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(illustration)
By
(front)
London:
Savill
and Edwards, Printers, Chandos Street.
We had large woods with a fair sprinkling of game, of which, as boys, we
were always
in pursuit, more or less vain; we had ponies, two amongst four, and we always persuaded the girls to give up their share. We were as free to wander as the hares and foxes; and we shared in the hereditary popularity of a family which had lived for centuries among a moderate number of tenantry, with each of whom and their parlours and kitchen-hearths we were thoroughly and familiarly acquainted.
Our family dates very far back, and there were influencing traditions of
gentility which kept our habits above the level of the smaller gentry with
whom we chiefly associated. Our old place was beautiful, our old house
large, our hall surrounded by pictures of our ancestors, and on the hearth
blazed in the winter weather great logs of wood. Here took place the dances
and sports of our
childhood and youth; and from one circumstance and another we grew to think our home a place as much beyond all other places in its merits as it was beyond all others in our affections.
While I was a young boy I was happy all the hours I was awake, but not
at all happy all the hours of my sleep. I was tormented with dreadful
dreams.
The worst I ever had was this one. In my dream I was gazing with the
nurse and the other children down on the large old high-backed sofa,
covered with a nankeen-coloured stuff, which, in fact,
occupied a place in the nursery. We were looking intensely on the fiat
cushions of the seat; our eyes could not get away, and suddenly in the
middle of one of the cushions there appeared, just level with the
surface, a human face, very dark from the
clotted blood upon it. One eye crushed to a bloody jelly, the other malignantly fixed upon us; the nose battered by some recent violence into the face. There was no expression of suffering, only hideous unearthly frightfulness and cruelty. In my dream I was in the nurse's arms and bowed down by her stooping position over the accursed face. I woke myself by screaming, and was not in the least appeased at finding myself safe in my accustomed bed.
Such ghostly visions appalled my childhood, and when they taught me to
repeat
"Teach me to dread
My grave as little as
my bed," I thought to myself, now I'm praying to
be very much afraid indeed of my grave.
Very early I was sent to a cheap school in
the neighbourhood. People with little money must embrace the penalties of their comparative poverty; and whereas the rich man's sons go where the luxuries and watchfulness of home are repeated, the sons of the straitened must be sent where school and school cares are to be had for the smallest price.
At home, be it a rich or poor one, the mother's attentions are
much the same in all degrees. She is equally alive to the first sign of
illness; equally tender to procure amusement and avoid pain; equally
careful of soul and body; and mine was as anxious as anyone, and as
successful in tendering my disposition and hardening my constitution. But
now I was cast on a sea, as short as ever received the traveller outside
the harbour of Ostend; as sick with its tossings I was as that same
traveller, and longing for my dear
easy home again, as a little fellow longs during the first half.
It chanced that towards the much desired end of that period the boys
were all indulged with a holiday to see a show of wild beasts at a
neighbouring fair; I remember one of the bigger boys, Hunter, who was ill
at the time of sore throat, borrowing my woollen comforter,
"because," said he, "at home my mother made me promise
not to go out when there was a lump in my throat--but that's
women's
bosh, you know."
At the fair there were temptations of bulls' eyes and gingerbread,
and having some pence I ate till I made myself sick.
When we got back to the school my miserable white face and swollen eyes
caused me to be sent to what is called the staying-out room,
namely, the school infirmary, and here I lay in bed ill with indigestion.
I was not the only occupant. There were eight beds; and
scarlet-fever being about, five boys who were suspected of it had
already been deposited in as many beds.
The next morning Hunter was brought in, and took up a sixth. He could
scarcely articulate; but as well as he could, he declared to me that he was
quite well, if it was not for that bit of a lump in his
throat.
In the remaining bed the housekeeper took up her post at night; and, as
was natural enough after the fatigue of each day, made but a poor night
nurse.
Hunter and all of us had the doctor; he sent us potions, but Hunter soon
gave up all attempts to swallow his; the pain being such as to baffle the
power on his
part to do so. I was stupefied with headache, but still did take notice of the strange noise his throat made, and how at times he would raise himself on his elbow and gasp as if his breath would not come.
The third night he was never still for a minute at a time. I slept, but
Hunter's bed being next to mine, I was awakened out of very profound
slumber by a sudden start or tumble that he made out of his bed;
his mouth open. as I could see by the fire-light, his fingers
stretched out, he tottered up to the nurse, pulled at her, and before she
was well awake fell like a stone on her bed and never stirred again.
I lay quite still, half-terrified, half-asleep, as in some
of my dreadful dreams, and saw the nurse fling herself out of bed, raise
his head, let it fall, then go out of
the room
and return with the man who waited on the house. They whispered loud; the man took Hunter up in his arms, and both went out. I thought, confusedly perhaps, they were carrying him to the doctor.
Next morning, when we were all awake, we saw Hunter's bed, made,
as though nobody had slept in it. They told us he had been removed to the
cottage, as an outside room was called, and a week after they said
he was dead. But I knew that he died that moment I saw him fall on the
nurse's bed.
