered. + +"Of course I believe that descent involves very important considerations." + +"No one," interposed Mr. Morley, "can have a better right than your +ladyship to believe that." + +"One cannot have a better right than another to believe a fact, Mr. +Morley," she answered with a smile. "It is but a fact that you start better +or worse according to the position of your starting-point." + +"Undeniably," said Mr. Morley. "And for all that is feared from the growth +of levelling notions in this country, it will be many generations before a +profound respect for birth is eradicated from the feelings of the English +people." + +He drew in his chin with a jerk, and devoted himself again to his plate, +with the air of a "Dixi." He was not permitted to eat in peace, however. + +"If you allow," said Mr. Blackstone, "that the feeling can wear out, and +is wearing out, it matters little how long it may take to prove itself of +a false, because corruptible nature. No growth of notions will blot love, +honesty, kindness, out of the human heart." + +"Then," said Lady Bernard archly, "am I to understand, Mr. Blackstone, that +you don't believe it of the least importance to come of decent people?" + +"Your ladyship puts it well," said Mr. Morley, laughing mildly, "and with +authority. The longer the descent"-- + +"The more doubtful," interrupted Lady Bernard, laughing. "One can hardly +have come of decent people all through, you know. Let us only hope, +without inquiring too closely, that their number preponderates in our own +individual cases." + +Mr. Morley stared for a moment, and then tried to laugh, but unable to +determine whereabout he was in respect of the question, betook himself to +his glass of sherry. + +Mr. Blackstone considered it the best policy in general not to explain any +remark he had made, but to say the right thing better next time instead. I +suppose he believed, with another friend of mine, that "when explanations +become necessary, they become impossible," a paradox well worth the +consideration of those who write letters to newspapers. But Lady Bernard +understood him well enough, and was only unwinding the clew of her idea. + +"On the contrary, it must be a most serious fact," he rejoined, "to any one +who like myself believes that the sins of the fathers are visited on the +children." + +"Mr. Blackstone," objected Roger, "I can't imagine you believing such a +manifest injustice." + +"It has been believed in all ages by the best of people," he returned. + +"To whom possibly the injustice of it never suggested itself. For my part, +I must either disbelieve that, or disbelieve in a God." + +"But, my dear fellow, don't you see it is a fact? Don't you see children +born with the sins of their parents nestling in their very bodies? You see +on which horn of your own dilemma you would impale yourself." + +"Wouldn't you rather not believe in a God than believe in an unjust one?" + +"An unjust god," said Mr. Blackstone, with the honest evasion of one who +will not answer an awful question hastily, "must be a false god, that is, +no god. Therefore I presume there is some higher truth involved in every +fact that appears unjust, the perception of which would nullify the +appearance." + +"I see none in the present case," said Roger. + +"I will go farther than assert the mere opposite," returned Mr. Blackstone. +"I will assert that it is an honor to us to have the sins of our fathers +laid upon us. For thus it is given into our power to put a stop to them, so +that they shall descend no farther. If I thought my father had committed +any sins for which I might suffer, I should be unspeakably glad to suffer +for them, and so have the privilege of taking a share in his burden, and +some of the weight of it off his mind. You see the whole idea is that of a +family, in which we are so grandly bound together, that we must suffer with +and for each other. Destroy this consequence, and you destroy the lovely +idea itself, with all its thousand fold results of loveliness." + +"You anticipate what I was going to say, Mr. Blackstone," said Lady +Bernard. "I would differ from you only in one thing. The chain of descent +is linked after such a complicated pattern, that the non-conducting +condition of one link, or of many links even, cannot break the transmission +of qualities. I may inherit from my great-great-grandfather or mother, or +some one ever so much farther back. That which was active wrong in some +one or other of my ancestors, may appear in me as an impulse to that same +wrong, which of course I have to overcome; and if I succeed, then it is +so far checked. But it may have passed, or may yet pass, to others of his +descendants, who have, or will have, to do the same--for who knows how many +generations to come?--before it shall cease. Married people, you see, Mrs. +Percivale, have an awful responsibility in regard of the future of the +world. You cannot tell to how many millions you may transmit your failures +or your victories." + +"If I understand you right, Lady Bernard," said Roger, "it is the personal +character of your ancestors, and not their social position, you regard as +of importance." + +"It was of their personal character alone I was thinking. But of course +I do not pretend to believe that there are not many valuable gifts more +likely to show themselves in what is called a long descent; for doubtless a +continuity of education does much to develop the race." + +"But if it is personal character you chiefly regard, we may say we are all +equally far descended," I remarked; "for we have each had about the same +number of ancestors with a character of some sort or other, whose faults +and virtues have to do with ours, and for both of which we are, according +to Mr. Blackstone, in a most real and important sense accountable." + +"Certainly," returned Lady Bernard; "and it is impossible to say in whose +descent the good or the bad may predominate. I cannot tell, for instance, +how much of the property I inherit has been honestly come by, or is the +spoil of rapacity and injustice." + +"You are doing the best you can to atone for such a possible fact, then, by +its redistribution," said my husband. + +"I confess," she answered, "the doubt has had some share in determining my +feeling with regard to the management of my property. I have no right to +throw up my stewardship, for that was none of my seeking, and I do not know +any one who has a better claim to it; but I count it only a stewardship. I +am not at liberty to throw my orchard open, for that would result not only +in its destruction, but in a renewal of the fight of centuries ago for its +possession; but I will try to distribute my apples properly. That is, I +have not the same right to give away foolishly that I have to keep wisely." + +"Then," resumed Roger, who had evidently been pondering what Lady Bernard +had previously said, "you would consider what is called kleptomania as the +impulse to steal transmitted by a thief-ancestor?" + +"Nothing seems to me more likely. I know a nobleman whose servant has to +search his pockets for spoons or forks every night as soon as he is in +bed." + +"I should find it very hard to define the difference between that and +stealing," said Miss Clare, now first taking a part in the conversation. "I +have sometimes wondered whether kleptomania was not merely the fashionable +name for stealing." + +"The distinction is a difficult one, and no doubt the word is occasionally +misapplied. But I think there is a difference. The nobleman to whom I +referred makes no objection to being thus deprived of his booty; which, +for one thing, appears to show that the temptation is intermittent, and +partakes at least of the character of a disease." + +"But are there not diseases which are only so much the worse diseases that +they are not intermittent?" said Miss Clare. "Is it not hard that the +privileges of kleptomania should be confined to the rich? You never hear +the word applied to a poor child, even if his father was, habit and repute, +a thief. Surely, when hunger and cold aggravate the attacks of inherited +temptation, they cannot at the same time aggravate the culpability of +yielding to them?" + +"On the contrary," said Roger, "one would naturally suppose they added +immeasurable excuse." + +"Only," said Mr. Blackstone, "there comes in our ignorance, and consequent +inability to judge. The very fact of the presence of motives of a most +powerful kind renders it impossible to be certain of the presence of the +disease; whereas other motives being apparently absent, we presume disease +as the readiest way of accounting for the propensity; I do not therefore +think it is the only way. I believe there are cases in which it comes of +pure greed, and is of the same kind as any other injustice the capability +of exercising which is more generally distributed. Why should a thief be +unknown in a class, a proportion of the members of which is capable of +wrong, chicanery, oppression, indeed any form of absolute selfishness?" + +"At all events," said Lady Bernard, "so long as we do our best to help them +to grow better, we cannot make too much allowance for such as have not only +been born with evil impulses, but have had every animal necessity to urge +them in the same direction; while, on the other hand, they have not had one +of those restraining influences which a good home and education would have +afforded. Such must, so far as development goes, be but a little above the +beasts." + +"You open a very difficult question," said Mr. Morley: "What are we to do +with them? Supposing they _are_ wild beasts, we can't shoot them; though +that would, no doubt, be the readiest way to put an end to the breed." + +"Even that would not suffice," said Lady Bernard. "There would always be a +deposit from the higher classes sufficient to keep up the breed. But, Mr. +Morley, I did not say _wild_ beasts: I only said _beasts_. There is a great +difference between a tiger and a sheep-dog." + +"There is nearly as much between a Seven-Dialsrough and a sheep-dog." + +"In moral attainment, I grant you," said Mr. Blackstone; "but in moral +capacity, no. Besides, you must remember, both what a descent the sheep-dog +has, and what pains have been taken with his individual education, as well +as that of his ancestors." + +"Granted all that," said Mr. Morley, "there the fact remains. For my part, +I confess I don't see what is to be done. The class to which you refer goes +on increasing. There's this garrotting now. I spent a winter at Algiers +lately, and found even the suburbs of that city immeasurably safer than any +part of London is now, to judge from the police-reports. Yet I am accused +of inhumanity and selfishness if I decline to write a check for every +shabby fellow who calls upon me pretending to be a clergyman, and to +represent this or that charity in the East End!" + +"Things are bad enough in the West End, within a few hundred yards of +Portland Place, for instance," murmured Miss Clare. + +"It seems to me highly unreasonable," Mr. Morley went on. "Why should I +spend my money to perpetuate such a condition of things?" + +"That would in all likelihood be the tendency of your subscription," said +Mr. Blackstone. + +"Then why should I?" repeated Mr. Morley with a smile of triumph. + +"But," said Miss Clare, in an apologetic tone, "it seems to me you make a +mistake in regarding the poor as if their poverty were the only distinction +by which they could be classified. The poor are not _all_ thieves and +garroters, nor even all unthankful and unholy. There are just as strong and +as delicate distinctions too, in that stratum of social existence as in the +upper strata. I should imagine Mr. Morley knows a few, belonging to the +same social grade with himself, with whom, however, he would be sorry to be +on any terms of intimacy." + +"Not a few," responded Mr. Morley with a righteous frown. + +"Then I, who know the poor as well at least as you can know the rich, +having lived amongst them almost from childhood, assert that I am +acquainted with not a few, who, in all the essentials of human life and +character, would be an honor to any circle." + +"I should be sorry to seem to imply that there may not be very worthy +people amongst them, Miss Clare; but it is not such who draw our attention +to the class." + +"Not such who force themselves upon your attention certainly," said Miss +Clare; "but the existence of such may be an additional reason for bestowing +some attention on the class to which they belong. Is there not such a +mighty fact as the body of Christ? Is there no connection between the head +and the feet?" + +"I had not the slightest purpose of disputing the matter with you, Miss +Clare," said Mr. Morley--I thought rudely, for who would use the word +_disputing_ at a dinner-table? "On the contrary, being a practical man, +I want to know what is to be done. It is doubtless a great misfortune to +the community that there should be such sinks in our cities; but who is to +blame for it?--that is the question." + +"Every man who says, Am I my brother's keeper? Why, just consider, Mr. +Morley: suppose in a family there were one less gifted than the others, and +that in consequence they all withdrew from him, and took no interest in his +affairs: what would become of him? Must he not sink?" + +"Difference of rank is a divine appointment,--you must allow that. If there +were not a variety of grades, the social machine would soon come to a +stand-still." + +"A strong argument for taking care of the smallest wheel, for all the parts +are interdependent. That there should be different classes is undoubtedly a +divine intention, and not to be turned aside. But suppose the less-gifted +boy is fit for some manual labor; suppose he takes to carpentering, and +works well, and keeps the house tidy, and every thing in good repair, while +his brothers pursue their studies and prepare for professions beyond his +reach: is the inferior boy degraded by doing the best he can? Is there any +reason in the nature of things why he should sink? But he will most likely +sink, sooner or later, if his brothers take no interest in his work, and +treat him as a being of nature inferior to their own." + +"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Morley, "but is he not on the very +supposition inferior to them?" + +"Intellectually, yes; morally, no; for he is doing his work, possibly +better than they, and therefore taking a higher place in the eternal scale. +But granting all kinds of inferiority, his _nature_ remains the same with +their own; and the question is, whether they treat him as one to be helped +up, or one to be kept down; as one unworthy of sympathy, or one to be +honored for filling his part: in a word, as one belonging to them, or one +whom they put up with only because his work is necessary to them." + +"What do you mean by being 'helped up'?" asked Mr. Morley. + +"I do not mean helped out of his trade, but helped to make the best of it, +and of the intellect that finds its development in that way." + +"Very good. But yet I don't see how you apply your supposition." + +"For an instance of application, then: How many respectable people know or +care a jot about their servants, except as creatures necessary to their +comfort?" + +"Well, Miss Clare," said Judy, addressing her for the first time, "if you +had had the half to do with servants I have had, you would alter your +opinion of them." + +"I have expressed no opinion," returned Miss Clare. "I have only said that +masters and mistresses know and care next to nothing about them." + +"They are a very ungrateful class, do what you will for them." + +"I am afraid they are at present growing more and more corrupt as a class," +rejoined Miss Clare; "but gratitude is a high virtue, therefore in any case +I don't see how you could look for much of it from the common sort of them. +And yet while some mistresses do not get so much of it as they deserve, I +fear most mistresses expect far more of it than they have any right to." + +"You _can't_ get them to speak the truth." + +"That I am afraid is a fact." + +"I have never known one on whose word I could depend," insisted Judy. + +"My father says he _has_ known one," I interjected. + +"A sad confirmation of Mrs. Morley," said Miss Clare. "But for my part I +know very few persons in any rank on whose representation of things I could +absolutely depend. Truth is the highest virtue, and seldom grows wild. It +is difficult to speak the truth, and those who have tried it longest best +know how difficult it is. Servants need to be taught that as well as +everybody else." + +"There is nothing they resent so much as being taught," said Judy. + +"Perhaps: they are very far from docile; and I believe it is of little use +to attempt giving them direct lessons." + +"How, then, are you to teach them?" + +"By making it very plain to them, but without calling their attention to +it, that _you_ speak the truth. In the course of a few years they may come +to tell a lie or two the less for that." + +"Not a very hopeful prospect," said Judy. + +"Not a very rapid improvement," said her husband. + +"I look for no rapid improvement, so early in a history as the supposition +implies," said Miss Clare. + +"But would you not tell them how wicked it is?" I asked. + +"They know already that it is wicked to tell lies; but they do not feel +that _they_ are wicked in making the assertions they do. The less said +about the abstract truth, and the more shown of practical truth, the better +for those whom any one would teach to forsake lying. So, at least, it +appears to me. I despair of teaching others, except by learning myself." + +"If you do no more than that, you will hardly produce an appreciable effect +in a lifetime." + +"Why should it be appreciated?" rejoined Miss Clare. + +"I should have said, on the contrary," interposed Mr. Blackstone, +addressing Mr. Morley, "if you do less--for more you cannot do--you will +produce no effect whatever." + +"We have no right to make it a condition of our obedience, that we shall +see its reflex in the obedience of others," said Miss Clare. "We have to +pull out the beam, not the mote." + +"Are you not, then, to pull the mote out of your brother's eye?" said Judy. + +"In no case and on no pretence, _until_ you have pulled the beam out of +your own eye," said Mr. Blackstone; "which I fancy will make the duty of +finding fault with one's neighbor a rare one; for who will venture to say +he has qualified himself for the task?" + +It was no wonder that a silence followed upon this; for the talk had got to +be very serious for a dinner-table. Lady Bernard was the first to speak. It +was easier to take up the dropped thread of the conversation than to begin +a new reel. + +"It cannot be denied," she said, "whoever may be to blame for it, that the +separation between the rich and the poor has either been greatly widened of +late, or, which involves the same practical necessity, we have become more +aware of the breadth and depth of a gulf which, however it may distinguish +their circumstances, ought not to divide them from each other. Certainly +the rich withdraw themselves from the poor. Instead, for instance, of +helping them to bear their burdens, they leave the still struggling poor of +whole parishes to sink into hopeless want, under the weight of those who +have already sunk beyond recovery. I am not sure that to shoot them would +not involve less injustice. At all events, he that hates his brother is a +murderer." + +"But there is no question of hating here," objected Mr. Morley. + +"I am not certain that absolute indifference to one's neighbor is not as +bad. It came pretty nearly to the same thing in the case of the priest and +the Levite, who passed by on the other side," said Mr. Blackstone. + +"Still," said Mr. Morley, in all the self-importance of one who prided +himself on the practical, "I do not see that Miss Clare has proposed any +remedy for the state of things concerning the evil of which we are all +agreed. What is to be _done_? What can _I_ do now? Come, Miss Clare." + +Miss Clare was silent. + +"Marion, my child," said Lady Bernard, turning to her, "will you answer Mr. +Morley?" + +"Not, certainly, as to what _he_ can do: that question I dare not undertake +to answer. I can only speak of what principles I may seem to have +discovered. But until a man begins to behave to those with whom he comes +into personal contact as partakers of the same nature, to recognize, for +instance, between himself and his trades-people a bond superior to that of +supply and demand, I cannot imagine how he is to do any thing towards the +drawing together of the edges of the gaping wound in the social body." + +"But," persisted Mr. Morley, who, I began to think, showed some real desire +to come at a practical conclusion, "suppose a man finds himself incapable +of that sort of thing--for it seems to me to want some rare qualification +or other to be able to converse with an uneducated person"-- + +"There are many such, especially amongst those who follow handicrafts," +interposed Mr. Blackstone, "who think a great deal more than most of the +so-called educated. There is a truer education to be got in the pursuit of +a handicraft than in the life of a mere scholar. But I beg your pardon, Mr. +Morley." + +"Suppose," resumed Mr. Morley, accepting the apology without +disclaimer,--"Suppose I find I can do nothing of that sort; is there +nothing of any sort I can do?" + +"Nothing of the best sort, I firmly believe," answered Miss Clare; "for +the genuine recognition of the human relationship can alone give value to +whatever else you may do, and indeed can alone guide you to what ought +to be done. I had a rather painful illustration of this the other day. A +gentleman of wealth and position offered me the use of his grounds for some +of my poor friends, whom I wanted to take out for a half-holiday. In the +neighborhood of London, that is a great boon. But unfortunately, whether +from his mistake or mine, I was left with the impression that he would +provide some little entertainment for them; I am certain that at least +milk was mentioned. It was a lovely day; every thing looked beautiful; and +although they were in no great spirits, poor things, no doubt the shade and +the grass and the green trees wrought some good in them. Unhappily, two of +the men had got drunk on the way; and, fearful of giving offence, I had to +take them back to the station.--for their poor helpless wives could only +cry,--and send them home by train. I should have done better to risk the +offence, and take them into the grounds, where they might soon have slept +it off under a tree. I had some distance to go, and some difficulty in +getting them along; and when I got back I found things in an unhappy +condition, for nothing had been given them to eat or drink,--indeed, no +attention, had been paid them whatever. There was company at dinner in the +house, and I could not find any one with authority. I hurried into the +neighboring village, and bought the contents of two bakers' shops, with +which I returned in time to give each a piece of bread before the company +came out to _look at_ them. A gayly-dressed group, they stood by themselves +languidly regarding the equally languid but rather indignant groups of +ill-clad and hungry men and women upon the lawn. They made no attempt to +mingle with them, or arrive at a notion of what was moving in any of their +minds. The nearest approach to communion I saw was a poke or two given to a +child with the point of a parasol. Were my poor friends likely to return to +their dingy homes with any great feeling of regard for the givers of such +cold welcome?" + +"But that was an exceptional case," said Mr. Morley. + +"Chiefly in this," returned Miss Clare, "that it was a case at all--that +they were thus presented with a little more room on the face of the earth +for a few hours." + +"But you think the fresh air may have done them good?" + +"Yes; but we were speaking, I thought, of what might serve towards the +filling up of the gulf between the classes." + +"Well, will not all kindness shown to the poor by persons in a superior +station tend in that direction?" + +"I maintain that you can do nothing for them in the way of kindness that +shall not result in more harm than good, except you do it from and with +genuine charity of soul; with some of that love, in short, which is the +heart of religion. Except what is done for them is so done as to draw +out their trust and affection, and so raise them consciously in the +human scale, it can only tend either to hurt their feelings and generate +indignation, or to encourage fawning and beggary. But"-- + +"I am entirely of your mind," said Mr. Blackstone. "But do go on." + +"I was going to add," said Miss Clare, "that while no other charity than +this can touch the sore, a good deal might yet be effected by bare justice. +It seems to me high time that we dropped talking about charity, and took +up the cry of justice. There, now, is a ground on which a man of your +influence, Mr. Morley, might do much." + +"I don't know what you mean, Miss Clare. So long as I pay the market value +for the labor I employ, I do not see how more can be demanded of me--as a +right, that is." + +"We will not enter on that question, Marion, if you please," said Lady +Bernard. + +Miss Clare nodded, and went on. + +"Is it just in the nation," she said, "to abandon those who can do nothing +to help themselves, to be preyed upon by bad landlords, railway-companies, +and dishonest trades-people with their false weights, balances, and +measures, and adulterations to boot,--from all of whom their more wealthy +brethren are comparatively safe? Does not a nation exist for the protection +of its parts? Have these no claims on the nation? Would you call it just in +a family to abandon its less gifted to any moral or physical spoiler who +might be bred within it? To say a citizen must take care of himself _may_ +be just where he _can_ take care of himself, but cannot be just where +that is impossible. A thousand causes, originating mainly in the neglect +of their neighbors, have combined to sink the poor into a state of moral +paralysis: are we to say the paralyzed may be run over in our streets with +impunity? _Must_ they take care of themselves? Have we not to awake them to +the very sense that life is worth caring for? I cannot but feel that the +bond between such a neglected class, and any nation in which it is to be +found, is very little stronger than, if indeed as strong as, that between +slaves and their masters. Who could preach to them their duty to the +nation, except on grounds which such a nation acknowledges only with the +lips?" + +"You have to prove, Miss Clare," said Mr. Morley, in a tone that seemed +intended to imply that he was not in the least affected by mistimed +eloquence, "that the relation is that of a family." + +"I believe," she returned, "that it is closer than the mere human relation +of the parts of any family. But, at all events, until we _are_ their +friends it is worse than useless to pretend to be such, and until they feel +that we are their friends it is worse than useless to talk to them about +God and religion. They will none of it from our lips." + +"Will they from any lips? Are they not already too far sunk towards the +brutes to be capable of receiving any such rousing influence?" suggested +Mr. Blackstone with a smile, evidently wishing to draw Miss Clare out yet +further. + +"You turn me aside, Mr. Blackstone. I wanted to urge Mr. Morley to go into +parliament as spiritual member for the poor of our large towns. Besides, I +know you don't think as your question would imply. As far as my experience +guides me, I am bound to believe that there is a spot of soil in every +heart sufficient for the growth of a gospel seed. And I believe, moreover, +that not only is he a fellow-worker with God who sows that seed, but that +he also is one who opens a way for that seed to enter the soil. If such +preparation were not necessary, the Saviour would have come the moment Adam +and Eve fell, and would have required no Baptist to precede him." + +A good deal followed which I would gladly record, enabled as I now am to +assist my memory by a more thorough acquaintance with the views of Miss +Clare. But I fear I have already given too much conversation at once. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +THE END OF THE EVENING. + + +What specially delighted me during the evening, was the marked attention, +and the serious look in the eyes, with which Roger listened. It was not +often that he did look serious. He preferred, if possible, to get a joke +out of a thing; but when he did enter into an argument, he was always fair. +Although prone to take the side of objection to any religious remark, he +yet never said any thing against religion itself. But his principles, and +indeed his nature, seemed as yet in a state of solution,--uncrystallized, +as my father would say. Mr. Morley, on the other hand, seemed an insoluble +mass, incapable of receiving impressions from other minds. Any suggestion +of his own mind, as to a course of action or a mode of thinking, had a good +chance of being without question regarded as reasonable and right: he was +more than ordinarily prejudiced in his own favor. The day after they thus +met at our house, Miss Clare had a letter from him, in which he took the +high hand with her, rebuking her solemnly for her presumption in saying, +as he represented it, that no good could be done except after the fashion +she laid down, and assuring her that she would thus alienate the most +valuable assistance from any scheme she might cherish for the amelioration +of the condition of the lower classes. It ended with the offer of a yearly +subscription of five pounds to any project of the wisdom of which she +would take the trouble to convince him. She replied, thanking him both, for +his advice and his offer, but saying that, as she had no scheme on foot +requiring such assistance, she could not at present accept the latter; +should, however, any thing show itself for which that sort of help was +desirable, she would take the liberty of reminding him of it. + +When the ladies rose, Judy took me aside, and said,-- + +"What does it all mean, Wynnie?" + +"Just what you hear," I answered. + +"You asked us, to have a triumph over me, you naughty thing!" + +"Well--partly--if I am to be honest; but far more to make you do justice to +Miss Clare. You being my cousin, she had a right to that at my hands." + +"Does Lady Bernard know as much about her as she seems?" + +"She knows every thing about her, and visits her, too, in her very +questionable abode. You see, Judy, a report may be a fact, and yet be +untrue." + +"I'm not going to be lectured by a chit like you. But I should like to have +a little talk with Miss Clare." + +"I will make you an opportunity." + +I did so, and could not help overhearing a very pretty apology; to which +Miss Clare replied, that she feared she only was to blame, inasmuch as +she ought to have explained the peculiarity of her circumstances before +accepting the engagement. At the time, it had not appeared to her +necessary, she said; but now she would make a point of explaining before +she accepted any fresh duty of the kind, for she saw it would be fairer to +both parties. It was no wonder such an answer should entirely disarm cousin +Judy, who forthwith begged she would, if she had no objection, resume her +lessons with the children at the commencement of the next quarter. + +"But I understand from Mrs. Percivale," objected Miss Clare, "that the +office is filled to your thorough satisfaction." + +"Yes; the lady I have is an excellent teacher; but the engagement was only +for a quarter." + +"If you have no other reason for parting with her, I could not think of +stepping into her place. It would be a great disappointment to her, and my +want of openness with you would be the cause of it. If you should part with +her for any other reason, I should be very glad to serve you again." + +Judy tried to argue with her, but Miss Clare was immovable. + +"Will you let me come and see you, then?" said Judy. + +"With all my heart," she answered. "You had better come with Mrs. +Percivale, though, for it would not be easy for you to find the place." + +We went up to the drawing-room to tea, passing through the study, and +taking the gentlemen with us. Miss Clare played to us, and sang several +songs,--the last a ballad of Schiller's, "The Pilgrim," setting forth the +constant striving of the soul after something of which it never lays hold. +The last verse of it I managed to remember. It was this:-- + + Thither, ah! no footpath bendeth; + Ah! the heaven above, so clear, + Never, earth to touch, descendeth; + And the There is never Here!" + +"That is a beautiful song, and beautifully sung," said Mr. Blackstone; "but +I am a little surprised at your choosing to sing it, for you cannot call it +a Christian song." + +"Don't you find St. Paul saying something very like it again and again?" +Miss Clare returned with a smile, as if she perfectly knew what he objected +to. "You find him striving, journeying, pressing on, reaching out to lay +hold, but never having attained,--ever conscious of failure." + +"That is true; but there is this huge difference,--that St. Paul expects to +attain,--is confident of one day attaining; while Schiller, in that lyric +at least, seems--I only say seems--hopeless of any satisfaction: _Das Dort +ist niemals Hier._" + +"It may have been only a mood," said Miss Clare. "St. Paul had his moods +also, from which he had to rouse himself to fresh faith and hope and +effort." + +"But St. Paul writes only in his hopeful moods. Such alone he counts worthy +of sharing with his fellows. If there is no hope, why, upon any theory, +take the trouble to say so? It is pure weakness to desire sympathy in +hopelessness. Hope alone justifies as well as excites either utterance or +effort." + +"I admit all you say, Mr. Blackstone; and yet I think such a poem +invaluable; for is not Schiller therein the mouth of the whole creation +groaning and travailling and inarticulately crying out for the sonship?" + +"Unconsciously, then. He does not know what he wants." + +"_Apparently_, not. Neither does the creation. Neither do we. We do know +it is oneness with God we want; but of what that means we have only vague, +though glowing hints." + +I saw Mr. Morley scratch his left ear like a young calf, only more +impatiently. + +"But," Miss Clare went on, "is it not invaluable as the confession of one +of the noblest of spirits, that he had found neither repose nor sense of +attainment?" + +"But," said Roger, "did you ever know any one of those you call Christians +who professed to have reached satisfaction; or, if so, whose life would +justify you in believing him?" + +"I have never known a satisfied Christian, I confess," answered Miss Clare. +"Indeed, I should take satisfaction as a poor voucher for Christianity. +But I have known several contented Christians. I might, in respect of +one or two of them, use a stronger word,--certainly not _satisfied_. +I believe there is a grand, essential unsatisfaction,--I do not mean +dissatisfaction,--which adds the delight of expectation to the peace of +attainment; and that, I presume, is the very consciousness of heaven. But +where faith may not have produced even contentment, it will yet sustain +hope: which, if we may judge from the ballad, no mere aspiration can. We +must believe in a living ideal, before we can have a tireless heart; an +ideal which draws our poor vague ideal to itself, to fill it full and make +it alive." + +I should have been amazed to hear Miss Clare talk like this, had I not +often heard my father say that aspiration and obedience were the two +mightiest forces for development. Her own needs and her own deeds had been +her tutors; and the light by which she had read their lessons was the +candle of the Lord within her. + +When my husband would have put her into Lady Bernard's carriage, as they +were leaving, she said she should prefer walking home; and, as Lady Bernard +did not press her to the contrary, Percivale could not remonstrate. "I am +sorry I cannot walk with you, Miss Clare," he said. "_I_ must not leave my +duties, but"-- + +"There's not the slightest occasion," she interrupted. "I know every yard +of the way. Good-night." + +The carriage drove off in one direction, and Miss Clare tripped lightly +along in the other. Percivale darted into the house, and told Roger, who +snatched up his hat, and bounded after her. Already she was out of sight; +but he, following light-footed, overtook her in the crescent. It was, +however, only after persistent entreaty that he prevailed on her to allow +him to accompany her. + +"You do not know, Mr. Roger," she said pleasantly, "what you may be +exposing yourself to, in going with me. I may have to do something you +wouldn't like to have a share in." + +"I shall be only too glad to have the humblest share in any thing you draw +me into," said Roger. + +As it fell out, they had not gone far before they came upon a little crowd, +chiefly of boys, who ought to have been in bed long before, gathered +about a man and woman. The man was forcing his company on a woman who was +evidently annoyed that she could not get rid of him. + +"Is he your husband?" asked Miss Clare, making her way through the crowd. + +"No, miss," the woman answered. "I never saw him afore. I'm only just come +in from the country." + +She looked more angry than frightened. Roger said her black eyes flashed +dangerously, and she felt about the bosom of her dress--for a knife, he was +certain. + +"You leave her alone," he said to the man, getting between him and her. + +"Mind your own business," returned the man, in a voice that showed he was +drunk. + +For a moment Roger was undecided what to do; for he feared involving Miss +Clare in a _row_, as he called it. But when the fellow, pushing suddenly +past him, laid his hand on Miss Clare, and shoved her away, he gave +him a blow that sent him staggering into the street; whereupon, to his +astonishment, Miss Clare, leaving the woman, followed the man, and as soon +as he had recovered his equilibrium, laid her hand on his arm and spoke to +him, but in a voice so low and gentle that Roger, who had followed her, +could not hear a word she said. For a moment or two the man seemed to try +to listen, but his condition was too much for him; and, turning from her, +he began again to follow the woman, who was now walking wearily away. Roger +again interposed. + +"Don't strike him, Mr. Roger," cried Miss Clare: "he's too drunk for that. +But keep him back if you can, while I take the woman away. If I see a +policeman, I will send him." + +The man heard her last words, and they roused him to fury. He rushed at +Roger, who, implicitly obedient, only dodged to let him pass, and again +confronted him, engaging his attention until help arrived. He was, however, +by this time so fierce and violent, that Roger felt bound to assist the +policeman. + +As soon as the man was locked up, he went to Lime Court. The moon was +shining, and the narrow passage lay bright beneath her. Along the street, +people were going and coming, though it was past midnight, but the court +was very still. He walked into it as far as the spot where we had together +seen Miss Clare. The door at which she had entered was open; but he knew +nothing of the house or its people, and feared to compromise her by making +inquiries. He walked several times up and down, somewhat anxious, but +gradually persuading himself that in all probability no further annoyance +had befallen her; until at last he felt able to leave the place. + +He came back to our house, where, finding his brother at his final pipe in +the study, he told him all about their adventure. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +MY FIRST TERROR. + + +One of the main discomforts in writing a book is, that there are so many +ways in which every thing, as it comes up, might be told, and you can't +tell which is the best. You believe there must be a _best_ way; but +you might spend your life in trying to satisfy yourself which was that +best way, and, when you came to the close of it, find you had done +nothing,--hadn't even found out the way. I have always to remind myself +that something, even if it be far from the best thing, is better than +nothing. Perhaps the only way to arrive at the best way is to make plenty +of blunders, and find them out. + +This morning I had been sitting a long time with my pen in my hand, +thinking what this chapter ought to be about,--that is, what part of my own +history, or of that of my neighbors interwoven therewith, I ought to take +up next,--when my third child, my little Cecilia, aged five, came into the +room, and said,-- + +"Mamma, there's a poor man at the door, and Jemima won't give him any +thing." + +"Quite right, my dear. We must give what we can to people we know. We are +sure then that it is not wasted." + +"But he's so _very_ poor, mamma!" + +"How do you know that?" + +"Poor man! he has _only_ three children. I heard him tell Jemima. He was +_so_ sorry! And _I_'m very sorry, too." + +"But don't you know you mustn't go to the door when any one is talking to +Jemima?" I said. + +"Yes, mamma. I didn't go to the door: I stood in the hall and peeped." + +"But you mustn't even stand in the hall," I said. "Mind that." + +This was, perhaps, rather an oppressive reading of a proper enough rule; +but I had a very special reason for it, involving an important event in my +story, which occurred about two years after what I have last set down. + +One morning Percivale took a holiday in order to give me one, and we went +to spend it at Richmond. It was the anniversary of our marriage; and as +we wanted to enjoy it thoroughly, and, precious as children are, _every_ +pleasure is not enhanced by their company, we left ours at home,--Ethel and +her brother Roger (named after Percivale's father), who was now nearly a +year old, and wanted a good deal of attention. It was a lovely day, with +just a sufficient number of passing clouds to glorify--that is, to do +justice to--the sunshine, and a gentle breeze, which itself seemed to +be taking a holiday, for it blew only just when you wanted it, and then +only enough to make you think of that wind which, blowing where it lists, +always blows where it is wanted. We took the train to Hammersmith; for my +husband, having consulted the tide-table, and found that the river would be +propitious, wished to row me from there to Richmond. How gay the river-side +looked, with its fine broad landing stage, and the numberless boats +ready to push off on the swift water, which kept growing and growing on +the shingly shore! Percivale, however, would hire his boat at a certain +builder's shed, that I might see it. That shed alone would have been worth +coming to see--such a picture of loveliest gloom--as if it had been the +cave where the twilight abode its time! You could not tell whether to call +it light or shade,--that diffused presence of a soft elusive brown; but +is what we call shade any thing but subdued light? All about, above, and +below, lay the graceful creatures of the water, moveless and dead here on +the shore, but there--launched into their own elemental world, and blown +upon by the living wind--endowed at once with life and motion and quick +response. + +Not having been used to boats, I felt nervous as we got into the long, +sharp-nosed, hollow fish which Percivale made them shoot out on the rising +tide; but the slight fear vanished almost the moment we were afloat, +when, ignorant as I was of the art of rowing, I could not help seeing how +perfectly Percivale was at home in it. The oars in his hands were like +knitting-needles in mine, so deftly, so swimmingly, so variously, did he +wield them. Only once my fear returned, when he stood up in the swaying +thing--a mere length without breadth--to pull off his coat and waistcoat; +but he stood steady, sat down gently, took his oars quietly, and the same +instant we were shooting so fast through the rising tide that it seemed as +if _we_ were pulling the water up to Richmond. + +"Wouldn't you like to steer?" said my husband. "It would amuse you." + +"I should like to learn," I said,--"not that I want to be amused; I am too +happy to care for amusement." + +"Take those two cords behind you, then, one in each hand, sitting between +them. That will do. Now, if you want me to go to your right, pull your +right-hand cord; if you want me to go to your left, pull your left-hand +one." + +I made an experiment or two, and found the predicted consequences follow: I +ran him aground, first on one bank, then on the other. But when I did so a +third time,-- + +"Come! come!" he said: "this won't do, Mrs. Percivale. You're not trying +your best. There is such a thing as gradation in steering as well as in +painting, or music, or any thing else that is worth doing." + +"I pull the right line, don't I?" I said; for I was now in a mood to tease +him. + +"Yes--to a wrong result," he answered. "You must feel your rudder, as you +would the mouth of your horse with the bit, and not do any thing violent, +except in urgent necessity." + +I answered by turning the head of the boat right towards the nearer bank. + +"I see!" he said, with a twinkle in his eyes. "I have put a dangerous power +into your hands. But never mind. The queen may decree as she likes; but the +sinews of war, you know"-- + +I thought he meant that if I went on with my arbitrary behavior, he would +drop his oars; and for a little while I behaved better. Soon, however, the +spirit of mischief prompting me, I began my tricks again: to my surprise I +found that I had no more command over the boat than over the huge barge, +which, with its great red-brown sail, was slowly ascending in front of us; +I couldn't turn its head an inch in the direction I wanted. + +"What does it mean, Percivale?" I cried, pulling with all my might, and +leaning forward that I might pull the harder. + +"What does what mean?" he returned coolly. + +"That I can't move the boat." + +"Oh! It means that I have resumed the reins of government." + +"But how? I can't understand it." + +"And I am wiser than to make you too wise. Education is _not_ a panacea for +moral evils. I quote your father, my dear." + +And he pulled away as if nothing were the matter. + +"Please, I like steering," I said remonstratingly. "And I like rowing." + +"I don't see why the two shouldn't go together." + +"Nor I. They ought. But not only does the steering depend on the rowing, +but the rower can steer himself." + +"I will be a good girl, and steer properly." + +"Very well; steer away." + +He looked shorewards as he spoke; and then first I became aware that he had +been watching my hands all the time. The boat now obeyed my lightest touch. + +How merrily the water rippled in the sun and the wind! while so responsive +were our feelings to the play of light and shade around us, that more than +once when a cloud crossed us, I saw its shadow turn almost into sadness +on the countenance of my companion,--to vanish the next moment when the +one sun above and the thousand mimic suns below shone out in universal +laughter. When a steamer came in sight, or announced its approach by the +far-heard sound of its beating paddles, it brought with it a few moments of +almost awful responsibility; but I found that the presence of danger and +duty together, instead of making me feel flurried, composed my nerves, and +enabled me to concentrate my whole attention on getting the head of the +boat as nearly as possible at right angles with the waves from the paddles; +for Percivale had told me that if one of any size struck us on the side, it +would most probably capsize us. But the way to give pleasure to my readers +can hardly be to let myself grow garrulous in the memory of an ancient +pleasure of my own. I will say nothing more of the delights of that day. +They were such a contrast to its close, that twelve months at least elapsed +before I was able to look back upon them without a shudder; for I could not +rid myself of the foolish feeling that our enjoyment had been somehow +to blame for what was happening at home while we were thus revelling in +blessed carelessness. + +When we reached our little nest, rather late in the evening, I found to +my annoyance that the front door was open. It had been a fault of which +I thought I had cured the cook,--to leave it thus when she ran out to +fetch any thing. Percivale went down to the study; and I walked into the +drawing-room, about to ring the bell in anger. There, to my surprise and +farther annoyance, I found Sarah, seated on the sofa with her head in her +hands, and little Roger wide awake on the floor. + +"What _does_ this mean?" I cried. "The front door open! Master Roger still +up! and you seated in the drawing-room!" + +"O ma'am!" she almost shrieked, starting up the moment I spoke, and, by the +time I had put my angry interrogation, just able to gasp out--"Have you +found her, ma'am?" + +"Found whom?" I returned in alarm, both at the question and at the face of +the girl; for through the dusk I now saw that it was very pale, and that +her eyes were red with crying. + +"Miss Ethel," she answered in a cry choked with a sob; and dropping again +on the sofa, she hid her face once more between her hands. + +I rushed to the study-door, and called Percivale; then returned to question +the girl. I wonder now that I did nothing outrageous; but fear kept down +folly, and made me unnaturally calm. + +"Sarah," I said, as quietly as I could, while I trembled all over, "tell me +what has happened. Where is the child?" + +"Indeed it's not my fault, ma'am. I was busy with Master Roger, and Miss +Ethel was down stairs with Jemima." + +"Where is she?" I repeated sternly. + +"I don't know no more than the man in the moon, ma'am." + +"Where's Jemima?" + +"Run out to look for her?" + +"How long have you missed her?" + +"An hour. Or perhaps two hours. I don't know, my head's in such a whirl. I +can't remember when I saw her last. O ma'am! What _shall_ I do?" + +Percivale had come up, and was standing beside me. When I looked round, he +was as pale as death; and at the sight of his face, I nearly dropped on the +floor. But he caught hold of me, and said, in a voice so dreadfully still +that it frightened me more than any thing,-- + +"Come, my love; do not give way, for we must go to the police at once." +Then, turning to Sarah, "Have you searched the house and garden?" he asked. + +"Yes, sir; every hole and corner. We've looked under every bed, and into +every cupboard and chest,--the coal-cellar, the boxroom,--everywhere." + +"The bathroom?" I cried. + +"Oh, yes, ma'am! the bathroom, and everywhere." + +"Have there been any tramps about the house since we left?" Percivale +asked. + +"Not that I know of; but the nursery window looks into the garden, you +know, sir. Jemima didn't mention it." + +"Come then, my dear," said my husband. + +He compelled me to swallow a glass of wine, and led me away, almost +unconscious of my bodily movements, to the nearest cab-stand. I wondered +afterwards, when I recalled the calm gaze with which he glanced along the +line, and chose the horse whose appearance promised the best speed. In a +few minutes we were telling the inspector at the police-station in Albany +Street what had happened. He took a sheet of paper, and