My mother, when the holidays came, and I related all this adventure,
took fright. She thought that a careful nurse and the doctor summoned would
have saved the boy's life; and she would not suffer me to be
exposed to the like peril. I did not go again. My eldest brother undertook
to teach me Latin,
and one way or other this was the first and last experience I had of school life.
I was sixteen when our father was seized with the lingering illness
which terminated his life, but which was never in our comprehension of it
hopeless up to the very last day. With all the pure faith of unspotted
youth, we made our prayers together and alone for his recovery. Every
alleviation of his illness made us believe our prayers were granted; every
aggravation of it sent us to prolonged petitions, of which the fault
was that we expected but one answer, namely, that the thing we asked must
be given.
One night of augmented suffering, after leaving the sick-room,
where a youth's presence was useless, if not inconvenient, I went to
my bedchamber, and for half an hour or more
continued to repeat, in every varied form, my adjuration that the added pain and danger of the day might pass by.
I was pouring out in silence my unspoken words when in a moment they
seemed to be interrupted by a voice equally soundless with my own, which
took their place. This voice was at a little distance, distinctly
producing silent words. The words were these:--"One week,
two weeks, three weeks. A sacrifice." I instantly applied them to my
father. I did not believe they were uttered by a supernatural
being, but I thought they arose in some way prophetically. I kept them to
myself--constantly recalling how I had seemed called off from my own
inward utterances by the words which arose at a distance, but to
which my ear was directed, as in common circumstances it is to speech
heard suddenly, though the person speaking is not perceived.
Being young, and not yet true to myself, I made more of the occurrence
than I really felt. I imagined to myself that I should pass the last
minutes of these three weeks in a state of nervous anxiety--the
more vivid in that I would conceal my fears from every one.
The moments I had been looking forward to came at last. The last day of
the three weeks was running into midnight. I stood alone in my room, acting
terror, though I alone was my audience.
Just as the clock was beginning to strike twelve, I heard the door of my
father's room open, and some one run hastily along the passage. Then
for the first time I believed what I had persuaded myself I
believed dur-
ing the three past weeks; my heart seemed to throb backward. I rushed to the door. The runner was gone. I went silently and swiftly to my father's room, which was open, and entered frightened at what I thought I was about to see.
My sister was watching. She put up her finger for silence, smiling at
me. I cast my eyes on the bed, and there he was gently breathing in a good
sleep. I made a friendly sign to my sister and withdrew again.
The voice was one of those queer growths of the mind, which I believe
form our dreams, but which are as frequent in our waking hours as in our
sleep, only outer objects generally prevent them when we are awake
from filling the attention.
Towards the end of the autumn my father died. The happy home was broken
up; my
mother and my sister retired to a house in the county town; my eldest brother was already a soldier in India; and the rest of us had to seek our fortunes wherever our friends could place us.
It was a new epoch in our lives, and excited all the latent feelings and
ideas which had been growing up within us, and which the great change
suddenly matured. We were all fain to be helpful--fain to take a
part in life, and according to our bent make efforts towards that end.
I had a vague genius for composition, and great faith in its success. I
often speculated on the success obtained by this or that author, and
knowing that a few thousand pounds would be extremely useful to my
mother, I revolved schemes in my mind of which the end was to surprise her
some
not distant day with the desirable few thousands.
I began in the following manner. At the bottom of a great oaken chest
where ephemeral productions were thrown and accumulated from year by year,
I found a pamphlet which seemed to have been published in the time
of the first French Empire, and its point consisted in the multitude of
events which the author had seen accumulate in the career of one man. He
took the Plaideur's form J'ai vu;
and in his first sentence he saw emperors, kings, crowns, and continents
all crumble and change their shapes and natures at the presence of the
conqueror.
This idea I undertook to apply once more. My materials were yet to be
found. I sought them in the yearly chronology at the end of an almanac, and
my opening period was
this:--"I saw a house burned down in Conduit Street."
How wonderfully stupid young people can be! The success of my endeavour
corresponded to its deserts; but I was not much disheartened, and my next
production was a tragedy of which only seven-tenths of one
infirm line remains as a specimen:--
"Too much, too
much; much too much."
With such talents budding within me, I was placed in an attorney's
office in London, where nobody cared for our good county-name, our
beautiful house and its great hall, nor thought the least
consideration due to me as the younger son of the house of Greswold. I was
aware that this would be the case, and therefore did not run myself into
any trouble by acting as if I could draw at all on those
claims; there was some pain to be gone through, but on the whole I adapted myself very quickly to my altered circumstances.
My master was concerned with numerous clients in high life. He had I
believe a most amusing business, if he could have enjoyed it as it might
have been enjoyed. He had to work the worser puppets of the world so
as to keep up their show of prosperity, happiness, and goodness. Those who
had all these articles in their genuine state, did not come to him. I got
only glances, but I argued the whole pictures from them.
For instance, there was a great lady who visited his office
occasionally, so beautiful and beautifully appointed that we clerks always
contrived to open our door for a sight of her when her carriage appeared.
We
read her name in the Morning Post at evening
parties, and also in the Times, when there were lists of patronesses to a bazaar or of contributions to the relief of distress.