asking one question +after another about her age, appearance, and dress, wrote down our answers. +He then called a man, to whom he gave the paper, with some words of +direction. + +"The men are now going on their beats for the night," he said, turning +again to us. "They will all hear the description of the child, and some of +them have orders to search." + +"Thank you," said my husband. "Which station had we better go to next?" + +"The news will be at the farthest before you can reach the nearest," he +answered. "We shall telegraph to the suburbs first." + +"Then what more is there we can do?" asked Percivale. + +"Nothing," said the inspector,--"except you find out whether any of the +neighbors saw her, and when and where. It would be something to know in +what direction she was going. Have you any ground for suspicion? Have you +ever discharged a servant? Were any tramps seen about the place?" + +"I know, who it is!" I cried. "It's the woman that took Theodora! It's +Theodora's mother! I know it is!" + +Percivale explained what I meant. + +"That's what people get, you see, when they take on themselves other +people's business," returned the inspector. "That child ought to have been +sent to the workhouse." + +He laid his head on his hand for a moment. + +"It seems likely enough," he added. Then after another pause--"I have your +address. The child shall be brought back to you the moment she's found. We +can't mistake her after your description." + +"Where are you going now?" I said to my husband, as we left the station to +re-enter the cab. + +"I don't know," he answered, "except we go home and question all the shops +in the neighborhood." + +"Let us go to Miss Clare first," I said. + +"By all means," he answered. + +We were soon at the entrance of Lime Court. + +When we turned the corner in the middle of it, we heard the sound of a +piano. + +"She's at home!" I cried, with a feeble throb of satisfaction. The fear +that she might be out had for the last few moments been uppermost. + +We entered the house, and ascended the stairs in haste. Not a creature +did we meet, except a wicked-looking cat. The top of her head was black, +her forehead and face white; and the black and white were shaped so as to +look like hair parted over a white forehead, which gave her green eyes a +frightfully human look as she crouched in the corner of a window-sill in +the light of a gas-lamp outside. But before we reached the top of the first +stair we heard the sounds of dancing, as well as of music. In a moment +after, with our load of gnawing fear and helpless eagerness, we stood in +the midst of a merry assembly of men, women, and children, who filled Miss +Clare's room to overflowing. It was Saturday night, and they were gathered +according to custom for their weekly music. + +They made a way for us; and Miss Clare left the piano, and came to meet us +with a smile on her beautiful face. But, when she saw our faces, hers fell. + +"What _is_ the matter, Mrs. Percivale?" she asked in alarm. + +I sunk on the chair from which she had risen. + +"We've lost Ethel," said my husband quietly. + +"What do you mean? You don't"-- + +"No, no: she's gone; she's stolen. We don't know where she is," he answered +with faltering voice. "We've just been to the police." + +Miss Clare turned white; but, instead of making any remark, she called +out to some of her friends whose good manners were making them leave the +room,-- + +"Don't go, please; we want you." Then turning to me, she asked, "May I do +as I think best?" + +"Yes, certainly," answered my husband. + +"My friend, Mrs. Percivale," she said, addressing the whole assembly, "has +lost her little girl." + +A murmur of dismay and sympathy arose. + +"What can we do to find her?" she went on. + +They fell to talking among themselves. The next instant, two men came up +to us, making their way from the neighborhood of the door. The one was a +keen-faced, elderly man, with iron-gray whiskers and clean-shaved chin; the +other was my first acquaintance in the neighborhood, the young bricklayer. +The elder addressed my husband, while the other listened without speaking. + +"Tell us what she's like, sir, and how she was dressed--though that ain't +much use. She'll be all different by this time." + +The words shot a keener pang to my heart than it had yet felt. My darling +stripped of her nice clothes, and covered with dirty, perhaps infected +garments. But it was no time to give way to feeling. + +My husband repeated to the men the description he had given the police, +loud enough for the whole room to hear; and the women in particular, Miss +Clare told me afterwards, caught it up with remarkable accuracy. They would +not have done so, she said, but that their feelings were touched. + +"Tell them also, please, Mr. Percivale, about the child Mrs. Percivale's +father and mother found and brought up. That may have something to do with +this." + +My husband told them all the story; adding that the mother of the child +might have found out who we were, and taken ours as a pledge for the +recovery of her own. + +Here one of the women spoke. + +"That dark woman you took in one night--two years ago, miss--she say +something. I was astin' of her in the mornin' what her trouble was, for +that trouble _she_ had on _her_ mind was plain to see, and she come over +something, half-way like, about losin' of a child; but whether it were +dead, or strayed, or stolen, or what, I couldn't tell; and no more, I +believe, she wanted me to." + +Here another woman spoke. + +"I'm 'most sure I saw her--the same woman--two days ago, and no furrer off +than Gower Street," she said. "You're too good by half, miss," she went on, +"to the likes of sich. They ain't none of them respectable." + +"Perhaps you'll see some good come out of it before long," said Miss Clare +in reply. + +The words sounded like a rebuke, for all this time I had hardly sent a +thought upwards for help. The image of my child had so filled my heart, +that there was no room left for the thought of duty, or even of God. + +Miss Clare went on, still addressing the company, and her words had a tone +of authority. + +"I will tell you what you must do," she said. "You must, every one of you, +run and tell everybody you know, and tell every one to tell everybody else. +You mustn't stop to talk it over with each other, or let those you tell +it to stop to talk to you about it; for it is of the greatest consequence +no time should be lost in making it as quickly and as widely known as +possible. Go, please." + +In a few moments the room was empty of all but ourselves. The rush on the +stairs was tremendous for a single minute, and then all was still. Even the +children had rushed out to tell what other children they could find. + +"What must we do next?" said my husband. + +Miss Clare thought for a moment. + +"I would go and tell Mr. Blackstone," she said. "It is a long way from +here, but whoever has taken the child would not be likely to linger in the +neighborhood. It is best to try every thing." + +"Right," said my husband. "Come, Wynnie." + +"Wouldn't it be better to leave Mrs. Percivale with me?" said Miss Clare. +"It is dreadfully fatiguing to go driving over the stones." + +It was very kind of her; but if she had been a mother she would not have +thought of parting me from my husband; neither would she have fancied that +I could remain inactive so long as it was possible even to imagine I was +doing something; but when I told her how I felt, she saw at once that it +would be better for me to go. + +We set off instantly, and drove to Mr. Blackstone's. What a long way it +was! Down Oxford Street and Holborn we rattled and jolted, and then through +many narrow ways in which I had never been, emerging at length in a broad +road, with many poor and a few fine old houses in it; then again plunging +into still more shabby regions of small houses, which, alas! were new, and +yet wretched! At length, near an open space, where yet not a blade of grass +could grow for the trampling of many feet, and for the smoke from tall +chimneys, close by a gasometer of awful size, we found the parsonage, and +Mr. Blackstone in his study. The moment he heard our story he went to the +door and called his servant. "Run, Jabez," he said, "and tell the sexton to +ring the church-bell. I will come to him directly I hear it." + +I may just mention that Jabez and his wife, who formed the whole of Mr. +Blackstone's household, did not belong to his congregation, but were +members of a small community in the neighborhood, calling themselves +Peculiar Baptists. + +About ten minutes passed, during which little was said: Mr. Blackstone +never seemed to have any mode of expressing his feelings except action, and +where that was impossible they took hardly any recognizable shape. When the +first boom of the big bell filled the little study in which we sat, I gave +a cry, and jumped up from my chair: it sounded in my ears like the knell of +my lost baby, for at the moment I was thinking of her as once when a baby +she lay for dead in my arms. Mr. Blackstone got up and left the room, and +my husband rose and would have followed him; but, saying he would be back +in a few minutes, he shut the door and left us. It was half an hour, a +dreadful half-hour, before he returned; for to sit doing nothing, not even +being carried somewhere to do something, was frightful. + +"I've told them all about it," he said. "I couldn't do better than follow +Miss Clare's example. But my impression is, that, if the woman you suspect +be the culprit, she would make her way out to the open as quickly as +possible. Such people are most at home on the commons: they are of a less +gregarious nature than the wild animals of the town. What shall you do +next?" + +"That is just what I want to know," answered my husband. + +He never asked advice except when he did not know what to do; and never +except from one whose advice he meant to follow. + +"Well," returned Mr. Blackstone, "I should put an advertisement into every +one of the morning papers." + +"But the offices will all be closed," said Percivale. + +"Yes, the publishing, but not the printing offices." + +"How am I to find out where they are?" + +"I know one or two of them, and the people there will tell us the rest." + +"Then you mean to go with us?" + +"Of course I do,--that is, if you will have me. You don't think I would +leave you to go alone? Have you had any supper?" + +"No. Would you like something, my dear?" said Percivale turning to me. + +"I couldn't swallow a mouthful," I said. + +"Nor I either," said Percivale. + +"Then I'll just take a hunch of bread with me," said Mr. Blackstone, "for I +am hungry. I've had nothing since one o'clock." + +We neither asked him not to go, nor offered to wait till he had had his +supper. Before we reached Printing-House Square he had eaten half a loaf. + +"Are you sure," said my husband, as we were starting, "that they will take +an advertisement at the printing-office?" + +"I think they will. The circumstances are pressing. They will see that we +are honest people, and will make a push to help us. But for any thing I +know it may be quite _en règle_." + +"We must pay, though," said Percivale, putting his hand in his pocket, +and taking out his purse. "There! Just as I feared! No money!--Two--three +shillings--and sixpence!" + +Mr. Blackstone stopped the cab. + +"I've not got as much," he said. "But it's of no consequence. I'll run and +write a check." + +"But where can you change it? The little shops about here won't be able." + +"There's the Blue Posts." + +"Let me take it, then. You won't be seen going into a public-house?" said +Percivale. + +"Pooh! pooh!" said Mr. Blackstone. "Do you think my character won't stand +that much? Besides, they wouldn't change it for you. But when I think of +it, I used the last check in my book in the beginning of the week. Never +mind; they will lend me five pounds." + +We drove to the Blue Posts. He got out, and returned in one minute with +five sovereigns. + +"What will people say to your borrowing five pounds at a public-house?" +said Percivale. + +"If they say what is right, it won't hurt me." + +"But if they say what is wrong?" + +"That they can do any time, and that won't hurt me, either." + +"But what will the landlord himself think?" + +"I have no doubt he feels grateful to me for being so friendly. You can't +oblige a man more than by asking a _light_ favor of him." + +"Do you think it well in your position to be obliged to a man in his?" +asked Percivale. + +"I do. I am glad of the chance. It will bring me into friendly relations +with him." + +"Do you wish, then, to be in friendly relations with him?" + +"Indubitably. In what other relations do you suppose a clergyman ought to +be with one of his parishioners?" + +"You didn't invite _him_ into your parish, I presume." + +"No; and he didn't invite me. The thing was settled in higher quarters. +There we are, anyhow; and I have done quite a stroke of business in +borrowing that money of him." + +Mr. Blackstone laughed, and the laugh sounded frightfully harsh in my ears. + +"A man"--my husband went on, who was surprised that a clergyman should +be so liberal--"a man who sells drink!--in whose house so many of your +parishioners will to-morrow night get too drunk to be in church the next +morning!" + +"I wish having been drunk were what _would_ keep them from being in church. +Drunk or sober, it would be all the same. Few of them care to go. They are +turning out better, however, than when first I came. As for the publican, +who knows what chance of doing him a good turn it may put in my way?" + +"You don't expect to persuade him to shut up shop?" + +"No: he must persuade himself to that." + +"What good, then, can you expect to do him?" + +"Who knows? I say. You can't tell what good may or may not come out of it, +any more than you can tell which of your efforts, or which of your helpers, +may this night be the means of restoring your child." + +"What do you expect the man to say about it?" + +"I shall provide him with something to say. I don't want him to attribute +it to some foolish charity. He might. In the New Testament, publicans are +acknowledged to have hearts." + +"Yes; but the word has a very different meaning in the New Testament." + +"The feeling religious people bear towards them, however, comes very near +to that with which society regarded the publicans of old." + +"They are far more hurtful to society than those tax-gatherers." + +"They may be. I dare say they are. Perhaps they are worse than the sinners +with whom their namesakes of the New Testament are always coupled." + +I will not follow the conversation further. I will only give the close of +it. Percivale told me afterwards that he had gone on talking in the hope of +diverting my thoughts a little. + +"What, then, do you mean to tell him?" asked Percivale. + +"The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," said Mr. +Blackstone. "I shall go in to-morrow morning, just at the time when there +will probably be far too many people at the bar,--a little after noon. I +shall return him his five sovereigns, ask for a glass of ale, and tell him +the whole story,--how my friend, the celebrated painter, came with his +wife,--and the rest of it, adding, I trust, that the child is all right, +and at the moment probably going out for a walk with her mother, who won't +let her out of her sight for a moment." + +He laughed again, and again I thought him heartless; but I understand him +better now. I wondered, too, that Percivale _could_ go on talking, and yet +I found that their talk did make the time go a little quicker. At length we +reached the printing-office of "The Times,"--near Blackfriars' Bridge, I +think. + +After some delay, we saw an overseer, who, curt enough at first, became +friendly when he heard our case. If he had not had children of his own, we +might perhaps have fared worse. He took down the description and address, +and promised that the advertisement should appear in the morning's paper in +the best place he could now find for it. + +Before we left, we received minute directions as to the whereabouts of the +next nearest office. We spent the greater part of the night in driving from +one printing-office to another. Mr. Blackstone declared he would not leave +us until we had found her. + +"You have to preach twice to-morrow," said Percivale: it was then three +o'clock. + +"I shall preach all the better," he returned. "Yes: I feel as if I should +give them _one_ good sermon to-morrow." + +"The man talks as if the child were found already!" I thought, with +indignation. "It's a pity he hasn't a child of his own! he would be more +sympathetic." At the same time, if I had been honest, I should have +confessed to myself that his confidence and hope helped to keep me up. + +At last, having been to the printing-office of every daily paper in London, +we were on our dreary way home. + +Oh, how dreary it was!--and the more dreary that the cool, sweet light of a +spring dawn was growing in every street, no smoke having yet begun to pour +from the multitudinous chimneys to sully its purity! From misery and want +of sleep, my soul and body both felt like a gray foggy night. Every now and +then the thought of my child came with a fresh pang,--not that she was one +moment absent from me, but that a new thought about her would dart a new +sting into the ever-burning throb of the wound. If you had asked me the one +blessed thing in the world, I should have said _sleep_--with my husband +and children beside me. But I dreaded sleep now, both for its visions and +for the frightful waking. Now and then I would start violently, thinking I +heard my Ethel cry; but from the cab-window no child was ever to be seen, +down all the lonely street. Then I would sink into a succession of efforts +to picture to myself her little face,--white with terror and misery, and +smeared with the dirt of the pitiful hands that rubbed the streaming +eyes. They might have beaten her! she might have cried herself to sleep +in some wretched hovel; or, worse, in some fever-stricken and crowded +lodging-house, with horrible sights about her and horrible voices in her +ears! Or she might at that moment be dragged wearily along a country-road, +farther and farther from her mother! I could have shrieked, and torn my +hair. What if I should never see her again? She might be murdered, and I +never know it! O my darling! my darling! + +At the thought a groan escaped me. A hand was laid on my arm. That I knew +was my husband's. But a voice was in my ear, and that was Mr. Blackstone's. + +"Do you think God loves the child less than you do? Or do you think he is +less able to take care of her than you are? When the disciples thought +themselves sinking, Jesus rebuked them for being afraid. Be still, and you +will see the hand of God in this. Good you cannot foresee will come out of +it." + +I could not answer him, but I felt both rebuked and grateful. + +All at once I thought of Roger. What would he say when he found that his +pet was gone, and we had never told him? + +"Roger!" I said to my husband. "We've never told him!" + +"Let us go now," he returned. + +We were at the moment close to North Crescent. After a few thundering raps +at the door, the landlady came down. Percivale rushed up, and in a few +minutes returned with Roger. They got into the cab. A great talk followed; +but I heard hardly any thing, or rather I heeded nothing. I only recollect +that Roger was very indignant with his brother for having been out all +night without him to help. + +"I never thought of you, Roger," said Percivale. + +"So much the worse!" said Roger. + +"No," said Mr. Blackstone. "A thousand things make us forget. I dare say +your brother all but forgot God in the first misery of his loss. To have +thought of you, and not to have told you, would have been another thing." + +A few minutes after, we stopped at our desolate house, and the cabman +was dismissed with one of the sovereigns from the Blue Posts. I wondered +afterwards what manner of man or woman had changed it there. A dim light +was burning in the drawing-room. Percivale took his pass-key, and opened +the door. I hurried in, and went straight to my own room; for I longed +to be alone that I might weep--nor weep only. I fell on my knees by the +bedside, buried my face, and sobbed, and tried to pray. But I could not +collect my thoughts; and, overwhelmed by a fresh access of despair, I +started again to my feet. + +Could I believe my eyes? What was that in the bed? Trembling as with +an ague,--in terror lest the vision should by vanishing prove itself +a vision,--I stooped towards it. I heard a breathing! It was the fair +hair and the rosy face of my darling--fast asleep--without one trace of +suffering on her angelic loveliness! I remember no more for a while. They +tell me I gave a great cry, and fell on the floor. When I came to myself +I was lying on the bed. My husband was bending over me, and Roger and +Mr. Blackstone were both in the room. I could not speak, but my husband +understood my questioning gaze. + +"Yes, yes, my love," he said quietly: "she's all right--safe and sound, +thank God!" + +And I did thank God. + +Mr. Blackstone came to the bedside, with a look and a smile that seemed to +my conscience to say, "I told you so." I held out my hand to him, but could +only weep. Then I remembered how we had vexed Roger, and called him. + +"Dear Roger," I said, "forgive me, and go and tell Miss Clare." + +I had some reason to think this the best amends I could make him. + +"I will go at once," he said. "She will be anxious." + +"And I will go to my sermon," said Mr. Blackstone, with the same quiet +smile. + +They shook hands with me, and went away. And my husband and I rejoiced over +our first-born. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +ITS SEQUEL. + + +My darling was recovered neither through Miss Clare's injunctions nor Mr. +Blackstone's bell-ringing. A woman was walking steadily westward, carrying +the child asleep in her arms, when a policeman stopped her at Turnham +Green. She betrayed no fear, only annoyance, and offered no resistance, +only begged he would not wake the child, or take her from her. He brought +them in a cab to the police-station, whence the child was sent home. As +soon as she arrived, Sarah gave her a warm bath, and put her to bed; but +she scarcely opened her eyes. + +Jemima had run about the streets till midnight, and then fallen asleep on +the doorstep, where the policeman found her when he brought the child. +For a week she went about like one dazed; and the blunders she made were +marvellous. She ordered a brace of cod from the poulterer, and a pound of +anchovies at the crockery shop. One day at dinner, we could not think how +the chops were so pulpy, and we got so many bits of bone in our mouth: she +had powerfully beaten them, as if they had been steaks. She sent up melted +butter for bread-sauce, and stuffed a hare with sausages. + +After breakfast, Percivale walked to the police-station, to thank the +inspector, pay what expenses had been incurred, and see the woman. I was +not well enough to go with him. My Marion is a white-faced thing, and her +eyes look much too big for her small face. I suggested that he should take +Miss Clare. As it was early, he was fortunate enough to find her at home, +and she accompanied him willingly, and at once recognized the woman as the +one she had befriended. + +He told the magistrate he did not wish to punish her, but that there were +certain circumstances which made him desirous of detaining her until +a gentleman, who, he believed, could identify her, should arrive. The +magistrate therefore remanded her. + +The next day but one my father came. When he saw her, he had little doubt +she was the same that had carried off Theo; but he could not be absolutely +certain, because he had seen her only by moonlight. He told the magistrate +the whole story, saying, that, if she should prove the mother of the +child, he was most anxious to try what he could do for her. The magistrate +expressed grave doubts whether he would find it possible to befriend her +to any effectual degree. My father said he would try, if he could but be +certain she was the mother. + +"If she stole the child merely to compel the restitution of her own," he +said. "I cannot regard her conduct with any abhorrence. But, if she is not +the mother of the child, I must leave her to the severity of the law." + +"I once discharged a woman," said the magistrate, "who had committed the +same offence, for I was satisfied she had done so purely from the desire to +possess the child." + +"But might not a thief say he was influenced merely by the desire to add +another sovereign to his hoard?" + +"The greed of the one is a natural affection; that of the other a vice." + +"But the injury to the loser is far greater in the one case than in the +other." + +"To set that off, however, the child is more easily discovered. Besides, +the false appetite grows with indulgence; whereas one child would still the +natural one." + +"Then you would allow her to go on stealing child after child, until she +succeeded in keeping one," said my father, laughing. + +"I dismissed her with the warning, that, if ever she did so again, this +would be brought up against her, and she would have the severest punishment +the law could inflict. It may be right to pass a first offence, and wrong +to pass a second. I tried to make her measure the injury done to the +mother, by her own sorrow at losing the child; and I think not without +effect. At all events, it was some years ago, and I have not heard of her +again." + +Now came in the benefit of the kindness Miss Clare had shown the woman. I +doubt if any one else could have got the truth from her. Even she found it +difficult; for to tell her that if she was Theo's mother she should not +be punished, might be only to tempt her to lie. All Miss Clare could do +was to assure her of the kindness of every one concerned, and to urge her +to disclose her reasons for doing such a grievous wrong as steal another +woman's child. + +"They stole my child," she blurted out at last, when the cruelty of the +action was pressed upon her. + +"Oh, no!" said Miss Clare: "you left her to die in the cold." + +"No, no!" she cried. "I wanted somebody to hear her, and take her in. I +wasn't far off, and was just going to take her again, when I saw a light, +and heard them searching for her. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" + +"Then how can you say they stole her? You would have had no child at all, +but for them. She was nearly dead when they found her. And in return you go +and steal their grandchild!" + +"They took her from me afterwards. They wouldn't let me have my own flesh +and blood. I wanted to let them know what it was to have _their_ child +taken from them." + +"How could they tell she was your child, when you stole her away like a +thief? It might, for any thing they knew, be some other woman stealing her, +as you stole theirs the other day? What would have become of you if it had +been so?" + +To this reasoning she made no answer. + +"I want my child; I want my child," she moaned. Then breaking out--"I shall +kill myself if I don't get my child!" she cried. "Oh, lady, you don't know +what it is to have a child and not have her! I shall kill myself if they +don't give me her back. They can't say I did their child any harm. I was as +good to her as if she had been my own." + +"They know that quite well, and don't want to punish you. Would you like to +see your child?" + +She clasped her hands above her head, fell on her knees at Miss Clare's +feet, and looked up in her face without uttering a word. + +"I will speak to Mr. Walton," said Miss Clare; and left her. + +The next morning she was discharged, at the request of my husband, who +brought her home with him. + +Sympathy with the mother-passion in her bosom had melted away all my +resentment. She was a fine young woman, of about five and twenty, though +her weather-browned complexion made her look at first much older. With the +help of the servants, I persuaded her to have a bath, during which they +removed her clothes, and substituted others. She objected to putting them +on; seemed half-frightened at them, as if they might involve some shape of +bondage, and begged to have her own again. At last Jemima, who, although so +sparingly provided with brains, is not without genius, prevailed upon her, +insisting that her little girl would turn away from her if she wasn't well +dressed, for she had been used to see ladies about her. With a deep sigh, +she yielded; begging, however, to have her old garments restored to her. + +She had brought with her a small bundle, tied up in a cotton handkerchief; +and from it she now took a scarf of red silk, and twisted it up with her +black hair in a fashion I had never seen before. In this head-dress she +had almost a brilliant look; while her carriage had a certain dignity +hard of association with poverty--not inconsistent, however, with what +I have since learned about the gypsies. My husband admired her even more +than I did, and made a very good sketch of her. Her eyes were large and +dark--unquestionably fine; and if there was not much of the light of +thought in them, they had a certain wildness which in a measure made up for +the want. She had rather a Spanish than an Eastern look, I thought, with an +air of defiance that prevented me from feeling at ease with her; but in the +presence of Miss Clare she seemed humbler, and answered her questions more +readily than ours. If Ethel was in the room, her eyes would be constantly +wandering after her, with a wistful, troubled, eager look. Surely, the +mother-passion must have infinite relations and destinies. + +As I was unable to leave home, my father persuaded Miss Clare to accompany +him and help him to take charge of her. I confess it was a relief to me +when she left the house; for though I wanted to be as kind to her as I +could, I felt considerable discomfort in her presence. + +When Miss Clare returned, the next day but one, I found she had got from +her the main points of her history, fully justifying previous conjectures +of my father's, founded on what he knew of the character and customs of the +gypsies. + +She belonged to one of the principal gypsy families in this country. The +fact that they had no settled habitation, but lived in tents, like Abraham +and Isaac, had nothing to do with poverty. The silver buttons on her +father's coat, were, she said, worth nearly twenty pounds; and when a +friend of any distinction came to tea with them, they spread a table-cloth +of fine linen on the grass, and set out upon it the best of china, and a +tea-service of hall-marked silver. She said her friends--as much as any +gentleman in the land--scorned stealing; and affirmed that no real gypsy +would "risk his neck for his belly," except he were driven by hunger. All +her family could read, she said, and carried a big Bible about with them. + +One summer they were encamped for several months in the neighborhood of +Edinburgh, making horn-spoons and baskets, and some of them working in tin. +There they were visited by a clergyman, who talked and read the Bible to +them, and prayed with them. But all their visitors were not of the same +sort with him. One of them was a young fellow of loose character, a clerk +in the city, who, attracted by her appearance, prevailed upon her to meet +him often. She was not then eighteen. Any aberration from the paths of +modesty is exceedingly rare among the gypsies, and regarded with severity; +and her father, hearing of this, gave her a terrible punishment with the +whip he used in driving his horses. In terror of what would follow when the +worst came to be known, she ran away; and, soon forsaken by her so-called +lover, wandered about, a common vagrant, until her baby was born--under the +stars, on a summer night, in a field of long grass. + +For some time she wandered up and down, longing to join some tribe of her +own people, but dreading unspeakably the disgrace of her motherhood. At +length, having found a home for her child, she associated herself with a +gang of gypsies of inferior character, amongst whom she had many hardships +to endure. Things, however, bettered a little after one of their number +was hanged for stabbing a cousin, and her position improved. It was not, +however, any intention of carrying off her child to share her present lot, +but the urgings of mere mother-hunger for a sight of her, that drove her +to the Hall. When she had succeeded in enticing her out of sight of the +house, however, the longing to possess her grew fierce; and braving all +consequences, or rather, I presume, unable to weigh them, she did carry her +away. Foiled in this attempt, and seeing that her chances of future success +in any similar one were diminished by it, she sought some other plan. +Learning that one of the family was married, and had removed to London, +she succeeded, through gypsy acquaintances who lodged occasionally near +Tottenham Court Road, in finding out where we lived, and carried off Ethel +with the vague intent, as we had rightly conjectured, of using her as a +means for the recovery of her own child. + +Theodora was now about seven years of age--almost as wild as ever. Although +tolerably obedient, she was not nearly so much so as the other children had +been at her age; partly, perhaps, because my father could not bring himself +to use that severity to the child of other people with which he had judged +it proper to treat his own. + +Miss Clare was present, with my father and the rest of the family, when the +mother and daughter met. They were all more than curious to see how the +child would behave, and whether there would be any signs of an instinct +that drew her to her parent. In this, however, they were disappointed. + +It was a fine warm forenoon when she came running on to the lawn where they +were assembled,--the gypsy mother with them. + +"There she is!" said my father to the woman. "Make the best of yourself you +can." + +Miss Clare said the poor creature turned very pale, but her eyes glowed +with such a fire! + +With the cunning of her race, she knew better than bound forward and catch +up the child in her arms. She walked away from the rest, and stood watching +the little damsel, romping merrily with Mr. Wagtail. They thought she +recognized the dog, and was afraid of him. She had put on a few silver +ornaments which she had either kept or managed to procure, notwithstanding +her poverty; for both the men and women of her race manifest in a strong +degree that love for barbaric adornment which, as well as their other +peculiarities, points to an Eastern origin. The glittering of these in +the sun, and the glow of her red scarf in her dark hair, along with +the strangeness of her whole appearance, attracted the child, and she +approached to look at her nearer. Then the mother took from her pocket a +large gilded ball, which had probably been one of the ornaments on the top +of a clock, and rolled it gleaming golden along the grass. Theo and Mr. +Wagtail bounded after it with a shriek and a bark. Having examined it for a +moment, the child threw it again along the lawn; and this time the mother, +lithe as a leopard and fleet as a savage, joined in the chase, caught it +first, and again sent it spinning away, farther from the assembled group. +Once more all three followed in swift pursuit; but this time the mother +took care to allow the child to seize the treasure. After the sport had +continued a little while, what seemed a general consultation, of mother, +child, and dog, took place over the bauble; and presently they saw that +Theo was eating something. + +"I trust," said my mother, "she won't hurt the child with any nasty stuff." + +"She will not do so wittingly," said my father, "you may be sure. Anyhow, +we must not interfere." + +In a few minutes more the mother approached them with a subdued look of +triumph, and her eyes overflowing with light, carrying the child in her +arms. Theo was playing with some foreign coins which adorned her hair, and +with a string of coral and silver beads round her neck. + +For the rest of the day they were left to do much as they pleased; only +every one kept good watch. + +But in the joy of recovering her child, the mother seemed herself to have +gained a new and childlike spirit. The more than willingness with which she +hastened to do what, even in respect of her child, was requested of her, as +if she fully acknowledged the right of authority in those who had been her +best friends, was charming. Whether this would last when the novelty of the +new experience had worn off, whether jealousy would not then come in for +its share in the ordering of her conduct, remained to be shown; but in the +mean time the good in her was uppermost. + +She was allowed to spend a whole fortnight in making friends with her +daughter, before a word was spoken about the future; the design of my +father being through the child to win the mother. Certain people considered +him not eager enough to convert the wicked: whatever apparent indifference +he showed in that direction arose from his utter belief in the guiding +of God, and his dread of outrunning his designs. He would _follow_ the +operations of the Spirit. + +"Your forced hot-house fruits," he would say, "are often finer to look at +than those which have waited for God's wind and weather; but what are they +worth in respect of all for the sake of which fruit exists?" + +Until an opportunity, then, was thrown in his way, he would hold back; but +when it was clear to him that he had to minister, then was he thoughtful, +watchful, instant, unswerving. You might have seen him during this time, +as the letters of Connie informed me, often standing for minutes together +watching the mother and daughter, and pondering in his heart concerning +them. + +Every advantage being thus afforded her, not without the stirring of some +natural pangs in those who had hitherto mothered the child, the fortnight +had not passed, before, to all appearance, the unknown mother was with the +child the greatest favorite of all. And it was my father's expectation, for +he was a profound believer in blood, that the natural and generic instincts +of the child would be developed together; in other words, that as she grew +in what was common to humanity, she would grow likewise in what belonged to +her individual origin. This was not an altogether comforting expectation to +those of us who neither had so much faith as he, nor saw so hopefully the +good that lay in every evil. + +One twilight, he overheard the following talk between them. When they came +near where he sat, Theodora, carried by her mother, and pulling at her neck +with her arms, was saying, "Tell me; tell me; tell me," in the tone of one +who would compel an answer to a question repeatedly asked in vain. + +"What do you want me to tell you?" said her mother. "You know well enough. +Tell me your name." + +In reply, she uttered a few words my father did not comprehend, and took to +be Zingaree. The child shook her petulantly and with violence, crying,-- + +"That's nonsense. I don't know what you say, and I don't know what to call +you." + +My father had desired the household, if possible, to give no name to the +woman in the child's hearing. + +"Call me mam, if you like." + +"But you're not a lady, and I won't say ma'am to you," said Theo, rude as a +child will sometimes be when least she intends offence. + +Her mother set her down, and gave a deep sigh. Was it only that the child's +restlessness and roughness tired her? My father thought otherwise. + +"Tell me; tell me," the child persisted, beating her with her little +clenched fist. "Take me up again, and tell me, or I will make you." + +My father thought it time to interfere. He stepped forward. The mother +started with a little cry, and caught up the child. + +"Theo," said my father, "I cannot allow you to be rude, especially to one +who loves you more than any one else loves you." + +The woman set her down again, dropped on her knees, and caught and kissed +his hand. + +The child stared; but she stood in awe of my father,--perhaps the more that +she had none for any one else,--and, when her mother lifted her once more, +was carried away in silence. + +The difficulty was got over by the child's being told to call her mother +_Nurse_. + +My father was now sufficiently satisfied with immediate results to carry +out the remainder of his contingent plan, of which my mother heartily +approved. The gardener and his wife being elderly people, and having no +family, therefore not requiring the whole of their cottage, which was +within a short distance of the house, could spare a room, which my mother +got arranged for the gypsy; and there she was housed, with free access to +her child, and the understanding that when Theo liked to sleep with her, +she was at liberty to do so. + +She was always ready to make herself useful; but it was little she could +do for some time, and it was with difficulty that she settled to any +occupation at all continuous. + +Before long it became evident that her old habits were working in her and +making her restless. She was pining after the liberty of her old wandering +life, with sun and wind, space and change, all about her. It was spring; +and the reviving life of nature was rousing in her the longing for motion +and room and variety engendered by the roving centuries which had passed +since first her ancestors were driven from their homes in far Hindostan. +But my father had foreseen the probability, and had already thought over +what could be done for her if the wandering passion should revive too +powerfully. He reasoned that there was nothing bad in such an impulse,--one +doubtless, which would have been felt in all its force by Abraham himself, +had he quitted his tents and gone to dwell in a city,--however much its +indulgence might place her at a disadvantage in the midst of a settled +social order. He saw, too, that any attempt to coerce it would probably +result in entire frustration; that the passion for old forms of freedom +would gather tenfold vigor in consequence. It would be far better to favor +its indulgence, in the hope that the love of her child would, like an +elastic but infrangible cord, gradually tame her down to a more settled +life. + +He proposed, therefore, that she should, as a matter of duty, go and visit +her parents, and let them know of her welfare. She looked alarmed. + +"Your father will show you no unkindness, I am certain, after the lapse of +so many years," he added. "Think it over, and tell me to-morrow how you +feel about it. You shall go by train to Edinburgh, and once there you will +soon be able to find them. Of course you couldn't take the child with you; +but she will be safe with us till you come back." + +The result was that she went; and having found her people, and spent a +fortnight with them, returned in less than a month. The rest of the year +she remained quietly at home, stilling her desires by frequent and long +rambles with her child, in which Mr. Wagtail always accompanied them. My +father thought it better to run the risk of her escaping, than force the +thought of it upon her by appearing not to trust her. But it came out that +she had a suspicion that the dog was there to prevent, or at least expose, +any such imprudence. The following spring she went on a second visit to her +friends, but was back within a week, and the next year did not go at all. + +Meantime my father did what he could to teach her, presenting every truth +as something it was necessary she should teach her child. With this duty, +he said, he always baited the hook with which he fished for her; "or, to +take a figure from the old hawking days, her eyas is the lure with which I +would reclaim the haggard hawk." + +What will be the final result, who dares prophesy? At my old home she +still resides; grateful, and in some measure useful, idolizing, but not +altogether spoiling her child, who understands the relation between them, +and now calls her mother. + +Dora teaches Theo, and the mother comes in for what share she inclines +to appropriate. She does not take much to reading, but she is fond of +listening; and is a regular and devout attendant at public worship. Above +all, they have sufficing proof that her conscience is awake, and that she +gives some heed to what it says. + +Mr. Blackstone was right when he told me that good I was unable to foresee +would result from the loss which then drowned me in despair. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + +TROUBLES. + + +In the beginning of the following year, the lady who filled Miss Clare's +place was married, and Miss Clare resumed the teaching of Judy's children. +She was now so handsomely paid for her lessons, that she had reduced the +number of her engagements very much, and had more time to give to the plans +in which she labored with Lady Bernard. The latter would willingly have +settled such an annuity upon her as would have enabled her to devote all +her time to this object; but Miss Clare felt that the earning of her bread +was one of the natural ties that bound her in the bundle of social life; +and that in what she did of a spiritual kind, she must be untrammelled by +money-relations. If she could not do both,--provide for herself and assist +others,--it would be a different thing, she said; for then it would be +clear that Providence intended her to receive the hire of the laborer for +the necessity laid upon her. But what influenced her chiefly was the dread +of having anything she did for her friends attributed to professional +motives, instead of the recognition of eternal relations. Besides, as she +said, it would both lessen the means at Lady Bernard's disposal, and cause +herself to feel bound to spend all her energies in that one direction; in +which case she would be deprived of the recreative influences of change and +more polished society. In her labor, she would yet feel her freedom, and +would not serve even Lady Bernard for money, except she saw clearly that +such was the will of the one Master. In thus refusing her offer, she but +rose in her friend's estimation. + +In the spring, great trouble fell upon the Morleys. One of the children +was taken with scarlet-fever; and then another and another was seized in +such rapid succession--until five of them were lying ill together--that +there was no time to think of removing them. Cousin Judy would accept +no assistance in nursing them, beyond that of her own maids, until her +strength gave way, and she took the infection herself in the form of +diphtheria; when she was compelled to take to her bed, in such agony at the +thought of handing her children over to hired nurses, that there was great +ground for fearing her strength would yield. + +She lay moaning, with her eyes shut, when a hand was laid on hers, and Miss +Clare's voice was in her ear. She had come to give her usual lesson to one +of the girls who had as yet escaped the infection: for, while she took +every precaution, she never turned aside from her work for any dread of +consequences; and when she heard that Mrs. Morley had been taken ill, she +walked straight to her room. + +"Go away!" said Judy. "Do you want to die too?" + +"Dear Mrs. Morley," said Miss Clare, "I will just run home, and make a few +arrangements, and then come back and nurse you." + +"Never mind me," said Judy. "The children! the children! What _shall_ I +do?" + +"I am quite able to look after you all--if you will allow me to bring a +young woman to help me." + +"You are an angel!" said poor Judy. "But there is no occasion to bring any +one with you. My servants are quite competent." + +"I must have every thing in my own hands," said Miss Clare; "and therefore +must have some one who will do exactly as I tell her. This girl has been +with me now for some time, and I can depend upon her. Servants always look +down upon governesses." + +"Do whatever you like, you blessed creature," said Judy. "If any one of my +servants behaves improperly to you, or neglects your orders, she shall go +as soon as I am up again." + +"I would rather give them as little opportunity as I can of running the +risk. If I may bring this friend of my own, I shall soon have the house +under hospital regulations. But I have been talking too much. I might +almost have returned by this time. It is a bad beginning if I have hurt you +already by saying more than was necessary." + +She had hardly left the room before Judy had fallen asleep, so much was she +relieved by the offer of her services. Ere she awoke, Marion was in a cab +on her way back to Bolivar Square, with her friend and two carpet-bags. +Within an hour, she had intrenched herself in a spare bedroom, had lighted +a fire, got encumbering finery out of the way, arranged all the medicines +on a chest of drawers, and set the clock on the mantle-piece going; made +the round of the patients, who were all in adjoining rooms, and the round +of the house, to see that the disinfectants were fresh and active, added to +their number, and then gone to await the arrival of the medical attendant +in Mrs. Morley's room. + +"Dr. Brand might have been a little more gracious," said Judy; "but I +thought it better not to interrupt him by explaining that you were not the +professional nurse he took you for." + +"Indeed, there was no occasion," answered Miss Clare. "I should have told +him so myself, had it not been that I did a nurse's regular work in St. +George's Hospital for two months, and have been there for a week or so, +several times since, so that I believe I have earned the right to be spoken +to as such. Anyhow, I understood every word he said." + +Meeting Mr. Morley in the hall, the doctor advised him not to go near his +wife, diphtheria being so infectious; but comforted him with the assurance +that the nurse appeared an intelligent young person, who would attend to +all his directions; adding,-- + +"I could have wished she had been older; but there is a great deal of +illness about, and experienced nurses are scarce." + +Miss Clare was a week in the house before Mr. Morley saw her, or knew she +was there. One evening she ran down to the dining-room, where he sat over +his lonely glass of Madeira, to get some brandy, and went straight to the +sideboard. As she turned to leave the room, he recognized her, and said, in +some astonishment,-- + +"You need not trouble yourself, Miss Clare. The nurse can get what she +wants from Hawkins. Indeed, I don't see"-- + +"Excuse me, Mr. Morley. If you wish to speak to me, I will return in a few +minutes; but I have a good deal to attend to just at this moment." + +She left the room; and, as he had said nothing in reply, did not return. + +Two days after, about the same hour, whether suspecting the fact, or for +some other reason, he requested the butler to send the nurse to him. + +"The nurse from the nursery, sir; or the young person as teaches the young +ladies the piano?" asked Hawkins. + +"I mean the sick-nurse," said his master. + +In a few minutes Miss Clare entered the dining-room, and approached Mr. +Morley. + +"How do you do, Miss Clare?" he said stiffly; for to any one in his +employment he was gracious only now and then. "Allow me to say that I +doubt the propriety of your being here so much. You cannot fail to carry +the infection. I think your lessons had better be postponed until _all_ +your pupils are able to benefit by them. I have just sent for the nurse; +and,--if you please"-- + +"Yes. Hawkins told me you wanted me," said Miss Clare. + +"I did not want you. He must have mistaken." + +"I am the nurse, Mr. Morley." + +"Then I _must_ say it is not with my approval," he returned, rising from +his chair in anger. "I was given to understand that a properly-qualified +person was in charge of my wife and family. This is no ordinary case, where +a little coddling is all that is wanted." + +"I am perfectly qualified, Mr. Morley." + +He walked up and down the room several times. + +"I must speak to Mrs. Morley about this." he said. + +"I entreat you will not disturb her. She is not so well this afternoon." + +"How _is_ this, Miss Clare? Pray explain to me how it is that you come +to be taking a part in the affairs of the family so very different from +that for which Mrs. Morley--which--was arranged between Mrs. Morley and +yourself." + +"It is but an illustration of the law of supply and demand," answered +Marion. "A nurse was wanted; Mrs. Morley had strong objections to a hired +nurse, and I was very glad to be able to set her mind at rest." + +"It was very obliging in you, no doubt," he returned, forcing the +admission; "but--but"-- + +"Let us leave it for the present, if you please; for while I am nurse, I +must mind my business. Dr. Brand expresses himself quite satisfied with me, +so far as we have gone; and it is better for the children, not to mention +Mrs. Morley, to have some one about them they are used to." + +She left the room without waiting further parley. + +Dr. Brand, however, not only set Mr. Morley's mind at rest as to her +efficiency, but when a terrible time of anxiety was at length over, during +which one after another, and especially Judy herself, had been in great +danger, assured him that, but for the vigilance and intelligence of Miss +Clare, joined to a certain soothing influence which she exercised over +every one of her patients, he did not believe he could have brought Mrs. +Morley through. Then, indeed, he changed his tone to her, in a measure, +still addressing her as from a height of superiority. + +They had recovered so far that they were to set out the next morning for +Hastings, when he thus addressed her, having sent for her once more to the +dining-room:-- + +"I hope you will accompany them, Miss Clare," he said. "By this time you +must be in no small need of a change yourself." + +"The best change for me will be Lime Court," she answered, laughing. + +"Now, pray don't drive your goodness to the verge of absurdity," he said +pleasantly. + +"Indeed, I am anxious about my friends there," she returned. "I fear they +have not been getting on quite so well without me. A Bible-woman and a +Roman Catholic have been quarrelling dreadfully, I hear." + +Mr. Morley compressed his lips. It _was_ annoying to be so much indebted to +one who, from whatever motives, called such people her friends. + +"Oblige me, then," he said loftily, taking an envelope from the +mantle-piece, and handing it to her, "by opening that at your leisure." + +"I will open it now, if you please," she returned. + +It contained a bank-note for a hundred pounds. Mr. Morley, though a hard +man, was not by any means stingy. She replaced it in the envelope, and laid +it again on the chimney-piece. + +"You owe me nothing, Mr. Morley," she said. + +"Owe you nothing! I owe you more than I can ever repay." + +"Then don't try it, please. You are _very_ generous; but indeed I could not +accept it." + +"You must oblige me. You _might_ take it from _me_," he added, almost +pathetically, as if the bond was so close that money was nothing between +them. + +"You are the last--one of the last I _could_ take money from, Mr. Morley." + +"Why?" + +"Because you think so much of it, and yet would look down on me the more if +I accepted it." + +He bit his lip, rubbed his forehead with his hand, threw back his head, and +turned away from her. + +"I should be very sorry to offend you," she said; "and, believe me, there +is hardly any thing I value less than money. I have enough, and could have +plenty more if I liked. I would rather have your friendship than all the +money you possess. But that cannot be, so long as"-- + +She stopped: she was on the point of going too far, she thought. + +"So long as what?" he returned sternly. + +"So long as you are a worshipper of Mammon," she answered; and left the +room. + +She burst out crying when she came to this point. She had narrated the +whole with the air of one making a confession. + +"I am afraid it was very wrong," she said; "and if so, then it was very +rude as well. But something seemed to force it out of me. Just think: there +was a generous heart, clogged up with self-importance and wealth! To me, as +he stood there on the hearth-rug, he was a most pitiable object--with an +impervious wall betwixt him and the kingdom of heaven! He seemed like a man +in a terrible dream, from which I _must_ awake him by calling aloud in his +ear--except that, alas! the dream was not terrible to him, only to me! If +he had been one of my poor friends, guilty of some plain fault, I should +have told him so without compunction; and why not, being what he was? There +he stood,--a man of estimable qualities, of beneficence, if not bounty; +no miser, nor consciously unjust; yet a man whose heart the moth and rust +were eating into a sponge!--who went to church every Sunday, and had many +friends, not one of whom, not even his own wife, would tell him that he was +a Mammon-worshipper, and losing his life. It may have been useless, it may +have been wrong; but I felt driven to it by bare human pity for the misery +I saw before me." + +"It looks to me as if you had the message given you to give him," I said. + +"But--though I don't know it--what if I was annoyed with him for offering +me that wretched hundred pounds,--in doing which he was acting up to the +light that was in him?" + +I could not help thinking of the light which is darkness, but I did not +say so. Strange tableau, in this our would-be grand nineteenth century,--a +young and poor woman prophet-like rebuking a wealthy London merchant on +his own hearth-rug, as a worshipper of Mammon! I think she was right; not +because he was wrong, but because, as I firmly believe, she did it from no +personal motives whatever, although in her modesty she doubted herself. I +believe it was from pure regard for the man and for the truth, urging her +to an irrepressible utterance. If so, should we not say that she spoke by +the Spirit? Only I shudder to think what utterance might, with an equal +outward show, be attributed to the same Spirit. Well, to his own master +every one standeth or falleth; whether an old prophet who, with a lie in +his right hand, entraps an honorable guest, or a young prophet who, with +repentance in his heart, walks calmly into the jaws of the waiting lion. +[Footnote: See the Sermons of the Rev. Henry Whitehead, vicar of St. +John's, Limehouse; as remarkable for the profundity of their insight us +for the noble severity of their literary modelling.--G.M.D.] + +And no one can tell what effects the words may have had upon him. I do not +believe he ever mentioned the circumstance to his wife. At all events, +there was no change in her manner to Miss Clare. Indeed, I could not help +fancying that a little halo of quiet reverence now encircled the love in +every look she cast upon her. + +She firmly believed that Marion had saved her life, and that of more than +one of her children. Nothing, she said, could equal the quietness and +tenderness and tirelessness of her nursing. She was never flurried, never +impatient, and never frightened. Even when the tears would be flowing +down her face, the light never left her eyes nor the music her voice; and +when they were all getting better, and she had the nursery piano brought +out on the landing in the middle of the sick-rooms, and there played and +sung to them, it was, she said, like the voice of an angel, come fresh +to the earth, with the same old news of peace and good-will. When the +children--this I had from the friend she brought with her--were tossing +in the fever, and talking of strange and frightful things they saw, one +word from her would quiet them; and her gentle, firm command was always +sufficient to make the most fastidious and rebellious take his medicine. + +She came out of it very pale, and a good deal worn. But the day they set +off for Hastings, she returned to Lime Court. The next day she resumed +her lessons, and soon recovered her usual appearance. A change of work, +she always said, was the best restorative. But before a month was over +I succeeded in persuading her to accept my mother's invitation to spend +a week at the Hall; and from this visit she returned quite invigorated. +Connie, whom she went to see,--for by this time she was married to Mr. +Turner,--was especially delighted with her delight in the simplicities +of nature. Born and bred in the closest town-environment, she had yet a +sensitiveness to all that made the country so dear to us who were born in +it, which Connie said surpassed ours, and gave her special satisfaction +as proving that my oft recurring dread lest such feelings might but be +the result of childish associations was groundless, and that they were +essential to the human nature, and so felt by God himself. Driving along +in the pony-carriage,--for Connie is not able to walk much, although she +is well enough to enjoy life thoroughly,--Marion would remark upon ten +things in a morning, that my sister had never observed. The various effects +of light and shade, and the variety of feeling they caused, especially +interested her. She would spy out a lurking sunbeam, as another would find +a hidden flower. It seemed as if not a glitter in its nest of gloom could +escape her. She would leave the carriage, and make a long round through the +fields or woods, and, when they met at the appointed spot, would have her +hands full not of flowers only, but of leaves and grasses and weedy things, +showing the deepest interest in such lowly forms as few would notice except +from a scientific knowledge, of which she had none: it was the thing +itself--its look and its home--that drew her attention. I cannot help +thinking that this insight was profoundly one with her interest in the +corresponding regions of human life and circumstance. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + +MISS CLARE AMONGST HER FRIENDS. + + +I must give an instance of the way in which Marion--I am tired of calling +her _Miss Clare_, and about this time I began to drop it--exercised her +influence over her friends. I trust the episode, in a story so fragmentary +as mine, made up of pieces only of a quiet and ordinary life, will not seem +unsuitable. How I wish I could give it you as she told it to me! so graphic +was her narrative, and so true to the forms of speech amongst the London +poor. I must do what I can, well assured it must come far short of the +original representation. + +One evening, as she was walking up to her attic, she heard a noise in +one of the rooms, followed by a sound of weeping. It was occupied by a +journeyman house-painter and his wife, who had been married several years, +but whose only child had died about six months before, since which loss +things had not been going on so well between them. Some natures cannot bear +sorrow: it makes them irritable, and, instead of drawing them closer to +their own, tends to isolate them. When she entered, she found the woman +crying, and the man in a lurid sulk. + +"What _is_ the matter?" she asked, no doubt in her usual cheerful tone. + +"I little thought it would come to this when I married him," sobbed the +woman, while the man remained motionless and speechless on his chair, with +his legs stretched out at full length before him. + +"Would you mind telling me about it? There may be some mistake, you know." + +"There ain't no mistake in _that_," said the woman, removing the apron she +had been holding to her eyes, and turning a cheek towards Marion, upon +which the marks of an open-handed blow were visible enough. "I didn't marry +him to be knocked about like that." + +"She calls that knocking about, do she?" growled the husband. "What did she +go for to throw her cotton gownd in my teeth for, as if it was my blame she +warn't in silks and satins?" + +After a good deal of questioning on her part, and confused and +recriminative statement on theirs, Marion made out the following as the +facts of the case:-- + +For the first time since they were married, the wife had had an invitation +to spend the evening with some female friends. The party had taken place +the night before; and although she had returned in ill-humor, it had not +broken out until just as Marion entered the house. The cause was this: +none of the guests were in a station much superior to her own, yet she +found herself the only one who had not a silk dress: hers was a print, and +shabby. Now, when she was married, she had a silk dress, of which she said +her husband had been proud enough when they were walking together. But when +she saw the last of it, she saw the last of its sort, for never another +had he given her to her back; and she didn't marry him to come down in the +world--that she didn't! + +"Of course not," said Marion. "You married him because you loved him, and +thought him the finest fellow you knew." + +"And so he was then, grannie. But just look at him now!" + +The man moved uneasily, but without bending his outstretched legs. The fact +was, that since the death of the child he had so far taken to drink that +he was not unfrequently the worse for it; which had been a rare occurrence +before. + +"It ain't my fault," he said, "when work ain't a-goin,' if I don't dress +her like a duchess. I'm as proud to see my wife rigged out as e'er a man +on 'em; and that _she_ know! and when she cast the contrairy up to me, I'm +blowed if I could keep my hands off on her. She ain't the woman I took her +for, miss. She _'ave_ a temper!" + +"I don't doubt it," said Marion. "Temper is a troublesome thing with all of +us, and makes us do things we're sorry for afterwards. _You_'re sorry for +striking her--ain't you, now?" + +There was no response. Around the sullen heart silence closed again. +Doubtless he would have given much to obliterate the fact, but he would not +confess that he had been wrong. We are so stupid, that confession seems to +us to fix the wrong upon us, instead of throwing it, as it does, into the +depths of the eternal sea. + +"I may have my temper," said the woman, a little mollified at finding, as +she thought, that Miss Clare took her part; "but here am I, slaving from +morning to night to make both ends meet, and goin' out every job I can get +a-washin' or a-charin', and never 'avin' a bit of fun from year's end to +year's end, and him off to his club, as he calls it!--an' it's a club he's +like to blow out my brains with some night, when he comes home in a drunken +fit; for it's worse _and_ worse he'll get, miss, like the rest on 'em, till +no woman could be proud, as once I was, to call him hers. And when I do go +out to tea for once in a way, to be jeered at by them as is no better nor +no worse 'n myself, acause I ain't got a husband as cares enough for me to +dress me decent!--that do stick i' my gizzard. I do dearly love to have +neighbors think my husband care a bit about me, let-a-be 'at he don't, one +hair; and when he send me out like that"-- + +Here she broke down afresh. + +"Why didn't ye stop at home then? I didn't tell ye to go," he said +fiercely, calling her a coarse name. + +"Richard," said Marion, "such words are not fit for _me_ to hear, still +less for your own wife." + +"Oh! never mind me: I'm used to sich," said the woman spitefully. + +"It's a lie," roared the man: "I never named sich a word to ye afore. It do +make me mad to hear ye. I drink the clothes off your back, do I? If I bed +the money, ye might go in velvet and lace for aught I cared!" + +"_She_ would care little to go in gold and diamonds, if _you_ didn't care +to see her in them," said Marion. + +At this the woman burst into fresh tears, and the man put on a face of +contempt,--the worst sign, Marion said, she had yet seen in him, not +excepting the blow; for to despise is worse than to strike. + +I can't help stopping my story here to put in a reflection that forces +itself upon me. Many a man would regard with disgust the idea of striking +his wife, who will yet cherish against her an aversion which is infinitely +worse. The working-man who strikes his wife, but is sorry for it, and tries +to make amends by being more tender after it, a result which many a woman +will consider cheap at the price of a blow endured,--is an immeasurably +superior husband to the gentleman who shows his wife the most absolute +politeness, but uses that very politeness as a breastwork to fortify +himself in his disregard and contempt. + +Marion saw that while the tides ran thus high, nothing could be done; +certainly, at least, in the way of argument. Whether the man had been +drinking she could not tell, but suspected that must have a share in the +evil of his mood. She went up to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and +said,-- + +"You're out of sorts, Richard. Come and have a cup of tea, and I will sing +to you." + +"I don't want no tea." + +"You're fond of the piano, though. And you like to hear me sing, don't +you?" + +"Well, I do," he muttered, as if the admission were forced from him. + +"Come with me, then." + +He dragged himself up from his chair, and was about to follow her. + +"You ain't going to take him from me, grannie, after he's been and struck +me?" interposed his wife, in a tone half pathetic, half injured. + +"Come after us in a few minutes," said Marion, in a low voice, and led the +way from the room. + +Quiet as a lamb Richard followed her up stairs. She made him sit in the +easy-chair, and began with a low, plaintive song, which she followed with +other songs and music of a similar character. He neither heard nor saw his +wife enter, and both sat for about twenty minutes without a word spoken. +Then Marion made a pause, and the wife rose and approached her husband. He +was fast asleep. + +"Don't wake him," said Marion; "let him have his sleep out. You go down and +get the place tidy, and a nice bit of supper for him--if you can." + +"Oh, yes! he brought me home his week's wages this very night." + +"The whole?" + +"Yes, grannie" + +"Then weren't you too hard upon him? Just think: he had been trying to +behave himself, and had got the better of the public-house for once, and +come home fancying you'd be so pleased to see him; and you"-- + +"He'd been drinking," interrupted Eliza. "Only he said as how it was but a +pot of beer he'd won in a wager from a mate of his." + +"Well, if, after that beginning, he yet brought you home his money, he +ought to have had another kind of reception. To think of the wife of a poor +man making such a fuss about a silk dress! Why, Eliza, I never had a silk +dress in my life; and I don't think I ever shall." + +"Laws, grannie! who'd ha' thought that now!" + +"You see I have other uses for my money than buying things for show." + +"That you do, grannie! But you see," she added, somewhat inconsequently, +"we ain't got no child, and Dick he take it ill of me, and don't care to +save his money; so he never takes me out nowheres, and I do be so tired o' +stopping indoors, every day and all day long, that it turns me sour, I do +believe. I didn't use to be cross-grained, miss. But, laws! I feels now as +if I'd let him knock me about ever so, if only he wouldn't say as how it +was nothing to him if I was dressed ever so fine." + +"You run and get his supper." + +Eliza went; and Marion, sitting down again to her instrument, improvised +for an hour. Next to her New Testament, this was her greatest comfort. She +sung and prayed both in one then, and nobody but God heard any thing but +the piano. Nor did it impede the flow of her best thoughts, that in a chair +beside her slumbered a weary man, the waves of whose evil passions she +had stilled, and the sting of whose disappointments she had soothed, with +the sweet airs and concords of her own spirit. Who could say what tender +influences might not be stealing over him, borne on the fair sounds? for +even the formless and the void was roused into life and joy by the wind +that roamed over the face of its deep. No humanity jarred with hers. In +the presence of the most degraded, she felt God there. A face, even if +besotted, _was_ a face, only in virtue of being in the image of God. That +a man was a man at all, must be because he was God's. And this man was +far indeed from being of the worst. With him beside her, she could pray +with most of the good of having the door of her closet shut, and some of +the good of the gathering together as well. Thus was love, as ever, the +assimilator of the foreign, the harmonizer of the unlike; the builder of +the temple in the desert, and of the chamber in the market-place. + +As she sat and discoursed with herself, she perceived that the woman was as +certainly suffering from _ennui_ as any fine lady in Mayfair. + +"Have you ever been to the National Gallery, Richard?" she asked, without +turning her head, the moment she heard him move. + +"No, grannie," he answered with a yawn. "Don'a' most know what sort of a +place it be now. Waxwork, ain't it?" + +"No. It's a great place full of pictures, many of them hundreds of years +old. They're taken care of by the Government, just for people to go and +look at. Wouldn't you like to go and see them some day?" + +"Donno as I should much." + +"If I were to go with you, now, and explain some of them to you? I want you +to take your wife and me out for a holiday. You can't think, you who go out +to your work every day, how tiresome it is to be in the house from morning +to night, especially at this time of the year, when the sun's shining, and +the very sparrows trying to sing!" + +"She may go out when she please, grannie. I ain't no tyrant." + +"But she doesn't care to go without you. You wouldn't have her like one of +those slatternly women you see standing at the corners, with their fists in +their sides and their elbows sticking out, ready to talk to anybody that +comes in the way." + +"_My_ wife was never none o' sich, grannie. I knows her as well's e'er a +one, though she do 'ave a temper of her own." + +At this moment Eliza appeared in the door-way, saying,-- + +"Will ye come to yer supper, Dick? I ha' got a slice o' ham an' a hot tater +for ye. Come along." + +"Well, I don't know as I mind--jest to please _you_, Liza. I believe I ha' +been asleep in grannie's cheer there, her a playin' an' a singin', I make +no doubt, like a werry nightingerl, bless her, an' me a snorin' all to +myself, like a runaway locomotive! Won't _you_ come and have a slice o' the +'am, an' a tater, grannie? The more you ate, the less we'd grudge it." + +"I'm sure o' that," chimed in Eliza. "Do now, grannie; please do." + +"I will, with pleasure," said Marion; and they went down together. + +Eliza had got the table set out nicely, with a foaming jug of porter beside +the ham and potatoes. Before they had finished, Marion had persuaded +Richard to take his wife and her to the National Gallery, the next day but +one, which, fortunately for her purpose, was Whit Monday, a day whereon +Richard, who was from the north always took a holiday. + +At the National Gallery, the house-painter, in virtue of his craft, claimed +the exercise of criticism; and his remarks were amusing enough. He had +more than once painted a sign-board for a country inn, which fact formed a +bridge between the covering of square yards with color and the painting of +pictures; and he naturally used the vantage-ground thus gained to enhance +his importance with his wife and Miss Clare. He was rather a clever fellow +too, though as little educated in any other direction than that of his +calling as might well be. + +All the woman seemed to care about in the pictures was this or that +something which reminded her, often remotely enough I dare say, of her +former life in the country. Towards the close of their visit, they +approached a picture--one of Hobbima's, I think--which at once riveted her +attention. + +"Look, look, Dick!" she cried. "There's just such a cart as my father used +to drive to the town in. Farmer White always sent _him_ when the mistress +wanted any thing and he didn't care to go hisself. And, O Dick! there's the +very moral of the cottage we lived in! Ain't it a love, now?" + +"Nice enough," Dick replied. "But it warn't there I seed you, Liza. It +wur at the big house where you was housemaid, you know. That'll be it, I +suppose,--away there like, over the trees." + +They turned and looked at each other, and Marion turned away. When she +looked again, they were once more gazing at the picture, but close +together, and hand in hand, like two children. + +As they went home in the omnibus, the two averred they had never spent a +happier holiday in their lives; and from that day to this no sign of their +quarrelling has come to Marion's knowledge. They are not only her regular +attendants on Saturday evenings, but on Sunday evenings as well, when she +holds a sort of conversation-sermon with her friends. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + +MR. MORLEY. + + +As soon as my cousin Judy returned from Hastings, I called to see her, and +found them all restored, except Amy, a child of between eight and nine. +There was nothing very definite the matter with her, but she was white and +thin, and looked wistful; the blue of her eyes had grown pale, and her fair +locks had nearly lost the curl which had so well suited her rosy cheeks. +She had been her father's pride for her looks, and her mother's for her +sayings,--at once odd and simple. Judy that morning reminded me how, one +night, when she was about three years old, some time after she had gone to +bed, she had called her nurse, and insisted on her mother's coming. Judy +went, prepared to find her feverish; for there had been jam-making that +day, and she feared she had been having more than the portion which on such +an occasion fell to her share. When she reached the nursery, Amy begged to +be taken up that she might say her prayers over again. Her mother objected; +but the child insisting, in that pretty, petulant way which so pleased +her father, she yielded, thinking she must have omitted some clause in +her prayers, and be therefore troubled in her conscience. Amy accordingly +kneeled by the bedside in her night-gown, and, having gone over all her +petitions from beginning to end, paused a moment before the final word, and +inserted the following special and peculiar request: "And, p'ease God, give +me some more jam to-morrow-day, for ever and ever. Amen." + +I remember my father being quite troubled when he heard that the child had +been rebuked for offering what was probably her very first genuine prayer. +The rebuke, however, had little effect on the equanimity of the petitioner, +for she was fast asleep a moment after it. + +"There is one thing that puzzles and annoys me," said Judy. "I can't think +what it means. My husband tells me that Miss Clare was so rude to him, +the day before we left for Hastings, that he would rather not be aware +of it any time she is in the house. Those were his very words. 'I will +not interfere with your doing as you think proper,' he said, 'seeing you +consider yourself under such obligation to her; and I should be sorry to +deprive her of the advantage of giving lessons in a house like this; but I +wish you to be careful that the girls do not copy her manners. She has not +by any means escaped the influence of the company she keeps.' I was utterly +astonished, you may well think; but I could get no further explanation from +him. He only said that when I wished to have her society of an evening, +I must let him know, because he would then dine at his club. Not knowing +the grounds of his offence, there was little other argument I could use +than the reiteration of my certainty that he must have misunderstood her. +'Not in the least,' he said. 'I have no doubt she is to you every thing +amiable; but she has taken some unaccountable aversion to me, and loses no +opportunity of showing it. And I _don't_ think I deserve it.' I told him +I was so sure he did not deserve it, that I must believe there was some +mistake. But he only shook his head and raised his newspaper. You must help +me, little coz." + +"How am I to help you, Judy dear?" I returned. "I can't interfere between +husband and wife, you know. If I dared such a thing, he would quarrel with +me too--and rightly." + +"No, no," she returned, laughing: "I don't want your intercession. I only +want you to find out from Miss Clare whether she knows how she has so +mortally offended my husband. I believe she knows nothing about it. She +_has_ a rather abrupt manner sometimes, you know; but then my husband +is not so silly as to have taken such deep offence at that. Help me, +now--there's a dear!" + +I promised I would, and hence came the story I have already given. But +Marion was so distressed at the result of her words, and so anxious that +Judy should not be hurt, that she begged me, if I could manage it without +a breach of verity, to avoid disclosing the matter; especially seeing Mr. +Morley himself judged it too heinous to impart to his wife. + +How to manage it I could not think. But at length we arranged it between +us. I told Judy that Marion confessed to having said something which had +offended Mr. Morley; that she was very sorry, and hoped she need not say +that such had not been her intention, but that, as Mr. Morley evidently +preferred what had passed between them to remain unmentioned, to disclose +it would be merely to swell the mischief. It would be better for them +all, she requested me to say, that she should give up her lessons for the +present; and therefore she hoped Mrs. Morley would excuse her. When I gave +the message, Judy cried, and said nothing. When the children heard that +Marion was not coming for a while, Amy cried, the other girls looked very +grave, and the boys protested. + +I have already mentioned that the fault I most disliked in those children +was their incapacity for being petted. Something of it still remains; but +of late I have remarked a considerable improvement in this respect. They +have not only grown in kindness, but in the gift of receiving kindness. +I cannot but attribute this, in chief measure, to their illness and the +lovely nursing of Marion. They do not yet go to their mother for petting, +and from myself will only endure it; but they are eager after such crumbs +as Marion, by no means lavish of it, will vouchsafe them. + +Judy insisted that I should let Mr. Morley hear Marion's message. + +"But the message is not to Mr. Morley," I said. "Marion would never have +thought of sending one to him." + +"But if I ask you to repeat it in his hearing, you will not refuse?" + +To this I consented; but I fear she was disappointed in the result. Her +husband only smiled sarcastically, drew in his chin, and showed himself a +little more cheerful than usual. + +One morning, about two months after, as I was sitting in the drawing-room, +with my baby on the floor beside me, I was surprised to see Judy's brougham +pull up at the little gate--for it was early. When she got out, I perceived +at once that something was amiss, and ran to open the door. Her eyes were +red, and her cheeks ashy. The moment we reached the drawing-room, she sunk +on the couch and burst into tears. + +"Judy!" I cried, "what _is_ the matter? Is Amy worse?" + +"No, no, cozzy dear; but we are ruined. We haven't a penny in the world. +The children will be beggars." + +And there were the gay little horses champing their bits at the door, and +the coachman sitting in all his glory, erect and impassive! + +I did my best to quiet her, urging no questions. With difficulty I got her +to swallow a glass of wine, after which, with many interruptions and fresh +outbursts of misery, she managed to let me understand that her husband +had been speculating, and had failed. I could hardly believe myself +awake. Mr. Morley was the last man I should have thought capable either +of speculating, or of failing in it if he did. + +Knowing nothing about business, I shall not attempt to explain the +particulars. Coincident failures amongst his correspondents had contributed +to his fall. Judy said he had not been like himself for months; but it was +only the night before that he had told her they must give up their house in +Bolivar Square, and take a small one in the suburbs. For any thing he could +see, he said, he must look out for a situation. + +"Still you may be happier than ever, Judy. I can tell you that happiness +does not depend on riches," I said, though I could not help crying with +her. + +"It's a different thing though, after you've been used to them," she +answered. "But the question is of bread for my children, not of putting +down my carriage." + +She rose hurriedly. + +"Where are you going? Is there any thing I can do for you?" I asked. + +"Nothing," she answered. "I left my husband at Mr. Baddeley's. He is as +rich as Croesus, and could write him a check that would float him." + +"He's too rich to be generous, I'm afraid," I said. + +"What do you mean by that?" she asked. + +"If he be so generous, how does it come that he is so rich?" + +"Why, his father made the money." + +"Then he most likely takes after his father. Percivale says he does not +believe a huge fortune was ever made of nothing, without such pinching of +one's self and such scraping of others, or else such speculation, as is +essentially dishonorable." + +"He stands high," murmured Judy hopelessly. + +"Whether what is dishonorable be also disreputable depends on how many +there are of his own sort in the society in which he moves." + +"Now, coz, you know nothing to his discredit, and he's our last hope." + +"I will say no more," I answered. "I hope I may be quite wrong. Only I +should expect nothing of _him_." + +When she reached Mr. Baddeley's her husband was gone. Having driven to his +counting-house, and been shown into his private room, she found him there +with his head between his hands. The great man had declined doing any thing +for him, and had even rebuked him for his imprudence, without wasting a +thought on the fact that every penny he himself possessed was the result +of the boldest speculation on the part of his father. A very few days only +would elapse before the falling due of certain bills must at once disclose +the state of his affairs. + +As soon as she had left me, Percivale not being at home, I put on my +bonnet, and went to find Marion. I must tell _her_ every thing that caused +me either joy or sorrow; and besides, she had all the right that love could +give to know of Judy's distress. I knew all her engagements, and therefore +where to find her; and sent in my card, with the pencilled intimation that +I would wait the close of her lesson. In a few minutes she came out and got +into the cab. At once I told her my sad news. + +"Could you take me to Cambridge Square to my next engagement?" she said. + +I was considerably surprised at the cool way in which she received the +communication, but of course I gave the necessary directions. + +"Is there any thing to be done?" she asked, after a pause. + +"I know of nothing," I answered. + +Again she sat silent for a few minutes. + +"One can't move without knowing all the circumstances and particulars," she +said at length. "And how to get at them? He wouldn't make a confidante of +_me_," she said, smiling sadly. + +"Ah! you little think what vast sums are concerned in such a failure as +his!" I remarked, astounded that one with her knowledge of the world should +talk as she did. + +"It will be best," she said, after still another pause, "to go to Mr. +Blackstone. He has a wonderful acquaintance with business for a clergyman, +and knows many of the city people." + +"What could any clergyman do in such a case?" I returned. "For Mr. +Blackstone, Mr. Morley would not accept even consolation at his hands." + +"The time for that is not come yet," said Marion. "We must try to help him +some other way first. We will, if we can, make friends with him by means of +the very Mammon that has all but ruined him." + +She spoke of the great merchant just as she might of Richard, or any of the +bricklayers or mechanics, whose spiritual condition she pondered that she +might aid it. + +"But what could Mr. Blackstone do?" I insisted. + +"All I should want of him would be to find out for me what Mr. Morley's +liabilities are, and how much would serve to tide him over the bar of his +present difficulties. I suspect he has few friends who would risk any thing +for him. I understand he is no favorite in the city; and, if friendship do +not come in, he must be stranded. You believe him an honorable man,--do you +not?" she asked abruptly. + +"It never entered my head to doubt it," I replied. + +The moment we reached Cambridge Square she jumped out, ran up the steps, +and knocked at the door. I waited, wondering if she was going to leave +me thus without a farewell. When the door was opened, she merely gave a +message to the man, and the same instant was again in the cab by my side. + +"Now I am free!" she said, and told the man to drive to Mile End. + +"I fear I can't go with you so far, Marion," I said. "I must go home--I +have so much to see to, and you can do quite as well without me. I don't +know what you intend, but _please_ don't let any thing come out. I can +trust _you_, but"-- + +"If you can trust me, I can trust Mr. Blackstone. He is the most cautious +man in the world. Shall I get out, and take another cab?" + +"No. You can drop me at Tottenham Court Road, and I will go home by +omnibus. But you must let me pay the cab." + +"No, no; I am richer than you: I have no children. What fun it is to spend +money for Mr. Morley, and lay him under an obligation he will never know!" +she said, laughing. + +The result of her endeavors was, that Mr. Blackstone, by a circuitous +succession of introductions, reached Mr. Morley's confidential clerk, +whom he was able so far to satisfy concerning his object in desiring +the information, that he made him a full disclosure of the condition of +affairs, and stated what sum would be sufficient to carry them over their +difficulties; though, he added, the greatest care, and every possible +reduction of expenditure for some years, would be indispensable to their +complete restoration. + +Mr. Blackstone carried his discoveries to Miss Clare and she to Lady +Bernard. + +"My dear Marion," said Lady Bernard, "this is a serious matter you suggest. +The man may be honest, and yet it may be of no use trying to help him. I +don't want to bolster him up for a few months in order to see my money go +after his. That's not what I've got to do with it. No doubt I could lose +as much as you mention, without being crippled by it, for I hope it's no +disgrace in me to be rich, as it's none in you to be poor; but I hate +waste, and I will _not_ be guilty of it. If Mr. Morley will convince me and +any friend or man of business to whom I may refer the matter, that there is +good probability of his recovering himself by means of it, then, and not +till then, I shall feel justified in risking the amount. For, as you say, +it would prevent much misery to many besides that good-hearted creature, +Mrs. Morley, and her children. It is worth doing if it can be done--not +worth trying if it can't." + +"Shall I write for you, and ask him to come and see you?" + +"No, my dear. If I do a kindness, I must do it humbly. It is a great +liberty to take with a man to offer him a kindness. I must go to him. I +could not use the same freedom with a man in misfortune as with one in +prosperity. I would have such a one feel that his money or his poverty made +no difference to me; and Mr. Morley wants that lesson, if any man does. +Besides, after all, I may not be able to do it for him, and he would have +good reason to be hurt if I had made him dance attendance on me." + +The same evening Lady Bernard's shabby one-horse-brougham stopped at +Mr. Morley's door. She asked to see Mrs. Morley, and through her had an +interview with her husband. Without circumlocution, she told him that if +he would lay his affairs before her and a certain accountant she named, +to use their judgment regarding them in the hope of finding it possible to +serve him, they would wait upon him for that purpose at any time and place +he pleased. Mr. Morley expressed his obligation,--not very warmly, she +said,--repudiating, however, the slightest objection to her ladyship's +knowing now what all the world must know the next day but one. + +Early the following morning Lady Bernard and the accountant met Mr. Morley +at his place in the city, and by three o'clock in the afternoon fifteen +thousand pounds were handed in to his account at his banker's. + +The carriage was put down, the butler, one of the footmen, and the lady's +maid, were dismissed, and household arrangements fitted to a different +scale. + +One consequence of this chastisement, as of the preceding, was, that the +whole family drew yet more closely and lovingly together; and I must say +for Judy, that, after a few weeks of what she called poverty, her spirits +seemed in no degree the worse for the trial. + +At Marion's earnest entreaty no one told either Mr. or Mrs. Morley of the +share she had had in saving his credit and social position. For some time +she suffered from doubt as to whether she had had any right to interpose in +the matter, and might not have injured Mr. Morley by depriving him of the +discipline of poverty; but she reasoned with herself, that, had it been +necessary for him, her efforts would have been frustrated; and reminded +herself, that, although his commercial credit had escaped, it must still be +a considerable trial to him to live in reduced style. + +But that it was not all the trial needful for him, was soon apparent; for +his favorite Amy began to pine more rapidly, and Judy saw, that, except +some change speedily took place, they could not have her with them long. +The father, however, refused to admit the idea that she was in danger. I +suppose he felt as if, were he once to allow the possibility of losing +her, from that moment there would be no stay between her and the grave: it +would be a giving of her over to death. But whatever Dr. Brand suggested +was eagerly followed. When the chills of autumn drew near, her mother took +her to Ventnor; but little change followed, and before the new year she +was gone. It was the first death, beyond that of an infant, they had had +in their family, and took place at a time when the pressure of business +obligations rendered it impossible for her father to be out of London: he +could only go to lay her in the earth, and bring back his wife. Judy had +never seen him weep before. Certainly I never saw such a change in a man. +He was literally bowed with grief, as if he bore a material burden on +his back. The best feelings of his nature, unimpeded by any jar to his +self-importance or his prejudices, had been able to spend themselves on the +lovely little creature; and I do not believe any other suffering than the +loss of such a child could have brought into play that in him which was +purely human. + +He was at home one morning, ill for the first time in his life, when Marion +called on Judy. While she waited in the drawing-room, he entered. He turned +the moment he saw her, but had not taken two steps towards the door, when +he turned again, and approached her. She went to meet him. He held out his +hand. + +"She was very fond of you, Miss Clare," he said. "She was talking about you +the very last time I saw her. Let by-gones be by-gones between us." + +"I was very rough and rude to you, Mr. Morley, and I am very sorry," said +Marion. + +"But you spoke the truth," he rejoined. "I thought I was above being spoken +to like a sinner, but I don't know now why not." + +He sat down on a couch, and leaned his head on his hand. Marion took a +chair near him, but could not speak. + +"It is very hard," he murmured at length. + +"Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth," said Marion. + +"That may be true in some cases, but I have no right to believe it applies +to me. He loved the child, I would fain believe; for I dare not think of +her either as having ceased to be, or as alone in the world to which she +has gone. You do think, Miss Clare, do you not, that we shall know our +friends in another world?" + +"I believe," answered Marion, "that God sent you that child for the express +purpose of enticing you back to himself; and, if I believe any thing at +all, I believe that the gifts of God are without repentance." + +Whether or not he understood her she could not tell, for at this point +Judy came in. Seeing them together she would have withdrawn again; but her +husband called her, with more tenderness in his voice than Marion could +have imagined belonging to it. + +"Come, my dear. Miss Clare and I were talking about our little angel. I +didn't think ever to speak of her again, but I fear I am growing foolish. +All the strength is out of me; and I feel so tired,--so weary of every +thing!" + +She sat down beside him, and took his hand. Marion crept away to the +children. An hour after, Judy found her in the nursery, with the youngest +on her knee, and the rest all about her. She was telling them that we were +sent into this world to learn to be good, and then go back to God from whom +we came, like little Amy. + +"When I go out to-mowwow," said one little fellow, about four years old, +"I'll look up into the sky vewy hard, wight up; and then I shall see Amy, +and God saying to her, 'Hushaby, poo' Amy! You bette' now, Amy?' Sha'n't I, +Mawion?" + +She had taught them to call her Marion. + +"No, my pet: you might look and look, all day long, and every day, and +never see God or Amy." + +"Then they _ain't_ there!" he exclaimed indignantly. + +"God is there, anyhow," she answered; "only you can't see him that way." + +"I don't care about seeing God," said the next elder: "it's Amy I want to +see. Do tell me, Marion, how we are to see Amy. It's too bad if we're never +to see her again; and I don't think it's fair." + +"I will tell you the only way I know. When Jesus was in the world, he told +us that all who had clean hearts should see God. That's how Jesus himself +saw God." + +"It's Amy, I tell you, Marion--it's not God I want to see," insisted the +one who had last spoken. + +"Well, my dear, but how can you see Amy if you can't even see God? If Amy +be in God's arms, the first thing, in order to find her, is to find God. +To be good is the only way to get near to anybody. When you're naughty, +Willie, you can't get near your mamma, can you?" + +"Yes, I can. I can get close up to her." + +"Is that near enough? Would you be quite content with that? Even when she +turns away her face and won't look at you?" + +The little caviller was silent. + +"Did you ever see God, Marion?" asked one of the girls. + +She thought for a moment before giving an answer. "No," she said. "I've +seen things just after he had done them; and I think I've heard him speak +to me; but I've never seen him yet." + +"Then you're not good, Marion," said the free-thinker of the group. + +"No: that's just it. But I hope to be good some day, and then I _shall_ see +him." + +"How do you grow good, Marion?" asked the girl. + +"God is always trying to make me good," she answered; "and I try not to +interfere with him." + +"But sometimes you forget, don't you?" + +"Yes, I do." + +"And what do you do then?" + +"Then I'm sorry and unhappy, and begin to try again." + +"And God don't mind much, does he?" + +"He minds very much until I mind; but after that he forgets it all,--takes +all my naughtiness and throws it behind his back, and won't look at it." + +"That's very good of God," said the reasoner, but with such a +self-satisfied air in his approval, that Marion thought it time to stop. + +She came straight to me, and told me, with a face perfectly radiant, of +the alteration in Mr. Morley's behavior to her, and, what was of much more +consequence, the evident change that had begun to be wrought in him. + +I am not prepared to say that he has, as yet, shown a very shining light, +but that some change has passed is evident in the whole man of him. I think +the eternal wind must now be able to get in through some chink or other +which the loss of his child has left behind. And, if the change were not +going on, surely he would ere now have returned to his wallowing in the +mire of Mammon; for his former fortune is, I understand, all but restored +to him. + +I fancy his growth in goodness might be known and measured by his progress +in appreciating Marion. He still regards her as extreme in her notions; but +it is curious to see how, as they gradually sink into his understanding, he +comes to adopt them as, and even to mistake them for, his own. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + +A STRANGE TEXT. + + +For some time after the events last related, things went on pretty smoothly +with us for several years. Indeed, although I must confess that what I said +in my haste, when Mr. S. wanted me to write this book, namely, that nothing +had ever happened to me worth telling, was by no means correct, and that I +have found out my mistake in the process of writing it; yet, on the other +hand, it must be granted that my story could never have reached the mere +bulk required if I had not largely drawn upon the history of my friends to +supplement my own. And it needs no prophetic gift to foresee that it will +be the same to the end of the book. The lives of these friends, however, +have had so much to do with all that is most precious to me in our own +life, that, if I were to leave out only all that did not immediately touch +upon the latter, the book, whatever it might appear to others, could not +possibly then appear to myself any thing like a real representation of my +actual life and experiences. The drawing might be correct,--but the color? + +What with my children, and the increase of social duty resulting from the +growth of acquaintance,--occasioned in part by my success in persuading +Percivale to mingle a little more with his fellow-painters,--my heart and +mind and hands were all pretty fully occupied; but I still managed to see +Marion two or three times a week, and to spend about so many hours with +her, sometimes alone, sometimes with her friends as well. Her society did +much to keep my heart open, and to prevent it from becoming selfishly +absorbed in its cares for husband and children. For love which is _only_ +concentrating its force, that is, which is not at the same time widening +its circle, is itself doomed, and for its objects ruinous, be those objects +ever so sacred. God himself could never be content that his children should +love him only; nor has he allowed the few to succeed who have tried after +it: perhaps their divinest success has been their most mortifying failure. +Indeed, for exclusive love sharp suffering is often sent as the needful +cure,--needful to break the stony crust, which, in the name of love +for one's own, gathers about the divinely glowing core; a crust which, +promising to cherish by keeping in the heat, would yet gradually thicken +until all was crust; for truly, in things of the heart and spirit, as the +warmth ceases to spread, the molten mass within ceases to glow, until at +length, but for the divine care and discipline, there would be no love left +for even spouse or child, only for self,--which is eternal death. + +For some time I had seen a considerable change in Roger. It reached even to +his dress. Hitherto, when got up for dinner, he was what I was astonished +to hear my eldest boy, the other day, call "a howling swell;" but at other +times he did not even escape remark,--not for the oddity merely, but +the slovenliness of his attire. He had worn, for more years than I dare +guess, a brown coat, of some rich-looking stuff, whose long pile was stuck +together in many places with spots and dabs of paint, so that he looked +like our long-haired Bedlington terrier Fido, towards the end of the week +in muddy weather. This was now discarded; so far at least, as to be hung up +in his brother's study, to be at hand when he did any thing for him there, +and replaced by a more civilized garment of tweed, of which he actually +showed himself a little careful: while, if his necktie _was_ red, it was of +a very deep and rich red, and he had seldom worn one at all before; and his +brigand-looking felt hat was exchanged for one of half the altitude, which +he did not crush on his head with quite as many indentations as its surface +could hold. He also began to go to church with us sometimes. + +But there was a greater and more significant change than any of these. We +found that he was sticking more steadily to work. I can hardly say _his_ +work; for he was Jack-of-all-trades, as I have already indicated. He had +a small income, left him by an old maiden aunt with whom he had been a +favorite, which had hitherto seemed to do him nothing but harm, enabling +him to alternate fits of comparative diligence with fits of positive +idleness. I have said also, I believe, that, although he could do nothing +thoroughly, application alone was wanted to enable him to distinguish +himself in more than one thing. His forte was engraving on wood; and my +husband said, that, if he could do so well with so little practice as +he had had, he must be capable of becoming an admirable engraver. To +our delight, then, we discovered, all at once, that he had been working +steadily for three months for the Messrs. D----, whose place was not far +from our house. He had said nothing about it to his brother, probably from +having good reason to fear that he would regard it only as a _spurt_. +Having now, however, executed a block which greatly pleased himself, he +had brought a proof impression to show Percivale; who, more pleased with +it than even Roger himself, gave him a hearty congratulation, and told +him it would be a shame if he did not bring his execution in that art to +perfection; from which, judging by the present specimen, he said it could +not be far off. The words brought into Roger's face an expression of modest +gratification which it rejoiced me to behold: he accepted Percivale's +approbation more like a son than a brother, with a humid glow in his eyes +and hardly a word on his lips. It seemed to me that the child in his heart +had begun to throw off the swaddling clothes which foolish manhood had +wrapped around it, and the germ of his being was about to assert itself. I +have seldom indeed seen Percivale look so pleased. + +"Do me a dozen as good as that," he said, "and I'll have the proofs framed +in silver gilt." + +It _has_ been done; but the proofs had to wait longer for the frame than +Percivale for the proofs. + +But he need have held out no such bribe of brotherly love, for there was +another love already at work in himself more than sufficing to the affair. +But I check myself: who shall say what love is sufficing for this or for +that? Who, with the most enduring and most passionate love his heart can +hold, will venture to say that he could have done without the love of a +brother? Who will say that he could have done without the love of the dog +whose bones have lain mouldering in his garden for twenty years? It is +enough to say that there was a more engrossing, a more marvellous love at +work. + +Roger always, however, took a half-holiday on Saturdays, and now generally +came to us. On one of these occasions I said to him,-- + +"Wouldn't you like to come and hear Marion play to her friends this +evening, Roger?" + +"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," he answered; and we went. + +It was delightful. In my opinion Marion is a real artist. I do not claim +for her the higher art of origination, though I could claim for her a much +higher faculty than the artistic itself. I suspect, for instance, that +Moses was a greater man than the writer of the Book of Job, notwithstanding +that the poet moves me so much more than the divine politician. Marion +combined in a wonderful way the critical faculty with the artistic; which +two, however much of the one may be found without the other, are mutually +essential to the perfection of each. While she uttered from herself, she +heard with her audience; while she played and sung with her own fingers and +mouth, she at the same time listened with their ears, knowing what they +must feel, as well as what she meant to utter. And hence it was, I think, +that she came into such vital contact with them, even through her piano. + +As we returned home, Roger said, after some remark of mine of a cognate +sort,-- + +"Does she never try to teach them any thing, Ethel?" + +"She is constantly teaching them, whether she tries or not," I answered. +"If you can make any one believe that there is something somewhere to be +trusted, is not that the best lesson you can give him? That can be taught +only by being such that people cannot but trust you." + +"I didn't need to be told that," he answered. "What I want to know is, +whether or not she ever teaches them by word of mouth,--an ordinary and +inferior mode, if you will." + +"If you had ever heard her, you would not call hers an ordinary or inferior +mode," I returned. "Her teaching is the outcome of her life, the blossom of +her being, and therefore has the whole force of her living truth to back +it." + +"Have I offended you, Ethel?" he asked. + +Then I saw, that, in my eagerness to glorify my friend, I had made myself +unpleasant to Roger,--a fault of which I had been dimly conscious before +now. Marion would never have fallen into that error. She always made her +friends feel that she was _with_ them, side by side with them, and turning +her face in the same direction, before she attempted to lead them farther. + +I assured him that he had not offended me, but that I had been foolishly +backing him from the front, as I once heard an Irishman say,--some of whose +bulls were very good milch cows. + +"She teaches them every Sunday evening," I added. + +"Have you ever heard her?" + +"More than once. And I never heard any thing like it." + +"Could you take me with you some time?" he asked, in an assumed tone of +ordinary interest, out of which, however, he could not keep a slight +tremble. + +"I don't know. I don't quite see why I shouldn't. And yet"-- + +"Men do go," urged Roger, as if it were a mere half-indifferent suggestion. + +"Oh, yes! you would have plenty to keep you in countenance!" I +returned,--"men enough--and worth teaching, too--some of them at least!" + +"Then, I don't see why she should object to me for another." + +"I don't know that she would. You are not exactly of the sort, you +know--that"-- + +"I don't see the difference. I see no essential difference, at least. The +main thing is, that I am in want of teaching, as much as any of them. +And, if she stands on circumstances, I am a working-man as much as any of +them--perhaps more than most of them. Few of them work after midnight, I +should think, as I do, not unfrequently." + +"Still, all admitted, I should hardly like"-- + +"I didn't mean you were to take me without asking her," he said: "I should +never have dreamed of that." + +"And if I were to ask her, I am certain she would refuse. But," I added, +thinking over the matter a little, "I will take you without asking her. +Come with me to-morrow night. I don't think she will have the heart to send +you away." + +"I will," he answered, with more gladness in his voice than he intended, I +think, to manifest itself. + +We arranged that he should call for me at a certain hour. + +I told Percivale, and he pretended to grumble that I was taking Roger +instead of him. + +"It was Roger, and not you, that made the request," I returned. "I can't +say I see why you should go because Roger asked. A woman's logic is not +equal to that." + +"I didn't mean he wasn't to go. But why shouldn't I be done good to as well +as he?" + +"If you really want to go," I said, "I don't see why you shouldn't. It's +ever so much better than going to any church I know of--except one. But we +must be prudent. I can't take more than one the first time. We must get the +thin edge of the wedge in first." + +"And you count Roger the thin edge?" + +"Yes." + +"I'll tell him so." + +"Do. The thin edge, mind, without which the thicker the rest is the more +useless! Tell him that if you like. But, seriously, I quite expect to take +you there, too, the Sunday after." + +Roger and I went. Intending to be a little late, we found when we readied +the house, that, as we had wished, the class was already begun. In going +up the stairs, we saw very few of the grown inhabitants, but in several of +the rooms, of which the doors stood open, elder girls taking care of the +younger children; in one, a boy nursing the baby with as much interest as +any girl could have shown. We lingered on the way, wishing to give Marion +time to get so thoroughly into her work that she could take no notice of +our intrusion. When we reached the last stair we could at length hear her +voice, of which the first words we could distinguish, as we still ascended, +were,-- + +"I will now read to you the chapter of which I spoke." + +The door being open, we could hear well enough, although she was sitting +where we could not see her. We would not show ourselves until the reading +was ended: so much, at least, we might overhear without offence. + +Before she had read many words, Roger and I began to cast strange looks on +each other. For this was the chapter she read:-- + +"And Joseph, wheresoever he went in the city, took the Lord Jesus with him, +where he was sent for to work, to make gates, or milk-pails, or sieves, or +boxes; the Lord Jesus was with him wheresoever he went. And as often as +Joseph had any thing in his work to make longer or shorter, or wider or +narrower, the Lord Jesus would stretch his hand towards it. And presently +it became as Joseph would have it. So that he had no need to finish any +thing with his own hands, for he was not very skilful at his carpenter's +trade. + +"On a certain time the king of Jerusalem sent for him, and said, I would +have thee make me a throne of the same dimensions with that place in which +I commonly sit. Joseph obeyed, and forthwith began the work, and continued +two years in the king's palace before he finished. And when he came to fix +it in its place, he found it wanted two spans on each side of the appointed +measure. Which, when the king saw, he was very angry with Joseph; and +Joseph, afraid of the king's anger, went to bed without his supper, taking +not any thing to eat. Then the Lord Jesus asked him what he was afraid of. +Joseph replied, Because I have lost my labor in the work which I have been +about these two years. Jesus said to him, Fear not, neither be cast down; +do thou lay hold on one side of the throne, and I will the other, and we +will bring it to its just dimensions. And when Joseph had done as the Lord +Jesus said, and each of them had with strength drawn his side, the throne +obeyed, and was brought to the proper dimensions of the place; which +miracle when they who stood by saw, they were astonished, and praised God. +The throne was made of the same wood which was in being in Solomon's time, +namely, wood adorned with various shapes and figures." + +Her voice ceased, and a pause followed. + +"We must go in now," I whispered. + +"She'll be going to say something now; just wait till she's started," said +Roger. + +"Now, what do you think of it?" asked Marion in a meditative tone. + +We crept within the scope of her vision, and stood. A voice, which I knew, +was at the moment replying to her question. + +"_I_ don't think it's much of a chapter, that, grannie." + +The speaker was the keen-faced, elderly man, with iron-gray whiskers, who +had come forward to talk to Percivale on that miserable evening when we +were out searching for little Ethel. He sat near where we stood by the +door, between two respectable looking women, who had been listening to the +chapter as devoutly as if it had been of the true gospel. + +"Sure, grannie, that ain't out o' the Bible?" said another voice, from +somewhere farther off. + +"We'll talk about that presently," answered Marion. + +"I want to hear what Mr. Jarvis has to say to it: he's a carpenter himself, +you see,--a joiner, that is, you know." + +All the faces in the room were now turned towards Jarvis. + +"Tell me why you don't think much of it, Mr. Jarvis," said Marion. + +"'Tain't a bit likely," he answered. + +"What isn't likely?" + +"Why, not one single thing in the whole kit of it. And first and foremost, +'tain't a bit likely the old man 'ud ha' been sich a duffer." + +"Why not? There must have been stupid people then as well as now." + +"Not _his_ father." said Jarvis decidedly. + +"He wasn't but his step-father, like, you know, Mr. Jarvis," remarked the +woman beside him in a low voice. + +"Well, he'd never ha' been _hers_, then. _She_ wouldn't ha' had a word to +say to _him_." + +"I have seen a good--and wise woman too--with a dull husband," said Marion. + +"You know you don't believe a word of it yourself, grannie," said still +another voice. + +"Besides," she went on without heeding the interruption, "in those times, +I suspect, such things were mostly managed by the parents, and the woman +herself had little to do with them." + +A murmur of subdued indignation arose,--chiefly of female voices. + +"Well, _they_ wouldn't then," said Jarvis. + +"He might have been rich," suggested Marion. + +"I'll go bail _he_ never made the money then," said Jarvis. "An old idget! +I don't believe sich a feller 'ud ha' been _let_ marry a woman like her--I +_don't_." + +"You mean you don't think God would have let him?" + +"Well, that's what I _do_ mean, grannie. The thing couldn't ha' been, +nohow." + +"I agree with you quite. And now I want to hear more of what in the story +you don't consider likely." + +"Well, it ain't likely sich a workman 'ud ha' stood so high i' the trade +that the king of Jerusalem would ha' sent for _him_ of all the tradesmen in +the town to make his new throne for him. No more it ain't likely--and let +him be as big a duffer as ever was, to be a jiner at all--that he'd ha' +been two year at work on that there throne--an' a carvin' of it in figures +too!--and never found out it was four spans too narrer for the place it had +to stand in. Do ye 'appen to know now, grannie, how much is a span?" + +"I don't know. Do you know, Mrs. Percivale?" + +The sudden reference took me very much by surprise; but I had not +forgotten, happily, the answer I received to the same question, when +anxious to realize the monstrous height of Goliath. + +"I remember my father telling me," I replied, "that it was as much as you +could stretch between your thumb and little finger." + +"There!" cried Jarvis triumphantly, parting the extreme members of his +right hand against the back of the woman in front of him--"that would be +seven or eight inches! Four times that? Two foot and a half at least! Think +of that!" + +"I admit the force of both your objections," said Marion. "And now, to turn +to a more important part of the story, what do you think of the way in +which according to it he got his father out of his evil plight?" + +I saw plainly enough that she was quietly advancing towards some point in +her view,--guiding the talk thitherward, steadily, without haste or effort. + +Before Jarvis had time to make any reply, the blind man, mentioned in a +former chapter, struck in, with the tone of one who had been watching his +opportunity. + +"_I_ make more o' that pint than the t'other," he said. "A man as is a +duffer may well make a mull of a thing; but a man as knows what he's up +to can't. I don't make much o' them miracles, you know, grannie--that is, +I don't know, and what I don't know, I won't say as I knows; but what I'm +sure of is this here one thing,--that man or boy as _could_ work a miracle, +you know, grannie, wouldn't work no miracle as there wasn't no good working +of." + +"It was to help his father," suggested Marion. + +Here Jarvis broke in almost with scorn. + +"To help him to pass for a clever fellow, when he was as great a duffer as +ever broke bread!" + +"I'm quite o' your opinion, Mr. Jarvis," said the blind man. "It 'ud ha' +been more like him to tell his father what a duffer he was, and send him +home to learn his trade." + +"He couldn't do that, you know," said Marion gently. "He _couldn't_ use +such words to his father, if he were ever so stupid." + +"His step-father, grannie," suggested the woman who had corrected Jarvis on +the same point. She spoke very modestly, but was clearly bent on holding +forth what light she had. + +"Certainly, Mrs. Renton; but you know he couldn't be rude to any +one,--leaving his own mother's husband out of the question." + +"True for you, grannie," returned the woman. + +"I think, though," said Jarvis, "for as hard as he'd ha' found it, it would +ha' been more like him to set to work and teach his father, than to scamp +up his mulls." + +"Certainly," acquiesced Marion. "To hide any man's faults, and leave him +not only stupid, but, in all probability, obstinate and self-satisfied, +would not be like _him_. Suppose our Lord had had such a father: what do +you think he would have done?" + +"He'd ha' done all he could to make a man of him," answered Jarvis. + +"Wouldn't he have set about making him comfortable then, in spite of his +blunders?" said Marion. + +A significant silence followed this question. + +"Well, _no_; not first thing, I don't think," returned Jarvis at length. +"He'd ha' got him o' some good first, and gone in to make him comfortable +arter." + +"Then I suppose you would rather be of some good and uncomfortable, than of +no good and comfortable?" said Marion. + +"I hope so, grannie," answered Jarvis; and "_I_ would;" "Yes;" "That I +would," came from several voices in the little crowd, showing what an +influence Marion must have already had upon them. + +"Then," she said,--and I saw by the light which rose in her eyes that she +was now coming to the point,--"Then, surely it must be worth our while to +bear discomfort in order to grow of some good! Mr. Jarvis has truly said, +that, if Jesus had had such a father, he would have made him of some good +before he made him comfortable: that is just the way your Father in heaven +is acting with you. Not many of you would say you are of much good yet; but +you would like to be better. And yet,--put it to yourselves,--do you not +grumble at every thing that comes to you that you don't like, and call it +bad luck, and worse--yes, even when you know it comes of your own fault, +and nobody else's? You think if you had only this or that to make you +comfortable, you would be content; and you call it very hard that So-and-so +should be getting on well, and saving money, and you down on your luck, as +you say. Some of you even grumble that your neighbors' children should be +healthy when yours are pining. You would allow that you are not of much +good yet; but you forget that to make you comfortable as you are would be +the same as to pull out Joseph's misfitted thrones and doors, and make his +misshapen buckets over again for him. That you think so absurd that you +can't believe the story a bit; but you would be helped out of all _your_ +troubles, even those you bring on yourselves, not thinking what the certain +consequence would be, namely, that you would grow of less and less value, +until you were of no good, either to God or man. If you think about it, you +will see that I am right. When, for instance, are you most willing to do +right? When are you most ready to hear about good things? When are you most +inclined to pray to God? When you have plenty of money in your pockets, or +when you are in want? when you have had a good dinner, or when you have not +enough to get one? when you are in jolly health, or when the life seems +ebbing out of you in misery and pain? No matter that you may have brought +it on yourselves; it is no less God's way of bringing you back to him, for +he decrees that suffering shall follow sin: it is just then you most need +it; and, if it drives you to God, that is its end, and there will be an +end of it. The prodigal was himself to blame for the want that made him a +beggar at the swine's trough; yet that want was the greatest blessing God +could give to him, for it drove him home to his father. + +"But some of you will say you are no prodigals; nor is it your fault that +you find yourselves in such difficulties that life seems hard to you. It +would be very wrong in me to set myself up as your judge, and to tell you +that it _was_ your fault. If it is, God will let you know it. But if it +be not your fault, it does not follow that you need the less to be driven +back to God. It is not only in punishment of our sins that we are made to +suffer: God's runaway children must be brought back to their home and their +blessedness,--back to their Father in heaven. It is not always a sign that +God is displeased with us when he makes us suffer. 'Whom the Lord loveth +he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth. If ye endure +chastening, God dealeth with you as with sons.' But instead of talking more +about it, I must take it to myself; and learn not to grumble when _my_ +plans fail." + +"That's what _you_ never goes and does, grannie," growled a voice from +somewhere. + +I learned afterwards it was that of a young tailor, who was constantly +quarrelling with his mother. + +"I think I have given up grumbling at my circumstances," she rejoined; "but +then I have nothing to grumble at in them. I haven't known hunger or cold +for a great many years now. But I do feel discontented at times when I see +some of you not getting better so fast as I should like. I ought to have +patience, remembering how patient God is with my conceit and stupidity, and +not expect too much of you. Still, it can't be wrong to wish that you tried +a good deal more to do what he wants of you. Why should his children not be +his friends? If you would but give yourselves up to him, you would find his +yoke so easy, his burden so light! But you do it half only, and some of you +not at all. + +"Now, however, that we have got a lesson from a false gospel, we may as +well get one from the true." + +As she spoke, she turned to her New Testament which lay beside her. But +Jarvis interrupted her. + +"Where did you get that stuff you was a readin' of to us, grannie?" he +asked. + +"The chapter I read to you," she answered, "is part of a pretended gospel, +called, 'The First Gospel of the Infancy of Jesus Christ.' I can't tell +you who wrote it, or how it came to be written. All I can say is, that, +very early in the history of the church, there were people who indulged +themselves in inventing things about Jesus, and seemed to have had no idea +of the importance of keeping to facts, or, in other words, of speaking +and writing only the truth. All they seemed to have cared about was the +gratifying of their own feelings of love and veneration; and so they made +up tales about him, in his honor as they supposed, no doubt, just as if +he had been a false god of the Greeks or Romans. It is long before some +people learn to speak the truth, even after they know it is wicked to +lie. Perhaps, however, they did not expect their stories to be received +as facts, intending them only as a sort of recognized fiction about +him,--amazing presumption at the best." + +"Did anybody, then, ever believe the likes of that, grannie?" asked Jarvis. + +"Yes: what I read to you seems to have been believed within a hundred years +after the death of the apostles. There are several such writings, with a +great deal of nonsense in them, which were generally accepted by Christian +people for many hundreds of years." + +"I can't imagine how anybody could go inwentuating such things!" said the +blind man. + +"It is hard for us to imagine. They could not have seen how their +inventions would, in later times, be judged any thing but honoring to him +in whose honor they wrote them. Nothing, be it ever so well invented, +can be so good as the bare truth. Perhaps, however, no one in particular +invented some of them, but the stories grew, just as a report often does +amongst yourselves. Although everybody fancies he or she is only telling +just what was told to him or her, yet, by degrees, the pin's-point of +a fact is covered over with lies upon lies, almost everybody adding +something, until the report has grown to be a mighty falsehood. Why, you +had such a story yourselves, not so very long ago, about one of your best +friends! One comfort is, such a story is sure not to be consistent with +itself; it is sure to show its own falsehood to any one who is good enough +to doubt it, and who will look into it, and examine it well. You don't, for +instance, want any other proof than the things themselves to show you that +what I have just read to you can't be true." + +"But then it puzzles me to think how anybody could believe them," said the +blind man. + +"Many of the early Christians were so childishly simple that they would +believe almost any thing that was told them. In a time when such nonsense +could be written, it is no great wonder there should be many who could +believe it." + +"Then, what was their faith worth," said the blind man, "if they believed +false and true all the same?" + +"Worth no end to them," answered Marion with eagerness; "for all the false +things they might believe about him could not destroy the true ones, or +prevent them from believing in Jesus himself, and bettering their ways for +his sake. And as they grew better and better, by doing what he told them, +they would gradually come to disbelieve this and that foolish or bad +thing." + +"But wouldn't that make them stop believing in him altogether?" + +"On the contrary, it would make them hold the firmer to all that they saw +to be true about him. There are many people, I presume, in other countries, +who believe those stories still; but all the Christians I know have cast +aside every one of those writings, and keep only to those we call the +Gospels. To throw away what is not true, because it is not true, will +always help the heart to be truer; will make it the more anxious to cleave +to what it sees must be true. Jesus remonstrated with the Jews that they +would not of themselves judge what was right; and the man who lets God +teach him is made abler to judge what is right a thousand-fold." + +"Then don't you think it likely this much is true, grannie,"--said Jarvis, +probably interested in the question, in part at least, from the fact that +he was himself a carpenter,--"that he worked with his father, and helped +him in his trade?" + +"I do, indeed," answered Marion. "I believe that is the one germ of truth +in the whole story. It is possible even that some incidents of that part of +his life may have been handed down a little way, at length losing all their +shape, however, and turning into the kind of thing I read to you. Not to +mention that they called him the carpenter, is it likely he who came down +for the express purpose of being a true man would see his father toiling to +feed him and his mother and his brothers and sisters, and go idling about, +instead of putting to his hand to help him? Would that have been like him?" + +"Certainly not," said Mr. Jarvis. + +But a doubtful murmur came from the blind man, which speedily took shape in +the following remark:-- + +"I can't help thinkin', grannie, of one time--you read it to us not long +ago--when he laid down in the boat and went fast asleep, takin' no more +heed o' them a slavin' o' theirselves to death at their oars, than if +they'd been all comfortable like hisself; that wasn't much like takin' of +his share--was it now?" + +"John Evans," returned Marion with severity, "it is quite right to put +any number of questions, and express any number of doubts you honestly +feel; but you have no right to make remarks you would not make if you were +anxious to be as fair to another as you would have another be to you. Have +you considered that he had been working hard all day long, and was, in +fact, worn out? You don't think what hard work it is, and how exhausting, +to speak for hours to great multitudes, and in the open air too, where +your voice has no help to make it heard. And that's not all; for he had +most likely been healing many as well; and I believe every time the power +went out of him to cure, he suffered in the relief he gave; it left him +weakened,--with so much the less of strength to support his labors,--so +that, even in his very body, he took our iniquities and bare our +infirmities. Would you, then, blame a weary man, whose perfect faith in God +rendered it impossible for him to fear any thing, that he lay down to rest +in God's name, and left his friends to do their part for the redemption of +the world in rowing him to the other side of the lake,--a thing they were +doing every other day of their lives? You ought to consider before you make +such remarks, Mr. Evans. And you forget also that the moment they called +him, he rose to help them." + +"And find fault with them," interposed Evans, rather viciously I thought. + +"Yes; for they were to blame for their own trouble, and ought to send it +away." + +"What! To blame for the storm? How could they send that away?" + +"Was it the storm that troubled them then? It was their own fear of it. The +storm could not have troubled them if they had had faith in their Father in +heaven." + +"They had good cause to be afraid of it, anyhow." + +"He judged they had not, for he was not afraid himself. You judge they had, +because you would have been afraid." + +"He could help himself, you see." + +"And they couldn't trust either him or his Father, notwithstanding all he +had done to manifest himself and his Father to them. Therefore he saw that +the storm about them was not the thing that most required rebuke." + +"I never pretended to much o' the sort," growled Evans. "Quite the +contrairy." + +"And why? Because, like an honest man, you wouldn't pretend to what you +hadn't got. But, if you carried your honesty far enough, you would have +taken pains to understand our Lord first. Like his other judges, you +condemn him beforehand. You will not call that honesty?" + +"I don't see what right you've got to badger me like this before a +congregation o' people," said the blind man, rising in indignation. "If I +ain't got my heyesight, I ha' got my feelin's." + +"And do you think _he_ has no feelings, Mr. Evans? You have spoken evil of +_him_: I have spoken but the truth of _you_!" + +"Come, come, grannie," said the blind man, quailing a little; "don't talk +squash. I'm a livin' man afore the heyes o' this here company, an' he ain't +nowheres. Bless you, _he_ don't mind!" + +"He minds so much," returned Marion, in a subdued voice, which seemed to +tremble with coming tears, "that he will never rest until you think fairly +of him. And he is here now; for he said, 'I am with you alway, to the end +of the world;' and he has heard every word you have been saying against +him. He isn't angry like me; but your words may well make him feel sad--for +your sake, John Evans--that you should be so unfair." + +She leaned her forehead on her hand, and was silent. A subdued murmur +arose. The blind man, having stood irresolute for a moment, began to make +for the door, saying,-- + +"I think I'd better go. I ain't wanted here." + +"If you _are_ an honest man, Mr. Evans," returned Marion, rising, "you will +sit down and hear the case out." + +With a waving, fin-like motion of both his hands, Evans sank into his seat, +and spoke no word. + +After but a moment's silence, she resumed as if there had been no +interruption. + +"That he should sleep, then, during the storm was a very different thing +from declining to assist his father in his workshop; just as the rebuking +of the sea was a very different thing from hiding up his father's bad work +in miracles. Had that father been in danger, he might perhaps have aided +him as he did the disciples. But"-- + +"Why do you say _perhaps_, grannie?" interrupted a bright-eyed boy who sat +on the hob of the empty grate. "Wouldn't he help his father as soon as his +disciples?" + +"Certainly, if it was good for his father; certainly not, if it was not +good for him: therefore I say _perhaps_. But now," she went on, turning to +the joiner, "Mr. Jarvis, will you tell me whether you think the work of the +carpenter's son would have been in any way distinguishable from that of +another man?" + +"Well, I don't know, grannie. He wouldn't want to be putting of a private +mark upon it. He wouldn't want to be showing of it off--would he? He'd use +his tools like another man, anyhow." + +"All that we may be certain of. He came to us a man, to live a man's life, +and do a man's work. But just think a moment. I will put the question +again: Do you suppose you would have been able to distinguish his work from +that of any other man?" + +A silence followed. Jarvis was thinking. He and the blind man were of the +few that can think. At last his face brightened. + +"Well, grannie," he said, "I think it would be very difficult in any thing +easy, but very easy in any thing difficult." + +He laughed,--for he had not perceived the paradox before uttering it. + +"Explain yourself, if you please, Mr. Jarvis. I am not sure that I +understand you," said Marion. + +"I mean, that, in an easy job, which any fair workman could do well enough, +it would not be easy to tell his work. But, where the job was difficult, +it would be so much better done, that it would not be difficult to see the +better hand in it." + +"I understand you, then, to indicate, that the chief distinction would lie +in the quality of the work; that whatever he did, he would do in such a +thorough manner, that over the whole of what he turned out, as you would +say, the perfection of the work would be a striking characteristic. Is that +it?" + +"That is what I do mean, grannie." + +"And that is just the conclusion I had come to myself." + +"_I_ should like to say just one word to it, grannie, so be you won't cut +up crusty," said the blind man. + +"If you are fair, I sha'n't be crusty, Mr. Evans. At least, I hope not," +said Marion. + +"Well, it's this: Mr. Jarvis he say as how the jiner-work done by Jesus +Christ would be better done than e'er another man's,--tip-top fashion,--and +there would lie the differ. Now, it do seem to me as I've got no call to +come to that 'ere conclusion. You been tellin' on us, grannie, I donno how +long now, as how Jesus Christ was the Son of God, and that he come to do +the works of God,--down here like, afore our faces, that we might see God +at work, by way of. Now, I ha' nothin' to say agin that: it may be, or it +mayn't be--I can't tell. But if that be the way on it, then I don't see +how Mr. Jarvis can be right; the two don't curryspond,--not by no means. +For the works o' God--there ain't one on'em as I can see downright well +managed--tip-top jiner's work, as I may say; leastways,--Now stop a +bit, grannie; don't trip a man up, and then say as he fell over his own +dog,--leastways, I don't say about the moon an' the stars an' that; I +dessay the sun he do get up the werry moment he's called of a mornin', +an' the moon when she ought to for her night-work,--I ain't no 'stronomer +strawnry, and I ain't heerd no complaints about _them_; but I do say as +how, down here, we ha' got most uncommon bad weather more'n at times; and +the walnuts they turns out, every now an' then, full o' mere dirt; an' the +oranges awful. There 'ain't been a good crop o' hay, they tells me, for +many's the year. An' i' furren parts, what wi' earthquakes an' wolcanies +an' lions an' tigers, an' savages as eats their wisiters, an' chimley-pots +blowin' about, an' ships goin' down, an' fathers o' families choked an' +drownded an' burnt i' coal-pits by the hundred,--it do seem to me that if +his jinerin' hadn't been tip-top, it would ha' been but like the rest on +it. There, grannie! Mind, I mean no offence; an' I don't doubt you ha' got +somethink i' your weskit pocket as 'll turn it all topsy-turvy in a moment. +Anyhow, I won't purtend to nothink, and that's how it look to me." + +"I admit," said Marion, "that the objection is a reasonable one. But why do +you put it, Mr. Evans, in such a triumphant way, as if you were rejoiced +to think it admitted of no answer, and believed the world would be ever so +much better off if the storms and the tigers had it all their own way, and +there were no God to look after things." + +"Now, you ain't fair to _me_, grannie. Not avin' of my heyesight like the +rest on ye, I may be a bit fond of a harguyment; but I tries to hit fair, +and when I hears what ain't logic, I can no more help comin' down upon it +than I can help breathin' the air o' heaven. And why shouldn't I? There +ain't no law agin a harguyment. An' more an' over, it do seem to me as how +you and Mr. Jarvis is wrong i' _it is_ harguyment." + +"If I was too sharp upon you, Mr. Evans, and I may have been," said Marion, +"I beg your pardon." + +"It's granted, grannie." + +"I don't mean, you know, that I give in to what you say,--not one bit." + +"I didn't expect it of you. I'm a-waitin' here for you to knock me down." + +"I don't think a mere victory is worth the breath spent upon it," said +Marion. "But we should all be glad to get or give more light upon any +subject, if it be by losing ever so many arguments. Allow me just to put a +question or two to Mr. Jarvis, because he's a joiner himself--and that's a +great comfort to me to-night: What would you say, Mr. Jarvis, of a master +who planed the timber he used for scaffolding, and tied the crosspieces +with ropes of silk?" + +"I should say he was a fool, grannie,--not only for losin' of his money +and his labor, but for weakenin' of his scaffoldin',--summat like the old +throne-maker i' that chapter, I should say." + +"What's the object of a scaffold, Mr. Jarvis?" + +"To get at something else by means of,--say build a house." + +"Then, so long as the house was going up all right, the probability is +there wouldn't be much amiss with the scaffold?" + +"Certainly, provided it stood till it was taken down." + +"And now, Mr. Evans," she said next, turning to the blind man, "I am going +to take the liberty of putting a question or two to you." + +"All right, grannie. Fire away." + +"Will you tell me, then, what the object of this world is?" + +"Well, most people makes it their object to get money, and make theirselves +comfortable." + +"But you don't think that is what the world was made for?" + +"Oh! as to that, how should I know, grannie? And not knowin', I won't say." + +"If you saw a scaffold," said Marion, turning again to Jarvis, "would you +be in danger of mistaking it for a permanent erection?" + +"Nobody wouldn't be such a fool," he answered. "The look of it would tell +you that." + +"You wouldn't complain, then, if it should be a little out of the square, +and if there should be no windows in it?" + +Jarvis only laughed. + +"Mr. Evans," Marion went on, turning again to the blind man, "do you think +the design of this world was to make men comfortable?" + +"If it was, it don't seem to ha' succeeded," answered Evans. + +"And you complain of that--don't you?" + +"Well, yes, rather,"--said the blind man, adding, no doubt, as he recalled +the former part of the evening's talk,--"for harguyment, ye know, grannie." + +"You think, perhaps, that God, having gone so far to make this world a +pleasant and comfortable place to live in, might have gone farther and made +it quite pleasant and comfortable for everybody?" + +"Whoever could make it at all could ha' done that, grannie." + +"Then, as he hasn't done it, the probability is he didn't mean to do it?" + +"Of course. That's what I complain of." + +"Then he meant to do something else?" + +"It looks like it." + +"The whole affair has an unfinished look, you think?" + +"I just do." + +"What if it were not meant to stand, then? What if it were meant only for +a temporary assistance in carrying out something finished and lasting, and +of unspeakably more importance? Suppose God were building a palace for you, +and had set up a scaffold, upon which he wanted you to help him; would it +be reasonable in you to complain that you didn't find the scaffold at all +a comfortable place to live in?--that it was draughty and cold? This World +is that scaffold; and if you were busy carrying stones and mortar for the +palace, you would be glad of all the cold to cool the glow of your labor." + +"I'm sure I work hard enough when I get a job as my heyesight will enable +me to do," said Evans, missing the spirit of her figure. + +"Yes: I believe you do. But what will all the labor of a workman who does +not fall in with the design of the builder come to? You may say you don't +understand the design: will you say also that you are under no obligation +to put so much faith in the builder, who is said to be your God and Father, +as to do the thing he tells you? Instead of working away at the palace, +like men, will you go on tacking bits of matting and old carpet about +the corners of the scaffold to keep the wind off, while that same wind +keeps tearing them away and scattering them? You keep trying to live in a +scaffold, which not all you could do to all eternity would make a house of. +You see what I mean, Mr. Evans?" + +"Well, not ezackly," replied the blind man. + +"I mean that God wants to build you a house whereof the walls shall be +_goodness_: you want a house whereof the walls shall be _comfort_. But God +knows that such walls cannot be built,--that that kind of stone crumbles +away in the foolish workman's hands. He would make you comfortable; but +neither is that his first object, nor can it be gained without the first, +which is to make you good. He loves you so much that he would infinitely +rather have you good and uncomfortable, for then he could take you to his +heart as his own children, than comfortable and not good, for then he +could not come near you, or give you any thing he counted worth having for +himself or worth giving to you." + +"So," said Jarvis, "you've just brought us round, grannie, to the same +thing as before." + +"I believe so," returned Marion. "It comes to this, that when God would +build a palace for himself to dwell in with his children, he does not want +his scaffold so constructed that they shall be able to make a house of it +for themselves, and live like apes instead of angels." + +"But if God can do any thing he please," said Evans, "he might as well +_make_ us good, and there would be an end of it." + +"That is just what he is doing," returned Marion. "Perhaps, by giving them +perfect health, and every thing they wanted, with absolute good temper, +and making them very fond of each other besides, God might have provided +himself a people he would have had no difficulty in governing, and amongst +whom, in consequence, there would have been no crime and no struggle or +suffering. But I have known a dog with more goodness than that would come +to. We cannot be good without having consented to be made good. God shows +us the good and the bad; urges us to be good; wakes good thoughts and +desires in us; helps our spirit with his Spirit, our thought with his +thought: but we must yield; we must turn to him; we must consent, yes, try +to be made good. If we could grow good without trying, it would be a poor +goodness: _we_ should not be good, after all; at best, we should only be +not bad. God wants us to choose to be good, and so be partakers of his +holiness; he would have us lay hold of him. He who has given his Son to +suffer for us will make us suffer too, bitterly if needful, that we may +bethink ourselves, and turn to him. He would make us as good as good can +be, that is, perfectly good; and therefore will rouse us to take the +needful hand in the work ourselves,--rouse us by discomforts innumerable. + +"You see, then, it is not inconsistent with the apparent imperfections +of the creation around us, that Jesus should have done the best possible +carpenter's work; for those very imperfections are actually through their +imperfection the means of carrying out the higher creation God has in view, +and at which he is working all the time. + +"Now let me read you what King David thought upon this question." + +She read the hundred and seventh Psalm. Then they had some singing, in +which the children took a delightful part. I have seldom heard children +sing pleasantly. In Sunday schools I have always found their voices +painfully harsh. But Marion made her children restrain their voices, and +sing softly; which had, she said, an excellent moral effect on themselves, +all squalling and screeching, whether in art or morals, being ruinous to +either. + +Toward the close of the singing, Roger and I slipped out. We had all but +tacitly agreed it would be best to make no apology, but just vanish, and +come again with Percivale the following Sunday. + +The greater part of the way home we walked in silence. + +"What did you think of that, Roger?" I asked at length. + +"Quite Socratic as to method," he answered, and said no more. + +I sent a full report of the evening to my father, who was delighted with +it, although, of course, much was lost in the reporting of the mere words, +not to mention the absence of her sweet face and shining eyes, of her +quiet, earnest, musical voice. My father kept the letter, and that is how I +am able to give the present report. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + +ABOUT SERVANTS. + + +I went to call on Lady Bernard the next day: for there was one subject on +which I could better talk with her than with Marion; and that subject was +Marion herself. In the course of our conversation, I said that I had had +more than usual need of such a lesson as she gave us the night before,--I +had been, and indeed still was, so vexed with my nurse. + +"What is the matter?" asked Lady Bernard. + +"She has given me warning," I answered. + +"She has been with you some time--has she not?" + +"Ever since we were married." + +"What reason does she give?" + +"Oh! she wants _to better herself_, of course," I replied,--in such a tone, +that Lady Bernard rejoined,-- + +"And why should she not better herself?" + +"But she has such a false notion of bettering herself. I am confident what +she wants will do any thing but better her, if she gets it." + +"What is her notion, then? Are you sure you have got at the real one?" + +"I believe I have _now_. When I asked her first, she said she was very +comfortable, and condescended to inform me that she had nothing against +either me or her master, but thought it was time she was having more wages; +for a friend of hers, who had left home a year after herself, was having +two more pounds than she had." + +"It is very natural, and certainly not wrong, that she should wish for more +wages." + +"I told her she need not have taken such a round-about way of asking for an +advance, and said I would raise her wages with pleasure. But, instead of +receiving the announcement with any sign of satisfaction, she seemed put +out by it; and, after some considerable amount of incoherence, blurted out +that the place was dull, and she wanted a change. At length, however, I got +at her real reason, which was simply ambition: she wanted to rise in the +world,--to get a place where men-servants were kept,--a more fashionable +place, in fact." + +"A very mistaken ambition certainly," said Lady Bernard, "but one which +would be counted natural enough in any other line of life. Had she given +you ground for imagining higher aims in her?" + +"She had been so long with us, that I thought she must have some regard for +us." + +"She has probably a good deal more than she is aware of. But change is as +needful to some minds, for their education, as an even tenor of life is to +others. Probably she has got all the good she is capable of receiving from +you, and there may be some one ready to take her place for whom you will be +able to do more. However inconvenient it may be for you to change, the more +young people pass through your house the better." + +"If it were really for her good, I hope I shouldn't mind." + +"You cannot tell what may be needful to cause the seed you have sown to +germinate. It may be necessary for her to pass to another class in the +school of life, before she can realize what she learned in yours." + +I was silent, for I was beginning to feel ashamed; and Lady Bernard went +on,-- + +"When I hear mistresses lamenting, over some favorite servant, as marrying +certain misery in exchange for a comfortable home, with plenty to eat +and drink and wear, I always think of the other side to it, namely, how, +through the instincts of his own implanting, God is urging her to a path +in which, by passing through the fires and waters of suffering, she may be +stung to the life of a true humanity. And such suffering is far more ready +to work its perfect work on a girl who has passed through a family like +yours." + +"I wouldn't say a word to keep her if she were going to be married," I +said; "but you will allow there is good reason to fear she will be no +better for such a change as she desires." + +"You have good reason to fear, my child," said Lady Bernard, smiling so +as to take all sting out of the reproof, "that you have too little faith +in the God who cares for your maid as for you. It is not indeed likely +that she will have such help as yours where she goes next; but the loss +of it may throw her back on herself, and bring out her individuality, +which is her conscience. Still, I am far from wondering at your fear for +her,--knowing well what dangers she may fall into. Shall I tell you what +first began to open my eyes to the evils of a large establishment? Wishing +to get rid of part of the weight of my affairs, and at the same time to +assist a relative who was in want of employment, I committed to him, along +with larger matters, the oversight of my household expenses, and found that +he saved me the whole of his salary. This will be easily understood from a +single fact. Soon after his appointment, he called on a tradesman to pay +him his bill. The man, taking him for a new butler, offered him the same +discount he had been in the habit of giving his supposed predecessor, +namely, twenty-five per cent,--a discount, I need not say, never intended +to reach my knowledge, any more than my purse. The fact was patent: I had +been living in a hotel, of which I not only paid the rent, but paid the +landlord for cheating me. With such a head to an establishment, you may +judge what the members may become." + +"I remember an amusing experience my brother-in-law, Roger Percivale, once +had of your household," I said. + +"I also remember it perfectly," she returned. "That was how I came to +know him. But I knew something of his family long before. I remember his +grandfather, a great buyer of pictures and marbles." + +Lady Bernard here gave me the story from her point of view; but Roger's +narrative being of necessity the more complete, I tell the tale as he told +it me. + +At the time of the occurrence, he was assisting Mr. F., the well-known +sculptor, and had taken a share in both the modelling and the carving of a +bust of Lady Bernard's father. When it was finished, and Mr. F. was about +to take it home, he asked Roger to accompany him, and help him to get it +safe into the house and properly placed. + +Roger and the butler between them carried it to the drawing-room, where +were Lady Bernard and a company of her friends, whom she had invited to +meet Mr. F, at lunch, and see the bust. There being no pedestal yet ready, +Mr. F. made choice of a certain small table for it to stand upon, and then +accompanied her ladyship and her other guests to the dining-room, leaving +Roger to uncover the bust, place it in the proper light, and do whatever +more might be necessary to its proper effect on the company when they +should return. As she left the room, Lady Bernard told Roger to ring for +a servant to clear the table for him, and render what other assistance he +might want. He did so. A lackey answered the bell, and Roger requested +him to remove the things from the table. The man left the room, and did +not return. Roger therefore cleared and moved the table himself, and with +difficulty got the bust upon it. Finding then several stains upon the pure +half transparency of the marble, he rang the bell for a basin of water +and a sponge. Another man appeared, looked into the room, and went away. +He rang once more, and yet another servant came. This last condescended +to hear him; and, informing him that he could get what he wanted in the +scullery, vanished in his turn. By this time Roger confesses to have been +rather in a rage; but what could he do? Least of all allow Mr. F.'s work, +and the likeness of her ladyship's father, to make its debut with a spot +on its nose; therefore, seeing he could not otherwise procure what was +necessary, he set out in quest of the unknown appurtenances of the kitchen. + +It is unpleasant to find one's self astray, even in a moderately sized +house; and Roger did not at all relish wandering about the huge place, with +no finger-posts to keep him in its business-thoroughfares, not to speak +of directing him to the remotest recesses of a house "full," as Chaucer +says, "of crenkles." At last, however, he found himself at the door of the +servants' hall. Two men were lying on their backs on benches, with their +knees above their heads in the air; a third was engaged in emptying a +pewter pot, between his draughts tossing _facetiæ_ across its mouth to a +damsel who was removing the remains of some private luncheon; and a fourth +sat in one of the windows reading "Bell's Life." Roger took it all in at +a glance, while to one of the giants supine, or rather to a perpendicular +pair of white stockings, he preferred his request for a basin and a +sponge. Once more he was informed that he would find what he wanted in +the scullery. There was no time to waste on unavailing demands, therefore +he only begged further to be directed how to find it. The fellow, without +raising his head or lowering his knees, jabbered out such instructions +as, from the rapidity with which he delivered them, were, if not +unintelligible, at all events incomprehensible; and Roger had to set out +again on the quest, only not quite so bewildered as before. He found a +certain long passage mentioned, however, and happily, before he arrived +at the end of it, met a maid, who with the utmost civility gave him full +instructions to find the place. The scullery-maid was equally civil; and +Roger returned with basin and sponge to the drawing-room, where he speedily +removed the too troublesome stains from the face of the marble. + +When the company re-entered, Mr. F. saw at once, from the expression and +bearing of Roger, that something had happened to discompose him, and asked +him what was amiss. Roger having briefly informed him, Mr. F. at once +recounted the facts to Lady Bernard, who immediately requested a full +statement from Roger himself, and heard the whole story. + +She walked straight to the bell, and ordered up every one of her domestics, +from the butler to the scullery-maid. + +Without one hasty word, or one bodily sign of the anger she was in, except +the flashing of her eyes, she told them she could not have had a suspicion +that such insolence was possible in her house; that they had disgraced her +in her own eyes, as having gathered such people about her; that she would +not add to Mr. Percivale's annoyance by asking him to point out the guilty +persons, but that they might assure themselves she would henceforth keep +both eyes and ears open, and if the slightest thing of the sort happened +again, she would most assuredly dismiss every one of them at a moment's +warning. She then turned to Roger and said,-- + +"Mr. Percivale, I beg your pardon for the insults you have received from my +servants." + +"I did think," she said, as she finished telling me the story, "to dismiss +them all on the spot, but was deterred by the fear of injustice. The next +morning, however, four or five of them gave my housekeeper warning: I gave +orders that they should leave the house at once, and from that day I set +about reducing my establishment. My principal objects were two: first, that +my servants might have more work; and second, that I might be able to know +something of every one of them; for one thing I saw, that, until I ruled +my own house well, I had no right to go trying to do good out of doors. I +think I do know a little of the nature and character of every soul under my +roof now; and I am more and more confident that nothing of real and lasting +benefit can be done for a class except through personal influence upon the +individual persons who compose it--such influence, I mean, as at the very +least sets for Christianity." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + +ABOUT PERCIVALE. + + +I should like much, before in my narrative approaching a certain hard +season we had to encounter, to say a few words concerning my husband, if +I only knew how. I find women differ much, both in the degree and manner +in which their feelings will permit them to talk about their husbands. I +have known women set a whole community against their husbands by the way +in which they trumpeted their praises; and I have known one woman set +everybody against herself by the way in which she published her husband's +faults. I find it difficult to believe either sort. To praise one's husband +is so like praising one's self, that to me it seems immodest, and subject +to the same suspicion as self-laudation; while to blame one's husband, even +justly and openly, seems to me to border upon treachery itself. How, then, +am I to discharge a sort of half duty my father has laid upon me by what +he has said in "The Seaboard Parish," concerning my husband's opinions? My +father is one of the few really large-minded men I have yet known; but I +am not certain that he has done Percivale justice. At the same time, if he +has not, Percivale himself is partly to blame, inasmuch as he never took +pains to show my father what he was; for, had he done so, my father of all +men would have understood him. On the other hand, this fault, if such it +was, could have sprung only from my husband's modesty, and his horror of +possibly producing an impression on my father's mind more favorable than +correct. It is all right now, however. + +Still, my difficulty remains as to how I am to write about him. I must +encourage myself with the consideration that none but our own friends, with +whom, whether they understood us or not, we are safe, will know to whom the +veiled narrative points. + +But some acute reader may say,-- + +"You describe your husband's picture: he will be known by that." + +In this matter I have been cunning--I hope not deceitful, inasmuch as I +now reveal my cunning. Instead of describing any real picture of his, I +have always substituted one he has only talked about. The picture actually +associated with the facts related is not the picture I have described. + +Although my husband left the impression on my father's mind, lasting for +a long time, that he had some definite repugnance to Christianity itself, +I had been soon satisfied, perhaps from his being more open with me, that +certain unworthy representations of Christianity, coming to him with +authority, had cast discredit upon the whole idea of it. In the first year +or two of our married life, we had many talks on the subject; and I was +astonished to find what things he imagined to be acknowledged essentials +of Christianity, which have no place whatever in the New Testament; and I +think it was in proportion as he came to see his own misconceptions, that, +although there was little or no outward difference to be perceived in him, +I could more and more clearly distinguish an under-current of thought and +feeling setting towards the faith which Christianity preaches. He said +little or nothing, even when I attempted to draw him out on the matter; +for he was almost morbidly careful not to seem to know any thing he did +not know, or to appear what he was not. The most I could get out of him +was--but I had better give a little talk I had with him on one occasion. +It was some time before we began to go to Marion's on a Sunday evening, +and I had asked him to go with me to a certain, little chapel in the +neighborhood. + +"What!" he said merrily, "the daughter of a clergyman be seen going to a +conventicle?" + +"If I did it, I would be seen doing it," I answered. + +"Don't you know that the man is no conciliatory, or even mild dissenter, +but a decided enemy to Church and State and all that?" pursued Percivale. + +"I don't care," I returned. "I know nothing about it. What I know is, that +he's a poet and a prophet both in one. He stirs up my heart within me, and +makes me long to be good. He is no orator, and yet breaks into bursts of +eloquence such as none of the studied orators, to whom you profess so great +an aversion, could ever reach." + +"You may well be right there. It is against nature for a speaker to be +eloquent throughout his discourse, and the false will of course quench the +true. I don't mind going if you wish it. I suppose he believes what he +says, at least." + +"Not a doubt of it. He could not speak as he does from less than a thorough +belief." + +"Do you mean to say, Wynnie, that he is _sure_ of every thing,--I don't +want to urge an unreasonable question,--but is he _sure_ that the story of +the New Testament is, in the main, actual fact? I should be very sorry to +trouble your faith, but"-- + +"My father says," I interrupted, "that a true faith is like the Pool of +Bethesda: it is when troubled that it shows its healing power." + +"That depends on where the trouble comes from, perhaps," said Percivale. + +"Anyhow," I answered, "it is only that which cannot be shaken that shall +remain." + +"Well, I will tell you what seems to me a very common-sense difficulty. +How is any one to be _sure_ of the things recorded? I cannot imagine a man +of our time absolutely certain of them. If you tell me I have testimony, +I answer, that the testimony itself requires testimony. I never even saw +the people who bear it; have just as good reason to doubt their existence, +as that of him concerning whom they bear it; have positively no means of +verifying it, and indeed, have so little confidence in all that is called +evidence, knowing how it can be twisted, that I should distrust any +conclusion I might seem about to come to on the one side or the other. It +does appear to me, that, if the thing were of God, he would have taken care +that it should be possible for an honest man to place a hearty confidence +in its record." + +He had never talked to me so openly, and I took it as a sign that he had +been thinking more of these things than hitherto. I felt it a serious +matter to have to answer such words, for how could I have any better +assurance of that external kind than Percivale himself? That I was in the +same intellectual position, however, enabled me the better to understand +him. For a short time I was silent, while he regarded me with a look of +concern,--fearful, I fancied, lest he should have involved me in his own +perplexity. + +"Isn't it possible, Percivale," I said, "that God may not care so much for +beginning at that end?" + +"I don't quite understand you, Wynnie," he returned. + +"A man might believe every fact recorded concerning our Lord, and yet not +have the faith in him that God wishes him to have." + +"Yes, certainly. But will you say the converse of that is true?" + +"Explain, please." + +"Will you say a man may have the faith God cares for without the faith you +say he does not care for?" + +"I didn't say that God does not care about our having assurance of the +facts; for surely, if every thing depends on those facts, much will depend +on the degree of our assurance concerning them. I only expressed a doubt +whether, in the present age, he cares that we should have that assurance +first. Perhaps he means it to be the result of the higher kind of faith +which rests in the will." + +"I don't, at the moment, see how the higher faith, as you call it, can +precede the lower." + +"It seems to me possible enough. For what is the test of discipleship the +Lord lays down? Is it not obedience? 'If ye love me, keep my commandments.' +'If a man love me, he will keep my commandments.' 'I never knew you: depart +from me, ye workers of iniquity.' Suppose a man feels in himself that he +must have some saviour or perish; suppose he feels drawn, by conscience, +by admiration, by early memories, to the form of Jesus, dimly seen through +the mists of ages; suppose he cannot be sure there ever was such a man, but +reads about him, and ponders over the words attributed to him, until he +feels they are the right thing, whether _he_ said them or not, and that if +he could but be sure there were such a being, he would believe in him with +heart and soul; suppose also that he comes upon the words, 'If any man is +willing to do the will of the Father, he shall know whether I speak of +myself or he sent me;' suppose all these things, might not the man then say +to himself, 'I cannot tell whether all this is true, but I know nothing +that seems half so good, and I will try to do the will of the Father in +the hope of the promised knowledge'? Do you think God would, or would not, +count that to the man for faith?" + +I had no more to say, and a silence followed. After a pause of some +duration, Percivale said,-- + +"I will go with you, my dear;" and that was all his answer. + +When we came out of the little chapel,--the same into which Marion had +stepped on that evening so memorable to her,--we walked homeward in +silence, and reached our own door ere a word was spoken. But, when I went +to take off my things, Percivale followed me into the room and said,-- + +"Whether that man is _certain_ of the facts or not, I cannot tell yet; +but I am perfectly satisfied he believes in the manner of which you were +speaking,--that of obedience, Wynnie. He must believe with his heart and +will and life." + +"If so, he can well afford to wait for what light God will give him on +things that belong to the intellect and judgment." + +"I would rather think," he returned, "that purity of life must re-act on +the judgment, so as to make it likewise clear, and enable it to recognize +the true force of the evidence at command." + +"That is how my father came to believe," I said. + +"He seems to me to rest his conviction more upon external proof." + +"That is only because it is easier to talk about. He told me once that he +was never able to estimate the force and weight of the external arguments +until after he had believed for the very love of the eternal truth he saw +in the story. His heart, he said, had been the guide of his intellect." + +"That is just what I would fain believe. But, O Wynnie! the pity of it if +that story should not be true, after all!" + +"Ah, my love!" I cried, "that very word makes me surer than ever that it +cannot but be true. Let us go on putting it to the hardest test; let us +try it until it crumbles in our hands,--try it by the touchstone of action +founded on its requirements." + +"There may be no other way," said Percivale, after a thoughtful pause, "of +becoming capable of recognizing the truth. It may be beyond the grasp of +all but the mind that has thus yielded to it. There may be no contact for +it with any but such a mind. Such a conviction, then, could neither be +forestalled nor communicated. Its very existence must remain doubtful until +it asserts itself. I see that." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + +MY SECOND TERROR. + + +"Please, ma'am, is Master Fido to carry Master Zohrab about by the back +o' the neck?" said Jemima, in indignant appeal, one afternoon late in +November, bursting into the study where I sat with my husband. + +Fido was our Bedlington terrier, which, having been reared by Newcastle +colliers, and taught to draw a badger,--whatever that may mean,--I am +hazy about it,--had a passion for burrowing after any thing buried. Swept +away by the current of the said passion, he had with his strong forepaws +unearthed poor Zohrab, which, being a tortoise, had ensconced himself, as +he thought, for the winter, in the earth at the foot of a lilac-tree; but +now, much to his jeopardy, from the cold and the shock of the surprise more +than from the teeth of his friend, was being borne about the garden in +triumph, though whether exactly as Jemima described may be questionable. +Her indignation at the inroad of the dog upon the personal rights of the +tortoise had possibly not lessened her general indifference to accuracy. + +Alarmed at the danger to the poor animal, of a kind from which his natural +defences were powerless to protect him, Percivale threw down his palette +and brushes, and ran to the door. + +"Do put on your coat and hat, Percivale!" I cried; but he was gone. + +Cold as it was, he had been sitting in the light blouse he had worn at his +work all the summer. The stove had got red-hot, and the room was like an +oven, while outside a dank fog filled the air. I hurried after him with his +coat, and found him pursuing Fido about the garden, the brute declining to +obey his call, or to drop the tortoise. Percivale was equally deaf to my +call, and not until he had beaten the dog did he return with the rescued +tortoise in his hands. The consequences were serious,--first the death of +Zohrab, and next a terrible illness to my husband. He had caught cold: it +settled on his lungs, and passed into bronchitis. + +It was a terrible time to me; for I had no doubt, for some days, that he +was dying. The measures taken seemed thoroughly futile. + +It is an awful moment when first Death looks in at the door. The positive +recognition of his presence is so different from any vividest imagination +of it! For the moment I believed nothing,--felt only the coming blackness +of absolute loss. I cared neither for my children, nor for my father or +mother. Nothing appeared of any worth more. I had conscience enough left to +try to pray, but no prayer would rise from the frozen depths of my spirit. +I could only move about in mechanical and hopeless ministration to one +whom it seemed of no use to go on loving any more; for what was nature +but a soulless machine, the constant clank of whose motion sounded only, +"Dust to dust; dust to dust," forevermore? But I was roused from this +horror-stricken mood by a look from my husband, who, catching a glimpse of +my despair, motioned me to him with a smile as of sunshine upon snow, and +whispered in my ear,-- + +"I'm afraid you haven't much more faith than myself, after all, Wynnie." + +It stung me into life,--not for the sake of my professions, not even for +the honor of our heavenly Father, but by waking in me the awful thought of +my beloved passing through the shadow of death with no one beside him to +help or comfort him, in absolute loneliness and uncertainty. The thought +was unendurable. For a moment I wished he might die suddenly, and so escape +the vacuous despair of a conscious lingering betwixt life and the something +or the nothing beyond it. + +"But I cannot go with you!" I cried; and, forgetting all my duty as a +nurse, I wept in agony. + +"Perhaps another will, my Wynnie,--one who knows the way," he whispered; +for he could not speak aloud, and closed his eyes. + +It was as if an arrow of light had slain the Python coiled about my heart. +If _he_ believed, _I_ could believe also; if _he_ could encounter the vague +dark, _I_ could endure the cheerless light. I was myself again, and, with +one word of endearment, left the bedside to do what had to be done. + +At length a faint hope began to glimmer in the depths of my cavernous fear. +It was long ere it swelled into confidence; but, although I was then in +somewhat feeble health, my strength never gave way. For a whole week I did +not once undress, and for weeks I was half-awake all the time I slept. The +softest whisper would rouse me thoroughly; and it was only when Marion took +my place that I could sleep at all. + +I am afraid I neglected my poor children dreadfully. I seemed for the time +to have no responsibility, and even, I am ashamed to say, little care for +them. But then I knew that they were well attended to: friends were very +kind--especially Judy--in taking them out; and Marion's daily visits were +like those of a mother. Indeed, she was able to mother any thing human +except a baby, to whom she felt no attraction,--any more than to the +inferior animals, for which she had little regard beyond a negative one: +she would hurt no creature that was not hurtful; but she had scarcely an +atom of kindness for dog or cat, or any thing that is petted of woman. It +is the only defect I am aware of in her character. + +My husband slowly recovered, but it was months before he was able to do +any thing he would call work. But, even in labor, success is not only to +the strong. Working a little at the short best time of the day with him, +he managed, long before his full recovery, to paint a small picture which +better critics than I have thought worthy of Angelico, I will attempt to +describe it. + +Through the lighted windows of a great hall, the spectator catches broken +glimpses of a festive company. At the head of the table, pouring out the +red wine, he sees one like unto the Son of man, upon whom the eyes of +all are turned. At the other end of the hall, seated high in a gallery, +with rapt looks and quaint yet homely angelican instruments, he sees the +orchestra pouring out their souls through their strings and trumpets. The +hall is filled with a jewelly glow, as of light suppressed by color, the +radiating centre of which is the red wine on the table; while mingled +wings, of all gorgeous splendors, hovering in the dim height, are suffused +and harmonized by the molten ruby tint that pervades the whole. + +Outside, in the drizzly darkness, stands a lonely man. He stoops listening, +with one ear laid almost against the door. His half-upturned face catches +a ray of the light reflected from a muddy pool in the road. It discloses +features wan and wasted with sorrow and sickness, but glorified with the +joy of the music. He is like one who has been four days dead, to whose +body the music has recalled the soul. Down by his knee he holds a violin, +fashioned like those of the orchestra within; which, as he listens, he is +tuning to their pitch. + +To readers acquainted with a poem of Dr. Donne's,--"Hymn to God, my God, in +my sickness,"--this description of mine will at once suggest the origin of +the picture. I had read some verses of it to him in his convalescence; and, +having heard them once, he requested them often again. The first stanza +runs thus:-- + + "Since I am coming to that holy room + Where with the choir of saints forevermore + I shall be made thy musique, as I come, + I tune the instrument here at the door; + And what I must do then, think here before." + +The painting is almost the only one he has yet refused to let me see before +it was finished; but, when it was, he hung it up in my own little room off +the study, and I became thoroughly acquainted with it. I think I love it +more than any thing else he has done. I got him, without telling him why, +to put a touch or two to the listening figure, which made it really like +himself. + +During this period of recovery, I often came upon him reading his Greek +New Testament, which he would shove aside when I entered. At length, one +morning, I said to him,-- + +"Are you ashamed of the New Testament, Percivale? One would think it was a +bad book from the way you try to hide it." + +"No, my love," he said: "it is only that I am jealous of appearing to do +that from suffering and weakness only, which I did not do when I was strong +and well. But sickness has opened my eyes a good deal I think; and I am +sure of this much, that, whatever truth there is here, I want it all the +same whether I am feeling the want or not. I had no idea what there was in +this book." + +"Would you mind telling me," I said, "what made you take to reading it?" + +"I will try. When I thought I was dying, a black cloud seemed to fall over +every thing. It was not so much that I was afraid to die,--although I did +dread the final conflict,--as that I felt so forsaken and lonely. It was of +little use saying to myself that I mustn't be a coward, and that it was the +part of a man to meet his fate, whatever it might be, with composure; for I +saw nothing worth being brave about: the heart had melted out of me; there +was nothing to give me joy, nothing for my life to rest up on, no sense +of love at the heart of things. Didn't you feel something the same that +terrible day?" + +"I did," I answered. "I hope I never believed in Death all the time; and +yet for one fearful moment the skeleton seemed to swell and grow till +he blotted out the sun and the stars, and was himself all in all, while +the life beyond was too shadowy to show behind him. And so Death was +victorious, until the thought of your loneliness in the dark valley broke +the spell; and for your sake I hoped in God again." + +"And I thought with myself,--Would God set his children down in the dark, +and leave them to cry aloud in anguish at the terrors of the night? Would +he not make the very darkness light about them? Or, if they must pass +through such tortures, would he not at least let them know that he was with +them? How, then, can there be a God? Then arose in my mind all at once the +old story, how, in the person of his Son, God himself had passed through +the darkness now gathering about me; had gone down to the grave, and had +conquered death by dying. If this was true, this was to be a God indeed. +Well might he call on us to endure, who had himself borne the far heavier +share. If there were an Eternal Life who would perfect my life, I could be +brave; I could endure what he chose to lay upon me; I could go whither he +led." + +"And were you able to think all that when you were so ill, my love?" I +said. + +"Something like it,--practically very like it," he answered. "It kept +growing in my mind,--coming and going, and gathering clearer shape. I +thought with myself, that, if there was a God, he certainly knew that I +would give myself to him if I could; that, if I knew Jesus to be verily and +really his Son, however it might seem strange to believe in him and hard to +obey him, I would try to do so; and then a verse about the smoking flax and +the bruised reed came into my head, and a great hope arose in me. I do not +know if it was what the good people would call faith; but I had no time and +no heart to think about words: I wanted God and his Christ. A fresh spring +of life seemed to burst up in my heart; all the world grew bright again: +I seemed to love you and the children twice as much as before; a calmness +came down upon my spirit which seemed to me like nothing but the presence +of God; and, although I dare say you did not then perceive a change, I am +certain that the same moment I began to recover." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + +THE CLOUDS AFTER THE RAIN. + + +But the clouds returned after the rain. It will be easily understood +how the little money we had in hand should have rapidly vanished during +Percivale's illness. While he was making nothing, the expenses of the +family went on as usual; and not that only, but many little delicacies had +to be got for him, and the doctor was yet to pay. Even up to the time when +he had been taken ill, we had been doing little better than living from +hand to mouth; for as often as we thought income was about to get a few +yards ahead in the race with expense, something invariably happened to +disappoint us. + +I am not sorry that I have no _special_ faculty for saving; for I have +never known any, in whom such was well developed, who would not do things +they ought to be ashamed of. The savings of such people seem to me to come +quite as much off other people as off themselves; and, especially in regard +of small sums, they are in danger of being first mean, and then dishonest. +Certainly, whoever makes saving _the_ end of her life, must soon grow mean, +and will probably grow dishonest. But I have never succeeded in drawing the +line betwixt meanness and dishonesty: what is mean, so far as I can see, +slides by indistinguishable gradations into what is plainly dishonest. And +what is more, the savings are commonly made at the cost of the defenceless. +It is better far to live in constant difficulties than to keep out of them +by such vile means as must, besides, poison the whole nature, and make +one's judgments, both of God and her neighbors, mean as her own conduct. +It is nothing to say that you must be just before you are generous, for +that is the very point I am insisting on; namely, that one must be just to +others before she is generous to herself. It will never do to make your +two ends meet by pulling the other ends from the hands of those who are +likewise puzzled to make them meet. + +But I must now put myself at the bar, and cry _Peccavi_; for I was often +wrong on the other side, sometimes getting things for the house before it +was quite clear I could afford them, and sometimes buying the best when an +inferior thing would have been more suitable, if not to my ideas, yet to my +purse. It is, however, far more difficult for one with an uncertain income +to learn to save, or even to be prudent, than for one who knows how much +exactly every quarter will bring. + +My husband, while he left the whole management of money matters to me, +would yet spend occasionally without consulting me. In fact, he had no +notion of money, and what it would or would not do. I never knew a man +spend less upon himself; but he would be extravagant for me, and I dared +hardly utter a foolish liking lest he should straightway turn it into a +cause of shame by attempting to gratify it. He had, besides, a weakness for +over-paying people, of which neither Marion nor I could honestly approve, +however much we might admire the disposition whence it proceeded. + +Now that I have confessed, I shall be more easy in my mind; for, in regard +of the troubles that followed, I cannot be sure that I was free of blame. +One word more in self-excuse, and I have done: however imperative, it is +none the less hard to cultivate two opposing virtues at one and the same +time. + +While my husband was ill, not a picture had been disposed of; and even +after he was able to work a little, I could not encourage visitors: he +was not able for the fatigue, and in fact shrunk, with an irritability I +had never perceived a sign of before, from seeing any one. To my growing +dismay, I saw my little stock--which was bodily in my hand, for we had no +banking account--rapidly approaching its final evanishment. + +Some may think, that, with parents in the position of mine, a temporary +difficulty need have caused me no anxiety: I must, therefore, mention one +or two facts with regard to both my husband and my parents. + +In the first place, although he had as complete a confidence in him as I +had, both in regard to what he said and what he seemed, my husband could +not feel towards my father as I felt. He had married me as a poor man, who +yet could keep a wife; and I knew it would be a bitter humiliation to him +to ask my father for money, on the ground that he had given his daughter. +I should have felt nothing of the kind; for I should have known that my +father would do him as well as me perfect justice in the matter, and +would consider any money spent upon us as used to a divine purpose. For +he regarded the necessaries of life as noble, its comforts as honorable, +its luxuries as permissible,--thus reversing altogether the usual judgment +of rich men, who in general like nothing worse than to leave their hoards +to those of their relatives who will degrade them to the purchase of mere +bread and cheese, blankets and clothes and coals. But I had no right to go +against my husband's feeling. So long as the children had their bread and +milk, I would endure with him. I am confident I could have starved as well +as he, and should have enjoyed letting him see it. + +But there were reasons because of which even I, in my fullest freedom, +could not have asked help from my father just at this time. I am ashamed +to tell the fact, but I must: before the end of his second year at Oxford, +just over, the elder of my two brothers had, without any vice I firmly +believe, beyond that of thoughtlessness and folly, got himself so deeply +mired in debt, both to tradespeople and money-lenders, that my father had +to pay two thousand pounds for him. Indeed, as I was well assured, although +he never told me so, he had to borrow part of the money on a fresh mortgage +in order to clear him. Some lawyer, I believe, told him that he was not +bound to pay: but my father said, that, although such creditors deserved no +protection of the law, he was not bound to give them a lesson in honesty +at the expense of weakening the bond between himself and his son, for +whose misdeeds he acknowledged a large share of responsibility; while, on +the other hand, he was bound to give his son the lesson of the suffering +brought on his family by his selfishness; and therefore would pay the +money--if not gladly, yet willingly. How the poor boy got through the shame +and misery of it, I can hardly imagine; but this I can say for him, that +it was purely of himself that he accepted a situation in Ceylon, instead +of returning to Oxford. Thither he was now on his way, with the intention +of saving all he could in order to repay his father; and if at length he +succeeds in doing so, he will doubtless make a fairer start the second +time, because of the discipline, than if he had gone out with the money in +his pocket. + +It was natural, then, that in such circumstances a daughter should shrink +from adding her troubles to those caused by a son. I ought to add, that my +father had of late been laying out a good deal in building cottages for the +laborers on his farms, and that the land was not yet entirely freed from +the mortgages my mother had inherited with it. + +Percivale continued so weak, that for some time I could not bring myself to +say a word to him about money. But to keep them as low as possible did not +prevent the household debts from accumulating, and the servants' wages were +on the point of coming due. I had been careful to keep the milkman paid; +and for the rest of the tradesmen, I consoled myself with the certainty, +that, if the worst came to the worst, there was plenty of furniture in the +house to pay every one of them. Still, of all burdens, next to sin, that of +debt, I think, must be heaviest. + +I tried to keep cheerful; but at length, one night, during our supper of +bread and cheese, which I could not bear to see my poor, pale-faced husband +eating, I broke down. + +"What _is_ the matter, my darling?" asked Percivale. + +I took a half-crown from my pocket, and held it out on the palm of my hand. + +"That's all I've got, Percivale," I said. + +"Oh! that all--is it?" he returned lightly. + +"Yes,--isn't that enough?" I said with some indignation. + +"Certainly--for to-night," he answered, "seeing the shops are shut. But is +that all that's troubling you?" he went on. + +"It seems to me quite enough," I said again; "and if you had the +housekeeping to do, and the bills to pay, you would think a solitary +half-crown quite enough to make you miserable." + +"Never mind--so long as it's a good one," he said. "I'll get you more +to-morrow." + +"How can you do that?" I asked. + +"Easily," he answered. "You'll see. Don't you trouble your dear heart about +it for a moment." + +I felt relieved, and asked him no more questions. + +The next morning, when I went into the study to speak to him, he was not +there; and I guessed that he had gone to town to get the money, for he had +not been out before since his illness, at least without me. But I hoped of +all things he was not going to borrow it of a money-lender, of which I had +a great and justifiable horror, having heard from himself how a friend of +his had in such a case fared. I would have sold three-fourths of the things +in the house rather. But as I turned to leave the study, anxious both about +himself and his proceedings, I thought something was different, and soon +discovered that a certain favorite picture was missing from the wall: it +was clear he had gone either to sell it or raise money upon it. + +By our usual early dinner-hour, he returned, and put into my hands, with a +look of forced cheerfulness, two five-pound notes. + +"Is that all you got for that picture?" I said. + +"That is all Mr. ---- would advance me upon it," he answered. "I thought +he had made enough by me to have risked a little more than that; but +picture-dealers--Well, never mind. That is enough to give time for twenty +things to happen." + +And no doubt twenty things did happen, but none of them of the sort he +meant. The ten pounds sank through my purse like water through gravel. I +paid a number of small bills at once, for they pressed the more heavily +upon me that I knew the money was wanted; and by the end of another +fortnight we were as badly off as before, with an additional trouble, which +in the circumstances was any thing but slight. + +In conjunction with more than ordinary endowments of stupidity and +self-conceit, Jemima was possessed of a furious temper, which showed itself +occasionally in outbursts of unendurable rudeness. She had been again and +again on the point of leaving me, now she, now I, giving warning; but, ere +the day arrived, her better nature had always got the upper hand,--she had +broken down and given in. These outbursts had generally followed a season +of better behavior than usual, and were all but certain if I ventured the +least commendation; for she could stand any thing better than praise. At +the least subsequent rebuke, self would break out in rage, vulgarity, and +rudeness. On this occasion, however, I cannot tell whence it was that one +of these cyclones arose in our small atmosphere; but it was Jemima, you +may well believe, who gave warning, for it was out of my power to pay her +wages; and there was no sign of her yielding. + +My reader may be inclined to ask in what stead the religion I had learned +of my father now stood me. I will endeavor to be honest in my answer. + +Every now and then I tried to pray to God to deliver us; but I was far +indeed from praying always, and still farther from not fainting. A whole +day would sometimes pass under a weight of care that amounted often to +misery; and not until its close would I bethink me that I had been all the +weary hours without God. Even when more hopeful, I would keep looking and +looking for the impossibility of something to happen of itself, instead +of looking for some good and perfect gift to come down from the Father of +lights; and, when I awoke to the fact, the fog would yet lie so deep on my +soul, that I could not be sorry for my idolatry and want of faith. It was, +indeed, a miserable time. There was, besides, one definite thought that +always choked my prayers: I could not say in my conscience that I had been +sufficiently careful either in my management or my expenditure. "If," I +thought, "I could be certain that I had done my best, I should be able to +trust in God for all that lies beyond my power; but now he may mean to +punish me for my carelessness." Then why should I not endure it calmly and +without complaint? Alas! it was not I alone that thus would be punished, +but my children and my husband as well. Nor could I avoid coming on my poor +father at last, who, of course, would interfere to prevent a sale; and the +thought was, from the circumstances I have mentioned, very bitter to me. +Sometimes, however, in more faithful moods, I would reason with myself that +God would not be hard upon me, even if I had not been so saving as I ought. +My father had taken his son's debts on himself, and would not allow him to +be disgraced more than could be helped; and, if an earthly parent would +act thus for his child, would our Father in heaven be less tender with us? +Still, for very love's sake, it might be necessary to lay some disgrace +upon me, for of late I had been thinking far too little of the best things. +The cares more than the duties of life had been filling my mind. If it +brought me nearer to God, I must then say it had been good for me to be +afflicted; but while my soul was thus oppressed, how could my feelings have +any scope? Let come what would, however, I must try and bear it,--even +disgrace, if it was _his_ will. Better people than I had been thus +disgraced, and it might be my turn next. Meantime, it had not come to that, +and I must not let the cares of to-morrow burden to-day. + +Every day, almost, as it seems in looking back, a train of thought +something like this would pass through my mind. But things went on, +and grew no better. With gathering rapidity, we went sliding, to all +appearance, down the inclined plane of disgrace. + +Percivale at length asked Roger if he had any money by him to lend him a +little; and he gave him at once all he had, amounting to six pounds,--a +wonderful amount for Roger to have accumulated; with the help of which we +got on to the end of Jemima's month. The next step I had in view was to +take my little valuables to the pawnbroker's,--amongst them a watch, whose +face was encircled with a row of good-sized diamonds. It had belonged to my +great-grandmother, and my mother had given it me when I was married. + +We had had a piece of boiled neck of mutton for dinner, of which we, that +is my husband and I, had partaken sparingly, in order that there might +be enough for the servants. Percivale had gone out; and I was sitting in +the drawing-room, lost in any thing but a blessed reverie, with all the +children chattering amongst themselves beside me, when Jemima entered, +looking subdued. + +"If you please, ma'am, this is my day," she said. + +"Have you got a place, then, Jemima?" I asked; for I had been so much +occupied with my own affairs that I had thought little of the future of the +poor girl to whom I could have given but a lukewarm recommendation for any +thing prized amongst housekeepers. + +"No, ma'am. Please, ma'am, mayn't I stop?" + +"No, Jemima. I am very sorry, but I can't afford to keep you. I shall have +to do all the work myself when you are gone." + +I thought to pay her wages out of the proceeds of my jewels, but was +willing to delay the step as long as possible; rather, I believe, from +repugnance to enter the pawn-shop, than from disinclination to part with +the trinkets. But, as soon as I had spoken, Jemima burst into an Irish +wail, mingled with sobs and tears, crying between the convulsions of all +three,-- + +I thought there was something wrong, mis'ess. You and master looked so +scared-like. Please, mis'ess, don't send me away." + +"I never wanted to send you away, Jemima. You wanted to go yourself." + +"No, ma'am; _that_ I didn't. I only wanted you to ask me to stop. Wirra! +wirra! It's myself is sorry I was so rude. It's not me; it's my temper, +mis'ess. I do believe I was born with a devil inside me." + +I could not help laughing, partly from amusement, partly from relief. + +"But you see I can't ask you to stop," I said. "I've got no money,--not +even enough to pay you to-day; so I can't keep you." + +"I don't want no money, ma'am. Let me stop, and I'll cook for yez, and wash +and scrub for yez, to the end o' my days. An' I'll eat no more than'll keep +the life in me. I _must_ eat something, or the smell o' the meat would turn +me sick, ye see, ma'am; and then I shouldn't be no good to yez. Please 'm, +I ha' got fifteen pounds in the savings bank: I'll give ye all that, if +ye'll let me stop wid ye." + +When I confess that I burst out crying, my reader will be kind enough to +take into consideration that I hadn't had much to eat for some time; that I +was therefore weak in body as well as in mind; and that this was the first +gleam of sunshine I had had for many weeks. + +"Thank you very much, Jemima," I said, as soon as I could speak. "I won't +take your money, for then you would be as poor as I am. But, if you would +like to stop with us, you shall; and I won't pay you till I'm able." + +The poor girl was profuse in her thanks, and left the room sobbing in her +apron. + +It was a gloomy, drizzly, dreary afternoon. The children were hard to +amuse, and I was glad when their bedtime arrived. It was getting late +before Percivale returned. He looked pale, and I found afterwards that he +had walked home. He had got wet, and had to change some of his clothes. +When we went in to supper, there was the neck of mutton on the table, +almost as we had left it. This led me, before asking him any questions, to +relate what had passed with Jemima; at which news he laughed merrily, and +was evidently a good deal relieved. Then I asked him where he had been. + +"To the city," he answered. + +"Have you sold another picture?" I asked, with an inward tribulation, half +hope, half fear; for, much as we wanted the money, I could ill bear the +thought of his pictures going for the price of mere pot-boilers. + +"No," he replied: "the last is stopping the way. Mr. ---- has been +advertising it as a bargain for a hundred and fifty. But he hasn't sold it +yet, and can't, he says, risk ten pounds on another. What's to come of it, +I don't know," he added. "But meantime it's a comfort that Jemima can wait +a bit for _her_ money." + +As we sat at supper, I thought I saw a look on Percivale's face which I had +never seen there before. All at once, while I was wondering what it might +mean, after a long pause, during which we had been both looking into the +fire, he said,-- + +"Wynnie, I'm going to paint a better picture than I've ever painted yet. I +can, and I will." + +"But how are we to live in the mean time?" I said. + +His face fell, and I saw with shame what a Job's comforter I was. Instead +of sympathizing with his ardor, I had quenched it. What if my foolish +remark had ruined a great picture! Anyhow, it had wounded a great heart, +which had turned to labor as its plainest duty, and would thereby have been +strengthened to endure and to hope. It was too cruel of me. I knelt by his +knee, and told him I was both ashamed and sorry I had been so faithless +and unkind. He made little of it, said I might well ask the question, and +even tried to be merry over it; but I could see well enough that I had let +a gust of the foggy night into his soul, and was thoroughly vexed with +myself. We went to bed gloomy, but slept well, and awoke more cheerful. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + +THE SUNSHINE. + + +As we were dressing, it came into my mind that I had forgotten to give him +a black-bordered letter which had arrived the night before. I commonly +opened his letters; but I had not opened this one, for it looked like a +business letter, and I feared it might be a demand for the rent of the +house, which was over due. Indeed, at this time I dreaded opening any +letter the writing on which I did not recognize. + +"Here is a letter, Percivale," I said. "I'm sorry I forgot to give it you +last night." + +"Who is it from?" he asked, talking through his towel from his +dressing-room. + +"I don't know. I didn't open it. It looks like something disagreeable." + +"Open it now, then, and see." + +"I can't just at this moment," I answered; for I had my back hair half +twisted in my hands. "There it is on the chimney-piece." + +He came in, took it, and opened it, while I went on with my toilet. +Suddenly his arms were round me, and I felt his cheek on mine. + +"Read that," he said, putting the letter into my hand. + +It was from a lawyer in Shrewsbury, informing him that his god-mother, with +whom he had been a great favorite when a boy, was dead, and had left him +three hundred pounds. + +It was like a reprieve to one about to be executed. I could only weep +and thank God, once more believing in my Father in heaven. But it was a +humbling thought, that, if he had not thus helped me, I might have ceased +to believe in him. I saw plainly, that, let me talk to Percivale as I +might, my own faith was but a wretched thing. It is all very well to have +noble theories about God; but where is the good of them except we actually +trust in him as a real, present, living, loving being, who counts us of +more value than many sparrows, and will not let one of them fall to the +ground without him? + +"I thought, Wynnie, if there was such a God as you believed in, and with +you to pray to him, we shouldn't be long without a hearing," said my +husband. + +There was more faith in his heart all the time, though he could not profess +the belief I thought I had, than there ever was in mine. + +But our troubles weren't nearly over yet. Percivale wrote, acknowledging +the letter, and requesting to know when it would be convenient to let him +have the money, as he was in immediate want of it. The reply was, that the +trustees were not bound to pay the legacies for a year, but that possibly +they might stretch a point in his favor if he applied to them. Percivale +did so, but received a very curt answer, with little encouragement to +expect any thing but the extreme of legal delay. He received the money, +however, about four months after; lightened, to the great disappointment of +my ignorance, of thirty pounds legacy-duty. + +In the mean time, although our minds were much relieved, and Percivale +was working away at his new picture with great energy and courage, the +immediate pressure of circumstances was nearly as painful as ever. It was +a comfort, however, to know that we might borrow on the security of the +legacy; but, greatly grudging the loss of the interest which that would +involve, I would have persuaded Percivale to ask a loan of Lady Bernard. +He objected: on what ground do you think? That it would be disagreeable to +Lady Bernard to be repaid the sum she had lent us! He would have finally +consented, however, I have little doubt, had the absolute necessity for +borrowing arrived. + +About a week or ten days after the blessed news, he had a note from Mr. +----, whom he had authorized to part with the picture for thirty guineas. +How much this was under its value, it is not easy to say, seeing the +money-value of pictures is dependent on so many things: but, if the fairy +godmother's executors had paid her legacy at once, that picture would not +have been sold for less than five times the amount; and I may mention that +the last time it changed hands it fetched five hundred and seventy pounds. + +Mr. ---- wrote that he had an offer of five and twenty for it, desiring +to know whether he might sell it for that sum. Percivale at once gave +his consent, and the next day received a check for eleven pounds, odd +shillings; the difference being the borrowed amount upon it, its interest, +the commission charged on the sale, and the price of a small picture-frame. + +The next day, Percivale had a visitor at the studio,--no less a person +than Mr. Baddeley, with his shirt-front in full blossom, and his diamond +wallowing in light on his fifth finger,--I cannot call it his little +finger, for his hands were as huge as they were soft and white,--hands +descended of generations of laborious ones, but which had never themselves +done any work beyond paddling in money. + +He greeted Percivale with a jolly condescension, and told him, that, having +seen and rather liked a picture of his the other day, he had come to +inquire whether he had one that would do for a pendant to it; as he should +like to have it, provided he did not want a fancy price for it. + +Percivale felt as if he were setting out his children for sale, as he +invited him to look about the room, and turned round a few from against the +wall. The great man flitted hither and thither, spying at one after another +through the cylinder of his curved hand, Percivale going on with his +painting as if no one were there. + +"How much do you want for this sketch?" asked Mr. Baddeley, at length, +pointing to one of the most highly finished paintings in the room. + +"I put three hundred on it at the Academy Exhibition," answered Percivale. +"My friends thought it too little; but as it has been on my hands a long +time now, and pictures don't rise in price in the keeping of the painter, I +shouldn't mind taking two for it." + +"Two tens, I suppose you mean," said Mr. Baddeley. + +"I gave him a look," said Percivale, as he described the interview to me; +and I knew as well as if I had seen it what kind of a phenomenon that look +must have been. + +"Come, now," Mr. Baddeley went on, perhaps misinterpreting the look, for it +was such as a man of his property was not in the habit of receiving, "you +mustn't think I'm made of money, or that I'm a green hand in the market. +I know what your pictures fetch; and I'm a pretty sharp man of business, +I believe. What do you really mean to say and stick to? Ready money, you +know." + +"Three hundred," said Percivale coolly. + +"Why, Mr. Percivale!" cried Mr. Baddeley, drawing himself up, as my husband +said, with the air of one who knew a trick worth two of that, "I paid +Mr. ---- fifty pounds, neither more nor less, for a picture of yours +yesterday--a picture, allow me to say, worth"-- + +He turned again to the one in question with a critical air, as if about to +estimate to a fraction its value as compared with the other. + +"Worth three of that, some people think," said Percivale. + +"The price of this, then, joking aside, is--?" + +"Three hundred pounds," answered Percivale,--I know well how quietly. + +"I understood you wished to sell it," said Mr. Baddeley, beginning, for all +his good nature, to look offended, as well he might. + +"I do wish to sell it. I happen to be in want of money." + +"Then I'll be liberal, and offer you the same I paid for the other. I'll +send you a check this afternoon for fifty--with pleasure." + +"You cannot have that picture under three hundred." + +"Why!" said the rich man, puzzled, "you offered it for two hundred, not +five minutes ago." + +"Yes; and you pretended to think I meant two tens." + +"Offended you, I fear." + +"At all events, betrayed so much ignorance of painting, that I would rather +not have a picture of mine in your house." + +"You're the first man ever presumed to tell me I was ignorant of painting," +said Mr. Baddeley, now thoroughly indignant. + +"You have heard the truth, then, for the first time," said Percivale, and +resumed his work. + +Mr. Baddeley walked out of the study. + +I am not sure that he was so very ignorant. He had been in the way of +buying popular pictures for some time, paying thousands for certain of +them. I suspect he had eye enough to see that my husband's would probably +rise in value, and, with the true huckster spirit, was ambitious of +boasting how little he had given compared with what they were really worth. + +Percivale in this case was doubtless rude. He had an insuperable aversion +to men of Mr. Baddeley's class,--men who could have no position but for +their money, and who yet presumed upon it, as if it were gifts and graces, +genius and learning, judgment and art, all in one. He was in the habit of +saying that the plutocracy, as he called it, ought to be put down,--that +is, negatively and honestly,--by showing them no more respect than you +really entertained for them. Besides, although he had no great favors for +Cousin Judy's husband, he yet bore Mr. Baddeley a grudge for the way in +which he had treated one with whom, while things went well with him, he had +been ready enough to exchange hospitalities. + +Before long, through Lady Bernard, he sold a picture at a fair price; +and soon after, seeing in a shop-window the one Mr. ---- had sold to Mr. +Baddeley, marked ten pounds, went in and bought it. Within the year he sold +it for a hundred and fifty. + +By working day and night almost, he finished his new picture in time for +the Academy; and, as he had himself predicted, it proved, at least in the +opinion of all his artist friends, the best that he had ever painted. It +was bought at once for three hundred pounds; and never since then have we +been in want of money. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. + +WHAT LADY BERNARD THOUGHT OF IT. + + +My reader may wonder, that, in my record of these troubles, I have never +mentioned Marion. The fact is, I could not bring myself to tell her of +them; partly because she was in some trouble herself, from strangers +who had taken rooms in the house, and made mischief between her and her +grandchildren; and partly because I knew she would insist on going to Lady +Bernard; and, although I should not have minded it myself, I knew that +nothing but seeing the children hungry would have driven my husband to +consent to it. + +One evening, after it was all over, I told Lady Bernard the story. She +allowed me to finish it without saying a word. When I had ended, she still +sat silent for a few moments; then, laying her hand on my arm, said,-- + +My dear child, you were very wrong, as well as very unkind. Why did you not +let me know?" + +"Because my husband would never have allowed me," I answered. + +"Then I must have a talk with your husband," she said. + +"I wish you would," I replied; "for I can't help thinking Percivale too +severe about such things." + +The very next day she called, and did have a talk with him in the study to +the following effect:-- + +"I have come to quarrel with you, Mr. Percivale," said Lady Bernard. + +"I'm sorry to hear it," he returned. "You're the last person I should like +to quarrel with, for it would imply some unpardonable fault in me." + +"It does imply a fault--and a great one," she rejoined; "though I trust not +an unpardonable one. That depends on whether you can repent of it." + +She spoke with such a serious air, that Percivale grew uneasy, and began +to wonder what he could possibly have done to offend her. I had told him +nothing of our conversation, wishing her to have her own way with him. + +When she saw him troubled, she smiled. + +"Is it not a fault, Mr. Percivale, to prevent one from obeying the divine +law of bearing another's burden?" + +"But," said Percivale, "I read as well, that every man shall bear his own +burden." + +"Ah!" returned Lady Bernard; "but I learn from Mr. Conybeare that two +different Greek words are there used, which we translate only by the +English _burden_. I cannot tell you what they are: I can only tell you the +practical result. We are to bear one another's burdens of pain or grief or +misfortune or doubt,--whatever weighs one down is to be borne by another; +but the man who is tempted to exalt himself over his neighbor is taught to +remember that he has his own load of disgrace to bear and answer for. It is +just a weaker form of the lesson of the mote and the beam. You cannot get +out at that door, Mr. Percivale. I beg you will read the passage in your +Greek Testament, and see if you have not misapplied it. You _ought_ to have +let me bear your burden." + +"Well, you see, my dear Lady Bernard," returned Percivale, at a loss to +reply to such a vigorous assault, "I knew how it would be. You would have +come here and bought pictures you didn't want; and I, knowing all the time +you did it only to give me the money, should have had to talk to you as if +I were taken in by it; and I really could _not_ stand it." + +"There you are altogether wrong. Besides depriving me of the opportunity +of fulfilling a duty, and of the pleasure and the honor of helping you to +bear your burden, you have deprived me of the opportunity of indulging a +positive passion for pictures. I am constantly compelled to restrain it +lest I should spend too much of the money given me for the common good on +my own private tastes; but here was a chance for me! I might have had some +of your lovely pictures in my drawing-room now--with a good conscience and +a happy heart--if you had only been friendly. It was too bad of you, Mr. +Percivale! I am not pretending in the least when I assert that I am really +and thoroughly disappointed." + +"I haven't a word to say for myself," returned Percivale. + +"You couldn't have said a better," rejoined Lady Bernard; "but I hope you +will never have to say it again." + +"That I shall not. If ever I find myself in any difficulty worth speaking +of, I will let you know at once." + +"Thank you. Then we are friends again. And now I do think I am entitled +to a picture,--at least, I think it will be pardonable if I yield to the +_very_ strong temptation I am under at this moment to buy one. Let me see: +what have you in the slave-market, as your wife calls it?" + +She bought "The Street Musician," as Percivale had named the picture taken +from Dr. Donne. I was more miserable than I ought to have been when I found +he had parted with it, but it was a great consolation to think it was to +Lady Bernard's it had gone. She was the only one, except my mother or Miss +Clare, I could have borne to think of as having become its possessor. + +He had asked her what I thought a very low price for it; and I judge that +Lady Bernard thought the same, but, after what had passed between them, +would not venture to expostulate. With such a man as my husband, I fancy, +she thought it best to let well alone. Anyhow, one day soon after this, her +servant brought him a little box, containing a fine brilliant. + +"The good lady's kindness is long-sighted," said my husband, as he placed +it on his finger. "I shall be hard up, though, before I part with this. +Wynnie, I've actually got a finer diamond than Mr. Baddeley! It _is_ a +beauty, if ever there was one!" + +My husband, with all his carelessness of dress and adornment, has almost a +passion for stones. It is delightful to hear him talk about them. But he +had never possessed a single gem before Lady Bernard made him this present. +I believe he is child enough to be happier for it all his life. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. + +RETROSPECTIVE. + + +Suddenly I become aware that I am drawing nigh the close of my monthly +labors for a long year. Yet the year seems to have passed more rapidly +because of this addition to my anxieties. Not that I haven't enjoyed the +labor while I have been actually engaged in it, but the prospect of the +next month's work would often come in to damp the pleasure of the present; +making me fancy, as the close of each chapter drew near, that I should not +have material for another left in my head. I heard a friend once remark +that it is not the cares of to-day, but the cares of to-morrow, that weigh +a man down. For the day we have the corresponding strength given, for the +morrow we are told to trust; it is not ours yet. + +When I get my money for my work, I mean to give my husband a long holiday. +I half think of taking him to Italy,--for of course I can do what I like +with my own, whether husband or money,--and so have a hand in making him a +still better painter. Incapable of imitation, the sight of any real work +is always of great service to him, widening his sense of art, enlarging +his idea of what can be done, rousing what part of his being is most in +sympathy with it,--a part possibly as yet only half awake; in a word, +leading him another step towards that simplicity which is at the root of +all diversity, being so simple that it needs all diversity to set it forth. + +How impossible it seemed to me that I should ever write a book! Well or ill +done, it is almost finished, for the next month is the twelfth. I must look +back upon what I have written, to see what loose ends I may have left, and +whether any allusion has not been followed up with a needful explanation; +for this way of writing by portions--the only way in which I could have +been persuaded to attempt the work, however--is unfavorable to artistic +unity; an unnecessary remark, seeing that to such unity my work makes +no pretensions. It is but a collection of portions detached from an +uneventful, ordinary, and perhaps in part _therefore_ very blessed life. +Hence, perhaps, it was specially fitted for this mode of publication. At +all events, I can cast upon it none of the blame of what failure I may have +to confess. + +A biography cannot be constructed with the art of a novel, for this reason: +that a novel is constructed on the artist's scale, with swift-returning +curves; a biography on the divine scale, whose circles are so large that +they shoot beyond this world, sometimes even before we are able to detect +in them the curve by which they will at length round themselves back +towards completion. Hence, every life must look more or less fragmentary, +and more or less out of drawing perhaps; not to mention the questionable +effects in color and tone where the model himself will insist on taking +palette and brushes, and laying childish, if not passionate, conceited, +ambitious, or even spiteful hands to the work. + +I do not find that I have greatly blundered, or omitted much that I ought +to have mentioned. One odd thing is, that, in the opening conversation in +which they urge me to the attempt, I have not mentioned Marion. I do not +mean that she was present, but that surely some one must have suggested +her and her history as affording endless material for my record. A thing +apparently but not really strange is, that I have never said a word about +the Mrs. Cromwell mentioned in the same conversation. The fact is, that I +have but just arrived at the part of my story where she first comes in. +She died about three months ago; and I can therefore with the more freedom +narrate in the next chapter what I have known of her. + +I find also that I have, in the fourth chapter, by some odd +cerebro-mechanical freak, substituted the name of my Aunt _Martha_ for +that of my Aunt Millicent, another sister of my father, whom he has not, +I believe, had occasion to mention in either of his preceding books. My +Aunt Martha is Mrs. Weir, and has no children; my Aunt Millicent is Mrs. +Parsons, married to a hard-working attorney, and has twelve children, now +mostly grown up. + +I find also, in the thirteenth chapter, an unexplained allusion. There my +husband says, "Just ask my brother his experience in regard of the word to +which you object." The word was _stomach_, at the use of which I had in my +ill-temper taken umbrage: however disagreeable a word in itself, surely a +husband might, if need be, use it without offence. It will be proof enough +that my objection arose from pure ill-temper when I state that I have since +asked Roger to what Percivale referred. His reply was, that, having been +requested by a certain person who had a school for young ladies--probably +she called it a college--to give her pupils a few lectures on physiology, +he could not go far in the course without finding it necessary to make a +not unfrequent use of the word, explaining the functions of the organ to +which the name belonged, as resembling those of a mill. After the lecture +was over, the school-mistress took him aside, and said she really could not +allow her young ladies to be made familiar with such words. Roger averred +that the word was absolutely necessary to the subject upon which she had +desired his lectures; and that he did not know how any instruction in +physiology could be given without the free use of it. "No doubt," she +returned, "you must recognize the existence of the organ in question; but, +as the name of it is offensive to ears polite, could you not substitute +another? You have just said that its operations resemble those of a +mill: could you not, as often as you require to speak of it, refer to it +in the future as _the mill_?" Roger, with great difficulty repressing +his laughter, consented; but in his next lecture made far more frequent +reference to _the mill_ than was necessary, using the word every time--I +know exactly how--with a certain absurd solemnity that must have been +irresistible. The girls went into fits of laughter at the first utterance +of it, and seemed, he said, during the whole lecture, intent only on the +new term, at every recurrence of which their laughter burst out afresh. +Doubtless their school-mistress had herself prepared them to fall into +Roger's trap. The same night he received a note from her, enclosing his fee +for the lectures given, and informing him that the rest of the course would +not be required. Roger sent back the money, saying that to accept part +payment would be to renounce his claim for the whole; and that, besides, +he had already received an amount of amusement quite sufficient to reward +him for his labor. I told him I thought he had been rather cruel; but he +said such a woman wanted a lesson. He said also, that to see the sort of +women who sometimes had the responsibility of training girls must make the +angels weep; none but a heartless mortal like himself could laugh where +conventionality and insincerity were taught in every hint as to posture and +speech. It was bad enough, he said, to shape yourself into your own ideal; +but to have to fashion yourself after the ideal of one whose sole object in +teaching was to make money, was something wretched indeed. + +I find, besides, that several intentions I had when I started have fallen +out of the scheme. Somehow, the subjects would not well come in, or I felt +that I was in danger of injuring the persons in the attempt to set forth +their opinions. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. + +MRS. CROMWELL COMES. + + +The moment the legacy was paid, our liabilities being already nearly +discharged, my husband took us all to Hastings. I had never before been +to any other seacoast town where the land was worthy of the sea, except +Kilkhaven. Assuredly, there is no place within easy reach of London to +be once mentioned with Hastings. Of course we kept clear of the more +fashionable and commonplace St. Leonard's End, where yet the sea is +the same,--a sea such that, not even off Cornwall, have I seen so many +varieties of ocean-aspect. The immediate shore, with its earthy cliffs, is +vastly inferior to the magnificent rock about Tintagel; but there is no +outlook on the sea that I know more satisfying than that from the heights +of Hastings, especially the East Hill; from the west side of which also you +may, when weary of the ocean, look straight down on the ancient port, with +its old houses, and fine, multiform red roofs, through the gauze of blue +smoke which at eve of a summer day fills the narrow valley, softening the +rough goings-on of life into harmony with the gentleness of sea and shore, +field and sky. No doubt the suburbs are as unsightly as mere boxes of brick +and lime can be, with an ugliness mean because pretentious, an altogether +modern ugliness; but even this cannot touch the essential beauty of the +place. + +On the brow of this East Hill, just where it begins to sink towards +Ecclesbourne Glen, stands a small, old, rickety house in the midst of the +sweet grass of the downs. This house my husband was fortunate in finding +to let, and took for three months. I am not, however, going to give any +history of how we spent them; my sole reason for mentioning Hastings at all +being that there I made the acquaintance of Mrs. Cromwell. It was on this +wise. + +One bright day, about noon,--almost all the days of those months were +gorgeous with sunlight,--a rather fashionable maid ran up our little +garden, begging for some water for her mistress. Sending her on with the +water, I followed myself with a glass of sherry. + +The door in our garden-hedge opened immediately on a green hollow in the +hill, sloping towards the glen. As I stepped from the little gate on to the +grass, I saw, to my surprise, that a white fog was blowing in from the sea. +The heights on the opposite side of the glen, partially obscured thereby, +looked more majestic than was their wont, and were mottled with patches of +duller and brighter color as the drifts of the fog were heaped or parted +here and there. Far down, at the foot of the cliffs, the waves of the +rising tide, driven shore-wards with the added force of a south-west +breeze, caught and threw back what sunlight reached them, and thinned with +their shine the fog between. It was all so strange and fine, and had come +on so suddenly,--for when I had looked out a few minutes before, sea and +sky were purely resplendent,--that I stood a moment or two and gazed, +almost forgetting why I was there. + +When I bethought myself and looked about me, I saw, in the sheltered hollow +before me, a lady seated in a curiously-shaped chair; so constructed, in +fact, as to form upon occasion a kind of litter. It was plain she was +an invalid, from her paleness, and the tension of the skin on her face, +revealing the outline of the bones beneath. Her features were finely +formed, but rather small, and her forehead low; a Greek-like face, with +large, pale-blue eyes, that reminded me of little Amy Morley's. She smiled +very sweetly when she saw me, and shook her head at the wine. + +"I only wanted a little water," she said. "This fog seems to stifle me." + +"It has come on very suddenly," I said. "Perhaps it is the cold of it that +affects your breathing. You don't seem very strong, and any sudden change +of temperature"-- + +"I am not one of the most vigorous of mortals," she answered, with a sad +smile; "but the day seemed of such indubitable character, that, after my +husband had brought me here in the carriage, he sent it home, and left me +with my maid, while he went for a long walk across the downs. When he sees +the change in the weather, though, he will turn directly." + +"It won't do to wait him here," I said. "We must get you in at once. Would +it be wrong to press you to take a little of this wine, just to counteract +a chill?" + +"I daren't touch any thing but water," she replied, "It would make me +feverish at once." + +"Run and tell the cook," I said to the maid, "that I want her here. You and +she could carry your mistress in, could you not? I will help you." + +"There's no occasion for that, ma'am: she's as light as a feather," was the +whispered answer. + +"I am quite ashamed of giving you so much trouble," said the lady, either +hearing or guessing at our words. "My husband will be very grateful to +you." + +"It is only an act of common humanity," I said. + +But, as I spoke, I fancied her fair brow clouded a little, as if she was +not accustomed to common humanity, and the word sounded harsh in her ear. +The cloud, however, passed so quickly that I doubted, until I knew her +better, whether it had really been there. + +The two maids were now ready; and, Jemima instructed by the other, they +lifted her with the utmost ease, and bore her gently towards the house. The +garden-gate was just wide enough to let the chair through, and in a minute +more she was upon the sofa. Then a fit of coughing came on which shook her +dreadfully. When it had passed she lay quiet, with closed eyes, and a smile +hovering about her sweet, thin-lipped mouth. By and by she opened them, and +looked at me with a pitiful expression. + +"I fear you are far from well," I said. + +"I'm dying," she returned quietly. + +"I hope not," was all I could answer. + +"Why should you hope not?" she returned. "I am in no strait betwixt two. I +desire to depart. For me to die will be all gain." + +"But your friends?" I ventured to suggest, feeling my way, and not quite +relishing either the form or tone of her utterance. + +"I have none but my husband." + +"Then your husband?" I persisted. + +"Ah!" she said mournfully, "he will miss me, no doubt, for a while. But it +_must_ be a weight off him, for I have been a sufferer so long!" + +At this moment I heard a heavy, hasty step in the passage; the next, the +room door opened, and in came, in hot haste, wiping his red face, a burly +man, clumsy and active, with an umbrella in his hand, followed by a great, +lumbering Newfoundland dog. + +"Down, Polyphemus!" he said to the dog, which crept under a chair; while +he, taking no notice of my presence, hurried up to his wife. + +"My love! my little dove!" he said eagerly: "did you think I had forsaken +you to the cruel elements?" + +"No, Alcibiades," she answered, with a sweet little drawl; "but you do not +observe that I am not the only lady in the room." Then, turning to me, +"This is my husband, Mr. Cromwell," she said. "I cannot tell him _your_ +name." + +"I am Mrs. Percivale," I returned, almost mechanically, for the gentleman's +two names had run together and were sounding in my head: _Alcibiades +Cromwell_! How could such a conjunction have taken place without the +intervention of Charles Dickens? + +"I beg your pardon, ma'am," said Mr. Cromwell, bowing. "Permit my anxiety +about my poor wife to cover my rudeness. I had climbed the other side +of the glen before I saw the fog; and it is no such easy matter to get +up and down these hills of yours. I am greatly obliged to you for your +hospitality. You have doubtless saved her life; for she is a frail flower, +shrinking from the least breath of cold." + +The lady closed her eyes again, and the gentleman took her hand, and felt +her pulse. He seemed about twice her age,--she not thirty; he well past +fifty, the top of his head bald, and his gray hair sticking out fiercely +over his good-natured red cheeks. He laid her hand gently down, put his hat +on the table and his umbrella in a corner, wiped his face again, drew a +chair near the sofa, and took his place by her side. I thought it better to +leave them. + +When I re-entered after a while, I saw from the windows, which looked +sea-ward, that the wind had risen, and was driving thin drifts no longer, +but great, thick, white masses of sea-fog landwards. It was the storm-wind +of that coast, the south-west, which dashes the pebbles over the Parade, +and the heavy spray against the houses. Mr. Alcibiades Cromwell was sitting +as I had left him, silent, by the side of his wife, whose blue-veined +eyelids had apparently never been lifted from her large eyes. + +"Is there any thing I could offer Mrs. Cromwell?" I said. "Could she not +eat something?" + +"It is very little she can take," he answered; "but you are very kind. If +you could let her have a little beef-tea? She generally has a spoonful or +two about this time of the day." + +"I am sorry we have none," I said; "and it would be far too long for her to +wait. I have a nice chicken, though, ready for cooking: if she could take a +little chicken-broth, that would be ready in a very little while." + +"Thank you a thousand times, ma'am," he said heartily; "nothing could be +better. She might even be induced to eat a mouthful of the chicken. But +I am afraid your extreme kindness prevents me from being so thoroughly +ashamed as I ought to be at putting you to so much trouble for perfect +strangers." + +"It is but a pleasure to be of service to any one in want of it," I said. + +Mrs. Cromwell opened her eyes and smiled gratefully. I left the room to +give orders about the chicken, indeed, to superintend the preparation of +it myself; for Jemima could not be altogether trusted in such a delicate +affair as cooking for an invalid. + +When I returned, having set the simple operation going, Mr. Cromwell had a +little hymn-book of mine he had found on the table open in his hand, and +his wife was saying to him,-- + +"That is lovely! Thank you, husband. How can it be I never saw it before? I +am quite astonished." + +"She little knows what multitudes of hymns there are!" I thought with +myself,--my father having made a collection, whence I had some idea of the +extent of that department of religious literature. + +"This is a hymn-book we are not acquainted with," said Mr. Cromwell, +addressing me. + +"It is not much known," I answered. "It was compiled by a friend of my +father's for his own schools." + +"And this," he went on, "is a very beautiful hymn. You may trust my wife's +judgment, Mrs. Percivale. She lives upon hymns." + +He read the first line to show which he meant. I had long thought, and +still think, it the most beautiful hymn I know. It was taken from the +German, only much improved in the taking, and given to my father to do +what he pleased with; and my father had given it to another friend for his +collection. Before that, however, while still in manuscript, it had fallen +into the hands of a certain clergyman, by whom it had been published +without leave asked, or apology made: a rudeness of which neither my father +nor the author would have complained, for it was a pleasure to think it +might thus reach many to whom it would be helpful; but they both felt +aggrieved and indignant that he had taken the dishonest liberty of altering +certain lines of it to suit his own opinions. As I am anxious to give it +all the publicity I can, from pure delight in it, and love to all who are +capable of the same delight, I shall here communicate it, in the full +confidence of thus establishing a claim on the gratitude of my readers. + + O Lord, how happy is the time + When in thy love I rest! + When from my weariness I climb + Even to thy tender breast! + The night of sorrow endeth there: + Thou art brighter than the sun; + And in thy pardon and thy care + The heaven of heaven is won. + + Let the world call herself my foe, + Or let the world allure. + I care not for the world: I go + To this dear Friend and sure. + And when life's fiercest storms are sent + Upon life's wildest sea, + My little bark is confident, + Because it holds by thee. + + When the law threatens endless death + Upon the awful hill, + Straightway from her consuming breath + My soul goes higher still,-- + Goeth to Jesus, wounded, slain, + And maketh him her home, + Whence she will not go out again, + And where death cannot come. + + I do not fear the wilderness + Where thou hast been before; + Nay, rather will I daily press + After thee, near thee, more. + Thou art my food; on thee I lean; + Thou makest my heart sing; + And to thy heavenly pastures green + All thy dear flock dost bring. + + And if the gate that opens there + Be dark to other men, + It is not dark to those who share + The heart of Jesus then. + That is not losing much of life + Which is not losing thee, + Who art as present in the strife + As in the victory. + + Therefore how happy is the time + When in thy love I rest! + When from my weariness I climb + Even to thy tender breast! + The night of sorrow endeth there: + Thou are brighter than the sun; + And in thy pardon and thy care + The heaven of heaven is won. + +In telling them a few of the facts connected with the hymn, I presume I had +manifested my admiration of it with some degree of fervor. + +"Ah!" said Mrs. Cromwell, opening her eyes very wide, and letting the +rising tears fill them: "Ah, Mrs. Percivale! you are--you must be one of +us!" + +"You must tell me first who you are," I said. + +She held out her hand; I gave her mine: she drew me towards her, and +whispered almost in my ear--though why or whence the affectation of secrecy +I can only imagine--the name of a certain small and exclusive sect. I will +not indicate it, lest I should be supposed to attribute to it either the +peculiar faults or virtues of my new acquaintance. + +"No," I answered, speaking with the calmness of self-compulsion, for I +confess I felt repelled: "I am not one of you, except in as far as we all +belong to the church of Christ." + +I have thought since how much better it would have been to say, "Yes: for +we all belong to the church of Christ." + +She gave a little sigh of disappointment, closed her eyes for a moment, +opened them again with a smile, and said with a pleading tone,-- + +"But you do believe in personal religion?" + +"I don't see," I returned, "how religion can be any thing but personal." + +Again she closed her eyes, in a way that made me think how convenient +bad health must be, conferring not only the privilege of passing into +retirement at any desirable moment, but of doing so in such a ready and +easy manner as the mere dropping of the eyelids. + +I rose to leave the room once more. Mr. Cromwell, who had made way for me +to sit beside his wife, stood looking out of the window, against which came +sweeping the great volumes of mist. I glanced out also. Not only was the +sea invisible, but even the brow of the cliffs. When he turned towards me, +as I passed him, I saw that his face had lost much of its rubicund hue, and +looked troubled and anxious. + +"There is nothing for it," I said to myself, "but keep them all night," and +so gave directions to have a bedroom prepared for them. I did not much like +it, I confess; for I was not much interested in either of them, while of +the sect to which she belonged I knew enough already to be aware that it +was of the narrowest and most sectarian in Christendom. It was a pity she +had sought to claim me by a would-be closer bond than that of the body of +Christ. Still I knew I should be myself a sectary if I therefore excluded +her from my best sympathies. At the same time I did feel some curiosity +concerning the oddly-yoked couple, and wondered whether the lady was really +so ill as she would appear. I doubted whether she might not be using her +illness both as an excuse for self-indulgence, and as a means of keeping +her husband's interest in her on the stretch. I did not like the wearing of +her religion on her sleeve, nor the mellifluous drawl in which she spoke. + +When the chicken-broth was ready, she partook daintily; but before she +ended had made a very good meal, including a wing and a bit of the breast; +after which she fell asleep. + +"There seems little chance of the weather clearing," said Mr. Cromwell in a +whisper, as I approached the window where he once more stood. + +"You must make up your mind to remain here for the night," I said. + +"My dear madam, I couldn't think of it," he returned,--I thought from +unwillingness to incommode a strange household. "An invalid like her, +sweet lamb!" he went on, "requires so many little comforts and peculiar +contrivances to entice the repose she so greatly needs, that--that--in +short, I must get her home." + +"Where do you live?" I asked, not sorry to find his intention of going so +fixed. + +"We have a house in Warrior Square," he answered. "We live in London, but +have been here all the past winter. I doubt if she improves, though. I +doubt--I doubt." + +He said the last words in a yet lower and more mournful whisper; then, with +a shake of his head, turned and gazed again through the window. + +A peculiar little cough from the sofa made us both look round. Mrs. +Cromwell was awake, and searching for her handkerchief. Her husband +understood her movements, and hurried to her assistance. When she took the +handkerchief from her mouth, there was a red spot upon it. Mr. Cromwell's +face turned the color of lead; but his wife looked up at him, and smiled; a +sweet, consciously pathetic smile. + +"He has sent for me," she said. "The messenger has come." + +Her husband made no answer. His eyes seemed starting from his head. + +"Who is your medical man?" I asked him. + +He told me, and I sent off my housemaid to fetch him. It was a long hour +before he arrived; during which, as often as I peeped in, I saw him sitting +silent, and holding her hand, until the last time, when I found him reading +a hymn to her. She was apparently once more asleep. Nothing could be more +favorable to her recovery than such quietness of both body and mind. + +When the doctor came, and had listened to Mr. Cromwell's statement, he +proceeded to examine her chest with much care. That over, he averred in +her hearing that he found nothing serious; but told her husband apart that +there was considerable mischief, and assured me afterwards that her lungs +were all but gone, and that she could not live beyond a month or two. She +had better be removed to her own house, he said, as speedily as possible. + +"But it would be cruelty to send her out a day like this," I returned. + +"Yes, yes: I did not mean that," he said. "But to-morrow, perhaps. You'll +see what the weather is like. Is Mrs. Cromwell an old friend?" + +"I never saw her until to-day," I replied. + +"Ah!" he remarked, and said no more. + +We got her to bed as soon as possible. I may just mention that I never saw +any thing to equal the _point-devise_ of her underclothing. There was not +a stitch of cotton about her, using the word _stitch_ in its metaphorical +sense. But, indeed, I doubt whether her garments were not all made with +linen thread. Even her horse-hair petticoat was quilted with rose-colored +silk inside. + +"Surely she has no children!" I said to myself; and was right, as my +mother-readers will not be surprised to learn. + +It was a week before she got up again, and a month before she was carried +down the hill; during which time her husband sat up with her, or slept on a +sofa in the room beside her, every night. During the day I took a share in +the nursing, which was by no means oppressive, for she did not suffer much, +and required little. Her chief demand was for hymns, the only annoyance +connected with which worth mentioning was, that she often wished me to +admire with her such as I could only half like, and occasionally such +as were thoroughly distasteful to me. Her husband had brought her own +collection from Warrior Square, volumes of hymns in manuscript, copied by +her own hand, many of them strange to me, none of those I read altogether +devoid of literary merit, and some of them lovely both in feeling and +form. But all, even the best, which to me were unobjectionable, belonged +to one class,--a class breathing a certain tone difficult to describe; +one, however, which I find characteristic of all the Roman Catholic hymns +I have read. I will not indicate any of her selection; neither, lest I +should be supposed to object to this or that one answering to the general +description, and yet worthy of all respect, or even sympathy, will I go +further with a specification of their sort than to say that what pleased me +in them was their full utterance of personal devotion to the Saviour, and +that what displeased me was a sort of sentimental regard of self in the +matter,--an implied special, and thus partially exclusive predilection or +preference of the Saviour for the individual supposed to be making use of +them; a certain fundamental want of humility therefore, although the forms +of speech in which they were cast might be laboriously humble. They also +not unfrequently manifested a great leaning to the forms of earthly show +as representative of the glories of that kingdom which the Lord says is +_within us_. + +Likewise the manner in which Mrs. Cromwell talked reminded me much of the +way in which a nun would represent her individual relation to Christ. I can +best show what I mean by giving a conversation I had with her one day when +she was recovering, which she did with wonderful rapidity up to a certain +point. I confess I shrink a little from reproducing it, because of the +sacred name which, as it seemed to me, was far too often upon her lips, and +too easily uttered. But then, she was made so different from me! + +The fine weather had returned in all its summer glory, and she was lying +on a couch in her own room near the window, whence she could gaze on +the expanse of sea below, this morning streaked with the most delicate +gradations of distance, sweep beyond sweep, line and band and ribbon of +softly, often but slightly varied hue, leading the eyes on and on into the +infinite. There may have been some atmospheric illusion ending off the +show, for the last reaches mingled so with the air that you saw no horizon +line, only a great breadth of border; no spot which could you appropriate +with certainty either to sea or sky; while here and there was a vessel, to +all appearance, pursuing its path in the sky, and not upon the sea. It was, +as some of my readers will not require to be told, a still, gray forenoon, +with a film of cloud over all the heavens, and many horizontal strata of +deeper but varying density near the horizon. + +Mrs. Cromwell had lain for some time with her large eyes fixed on the +farthest confusion of sea and sky. + +"I have been sending out my soul," she said at length, "to travel all +across those distances, step by step, on to the gates of pearl. Who knows +but that may be the path I must travel to meet the Bridegroom?" + +"The way is wide," I said: "what if you should miss him?" + +I spoke almost involuntarily. The style of her talk was very distasteful to +me; and I had just been thinking of what I had once heard my father say, +that at no time were people in more danger of being theatrical than when +upon their death-beds. + +"No," she returned, with a smile of gentle superiority; "no: that cannot +be. Is he not waiting for me? Has he not chosen me, and called me for his +own? Is not my Jesus mine? I shall _not_ miss him. He waits to give me my +new name, and clothe me in the garments of righteousness." + +As she spoke, she clasped her thin hands, and looked upwards with a radiant +expression. Far as it was from me to hint, even in my own soul, that the +Saviour was not hers, tenfold more hers than she was able to think, I could +not at the same time but doubt whether her heart and soul and mind were as +close to him as her words would indicate she thought they were. She could +not be wrong in trusting him; but could she be right in her notion of the +measure to which her union with him had been perfected? I could not help +thinking that a little fear, soon to pass into reverence, might be to her +a salutary thing. The fear, I thought, would heighten and deepen the love, +and purify it from that self which haunted her whole consciousness, and of +which she had not yet sickened, as one day she certainly must. + +"My lamp is burning," she said; "I feel it burning. I love my Lord. It +would be false to say otherwise." + +"Are you sure you have oil enough in your vessel as well as in your lamp?" +I said. + +"Ah, you are one of the doubting!" she returned kindly. "Don't you know +that sweet hymn about feeding our lamps from the olive-trees of Gethsemane? +The idea is taken from the lamp the prophet Zechariah saw in his vision, +into which two olive-branches, through two golden pipes, emptied the golden +oil out of themselves. If we are thus one with the olive-tree, the oil +cannot fail us. It is not as if we had to fill our lamps from a cruse of +our own. This is the cruse that cannot fail." + +"True, true," I said; "but ought we not to examine our own selves whether +we are in the faith?" + +"Let those examine that doubt," she replied; and I could not but yield in +my heart that she had had the best of the argument. + +For I knew that the confidence in Christ which prevents us from thinking of +ourselves, and makes us eager to obey his word, leaving all the care of our +feelings to him, is a true and healthy faith. Hence I could not answer her, +although I doubted whether her peace came from such confidence,--doubted +for several reasons: one, that, so far from not thinking of herself, she +seemed full of herself; another, that she seemed to find no difficulty with +herself in any way; and, surely, she was too young for all struggle to be +over! I perceived no reference to the will of God in regard of any thing +she had to do, only in regard of what she had to suffer, and especially +in regard of that smallest of matters, when she was to go. Here I checked +myself, for what could she _do_ in such a state of health? But then she +never spoke as if she had any anxiety about the welfare of other people. +That, however, might be from her absolute contentment in the will of God. +But why did she always look to the Saviour through a mist of hymns, and +never go straight back to the genuine old good news, or to the mighty +thoughts and exhortations with which the first preachers of that news +followed them up and unfolded the grandeur of their goodness? After all, +was I not judging her? On the other hand, ought I not to care for her +state? Should I not be inhuman, that is, unchristian, if I did not? + +In the end I saw clearly enough, that, except it was revealed to me what I +ought to say, I had no right to say any thing; and that to be uneasy about +her was to distrust Him whose it was to teach her, and who would perfect +that which he had certainly begun in her. For her heart, however poor and +faulty and flimsy its faith might be, was yet certainly drawn towards +the object of faith. I, therefore, said nothing more in the direction of +opening her eyes to what I considered her condition: that view of it might, +after all, be but a phantasm of my own projection. What was plainly my duty +was to serve her as one of those the least of whom the Saviour sets forth +as representing himself. I would do it to her as unto him. + +My children were out the greater part of every day, and Dora was with me, +so that I had more leisure than I had had for a long time. I therefore set +myself to wait upon her as a kind of lady's maid in things spiritual. Her +own maid, understanding her ways, was sufficient for things temporal. I +resolved to try to help her after her own fashion, and not after mine; for, +however strange the nourishment she preferred might seem, it must at least +be of the _kind_ she could best assimilate. My care should be to give her +her gruel as good as I might, and her beef-tea strong, with chicken-broth +instead of barley-water and delusive jelly. But much opportunity of +ministration was not afforded me; for her husband, whose business in life +she seemed to regard as the care of her,--for which, in truth, she was +gently and lovingly grateful,--and who not merely accepted her view of +the matter, but, I was pretty sure, had had a large share in originating +it, was even more constant in his attentions than she found altogether +agreeable, to judge by the way in which she would insist on his going out +for a second walk, when it was clear, that, besides his desire to be with +her, he was not inclined to walk any more. + +I could set myself, however, as I have indicated, to find fitting pabulum +for her, and that of her chosen sort. This was possible for me in virtue of +my father's collection of hymns, and the aid he could give me. I therefore +sent him a detailed description of what seemed to me her condition, and +what I thought I might do for her. It was a week before he gave me an +answer; but it arrived a thorough one, in the shape of a box of books, +each bristling with paper marks, many of them inscribed with some fact +concerning, or criticism upon, the hymn indicated. He wrote that he quite +agreed with my notion of the right mode of serving her; for any other +would be as if a besieging party were to batter a postern by means of +boats instead of walking over a lowered drawbridge, and under a raised +portcullis. + +Having taken a survey of the hymns my father thus pointed out to me, and +arranged them according to their degrees of approximation to the weakest of +those in Mrs. Cromwell's collection, I judged that in all of them there was +something she must appreciate, although the main drift of several would be +entirely beyond her apprehension. Even these, however, it would be well to +try upon her. + +Accordingly, the next time she asked me to read from her collection, I +made the request that she would listen to some which I believed she did +not know, but would, I thought, like. She consented with eagerness, was +astonished to find she knew none of them, expressed much approbation of +some, and showed herself delighted with others. + +That she must have had some literary faculty seems evident from the genuine +pleasure she took in simple, quaint, sometimes even odd hymns of her own +peculiar kind. But the very best of another sort she could not appreciate. +For instance, the following, by John Mason, in my father's opinion one of +the best hymn-writers, had no attraction for her:-- + + "Thou wast, O God, and thou was blest + Before the world begun; + Of thine eternity possest + Before time's glass did run. + Thou needest none thy praise to sing, + As if thy joy could fade: + Couldst thou have needed any thing, + Thou couldst have nothing made. + + "Great and good God, it pleaseth thee + Thy Godhead to declare; + And what thy goodness did decree, + Thy greatness did prepare: + Thou spak'st, and heaven and earth appeared, + And answered to thy call; + As if their Maker's voice they Heard, + Which is the creature's All. + + "Thou spak'st the word, most mighty Lord; + Thy word went forth with speed: + Thy will, O Lord, it was thy word; + Thy word it was thy deed. + Thou brought'st forth Adam from the ground, + And Eve out of his side: + Thy blessing made the earth abound + With these two multiplied. + + "Those three great leaves, heaven, sea, and land, + Thy name in figures show; + Brutes feel the bounty of thy hand, + But I my Maker know. + Should not I here thy servant be, + Whose creatures serve me here? + My Lord, whom should I fear but thee, + Who am thy creatures' fear? + + "To whom, Lord, should I sing but thee, + The Maker of my tongue? + Lo! other lords would seize on me, + But I to thee belong. + As waters haste unto their sea, + And earth unto its earth, + So let my soul return to thee, + From whom it had its birth. + + "But, ah! I'm fallen in the night, + And cannot come to thee: + Yet speak the word, '_Let there be light_;' + It shall enlighten me. + And let thy word, most mighty Lord, + Thy fallen creature raise: + Oh! make me o'er again, and I + Shall sing my Maker's praise." + +This and others, I say, she could not relish; but my endeavors were crowned +with success in so far that she accepted better specimens of the sort she +liked than any she had; and I think they must have had a good influence +upon her. + +She seemed to have no fear of death, contemplating the change she believed +at hand, not with equanimity merely, but with expectation. She even wrote +hymns about it,--sweet, pretty, and weak, always with herself and the love +of her Saviour for _her_, in the foreground. She had not learned that the +love which lays hold of that which is human in the individual, that is, +which is common to the whole race, must be an infinitely deeper, tenderer, +and more precious thing to the individual than any affection manifesting +itself in the preference of one over another. + +For the sake of revealing her modes of thought, I will give one more +specimen of my conversations with her, ere I pass on. It took place the +evening before her departure for her own house. Her husband had gone to +make some final preparations, of which there had been many. For one who +expected to be unclothed that she might be clothed upon, she certainly +made a tolerable to-do about the garment she was so soon to lay aside; +especially seeing she often spoke of it as an ill-fitting garment--never +with peevishness or complaint, only, as it seemed to me, with far more +interest than it was worth. She had even, as afterwards appeared, given her +husband--good, honest, dog-like man--full instructions as to the ceremonial +of its interment. Perhaps I should have been considerably less bewildered +with her conduct had I suspected that she was not half so near death as she +chose to think, and that she had as yet suffered little. + +That evening, the stars just beginning to glimmer through the warm flush +that lingered from the sunset, we sat together in the drawing-room looking +out on the sea. My patient appearing, from the light in her eyes, about to +go off into one of her ecstatic moods, I hastened to forestall it, if I +might, with whatever came uppermost; for I felt my inability to sympathize +with her in these more of a pain than my reader will, perhaps, readily +imagine. + +"It seems like turning you out to let you go to-morrow, Mrs. Cromwell," I +said; "but, you see, our three months are up two days after, and I cannot +help it." + +"You have been very kind," she said, half abstractedly. "And you are really +much better. Who would have thought three weeks ago to see you so well +to-day?" + +"Ah! you congratulate me, do you?" she rejoined, turning her big eyes full +upon me; "congratulate me that I am doomed to be still a captive in the +prison of this vile body? Is it kind? Is it well?" + +"At least, you must remember, if you are _doomed_, who dooms you." + +"'Oh that I had the wings of a dove!'" she cried, avoiding my remark, +of which I doubt if she saw the drift. "Think, dear Mrs. Percivale: the +society of saints and angels!--all brightness and harmony and peace! Is it +not worth forsaking this world to inherit a kingdom like that? Wouldn't +_you_ like to go? Don't _you_ wish to fly away and be at rest?" + +She spoke as if expostulating and reasoning with one she would persuade to +some kind of holy emigration. + +"Not until I am sent for," I answered. + +"I _am_ sent for," she returned. + + "'The wave may be cold, and the tide may be strong; + But, hark! on the shore the angels' glad song!' + +"Do you know that sweet hymn, Mrs. Percivale? There I shall be able to love +him aright, to serve him aright! + + "'Here all my labor is so poor! + Here all my love so faint! + But when I reach the heavenly door, + I cease the weary plaint.'" + +I couldn't help wishing she would cease it a little sooner. + +"But suppose," I ventured to say, "it were the will of God that you should +live many years yet." + +"That cannot be. And why should you wish it for me? Is it not better to +depart and be with him? What pleasure could it be to a weak, worn creature +like me to go on living in this isle of banishment?" + +"But suppose you were to recover your health: would it not be delightful to +_do_ something for his sake? If you would think of how much there is to be +done in the world, perhaps you would wish less to die and leave it." + +"Do not tempt me," she returned reproachfully. + +And then she quoted a passage the application of which to her own case +appeared to me so irreverent, that I confess I felt like Abraham with the +idolater; so far at least as to wish her out of the house, for I could bear +with her, I thought, no longer. + +She did leave it the next day, and I breathed more freely than since she +had entered it. + +My husband came down to fetch me the following day; and a walk with him +along the cliffs in the gathering twilight, during which I recounted the +affectations of my late visitor, completely wiped the cobwebs from my +mental windows, and enabled me to come to the conclusion that Mrs. Cromwell +was but a spoiled child, who would, somehow or other, be brought to her +senses before all was over. I was ashamed of my impatience with her, and +believed if I could have learned her history, of which she had told me +nothing, it would have explained the rare phenomenon of one apparently able +to look death in the face with so little of the really spiritual to support +her, for she seemed to me to know Christ only after the flesh. But had she +indeed ever looked death in the face? + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. + +MRS. CROMWELL GOES. + + +I heard nothing more of her for about a year. A note or two passed between +us, and then all communication ceased. This, I am happy to think, was not +immediately my fault: not that it mattered much, for we were not then +fitted for much communion; we had too little in common to commune. + +"Did you not both believe in one Lord?" I fancy a reader objecting. "How, +then, can you say you had too little in common to be able to commune?" + +I said the same to myself, and tried the question in many ways. The fact +remained, that we could not commune, that is, with any heartiness; and, +although I may have done her wrong, it was, I thought, to be accounted +for something in this way. The Saviour of whom she spoke so often, and +evidently thought so much, was in a great measure a being of her own fancy; +so much so, that she manifested no desire to find out what the Christ was +who had spent three and thirty years in making a revelation of himself to +the world. The knowledge she had about him was not even at second-hand, +but at many removes. She did not study his words or his actions to learn +his thoughts or his meanings; but lived in a kind of dreamland of her own, +which could be interesting only to the dreamer. Now, if we are to come to +God through Christ, it must surely be by knowing Christ; it must be through +the knowledge of Christ that the Spirit of the Father mainly works in the +members of his body; and it seemed to me she did not take the trouble to +"know him and the power of his resurrection." Therefore we had scarcely +enough of common ground, as I say, to meet upon. I could not help +contrasting her religion with that of Marion Clare. + +At length I had a note from her, begging me to go and see her at her house +at Richmond, and apologizing for her not coming to me, on the score of +her health. I felt it my duty to go, but sadly grudged the loss of time +it seemed, for I expected neither pleasure nor profit from the visit. +Percivale went with me, and left me at the door to have a row on the river, +and call for me at a certain hour. + +The house and grounds were luxurious and lovely both, two often dissociated +qualities. She could have nothing to desire of this world's gifts, I +thought. But the moment she entered the room into which I had been shown, I +was shocked at the change I saw in her. Almost to my horror, she was in a +widow's cap; and disease and coming death were plain on every feature. Such +was the contrast, that the face in my memory appeared that of health. + +"My dear Mrs. Cromwell!" I gasped out. + +"You see," she said, and sitting down, on a straight-backed chair, looked +at me with lustreless eyes. + +Death had been hovering about her windows before, but had entered at last; +not to take the sickly young woman longing to die, but the hale man, who +would have clung to the last edge of life. + +"He is taken, and I am left," she said abruptly, after a long pause. + +Her drawl had vanished: pain and grief had made her simple. "Then," I +thought with myself, "she did love him!" But I could say nothing. She took +my silence for the sympathy it was, and smiled a heart-rending smile, so +different from that little sad smile she used to have; really pathetic +now, and with hardly a glimmer in it of the old self-pity. I rose, put my +arms about her, and kissed her on the forehead; she laid her head on my +shoulder, and wept. + +"Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth," I faltered out, for her sorrow filled +me with a respect that was new. + +"Yes," she returned, as gently as hopelessly; "and whom he does not love as +well." + +"You have no ground for saying so," I answered. "The apostle does not." + +"My lamp is gone out," she said; "gone out in darkness, utter darkness. You +warned me, and I did not heed the warning. I thought I knew better, but I +was full of self-conceit. And now I am wandering where there is no way and +no light. My iniquities have found me out." + +I did not say what I thought I saw plain enough,--that her lamp was just +beginning to burn. Neither did I try to persuade her that her iniquities +were small. + +"But the Bridegroom," I said, "is not yet come. There is time to go and get +some oil." + +"Where am I to get it?" she returned, in a tone of despair. + +"From the Bridegroom himself," I said. + +"No," she answered. "I have talked and talked and talked, and you know he +says he abhors talkers. I am one of those to whom he will say 'I know you +not.'" + +"And you will answer him that you have eaten and drunk in his presence, and +cast out devils, and--?" + +"No, no: I will say he is right; that it is all my own fault; that I +thought I was something when I was nothing, but that I know better now." + +A dreadful fit of coughing interrupted her. As soon as it was over, I +said,-- + +"And what will the Lord say to you, do you think, when you have said so to +him?" + +"Depart from me," she answered in a hollow, forced voice. + +"No," I returned. "He will say, 'I know you well. You have told me the +truth. Come in.'" + +"_Do_ you think so?" she cried. "You never used to think well of me." + +"Those who were turned away," I said, avoiding her last words, "were trying +to make themselves out better than they were: they trusted, not in the +love of Christ, but in what they thought their worth and social standing. +Perhaps, if their deeds had been as good as they thought them, they would +have known better than to trust in them. If they had told him the truth; +if they had said, 'Lord, we are workers of iniquity; Lord, we used to be +hypocrites, but we speak the truth now: forgive us,'--do you think he would +then have turned them away? No, surely. If your lamp has gone out, make +haste and tell him how careless you have been; tell him all, and pray +him for oil and light; and see whether your lamp will not straightway +glimmer,--glimmer first and then glow." + +"Ah, Mrs. Percivale!" she cried: "I would _do_ something for His sake now +if I might, but I cannot. If I had but resisted the disease in me for the +sake of serving him, I might have been able now: but my chance is over; I +cannot now; I have too much pain. And death looks such a different thing +now! I used to think of it only as a kind of going to sleep, easy though +sad--sad, I mean, in the eyes of mourning friends. But, alas! I have no +friends, now that my husband is gone. I never dreamed of him going first. +He loved me: indeed he did, though you will hardly believe it; but I always +took it as a matter of course. I never saw how beautiful and unselfish he +was till he was gone. I have been selfish and stupid and dull, and my sins +have found me out. A great darkness has fallen upon me; and although weary +of life, instead of longing for death, I shrink from it with horror. My +cough will not let me sleep: there is nothing but weariness in my body, and +despair in my heart. Oh how black and dreary the nights are! I think of the +time in your house as of an earthly paradise. But where is the heavenly +paradise I used to dream of then?" "Would it content you," I asked, "to be +able to dream of it again?" + +"No, no. I want something very different now. Those fancies look so +uninteresting and stupid now! All I want now is to hear God say, 'I forgive +you.' And my husband--I must have troubled him sorely. You don't know how +good he was, Mrs. Percivale. _He_ made no pretences like silly me. Do you +know," she went on, lowering her voice, and speaking with something like +horror in its tone, "Do you know, I cannot _bear_ hymns!" + +As she said it, she looked up in my face half-terrified with the +anticipation of the horror she expected to see manifested there. I could +not help smiling. The case was not one for argument of any kind: I thought +for a moment, then merely repeated the verse,-- + + "When the law threatens endless death, + Upon the awful hill, + Straightway, from her consuming breath, + My soul goes higher still,-- + Goeth to Jesus, wounded, slain, + And maketh him her home, + Whence she will not go out again, + And where Death cannot come." + +"Ah! that is good," she said: "if only I could get to him! But I cannot get +to him. He is so far off! He seems to be--nowhere." + +I think she was going to say _nobody_, but changed the word. + +"If you felt for a moment how helpless and wretched I feel, especially in +the early morning," she went on; "how there seems nothing to look for, and +no help to be had,--you would pity rather than blame me, though I know I +deserve blame. I feel as if all the heart and soul and strength and mind, +with which we are told to love God, had gone out of me; or, rather, as if I +had never had any. I doubt if I ever had. I tried very hard for a long time +to get a sight of Jesus, to feel myself in his presence; but it was of no +use, and I have quite given it up now." + +I made her lie on the sofa, and sat down beside her. + +"Do you think," I said, "that any one, before he came, could have imagined +such a visitor to the world as Jesus Christ?" + +"I suppose not," she answered listlessly. + +"Then, no more can you come near him now by trying to imagine him. You +cannot represent to yourself the reality, the Being who can comfort you. In +other words, you cannot take him into your heart. He only knows himself, +and he only can reveal himself to you. And not until he does so, can you +find any certainty or any peace." + +"But he doesn't--he won't reveal himself to me." + +"Suppose you had forgotten what some friend of your childhood was +like--say, if it were possible, your own mother; suppose you could not +recall a feature of her face, or the color of her eyes; and suppose, that, +while you were very miserable about it, you remembered all at once that you +had a portrait of her in an old desk you had not opened for years: what +would you do?" + +"Go and get it," she answered like a child at the Sunday school. + +"Then why shouldn't you do so now? You have such a portrait of Jesus, +far truer and more complete than any other kind of portrait can be,--the +portrait his own deeds and words give us of him." + +"I see what you mean; but that is all about long ago, and I want him now. +That is in a book, and I want him in my heart." + +"How are you to get him into your heart? How could you have him there, +except by knowing him? But perhaps you think you do know him?" + +"I am certain I do not know him; at least, as I want to know him," she +said. + +"No doubt," I went on, "he can speak to your heart without the record, and, +I think, is speaking to you now in this very want of him you feel. But how +could he show himself to you otherwise than by helping you to understand +the revelation of himself which it cost him such labor to afford? If the +story were millions of years old, so long as it was true, it would be +all the same as if it had been ended only yesterday; for, being what he +represented himself, he never can change. To know what he was then, is to +know what he is now." + +"But, if I knew him so, that wouldn't be to have him with me." + +"No; but in that knowledge he might come to you. It is by the door of that +knowledge that his Spirit, which is himself, comes into the soul. You would +at least be more able to pray to him: you would know what kind of a being +you had to cry to. _You_ would thus come nearer to him; and no one ever +drew nigh to him to whom he did not also draw nigh. If you would but read +the story as if you had never read it before, as if you were reading the +history of a man you heard of for the first time"-- + +"Surely you're not a Unitarian, Mrs. Percivale!" she said, half lifting her +head, and looking at me with a dim terror in her pale eyes. + +"God forbid!" I answered. "But I would that many who think they know +better believed in him half as much as many Unitarians do. It is only by +understanding and believing in that humanity of his, which in such pain +and labor manifested his Godhead, that we can come to know it,--know that +Godhead, I mean, in virtue of which alone he was a true and perfect man; +that Godhead which alone can satisfy with peace and hope the poorest human +soul, for it also is the offspring of God." + +I ceased, and for some moments she sat silent. Then she said feebly,-- + +"There's a Bible somewhere in the room." + +I found it, and read the story of the woman who came behind him in terror, +and touched the hem of his garment. I could hardly read it for the emotion +it caused in myself; and when I ceased I saw her weeping silently. + +A servant entered with the message that Mr. Percivale had called for me. + +"I cannot see him to-day," she sobbed. + +"Of course not," I replied. "I must leave you now; but I will come +again,--come often if you like." + +"You are as kind as ever!" she returned, with a fresh burst of tears. "Will +you come and be with me when--when--?" + +She could not finish for sobs. + +"I will," I said, knowing well what she meant. + +This is how I imagined the change to have come about: what had seemed her +faith had been, in a great measure, but her hope and imagination, occupying +themselves with the forms of the religion towards which all that was +highest in her nature dimly urged. The two characteristics of amicability +and selfishness, not unfrequently combined, rendered it easy for her to +deceive herself, or rather conspired to prevent her from undeceiving +herself, as to the quality and worth of her religion. For, if she had been +other than amiable, the misery following the outbreaks of temper which +would have been of certain occurrence in the state of her health, would +have made her aware in some degree of her moral condition; and, if her +thoughts had not been centred upon herself, she would, in her care for +others, have learned her own helplessness; and the devotion of her good +husband, not then accepted merely as a natural homage to her worth, would +have shown itself as a love beyond her deserts, and would have roused the +longing to be worthy of it. She saw now that he must have imagined her far +better than she was: but she had not meant to deceive him; she had but +followed the impulses of a bright, shallow nature. + +But that last epithet bids me pause, and remember that my father has taught +me, and that I have found the lesson true, that there is no such thing as a +shallow nature: every nature is infinitely deep, for the works of God are +everlasting. Also, there is no nature that is not shallow to what it must +become. I suspect every nature must have the subsoil ploughing of sorrow, +before it can recognize either its present poverty or its possible wealth. + +When her husband died, suddenly, of apoplexy, she was stunned for a time, +gradually awaking to a miserable sense of unprotected loneliness, so much +the more painful for her weakly condition, and the overcare to which she +had been accustomed. She was an only child, and had become an orphan within +a year or two after her early marriage. Left thus without shelter, like +a delicate plant whose house of glass has been shattered, she speedily +recognized her true condition. With no one to heed her whims, and no one +capable of sympathizing with the genuine misery which supervened, her +disease gathered strength rapidly, her lamp went out, and she saw no light +beyond; for the smoke of that lamp had dimmed the windows at which the +stars would have looked in. When life became dreary, her fancies, despoiled +of the halo they had cast on the fogs of selfish comfort, ceased to +interest her; and the future grew a vague darkness, an uncertainty teeming +with questions to which she had no answer. Henceforth she was conscious +of life only as a weakness, as the want of a deeper life to hold it up. +Existence had become a during faint, and self hateful. She saw that she was +poor and miserable and blind and naked,--that she had never had faith fit +to support her. + +But out of this darkness dawned at least a twilight, so gradual, so slow, +that I cannot tell when or how the darkness began to melt. She became aware +of a deeper and simpler need than hitherto she had known,--the need of life +in herself, the life of the Son of God. I went to see her often. At the +time when I began this history, I was going every other day,--sometimes +oftener, for her end seemed to be drawing nigh. Her weakness had greatly +increased: she could but just walk across the room, and was constantly +restless. She had no great continuous pain, but oft-returning sharp fits of +it. She looked genuinely sad, and her spirits never recovered themselves. +She seldom looked out of the window; the daylight seemed to distress her: +flowers were the only links between her and the outer world,--wild ones, +for the scent of greenhouse-flowers, and even that of most garden ones, she +could not bear. She had been very fond of music, but could no longer endure +her piano: every note seemed struck on a nerve. But she was generally quiet +in her mind, and often peaceful. The more her body decayed about her, the +more her spirit seemed to come alive. It was the calm of a gray evening, +not so lovely as a golden sunset or a silvery moonlight, but more sweet +than either. She talked little of her feelings, but evidently longed after +the words of our Lord. As she listened to some of them, I could see the +eyes which had now grown dim with suffering, gleam with the light of holy +longing and humble adoration. + +For some time she often referred to her coming departure, and confessed +that she "feared death; not so much what might be on the other side, as the +dark way itself,--the struggle, the torture, the fainting; but by degrees +her allusions to it became rarer, and at length ceased almost entirely. +Once I said to her,-- + +"Are you afraid of death still, Eleanor?" + +"No--not much," she replied, after a brief pause. "He may do with me +whatever He likes." + +Knowing so well what Marion could do to comfort and support, and therefore +desirous of bringing them together, I took her one day with me. But certain +that the thought of seeing a stranger would render my poor Eleanor uneasy, +and that what discomposure a sudden introduction might cause would speedily +vanish in Marion's presence, I did not tell her what I was going to do. Nor +in this did I mistake. Before we left, it was plain that Marion had a far +more soothing influence upon her than I had myself. She looked eagerly for +her next visit, and my mind was now more at peace concerning her. + +One evening, after listening to some stories from Marion about her friends, +Mrs. Cromwell said,-- + +"Ah, Miss Clare! to think I might have done something for _Him_ by doing it +for _them!_ Alas! I have led a useless life, and am dying out of this world +without having borne any fruit! Ah, me, me!" + +"You are doing a good deal for him now," said Marion, "and hard work too!" +she added; "harder far than mine." + +"I am only dying," she returned--so sadly! + +"You are enduring chastisement," said Marion. "The Lord gives one one thing +to do, and another another. We have no right to wish for other work than he +gives us. It is rebellious and unchildlike, whatever it may seem. Neither +have we any right to wish to be better in _our_ way: we must wish to be +better in _his_." + +"But I _should_ like to do something for _him_; bearing is only for myself. +Surely I may wish that?" + +"No: you may not. Bearing is not only for yourself. You are quite wrong in +thinking you do nothing for him in enduring," returned Marion, with that +abrupt decision of hers which seemed to some like rudeness. "What is the +will of God? Is it not your sanctification? And why did he make the Captain +of our salvation perfect through suffering? Was it not that he might in +like manner bring many sons into glory? Then, if you are enduring, you are +working with God,--for the perfection through suffering of one more: you +are working for God in yourself, that the will of God may be done in you; +that he may have his very own way with you. It is the only work he requires +of you now: do it not only willingly, then, but contentedly. To make people +good is all his labor: be good, and you are a fellow-worker with God in the +highest region of labor. He does not want you for other people--_yet_." + +At the emphasis Marion laid on the last word, Mrs. Cromwell glanced sharply +up. A light broke over her face: she had understood, and with a smile was +silent. + +One evening, when we were both with her, it had grown very sultry and +breathless. + +"Isn't it very close, dear Mrs. Percivale?" she said. + +I rose to get a fan; and Marion, leaving the window as if moved by a sudden +resolve, went and opened the piano. Mrs. Cromwell made a hasty motion, as +if she must prevent her. But, such was my faith in my friend's soul as well +as heart, in her divine taste as well as her human faculty, that I ventured +to lay my hand on Mrs. Cromwell's. It was enough for sweetness like hers: +she yielded instantly, and lay still, evidently nerving herself to suffer. +But the first movement stole so "soft and soullike" on her ear, trembling +as it were on the border-land between sound and silence, that she missed +the pain she expected, and found only the pleasure she looked not for. +Marion's hands made the instrument sigh and sing, not merely as with a +human voice, but as with a human soul. Her own voice next evolved itself +from the dim uncertainty, in sweet proportions and delicate modulations, +stealing its way into the heart, to set first one chord, then another, +vibrating, until the whole soul was filled with responses. If I add that +her articulation was as nearly perfect as the act of singing will permit, +my reader may well believe that a song of hers would do what a song might. + +Where she got the song she then sung, she always avoids telling me. I had +told her all I knew and understood concerning Mrs. Cromwell, and have my +suspicions. This is the song:-- + + "I fancy I hear a whisper + As of leaves in a gentle air: + Is it wrong, I wonder, to fancy + It may be the tree up there?-- + The tree that heals the nations, + Growing amidst the street, + And dropping, for who will gather, + Its apples at their feet? + + "I fancy I hear a rushing + As of waters down a slope: + Is it wrong, I wonder, to fancy + It may be the river of hope? + The river of crystal waters + That flows from the very throne, + And runs through the street of the city + With a softly jubilant tone? + + "I fancy a twilight round me, + And a wandering of the breeze, + With a hush in that high city, + And a going in the trees. + But I know there will be no night there,-- + No coming and going day; + For the holy face of the Father + Will be perfect light alway. + + "I could do without the darkness, + And better without the sun; + But, oh, I should like a twilight + After the day was done! + Would he lay his hand on his forehead, + On his hair as white as wool, + And shine one hour through his fingers, + Till the shadow had made me cool? + + "But the thought is very foolish: + If that face I did but see, + All else would be all forgotten,-- + River and twilight and tree; + I should seek, I should care, for nothing, + Beholding his countenance; + And fear only to lose one glimmer + By one single sideway glance. + + "'Tis but again a foolish fancy + To picture the countenance so. + Which is shining in all our spirits, + Making them white as snow. + Come to me, shine in me, Master, + And I care not for river or tree,-- + Care for no sorrow or crying, + If only thou shine in me. + + "I would lie on my bed for ages, + Looking out on the dusty street, + Where whisper nor leaves nor waters, + Nor any thing cool and sweet; + At my heart this ghastly fainting, + And this burning in my blood,-- + If only I knew thou wast with me,-- + Wast with me and making me good." + +When she rose from the piano, Mrs. Cromwell stretched out her hand for +hers, and held it some time, unable to speak. Then she said,-- + +"That has done me good, I hope. I will try to be more patient, for I think +He _is_ teaching me." + +She died, at length, in my arms. I cannot linger over that last time. She +suffered a good deal, but dying people are generally patient. She went +without a struggle. The last words I heard her utter were, "Yes, Lord;" +after which she breathed but once. A half-smile came over her face, which +froze upon it, and remained, until the coffin-lid covered it. But I shall +see it, I trust, a whole smile some day. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. + +ANCESTRAL WISDOM. + + +I did think of having a chapter about children before finishing my book; +but this is not going to be the kind of chapter I thought of. Like most +mothers, I suppose, I think myself an authority on the subject; and, which +is to me more assuring than any judgment of my own, my father says that I +have been in a measure successful in bringing mine up,--only they're not +brought up very far yet. Hence arose the temptation to lay down a few +practical rules I had proved and found answer. But, as soon as I began to +contemplate the writing of them down, I began to imagine So-and-so and +So-and-so attempting to carry them out, and saw what a dreadful muddle they +would make of it, and what mischief would thence lie at my door. Only one +thing can be worse than the attempt to carry out rules whose principles +are not understood; and that is the neglect of those which are understood, +and seen to be right. Suppose, for instance, I were to say that corporal +punishment was wholesome, involving less suffering than most other +punishments, more effectual in the result, and leaving no sting or sense +of unkindness; whereas mental punishment, considered by many to be more +refined, and therefore less degrading, was often cruel to a sensitive +child, and deadening to a stubborn one: suppose I said this, and a woman +like my Aunt Millicent were to take it up: _her_ whippings would have +no more effect than if her rod were made of butterflies' feathers; they +would be a mockery to her children, and bring law into contempt; while if +a certain father I know were to be convinced by my arguments, he would +fill his children with terror of him now, and with hatred afterwards. Of +the last-mentioned result of severity, I know at least one instance. At +present, the father to whom I refer disapproves of whipping even a man who +has been dancing on his wife with hob-nailed shoes, because it would tend +to brutalize him. But he taunts and stings, and confines in solitude for +lengthened periods, high-spirited boys, and that for faults which I should +consider very venial. + +Then, again, if I were to lay down the rule that we must be as tender of +the feelings of our children as if they were angel-babies who had to learn, +alas! to understand our rough ways, how would that be taken by a certain +French couple I know, who, not appearing until after the dinner to which +they had accepted an invitation was over, gave as the reason, that it had +been quite out of their power; for darling Désirée, their only child, +had declared they shouldn't go, and that she would cry if they did; nay, +went so far as to insist on their going to bed, which they were, however +reluctant, compelled to do. They had actually undressed, and pretended +to retire for the night; but, as soon as she was safely asleep, rose and +joined their friends, calm in the consciousness of abundant excuse. + +The marvel to me is that so many children turn out so well. + +After all, I think there can be no harm in mentioning a few general +principles laid down by my father. They are such as to commend themselves +most to the most practical. + +And first for a few negative ones. + +1. Never _give in_ to disobedience; and never threaten what you are not +prepared to carry out. + +2. Never lose your temper. I do not say _never be angry_. Anger is +sometimes indispensable, especially where there has been any thing mean, +dishonest, or cruel. But anger is very different from loss of temper. +[Footnote: My Aunt Millicent is always saying, "I am _grieeeved_ with you." +But the announcement begets no sign of responsive grief on the face of the +stolid child before her. She never whipped a child in her life. If she had, +and it had but roused some positive anger in the child, instead of that +undertone of complaint which is always oozing out of every one of them, I +think It would have been a gain. But the poor lady is one of the whiny-piny +people, and must be in preparation for a development of which I have no +prevision. The only stroke of originality I thought I knew of her was this; +to the register of her children's births, baptisms, and confirmations, +entered on a grandly-ornamented fly-leaf of the family Bible, she has +subjoined the record of every disease each has had, with the year, +month, and day (and in one case the hour), when each distemper made its +appearance. After most of the main entries, you may read, "_Cut his_ (or +her) _first tooth_"--at such a date. But, alas for the originality! she has +just told me that her maternal grandmother did the same. How strange that +she and my father should have had the same father I If they had had the +same mother, too, I should have been utterly bewildered.] + +3. Of all things, never sneer at them; and be careful, even, how you rally +them. + +4. Do not try to work on their feelings. Feelings are far too delicate +things to be used for tools. It is like taking the mainspring out of your +watch, and notching it for a saw. It may be a wonderful saw, but how fares +your watch? Especially avoid doing so in connection with religious things, +for so you will assuredly deaden them to all that is finest. Let your +feelings, not your efforts on theirs, affect them with a sympathy the more +powerful that it is not forced upon them; and, in order to do this, avoid +being too English in the hiding of your feelings. A man's own family has a +right to share in his _good_ feelings. + +5. Never show that you doubt, except you are able to convict. To doubt an +honest child is to do what you can to make a liar of him; and to believe a +liar, if he is not altogether shameless, is to shame him. + +The common-minded masters in schools, who, unlike the ideal Arnold, are in +the habit of _disbelieving_ boys, have a large share in making the liars +they so often are. Certainly the vileness of a lie is not the same in one +who knows that whatever he says will be regarded with suspicion; and the +master, who does not know an honest boy after he has been some time in his +class, gives good reason for doubting whether he be himself an honest man, +and incapable of the lying he is ready to attribute to all alike. + +This last is my own remark, not my father's. I have an honest boy at +school, and I know how he fares. I say honest; for though, as a mother, I +can hardly expect to be believed, I have ground for believing that he would +rather die than lie. I know _I_ would rather he died than lied. + +6. Instil no religious doctrine apart from its duty. If it have no duty as +its necessary embodiment, the doctrine may well be regarded as doubtful. + +7. Do not be hard on mere quarrelling, which, like a storm in nature, is +often helpful in clearing the moral atmosphere. Stop it by a judgment +between the parties. But be severe as to the _kind_ of quarrelling, and the +temper shown in it. Especially give no quarter to any unfairness arising +from greed or spite. Use your strongest language with regard to that. + +Now for a few of my father's positive rules: + +1. Always let them come to you, and always hear what they have to say. If +they bring a complaint, always examine into it, and dispense pure justice, +and nothing but justice. + +2. Cultivate a love of _giving_ fair-play. Every one, of course, likes to +_receive_ fair-play; but no one ought to be left to imagine, therefore, +that he _loves fair-play_. + +3. Teach from the very first, from the infancy capable of sucking a +sugar-plum, to share with neighbors. Never refuse the offering a child +brings you, except you have a good reason,--and _give_ it. And never +_pretend_ to partake: that involves hideous possibilities in its effects on +the child. + +The necessity of giving a reason for refusing a kindness has no relation to +what is supposed by some to be the necessity of giving a reason with every +command. There is no such necessity. Of course there ought to be a reason +in every command. That it _may_ be desirable, sometimes, to explain it, is +all my father would allow. + +4. Allow a great deal of noise,--as much as is fairly endurable; but, the +moment they seem getting beyond their own control, stop the noise at once. +Also put a stop at once to all fretting and grumbling. + +5. Favor the development of each in the direction of his own bent. Help +him to develop himself, but do not _push_ development. To do so is most +dangerous. + +6. Mind the moral nature, and it will take care of the intellectual. In +other words, the best thing for the intellect is the cultivation of the +conscience, not in casuistry, but in conduct. It may take longer to arrive; +but the end will be the highest possible health, vigor, and ratio of +progress. + +7. Discourage emulation, and insist on duty,--not often, but strongly. + +Having written these out, chiefly from notes I had made of a long talk with +my father, I gave them to Percivale to read. + +"Rather--ponderous, don't you think, for weaving into a narrative?" was his +remark. + +"My narrative is full of things far from light," I returned. "I didn't say +they were heavy, you know. That is quite another thing." + +"I am afraid you mean generally uninteresting. But there are parents who +might make them useful, and the rest of my readers could skip them." + +"I only mean that a narrative, be it ever so serious, must not intrench on +the moral essay or sermon." + +"It is much too late, I fear, to tell me that. But, please, remember I am +not giving the precepts as of my own discovery, though I _have_ sought to +verify them by practice, but as what they are,--my father's." + +He did not seem to see the bearing of the argument. + +"I want my book to be useful," I said. "As a mother, I want to share the +help I have had myself with other mothers." + +"I am only speaking from the point of art," he returned. + +"And that's a point I have never thought of; any farther, at least, than +writing as good English as I might." + +"Do you mean to say you have never thought of the shape of the book your +monthly papers would make?" + +"Yes. I don't think I have. Scarcely at all, I believe." + +"Then you ought." + +"But I know nothing about that kind of thing. I haven't an idea in my head +concerning the art of book-making. And it is too late, so far at least as +this book is concerned, to begin to study it now." + +"I wonder how my pictures would get on in that way." + +"You can see how my book has got on. Well or ill, there it all but is. I +had to do with facts, and not with art." + +"But even a biography, in the ordering of its parts, in the arrangement of +its light and shade, and in the harmony of the"-- + +"It's too late, I tell you, husband. The book is all but done. Besides, +one who would write a biography after the fashion of a picture would +probably, even without attributing a single virtue that was not present, +or suppressing a single fault that was, yet produce a false book. The +principle I have followed has been to try from the first to put as much +value, that is, as much truth, as I could, into my story. Perhaps, instead +of those maxims of my father's for the education of children, you would +have preferred such specimens of your own children's sermons as you made me +read to you for the twentieth time yesterday?" + +Instead of smiling with his own quiet kind smile, as he worked on at his +picture of St. Athanasius with "no friend but God and Death," he burst into +a merry laugh, and said,-- + +"A capital idea! If you give those, word for word, I shall yield the +precepts." + +"Are you out of your five wits, husband?" I exclaimed. "Would you have +everybody take me for the latest incarnation of the oldest insanity in the +world,--that of maternity? But I am really an idiot, for you could never +have meant it!" + +"I do most soberly and distinctly mean it. They would amuse your readers +very much, and, without offending those who may prefer your father's +maxims to your children's sermons, would incline those who might otherwise +vote the former a bore, to regard them with the clemency resulting from +amusement." + +"But I desire no such exercise of clemency. The precepts are admirable; and +those need not take them who do not like them." + +"So the others can skip the sermons; but I am sure they will give a few +mothers, at least, a little amusement. They will prove besides, that you +follow your own rule of putting a very small quantity of sage into the +stuffing of your goslings; as also that you have succeeded in making them +capable of manifesting what nonsense is indigenous in them. I think them +very funny; that may be paternal prejudice: _you_ think them very silly +as well; that may be maternal solicitude. I suspect, that, the more of a +philosopher any one of your readers is, the more suggestive will he find +these genuine utterances of an age at which the means of expression so much +exceed the matter to be expressed." + +The idea began to look not altogether so absurd as at first; and a little +more argument sufficed to make me resolve to put the absurdities themselves +to the test of passing leisurely through my brain while I copied them out, +possibly for the press. + +The result is, that I am going to risk printing them, determined, should I +find afterwards that I have made a blunder, to throw the whole blame upon +my husband. + +What still makes me shrink the most is the recollection of how often I have +condemned, as too silly to repeat, things which reporting mothers evidently +regarded as proofs of a stupendous intellect. But the folly of these +constitutes the chief part of their merit; and I do not see how I can be +mistaken for supposing them clever, except it be in regard of a glimmer of +purpose now and then, and the occasional manifestation of the cunning of +the stump orator, with his subterfuges to conceal his embarrassment when he +finds his oil failing him, and his lamp burning low. + + + + +CHAPTER XL. + +CHILD NONSENSE. + + +One word of introductory explanation. + +During my husband's illness, Marion came often, but, until he began to +recover, would generally spend with the children the whole of the time she +had to spare, not even permitting me to know that she was in the house. It +was a great thing for them; for, although they were well enough cared for, +they were necessarily left to themselves a good deal more than hitherto. +Hence, perhaps, it came that they betook themselves to an amusement not +uncommon with children, of which I had as yet seen nothing amongst them. + +One evening, when my husband had made a little progress towards recovery, +Marion came to sit with me in his room for an hour. + +"I've brought you something I want to read to you," she said, "if you think +Mr. Percivale can bear it." + +I told her I believed he could, and she proceeded to explain what it was. + +"One morning, when I went into the nursery, I found the children playing at +church, or rather at preaching; for, except a few minutes of singing, the +preaching occupied the whole time. There were two clergymen, Ernest and +Charles, alternately incumbent and curate. The chief duty of the curate for +the time being was to lend his aid to the rescue of his incumbent from any +difficulty in which the extemporaneous character of his discourse might +land him." + +I interrupt Marion to mention that the respective ages of Ernest and +Charles were then eight and six. + +"The pulpit," she continued, "was on the top of the cupboard under +the cuckoo-clock, and consisted of a chair and a cushion. There were +prayer-books in abundance; of which neither of them, I am happy to say, +made other than a pretended use for reference. Charles, indeed, who +was preaching when I entered, _can't_ read; but both have far too much +reverence to use sacred words in their games, as the sermons themselves +will instance. I took down almost every word they said, frequent +embarrassments and interruptions enabling me to do so. Ernest was acting as +clerk, and occasionally prompted the speaker when his eloquence failed him, +or reproved members of the congregation, which consisted of the two nurses +and the other children, who were inattentive. Charles spoke with a good +deal of _unction_, and had quite a professional air when he looked down +on the big open book, referred to one or other of the smaller ones at his +side, or directed looks of reprehension at this or that hearer. You would +have thought he had cultivated the imitation of popular preachers, whereas +he tells me he has been to church only three times. I am sorry I cannot +give the opening remarks, for I lost them by being late; but what I did +hear was this." + +She then read from her paper as follows, and lent it me afterwards. I +merely copy it. + +"Once" (_Charles was proceeding when Marion entered_), "there lived an aged +man, and another who was a _very_ aged man; and the very aged man was going +to die, and every one but the aged man thought the other, the _very_ aged +man, wouldn't die. I do this to _explain_ it to you. He, the man who was +_really_ going to die, was--I will look in the dictionary" (_He looks in +the book, and gives out with much confidence_), "was two thousand and +eighty-eight years old. Well, the other man was--well, then, the other man +'at knew he was going to die, was about four thousand and two; not nearly +so old, you see." (_Here Charles whispers with Ernest, and then announces +very loud_),--"This is out of St. James. The _very_ aged man had a wife +and no children; and the other had no wife, but a _great many_ children. +The fact was--_this_ was how it was--the wife _died_, and so _he_ had the +children. Well, the man I spoke of first, well, he died in the middle +of the night." (_A look as much as to say, "There! what do you think of +that?_"); "an' nobody but the aged man knew he was going to die. Well, in +the morning, when his wife got up, she spoke to him, and he was dead!" (_A +pause._) "Perfectly, sure enough--_dead_!" (_Then, with a change of voice +and manner_), "He wasn't really dead, because you know" (_abruptly and +nervously_)--"Shut the door!--you know where he went, because in the +morning next day" (_He pauses and looks round. Ernest, out of a book, +prompts_--"The angels take him away"), "came the angels to take him away, +up to where you know." (_All solemn. He resumes quickly, with a change of +manner_), "They, all the rest, died of grief. Now, you must expect, as they +all died of grief, that lots of angels must have come to take _them_ away. +Freddy _will_ go when the sermon isn't over! That _is_ such a bother!" + +At this point Marion paused in her reading, and resumed the narrative form. + +"Freddy, however, was too much for them; so Ernest betook himself to the +organ, which was a chest of drawers, the drawers doing duty as stops, while +Freddy went up to the pulpit to say 'Good-by,' and shake hands, for which +he was mildly reproved by both his brothers." + +My husband and I were so much amused, that Marion said she had another +sermon, also preached by Charles, on the same day, after a short interval; +and at our request she read it. Here it is. + +"Once upon a time--a long while ago, in a little--Ready now?--Well, there +lived in a rather big house, with _quite_ clean windows: it was in winter, +so nobody noticed them, but they were quite _white_, they were so clean. +There lived some angels in the house: it was in the air, nobody knew why, +but it did. No: I don't think it did--I dunno, but there lived in it +lots of children--two hundred and thirty-two--and they--Oh! I'm gettin' +distracted! It is too bad!" (_Quiet is restored._) "Their mother and +father had died, but they were very rich. Now, you see what a heap of +children,--two hundred and thirty-two! and yet it seemed like _one_ to +them, they were so rich. _That_ was it! it seemed like _one_ to them +because they were so rich. Now, the children knew what to get, and I'll +explain to you now _why_ they knew; and _this_ is how they knew. The angels +came down on the earth, and told them their mother had sent messages to +them; and their mother and father--_Don't_ talk! I'm gettin' extracted!" +(_Puts his hand to his head in a frenzied manner._) "Now, my brother" +(_This severely to a still inattentive member_), "I'll tell you what the +angels told them--what to get. What--how--now I will tell you how,--yes, +_how_ they knew what they were to eat. Well, the fact was, that--Freddy's +just towards my face, and he's laughing! I'm going to explain. The mother +and father had the wings on, and so, of course--Ernest, I want you!" (_They +whisper._)--"they were he and she angels, and they told them what to have. +Well, one thing was--shall I tell you what it was? Look at two hundred +and two in another book--one thing was a leg of mutton. Of course, as the +mother and father were angels, they had to fly up again. Now I'm going to +explain how they got it done. They had four servants and one cook, so that +would be five. Well, this cook did them. The eldest girl was sixteen, and +her name was Snowdrop, because she had snowy arms and cheeks, and was a +very nice girl. The eldest boy was seventeen, and his name was John. He +always told the cook what they'd have--no, the girl did that. And the boy +was now grown up. So they would be mother and father." (_Signs of dissent +among the audience._) "_Of course_, when they were so old, they would be +mother and father, and master of the servants. And they were very happy, +_but_--they didn't quite like it. And--and"--(_with a great burst_) "_you_ +wouldn't like it if _your_ mother were to die! And I'll end it next Sunday. +Let us sing." + +"The congregation then sung 'Curly Locks,'" said Marion, "and dispersed; +Ernest complaining that Charley gave them such large qualities of numbers, +and there weren't so many in the whole of his book. After a brief interval +the sermon was resumed." + +"Text is No. 66. I've a good congregation! I got to where the children did +not like it without their mother and father. Well, you must remember this +was a long while ago, so what I'm going to speak about _could_ be possible. +Well, their house was on the top of a high and steep hill; and at the +bottom, a little from the hill, was a knight's house. There were three +knights living in it. Next to it was stables with three horses in it. +Sometimes they went up to this house, and wondered what was in it. 'They +never knew, but saw the angels come. The knights were out all day, and only +came home for meals. And they wondered what _on earth_ the angels were +doin', goin' in the house. They found out _what_--what, and the question +was--I'll explain what it was. Ernest, come here." (_Ernest remarks to the +audience_, "I'm curate," _and to Charles_, "Well, but, Charles, you're +going to explain, you know;" _and Charles resumes_.) "The fact was, that +this was--if you'd like to explain it more to yourselves, you'd better +look in your books, No. 1828. Before, the angels didn't speak loud, so the +knights couldn't hear; _now_ they spoke louder, so that the knights could +visit them, 'cause they knew their names. They hadn't many visitors, but +they had the knights in there, and that's all." + +I am still very much afraid that all this nonsense will hardly be +interesting, even to parents. But I may as well suffer for a sheep as a +lamb; and, as I had an opportunity of hearing two such sermons myself not +long after, I shall give them, trusting they will occupy far less space in +print than they do in my foolish heart. + +It was Ernest who was in the pulpit and just commencing his discourse when +I entered the nursery, and sat down with the congregation. Sheltered by a +clothes-horse, apparently set up for a screen, I took out my pencil, and +reported on a fly-leaf of the book I had been reading:-- + +"My brother was goin' to preach about the wicked: I will preach about the +good. Twenty-sixth day. In the time of Elizabeth there was a very old +house. It was so old that it was pulled down, and a quite new one was built +instead. Some people who lived in it did not like it so much now as they +did when it was old. I take their part, you know, and think they were quite +right in preferring the old one to the ugly, bare, new one. They left +it--sold it--and got into another old house instead." + +Here, I am sorry to say, his curate interjected the scornful remark,-- + +"He's not lookin' in the book a bit!" + +But the preacher went on, without heeding the attack on his orthodoxy. + +"This other old house was still more uncomfortable: it was very draughty; +the gutters were always leaking; and they wished themselves back in the new +house. So, you see, if you wish for a better thing, you don't get it so +good after all." + +"Ernest, that _is_ about the bad, after all!" cried Charles. + +"Well, it's _silly_," remarked Freddy severely. + +"But I wrote it myself," pleaded the preacher from the pulpit; and, in +consideration of the fact, he was allowed to go on. + +"I was reading about them being always uncomfortable. At last they decided +to go back to their own house, which they had sold. They had to pay so much +to get it back, that they had hardly any money left; and then they got so +unhappy, and the husband whipped his wife, and took to drinking. That's a +lesson." (_Here the preacher's voice became very plaintive_), "that's a +lesson to show you shouldn't try to get the better thing, for it turns out +worse, and then you get sadder, and every thing." + +He paused, evidently too mournful to proceed. Freddy again remarked that it +was _silly_; but Charles interposed a word for the preacher. + +"It's a good _lesson_, I think. A good _lesson_, I say," he repeated, as if +he would not be supposed to consider it much of a sermon. + +But here the preacher recovered himself and summed up. + +"See how it comes: wanting to get every thing, you come to the bad and +drinking. And I think I'll leave off here. Let us sing." + +The song was "Little Robin Redbreast;" during which Charles remarked to +Freddy, apparently by way of pressing home the lesson upon his younger +brother,-- + +"Fancy! floggin' his wife!" + +Then he got into the pulpit himself, and commenced an oration. + +"Chapter eighty-eight. _The wicked_.--Well, the time when the story was, +was about Herod. There were some wicked people wanderin' about there, and +they--not _killed_ them, you know, but--went to the judge. We shall see +what they did to them. I tell you this to make you understand. Now the +story begins--but I must think a little. Ernest, let's sing 'Since first I +saw your face.' + +"When the wicked man was taken then to the good judge--there were _some_ +good people: when I said I was going to preach about the wicked, I did +not mean that there were no good, only a good lot of wicked. There were +pleacemans about here, and they put him in prison for a few days, and then +the judge could see about what he is to do with him. At the end of the +few days, the judge asked him if he would stay in prison for life or be +hanged." + +Here arose some inquiries among the congregation as to what the wicked, +of whom the prisoner was one, had done that was wrong; to which Charles +replied,-- + +"Oh! they murdered and killed; they stealed, and they were very wicked +altogether. Well," he went on, resuming his discourse, "the morning came, +and the judge said, 'Get the ropes and my throne, and order the people +_not_ to come to see the hangin'.' For the man was decided to be hanged. +Now, the people _would_ come. They were the wicked, and they would +_persist_ in comin'. They were the wicked; and, if that was the _fact_, +the judge must do something to them. + +"Chapter eighty-nine. _The hangin'_.--We'll have some singin' while I +think." + +"Yankee Doodle" was accordingly sung with much enthusiasm and solemnity. +Then Charles resumed. + +"Well, they had to put the other people, who persisted in coming, in +prison, till the man who murdered people was hanged. I think my brother +will go on." + +He descended, and gave place to Ernest, who began with vigor. + +"We were reading about Herod, weren't we? Then the wicked people _would_ +come, and had to be put to death. They were on the man's side; and they all +called out that he hadn't had his wish before he died, as they did in those +days. So of course he wished for his life, and of course the judge wouldn't +let him have _that_ wish; and so he wished to speak to his friends, and +they let him. And the nasty wicked people took him away, and he was never +seen in that country any more. And that's enough to-day, I think. Let us +sing 'Lord Lovel he stood at his castle-gate, a combing his milk-white +steed.'" + +At the conclusion of this mournful ballad, the congregation was allowed to +disperse. But, before they had gone far, they were recalled by the offer of +a more secular entertainment from Charles, who re-ascended the pulpit, and +delivered himself as follows:-- + +"Well, the play is called--not a proverb or a charade it isn't--it's a play +called 'The Birds and the Babies.' Well! + +"Once there was a little cottage, and lots of little babies in it. Nobody +knew who the babies were. They were so happy! Now, I can't explain it to +you how they came together: they had no father and mother, but they were +brothers and sisters. They never _grew_, and they didn't like it. Now, +_you_ wouldn't like _not_ to _grow_, would you? They had a little garden, +and saw a great many birds in the trees. They _were_ happy, but didn't +_feel_ happy--that's a funny thing now! The wicked fairies made them +unhappy, and the good fairies made them happy; they gave them lots of toys. +But then, how they got their living! + +"Chapter second, called 'The Babies at Play.'--The fairies told them what +to get--_that was it!_--and so they got their living Very nicely. And now I +must explain what they played with. First was a house. _A house._ Another, +dolls. They were very happy, and felt as if they had a mother and father; +but they hadn't, and _couldn't_ make it out. _Couldn't--make--it--out!_ + +"They had little pumps and trees. Then they had babies' rattles. _Babies' +rattles._--Oh! I've said hardly any thing about the birds, have I? an' it's +called '_The Birds and the Babies!_' They had lots of little pretty robins +and canaries hanging round the ceiling, and--_shall_ I say?"-- + +Every one listened expectant during the pause that followed. + +"_--And--lived--happy--ever--after._" + +The puzzle in it all is chiefly what my husband hinted at,--why and how +both the desire and the means of utterance should so long precede the +possession of any thing ripe for utterance. I suspect the answer must lie +pretty deep in some metaphysical gulf or other. + +At the same time, the struggle to speak where there is so little to +utter can hardly fail to suggest the thought of some efforts of a more +pretentious and imposing character. + +But more than enough! + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. + +"DOUBLE, DOUBLE, TOIL AND TROUBLE." + + +I had for a day or two fancied that Marion was looking less bright than +usual, as if some little shadow had fallen upon the morning of her life. I +say _morning_, because, although Marion must now have been seven or eight +and twenty, her life had always seemed to me lighted by a cool, clear, dewy +morning sun, over whose face it now seemed as if some film of noonday cloud +had begun to gather. Unwilling at once to assert the ultimate privilege +of friendship, I asked her if any thing was amiss with her friends. She +answered that all was going on well, at least so far that she had no +special anxiety about any of them. Encouraged by a half-conscious and more +than half-sad smile, I ventured a little farther. + +"I am afraid there is something troubling you," I said. + +"There is," she replied, "something troubling me a good deal; but I hope it +will pass away soon." + +The sigh which followed, however, was deep though gentle, and seemed to +indicate a fear that the trouble might not pass away so very soon. + +"I am not to ask you any questions, I suppose," I returned. + +"Better not at present," she answered. "I am not quite sure that"-- + +She paused several moments before finishing her sentence, then added,-- + +"--that I am at liberty to tell you about it." + +"Then don't say another word," I rejoined. "Only when I can be of service +to you, you _will_ let me, won't you?" + +The tears rose to her eyes. + +"I'm afraid it may be some fault of mine," she said. "I don't know. I can't +tell. I don't understand such things." + +She sighed again, and held her peace. + +It was enigmatical enough. One thing only was clear, that at present I was +not wanted. So I, too, held my peace, and in a few minutes Marion went, +with a more affectionate leave-taking than usual, for her friendship was +far less demonstrative than that of most women. + +I pondered, but it was not of much use. Of course the first thing that +suggested itself was, Could my angel be in love? and with some mortal mere? +The very idea was a shock, simply from its strangeness. Of course, being +a woman, she _might_ be in love; but the two ideas, _Marion_ and _love_, +refused to coalesce. And again, was it likely that such as she, her mind +occupied with so many other absorbing interests, would fall in love +unprovoked, unsolicited? That, indeed, was not likely. Then if, solicited, +she but returned love for love, why was she sad? The new experience might, +it is true, cause such commotion in a mind like hers as to trouble her +greatly. She would not know what to do with it, nor where to accommodate +her new inmate so as to keep him from meddling with affairs he had no right +to meddle with: it was easy enough to fancy him troublesome in a house +like hers. But surely of all women _she_ might be able to meet her own +liabilities. And if this were all, why should she have said she hoped it +would soon pass? That might, however, mean only that she hoped soon to get +her guest brought amenable to her existing household economy. + +There was yet a conjecture, however, which seemed to suit the case better. +If Marion knew little of what is commonly called love, that is, "the +attraction of correlative unlikeness," as I once heard it defined by a +metaphysical friend of my father's, there was no one who knew more of +the tenderness of compassion than she; and was it not possible some one +might be wanting to marry her to whom she could not give herself away? +This conjecture was at least ample enough to cover the facts in my +possession--which were scanty indeed, in number hardly dual. But who was +there to dare offer love to my saint? Roger? Pooh! pooh! Mr. Blackstone? +Ah! I had seen him once lately looking at her with an expression of more +than ordinary admiration. But what man that knew any thing of her could +help looking at her with such an admiration? If it was Mr. Blackstone--why, +_he_ might dare--yes, why should he not dare to love her?--especially if he +couldn't help it, as, of course, he couldn't. Was he not one whose love, +simply because he was a _true_ man from the heart to the hands, would honor +any woman, even Saint Clare--as she must be when the church has learned to +do its business without the pope? Only he mustn't blame me, if, after all, +I should think he offered less than he sought; or her, if, entertaining +no question of worth whatever, she should yet refuse to listen to him as, +truly, there was more than a possibility she might. + +If it were Mr. Blackstone, certainly I knew no man who could understand her +better, or whose modes of thinking and working would more thoroughly fall +in with her own. True, he was peculiar; that is, he had kept the angles of +his individuality, for all the grinding of the social mill; his manners +were too abrupt, and drove at the heart of things too directly, seldom +suggesting a _by-your-leave_ to those whose prejudices he overturned: true, +also, that his person, though dignified, was somewhat ungainly,--with +an ungainliness, however, which I could well imagine a wife learning +absolutely to love; but, on the whole, the thing was reasonable. Only, what +would become of her friends? There, I could hardly doubt, there lay the +difficulty! Ay, _there_ was the rub! + +Let no one think, when I say we went to Mr. Blackstone's church the next +Sunday, that it had any thing to do with these speculations. We often went +on the first Sunday of the month. + +"What's the matter with Blackstone?" said my husband as we came home. + +"What do _you_ think is the matter with him?" I returned. + +"I don't know. He wasn't himself." + +"I thought he was more than himself," I rejoined; "for I never heard even +_him_ read the litany with such fervor." + +"In some of the petitions," said Percivale, "it amounted to a suppressed +agony of supplication. I am certain he is in trouble." + +I told him my suspicions. + +"Likely--very likely," he answered, and became thoughtful. + +"But you don't think she refused him?" he said at length. + +"If he ever asked her," I returned, "I fear she did; for she is plainly in +trouble too." + +"She'll never stick to it," he said. + +"You mustn't judge Marion by ordinary standards," I replied. "You must +remember she has not only found her vocation, but for many years proved it. +I never knew her turned aside from what she had made up her mind to. I can +hardly imagine her forsaking her friends to keep house for any man, even if +she loved him with all her heart. She is dedicated as irrevocably as any +nun, and will, with St. Paul, cling to the right of self-denial." + +"Yet what great difficulty would there be in combining the two sets of +duties, especially with such a man as Blackstone? Of all the men I know, +he comes the nearest to her in his devotion to the well-being of humanity, +especially of the poor. Did you ever know a man with such a plentiful lack +of condescension? His feeling of human equality amounts almost to a fault; +for surely he ought sometimes to speak as knowing better than they to whom +he speaks. He forgets that too many will but use his humility for mortar to +build withal the Shinar-tower of their own superiority." + +"That may be; yet it remains impossible for him to assume any thing. He is +the same all through, and--I had almost said--worthy of Saint Clare. Well, +they must settle it for themselves. We can do nothing." + +"We can do nothing," he assented; and, although we repeatedly reverted to +the subject on the long way home, we carried no conclusions to a different +result. + +Towards evening of the same Sunday, Roger came to accompany us, as I +thought, to Marion's gathering, but, as it turned out, only to tell me +he couldn't go. I expressed my regret, and asked him why. He gave me no +answer, and his lip trembled. A sudden conviction seized me. I laid my hand +on his arm, but could only say, "Dear Roger!" He turned his head aside, +and, sitting down on the sofa, laid his forehead on his hand. + +"I'm so sorry!" I said. + +"She has told you, then?" he murmured. + +"No one has told me any thing." + +He was silent. I sat down beside him. It was all I could do. After a moment +he rose, saying,-- + +"There's no good whining about it, only she might have made a man of me. +But she's quite right. It's a comfort to think I'm so unworthy of her. +That's all the consolation left me, but there's more in that than you would +think till you try it." + +He attempted to laugh, but made a miserable failure of it, then rose and +caught up his hat to go. I rose also. + +"Roger," I said, "I can't go, and leave you miserable. We'll go somewhere +else,--anywhere you please, only you mustn't leave us." + +"I don't want to go somewhere else. I don't know the place," he added, with +a feeble attempt at his usual gayety. + +"Stop at home, then, and tell me all about it. It will do you good to talk. +You shall have your pipe, and you shall tell me just as much as you like, +and keep the rest to yourself." + +If you want to get hold of a man's deepest confidence, tell him to smoke in +your drawing-room. I don't know how it is, but there seems no trouble in +which a man can't smoke. One who scorns extraneous comfort of every other +sort, will yet, in the profoundest sorrow, take kindly to his pipe. This +is more wonderful than any thing I know about our kind. But I fear the +sewing-machines will drive many women to tobacco. + +I ran to Percivale, gave him a hint of how it was, and demanded his pipe +and tobacco-pouch directly, telling him he must content himself with a +cigar. + +Thus armed with the calumet, as Paddy might say, I returned to Roger, who +took it without a word of thanks, and began to fill it mechanically, but +not therefore the less carefully. I sat down, laid my hands in my lap, and +looked at him without a word. When the pipe was filled I rose and got him a +light, for which also he made me no acknowledgment. The revenge of putting +it in print is sweet. Having whiffed a good many whiffs in silence, he took +at length his pipe from his mouth, and, as he pressed the burning tobacco +with a forefinger, said,-- + +"I've made a fool of myself, Wynnie." + +"Not more than a gentleman had a right to do, I will pledge myself," I +returned. + +"She _has_ told you, then?" he said once more, looking rather disappointed +than annoyed. + +"No one has mentioned your name to me, Roger. I only guessed it from what +Marion said when I questioned her about her sad looks." + +"Her sad looks?" + +"Yes." + +"What did she say?" he asked eagerly. + +"She only confessed she had had something to trouble her, and said she +hoped it would be over soon." + +"I dare say!" returned Roger dryly, looking gratified, however, for a +moment. + +My reader may wonder that I should compromise Marion, even so far as to +confess that she was troubled; but I could not bear that Roger should think +she had been telling his story to me. Every generous woman feels that she +owes the man she refuses at least silence; and a man may well reckon upon +that much favor. Of all failures, why should this be known to the world? + +The relief of finding she had not betrayed him helped him, I think, to open +his mind: _he_ was under no obligation to silence. + +"You see, Wynnie," he said, with pauses, and puffs at his pipe, "I don't +mean I'm a fool for falling in love with Marion. Not to have fallen in love +with her would have argued me a beast. Being a man, it was impossible for +me to help it, after what she's been to me. But I was worse than a fool +to open my mouth on the subject to an angel like her. Only there again, I +couldn't, that is, I hadn't the strength to help it. I beg, however, you +won't think me such a downright idiot as to fancy myself worthy of her. In +that case, I should have deserved as much scorn as she gave me kindness. If +you ask me how it was, then, that I dared to speak to her on the subject, I +can only answer that I yielded to the impulse common to all kinds of love +to make itself known. If you love God, you are not content with his knowing +it even, but you must tell him as if he didn't know it. You may think from +this cool talk of mine that I am very philosophical about it; but there are +lulls in every storm, and I am in one of those lulls, else I shouldn't be +sitting here with you." + +"Dear Roger!" I said, "I am very sorry for your disappointment. Somehow, I +can't be sorry you should have loved"-- + +"_Have loved!_" he murmured. + +"_Should love_ Marion, then," I went on. "That can do you nothing but good, +and in itself must raise you above yourself. And how could I blame you, +that, loving her, you wanted her to know it? But come, now, if you can +trust me, tell me all about it, and especially what she said to you. I +dare not give you any hope, for I am not in her confidence in this matter; +and it is well that I am not, for then I might not be able to talk to you +about it with any freedom. To confess the real truth, I do not see much +likelihood, knowing her as I do, that she will recall her decision." + +"It could hardly be called a decision," said Roger. "You would not have +thought, from the way she took it, there was any thing to decide about. No +more there was; and I thought I knew it, only I couldn't be quiet. To think +you know a thing, and to know it, are two very different matters, however. +But I don't repent having spoken my mind: if I am humbled, I am not +humiliated. If she _had_ listened to me, I fear I should have been ruined +by pride. I should never have judged myself justly after it. I wasn't +humble, though I thought I was. I'm a poor creature, Ethelwyn." + +"Not too poor a creature to be dearly loved, Roger. But go on and tell me +all about it. As your friend and sister, I am anxious to hear the whole." + +Notwithstanding what I had said, I was not moved by sympathetic curiosity +alone, but also by the vague desire of rendering some help beyond comfort. +What he had now said, greatly heightened my opinion of him, and thereby, in +my thoughts of the two, lessened the distance between him and Marion. At +all events, by hearing the whole, I should learn how better to comfort him. + +And he did tell me the whole, which, along with what I learned afterwards +from Marion, I will set down as nearly as I can, throwing it into the form +of direct narration. I will not pledge myself for the accuracy of every +trifling particular which that form may render it necessary to introduce; +neither, I am sure, having thus explained, will my reader demand it of me. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. + +ROGER AND MARION. + + +During an all but sleepless night, Roger had made up his mind to go and +see Marion: not, certainly, for the first time, for he had again and again +ventured to call upon her; but hitherto he had always had some pretext +sufficient to veil his deeper reason, and, happily or unhappily, sufficient +also to prevent her, in her more than ordinary simplicity with regard to +such matters, from suspecting one under it. + +She was at home, and received him with her usual kindness. Feeling that +he must not let an awkward silence intervene, lest she should become +suspicious of his object, and thus the chance be lost of interesting, and +possibly moving her before she saw his drift, he spoke at once. + +"I want to tell you something, Miss Clare," he said as lightly as he could. + +"Well?" she returned, with the sweet smile which graced her every approach +to communication. + +"Did my sister--in--law ever tell you what an idle fellow I used to be?" + +"Certainly not. I never heard her say a word of you that wasn't kind." + +"That I am sure of. But there would have been no unkindness in saying that; +for an idle fellow I was, and the idler because I was conceited enough to +believe I could do any thing. I actually thought at one time I could play +the violin. I actually made an impertinent attempt in your presence one +evening, years and years ago, I wonder if you remember it." + +"I do; but I don't know why you should call it impertinent." + +"Anyhow, I caught a look on your face that cured me of that conceit. I have +never touched the creature since,--a Cremona too!" + +"I am very sorry, indeed I am. I don't remember--Do you think you could +have played a false note?" + +"Nothing more likely." + +"Then, I dare say I made an ugly face. One can't always help it, you know, +when something unexpected happens. Do forgive me." + +"Forgive _you_, you angel!" cried Roger, but instantly checked himself, +afraid of reaching his mark before he had gathered sufficient momentum to +pierce it. "I thought you would see what a good thing it was for me. I +wanted to thank you for it." + +"It's such a pity you didn't go on, though. Progress is the real cure for +an overestimate of ourselves." + +"The fact is, I was beginning to see what small praise there is in doing +many things ill and nothing well. I wish you would take my Cremona. I could +teach you the A B C of it well enough. How you would make it talk! That +_would_ be something to live for, to hear _you_ play the violin! Ladies do, +nowadays, you know." + +"I have no time, Mr. Roger. I should have been delighted to be your pupil; +but I am sorry to say it is out of the question." + +"Of course it is. Only I wish--well, never mind, I only wanted to tell you +something. I was leading a life then that wasn't worth leading; for where's +the good of being just what happens,--one time full of right feeling and +impulse, and the next a prey to all wrong judgments and falsehoods? It was +you made me see it. I've been trying to get put right for a long time now. +I'm afraid of seeming to talk goody, but you will know what I mean. You and +your Sunday evenings have waked me up to know what I am, and what I ought +to be. I am a little better. I work hard now. I used to work only by fits +and starts. Ask Wynnie." + +"Dear Mr. Roger, I don't need to ask Wynnie about any thing you tell me. I +can take your word for it just as well as hers. I am very glad if I have +been of any use to you. It is a great honor to me." + +"But the worst of it is, I couldn't be content without letting you know, +and making myself miserable." + +"I don't understand you, I think. Surely there can be no harm in letting me +know what makes me very happy! How it should make you miserable, I can't +imagine." + +"Because I can't stop there. I'm driven to say what will offend you, if it +doesn't make you hate me--no, not that; for you don't know how to hate. But +you must think me the most conceited and presumptuous fellow you ever knew. +I'm not that, though; I'm not that; it's not me; I can't help it; I can't +help loving you--dreadfully--and it's such impudence! To think of you and +me in one thought! And yet I can't help it. O Miss Clare! don't drive me +away from you." + +He fell on his knees as he spoke, and laid his head on her lap, sobbing +like a child who had offended his mother. He almost cried again as he told +me this. Marion half started to her feet in confusion, almost in terror, +for she had never seen such emotion in a man; but the divine compassion of +her nature conquered: she sat down again, took his head in her hands, and +began stroking his hair as if she were indeed a mother seeking to soothe +and comfort her troubled child. She was the first to speak again, for Roger +could not command himself. + +"I'm very sorry, Roger," she said. "I must be to blame somehow." + +"To blame!" he cried, lifting up his head. "_You_ to blame for my folly! +But it's not folly," he added impetuously: "it would be downright stupidity +not to love you with all my soul." + +"Hush! hush!" said Marion, in whose ears his language sounded irreverent. +"You _couldn't_ love me with all your soul if you would. God only _can_ be +loved with all the power of the human soul." + +"If I love him at all, Marion, it is you who have taught me. Do not drive +me from you--lest--lest--I should cease to love him, and fall back into my +old dreary ways." + +"It's a poor love to offer God,--love for the sake of another," she said +very solemnly. + +"But if it's all one has got?" + +"Then it won't do, Roger. I wish you loved me for God's sake instead. Then +all would be right. That would be a grand love for me to have." + +"Don't drive me from you, Marion," he pleaded. It was all he could say. + +"I will not drive you from me. Why should I?" + +"Then I may come and see you again?" + +"Yes: when you please." + +"You _don't_ mean I may come as often as I like?" + +"Yes--when I have time to see you." + +"Then," cried Roger, starting to his feet with clasped hands, +"--perhaps--is it possible?--you will--you will let me love you? O my God!" + +"Roger," said Marion, pale as death, and rising also; for, alas! the +sunshine of her kindness had caused hopes to blossom whose buds she had +taken only for leaves, "I thought you understood me! You spoke as if you +understood perfectly that that could never be which I must suppose you +to mean. Of course it cannot. I am not my own to keep or to give away. I +belong to this people,--my friends. To take personal and private duties +upon me, would be to abandon them; and how dare I? You don't know what it +would result in, or you would not dream of it. Were I to do such a thing, I +should hate and despise and condemn myself with utter reprobation. And then +what a prize you would have got, my poor Roger!" + +But even these were such precious words to hear from her lips! He fell +again on his knees before her as she stood, caught her hands, and, hiding +his face in them, poured forth the following words in a torrent,-- + +"Marion, do not think me so selfish as not to have thought about that. It +should be only the better for them all. I can earn quite enough for you and +me too, and so you would have the more time to give to them. I should never +have dreamed of asking you to leave them. There are things in which a dog +may help a man, doing what the man can't do: there may be things in which a +man might help an angel." + +Deeply moved by the unselfishness of his love, Marion could not help a +pressure of her hands against the face which had sought refuge within them. +Roger fell to kissing them wildly. + +But Marion was a woman; and women, I think, though I may be only judging by +myself and my husband, look forward and round about, more than men do: they +would need at all events; therefore Marion saw other things. A man-reader +may say, that, if she loved him, she would not have thus looked about her; +and that, if she did not love him, there was no occasion for her thus to +fly in the face of the future. I can only answer that it is allowed on all +hands women are not amenable to logic: look about her Marion did, and saw, +that, as a married woman, she might be compelled to forsake her friends +more or less; for there might arise other and paramount claims on her +self-devotion. In a word, if she were to have children, she would have no +choice in respect to whose welfare should constitute the main business of +her life; and it even became a question whether she would have a right +to place them in circumstances so unfavorable for growth and education. +Therefore, to marry might be tantamount to forsaking her friends. + +But where was the need of any such mental parley? Of course, she couldn't +marry Roger. How could she marry a man she couldn't look up to? And look up +to him she certainly did not, and could not. + +"No, Roger," she said, this last thought large in her mind; and, as she +spoke, she withdrew her hands, "it mustn't be. It is out of the question: I +can't look up to you," she added, as simply as a child. + +"I should think not," he burst out. "That _would_ be a fine thing! If you +looked up to a fellow like me, I think it would almost cure me of looking +up to you; and what I want is to look up to you every day and all day long: +only I can do that whether you let me or not." + +"But I don't choose to have a--a--friend to whom I can't look up." + +"Then I shall never be even a friend," he returned sadly. "But I would have +tried hard to be less unworthy of you." + +At this precise moment, Marion caught sight of a pair of great round blue +eyes, wide open under a shock of red hair, about three feet from the floor, +staring as if they had not winked for the last ten minutes. The child +looked so comical, that Marion, reading perhaps in her looks the reflex of +her own position, could not help laughing. Roger started up in dismay, but, +beholding the apparition, laughed also. + +"Please, grannie," said the urchin, "mother's took bad, and want's ye." + +"Run and tell your mother I shall be with her directly," answered Marion; +and the child departed. + +"You told me I might come again," pleaded Roger. + +"Better not. I didn't know what it would mean to you when I said it." + +"Let it mean what you meant by it, only let me come." + +"But I see now it can't mean that. No: I will write to you. At all events, +you must go now, for I can't stop with you when Mrs. Foote"-- + +"Don't make me wretched, Marion. If you can't love me, don't kill me. Don't +say I'm not to come and see you. I _will_ come on Sundays, anyhow." + +The next day came the following letter:-- + +Dear Mr. Roger,--I am very sorry, both for your sake and my own, that I did +not speak more plainly yesterday. I was so distressed for you, and my heart +was so friendly towards you, that I could hardly think of any thing at +first but how to comfort you; and I fear I allowed you, after all, to go +away with the idea that what you wished was not altogether impossible. But +indeed it is. If even I loved you in the way you love me, I should yet make +every thing yield to the duties I have undertaken. In listening to you, I +should be undermining the whole of my past labors; and the very idea of +becoming less of a friend to my friends is horrible to me. + +But much as I esteem you, and much pleasure as your society gives me, the +idea you brought before me yesterday was absolutely startling; and I think +I have only to remind you, as I have just done, of the peculiarities of my +position, to convince you that it could never become a familiar one to me. +All that friendship can do or yield, you may ever claim of me; and I thank +God if I have been of the smallest service to you: but I should be quite +unworthy of that honor, were I for any reason to admit even the thought of +abandoning the work which has been growing up around me for so many years, +and is so peculiarly mine that it could be transferred to no one else. +Believe me yours most truly, + +MARION CLARE + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. + +A LITTLE MORE ABOUT ROGER, AND ABOUT MR. BLACKSTONE. + + +After telling me the greater part of what I have just written, Roger handed +me this letter to read, as we sat together that same Sunday evening. + +"It seems final, Roger?" I said with an interrogation, as I returned it to +him. + +"Of course it is," he replied. "How could any honest man urge his suit +after that,--after she says that to grant it would be to destroy the whole +of her previous life, and ruin her self-respect? But I'm not so miserable +as you may think me, Wynnie," he went on; "for don't you see? though I +couldn't quite bring myself to go to-night, I don't feel cut off from her. +She's not likely, if I know her, to listen to anybody else so long as the +same reasons hold for which she wouldn't give me a chance of persuading +her. She can't help me loving her, and I'm sure she'll let me help her +when I've the luck to find a chance. You may be sure I shall keep a sharp +lookout. If I can be her servant, that will be something; yes, much. Though +she won't give herself to me--and quite right, too!--why should she?--God +bless her!--she can't prevent me from giving myself to her. So long as +I may love her, and see her as often as I don't doubt I may, and things +continue as they are, I sha'n't be down-hearted. I'll have another pipe, +I think." Here he half-started, and hurriedly pulled out his watch, "I +declare, there's time yet!" he cried, and sprung to his feet. "Let's go and +hear what she's got to say to-night." + +"Don't you think you had better not? Won't you put her out?" I suggested. + +"If I understand her at all," he said, "she will be more put out by my +absence; for she will fear I am wretched, caring only for herself, and not +for what she taught me. You may come or stay--_I_'m off. You've done me so +much good, Wynnie!" he added, looking back in the doorway. "Thank you a +thousand times. There's no comforter like a sister!" + +"And a pipe," I said; at which he laughed, and was gone. + +When Percivale and I reached Lime Court, having followed as quickly as we +could, there was Roger sitting in the midst, as intent on her words as if +she had been, an old prophet, and Marion speaking with all the composure +which naturally belonged to her. + +When she shook hands with him after the service, a slight flush washed the +white of her face with a delicate warmth,--nothing more. I said to myself, +however, as we went home, and afterwards to my husband, that his case was +not a desperate one. + +"But what's to become of Blackstone?" said Percivale. + +I will tell my reader how afterwards he seemed to me to have fared; but I +have no information concerning his supposed connection with this part of my +story. I cannot even be sure that he ever was in love with Marion. Troubled +he certainly was, at this time; and Marion continued so for a while,--more +troubled, I think, than the necessity she felt upon her with regard +to Roger will quite account for. If, however, she had to make two men +miserable in one week, that might well cover the case. + +Before the week was over, my husband received a note from Mr. Blackstone, +informing him that he was just about to start for a few weeks on the +Continent. When he returned I was satisfied from his appearance that a +notable change had passed upon him: a certain indescribable serenity +seemed to have taken possession of his whole being; every look and tone +indicated a mind that knew more than tongue could utter,--a heart that had +had glimpses into a region of content. I thought of the words, "He that +dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High," and my heart was at rest +about him. He had fared, I thought, as the child who has had a hurt, but +is taken up in his mother's arms and comforted. What hurt would not such +comforting outweigh to the child? And who but he that has had the worst +hurt man can receive, and the best comfort God can give, can tell what +either is? + +I was present the first time he met Marion after his return. She was a +little embarrassed: he showed a tender dignity, a respect as if from above, +like what one might fancy the embodiment of the love of a wise angel for +such a woman. The thought of comparing the two had never before occurred to +me; but now for the moment I felt as if Mr. Blackstone were a step above +Marion. Plainly, I had no occasion to be troubled about either of them. + +On the supposition that Marion had refused him, I argued with myself that +it could not have been on the ground that she was unable to look up to him. +And, notwithstanding what she had said to Roger, I was satisfied that any +one she felt she could help to be a nobler creature; must have a greatly +better chance of rousing all the woman in her; than one whom she must +regard as needing no aid from her. All her life had been spent in serving +and sheltering human beings whose condition she regarded with hopeful +compassion: could she now help adding Roger to her number of such? and if +she once looked upon him thus tenderly, was it not at least very possible, +that, in some softer mood, a feeling hitherto unknown to her might surprise +her consciousness with its presence,--floating to the surface of her sea +from its strange depths, and leaning towards him with the outstretched arms +of embrace? + +But I dared not think what might become of Roger should his divine resolves +fail,--should the frequent society of Marion prove insufficient for the +solace and quiet of his heart. I had heard how men will seek to drown +sorrow in the ruin of the sorrowing power,--will slay themselves that they +may cause their hurt to cease, and I trembled for my husband's brother. But +the days went on, and I saw no sign of failure or change. He was steady at +his work, and came to see us as constantly as before; never missed a chance +of meeting Marion: and at every treat she gave her friends, whether at the +house of which I have already spoken, or at Lady Bernard's country-place in +the neighborhood of London, whether she took them on the river, or had some +one to lecture or read to them, Roger was always at hand for service and +help. Still, I was uneasy; for might there not come a collapse, especially +if some new event were to destroy the hope which he still cherished, and +which I feared was his main support? Would his religion then prove of +a quality and power sufficient to keep him from drifting away with the +receding tide of his hopes and imaginations? In this anxiety perhaps I +regarded too exclusively the faith of Roger, and thought too little about +the faith of God. However this may be, I could not rest, but thought and +thought, until at last I made up my mind to go and tell Lady Bernard all +about it. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. + +THE DEA EX. + + +"And you think Marion likes him?" asked Lady Bernard, when she had in +silence heard my story. + +"I am sure she _likes_ him. But you know he is so far inferior to her,--in +every way." + +"How do you know that? Questions are involved there which no one but God +can determine. You must remember that both are growing. What matter if any +two are unequal at a given moment, seeing their relative positions may be +reversed twenty times in a thousand years? Besides, I doubt very much if +any one who brought his favors with him would have the least chance with +Marion. Poverty, to turn into wealth, is the one irresistible attraction +for her; and, however duty may compel her to act, my impression is that she +will not escape _loving_ Roger." + +I need not say I was gratified to find Lady Bernard's conclusion from +Marion's character run parallel with my own. + +"But what can come of it?" I said. + +"Why, marriage, I hope." + +"But Marion would as soon think of falling down and worshipping Baal and +Ashtoreth as of forsaking her grandchildren." + +"Doubtless. But there would be no occasion for that. Where two things are +both of God, it is not likely they will be found mutually obstructive." + +"Roger does declare himself quite ready to go and live amongst her friends, +and do his best to help her." + +"That is all as it should be, so far as he--as both of them are concerned; +but there are contingencies; and the question naturally arises, How would +that do in regard of their children?" + +"If I could imagine Marion consenting." I said, "I know what she would +answer to that question. She would say, Why should her children be better +off than the children about them? She would say that the children must +share the life and work of their parents." + +"And I think she would be right, though the obvious rejoinder would be, +'You may waive your own social privileges, and sacrifice yourselves to the +good of others; but have you a right to sacrifice your children, and heap +disadvantages on their future?'" + +"Now give us the answer on the other side, seeing you think Marion would be +right after all." + +"Marion's answer would, I think, be, that their children would be God's +children; and he couldn't desire better for them than to be born in lowly +conditions, and trained from the first to give themselves to the service of +their fellows, seeing that in so far their history would resemble that of +his own Son, our Saviour. In sacrificing their earthly future, as men would +call it, their parents would but be furthering their eternal good." + +"That would be enough in regard of such objections. But there would be a +previous one on Marion's own part. How would her new position affect her +ministrations?" + +"There can be no doubt, I think," Lady Bernard replied, "that what +her friends would lose thereby--I mean, what amount of her personal +ministrations would be turned aside from them by the necessities of her +new position--would be far more than made up to them by the presence among +them of a whole well-ordered and growing family, instead of a single woman +only. But all this jet leaves something for her more personal friends to +consider,--as regards their duty in the matter. It naturally sets them on +the track of finding out what could be done to secure for the children of +such parents the possession of early advantages as little lower than those +their parents had as may be; for the breed of good people ought, as much as +possible, to be kept up. I will turn the thing over in my mind, and let you +know what comes of it." + +The result of Lady Bernard's cogitations is, in so far, to be seen in the +rapid rise of a block of houses at no great distance from London, on the +North-western Railway, planned under the instructions of Marion Clare. The +design of them is to provide accommodation for all Marion's friends, with +room to add largely to their number. Lady Bernard has also secured ground +sufficient for great extension of the present building, should it prove +desirable. Each family is to have the same amount of accommodation it has +now, only far better, at the same rent it pays now, with the privilege +of taking an additional room or rooms at a much lower rate. Marion has +undertaken to collect the rents, and believes that she will thus in time +gain an additional hold of the people for their good, although the plan +may at first expose her to misunderstanding. From thorough calculation she +is satisfied she can pay Lady Bernard five per cent for her money, lay out +all that is necessary for keeping the property in thorough repair, and +accumulate a fund besides to be spent on building more houses, should her +expectations of these be answered. The removal of so many will also make +a little room for the accommodation of the multitudes constantly driven +from their homes by the wickedness of those, who, either for the sake of +railways or fine streets, pull down crowded houses, and drive into other +courts and alleys their poor inhabitants, to double the wretchedness +already there from overcrowding. + +In the centre of the building is a house for herself, where she will have +her own private advantage in the inclusion of large space primarily for the +entertainment of her friends. I believe Lady Bernard intends to give her +a hint that a married couple would, in her opinion, be far more useful in +such a position than a single woman. But although I rejoice in the prospect +of greater happiness for two dear friends, I must in honesty say that I +doubt this. + +If the scheme should answer, what a strange reversion it will be to +something like a right reading of the feudal system! + +Of course it will be objected, that, should it succeed ever so well, it +will all go to pieces at Marion's death. To this the answer lies in the +hope that her influence may extend laterally, as well as downwards; moving +others to be what she has been; and, in the conviction that such a work as +hers can never be lost, for the world can never be the same as if she had +not lived; while in any case there will be more room for her brothers and +sisters who are now being crowded out of the world by the stronger and +richer. It would be sufficient answer, however, that the work is worth +doing for its own sake and its immediate result. Surely it will receive a +_well-done_ from the Judge of us all; and while his idea of right remains +above hers, high as the heavens are above the earth, his approbation will +be all that either Lady Bernard or Marion will seek. + +If but a small proportion of those who love the right and have means to +spare would, like Lady Bernard, use their wealth to make up to the poor for +the wrongs they receive at the hands of the rich,--let me say, to defend +the Saviour in their persons from the tyranny of Mammon, how many of the +poor might they not lead with them into the joy of their Lord! + +Should the plan succeed, I say once more, I intend to urge on Marion the +duty of writing a history of its rise and progress from the first of her +own attempts. Then there would at least remain a book for all future +reformers and philanthropists to study, and her influence might renew +itself in other ages after she was gone. + +I have no more to say about myself or my people. We live in hope of the +glory of God. + +Here I was going to write, THE END; but was arrested by the following +conversation between two of my children,--Ernest, eight, and Freddy, five +years of age. + +_Ernest._--I'd do it for mamma, of course. + +_Freddy._--Wouldn't you do it for Harry? + +_Ernest._--No: Harry's nobody. + +_Freddy._--Yes, he is somebody. + +_Ernest._--You're nobody; I'm nobody; we are all nobody, compared to mamma. + +_Freddy._ (_stolidly_).--Yes, I am somebody. + +_Ernest._--You're nothing; I'm nothing; we are all nothing in mamma's +presence. + +_Freddy._--But, Ernest, _every thing_ is something; so I must be something. + +_Ernest._--Yes, Freddy, but you're _no thing_; so you're nothing. You're +nothing to mamma. + +_Freddy._--_But I'm mamma's._ + + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Vicar's Daughter, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VICAR'S DAUGHTER *** + +***** This file should be named 9471-8.txt or 9471-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/4/7/9471/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, William Flis, and the Project +Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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