One evening our master's sister came in a state of excitement and
told me and another of the clerks, that My Lady had proposed to take her
daughter, my master's niece, to the country for a few days,
and she was come to tell her brother. Accordingly, when he was disengaged
she went into his room, but came out two minutes after, hiding her face
behind her veil, and before she was fully out of the old
gentleman's room I heard the words--
"Let me hear no more of such folly; no niece of mine shall ever
associate with that woman."
Among his clients was a young man of considerable rank, whose family
belonged to our own county; of it Mr. Pypps also was a
native, and there was an hereditary connexion between the firm and the family. This young man got into difficulties from time to time; he had to raise money, and in all his troubles he came to my master.
He had the most engaging manner a man can have, as well as the kindest
face. He was very young, active, strong, and healthy; and Mr. Pypps really
loved him. He had loved his father, and had known this young
client ever since he was a boy; and sometimes he would get one of his
irreplaceable bottles of Madeira from his cellar, and a neck of venison on
the table, and young Lord Ennavant
* would come to dine in
order to talk over his affairs; in fact, I
believe they got on splendidly during the hour and
___________________* The motto of the family
as "En avant." Hence, I dare say, the name.
Page 20
a half spent in the comfortable parlour of the attorney.
Our poor master was not happy; he had dealt so much with money that it
had bewildered him, I believe. He was certainly rich, and when he was
paying his bills, my opinion is that he was quite comfortable; the
reality of the payment giving him a tangible conviction that he had plenty
wherewith to pay. But at other times, I have evidence that he was occupied
almost always, when he had no business on hand, with calculations
as to whether his money would meet the calls upon it.
He would stand still in the street, his lips moving as if in
calculation; he would take out his purse and count it. I have seen him as
soon as he was settled in a railroad carriage produce his
memorandum-book, and jot
down a whole page of figures. Once I met with the blank side of a letter, covered with debtor and creditor accounts, of which this below is a copy:--
| # | s. | d. | |
| In Bank | 635 | 0 | 0 |
| In purse | 18 | 16 | 0 |
| Due, one quarter from tenant in Chester Court | 100 | 0 | 0 |
| 753 | 16 | 0 |
| # | s. | d. | |
| Housekeeper's book | 5 | 18 | 6 |
| Rent, half year | 105 | 0 | 0 |
| Wages, Christmas | 78 | 0 | 0 |
| 188 | 18 | 6 | |
| Christmas bills will come, I dare say, to #1000 | 1000 | 0 | 0 |
| #1188 | 18 | 6 |
His Christmas bills were more likely to be bills of a single week; but I
imagine he put them down conjecturally at an imaginary thousand, in order
to persuade himself that his balance was against instead of for
him. I am sure his reason fought against the phantom of indigence which
appeared to haunt him, for he never changed his style of expenditure, nor
refused any legitimate call on his bounty; but ever when his
intellect could withdraw itself from matter of fact, it took the false food
of illusion, and with more and more appetite as it continued to feed.
During the second winter that I was with him his health began to fail,
and more obvious symptoms of what was going wrong in his mind presented
themselves. He grew profoundly melancholy, and could with difficulty
prevail on himself to take an interest in anything.
One day an old friend called to ask how he was; they were in habits of
extreme familiarity, the friend a little below him in the world, and no
kind of restraint between them. "It is very kind of you,
Baker," he said, "to pay me a visit, but I'm not glad to
see you."
Another time his sister and the niece he had forbidden to go to the
beautiful "My Lady," were passing the evening with him, and
being such near relations, he put no restraint on himself, but suffered
their attempts at amusing him without any corresponding effort to be
amused.
"Well, brother, we must leave you now," said Mrs. Crump;
"I'm sure we've passed a delightful evening."
"You must love dulness very much, then," said he. "Is
it duller in the grave, do you think?"
These things excited my attention very much, for I had my own reasons
for being curious about them. I had read in books of medicine of epochs in
a man's life when it becomes a matter of arithmetic that he
should be hipped, ill, and out of love with himself. Mysterious figures
bring about mental and bodily phenomena--7, 14, 21, 49, 63. This fact
laid hold on my imagination prodigiously. I set it down that Mr.
Pypps was approaching the last of these periods, and I watched him very
curiously to see the sum total come out of him.
There was a more important person interested in poor Mr. Pypps, and that
was the kindly young Lord Ennavant. When he
came on his own business to the office, he would stay a few minutes and tell some quaint story out of his own world, which amused the ailing man; and we clerks heard gladly the laugh which had been thus excited.
He came several times to dinner, with usually the same cheering effect,
but on the occasion I am about to record, I passed and repassed the door,
vainly hoping to hear the even stream of conversation which used
to flow between them. There were brief bursts; there was Lord
Ennavant's hearty voice, and Mr. Pypps trying to be hearty in reply;
but then talk fell off, there would be silence, and then a jerk of talk
again.
At last came the sound of a dialogue, in the one pressed seemingly to
obtain a point, which the other was reluctantly brought to
yield. The two gentlemen came out of the dining-room, and my master seeing me, asked me if I would fetch his cloak from his bedroom upstairs. I ran up to do so, and Lord Ennavant was very impatient for my return, calling to me before I could scarcely reach the top, and evidently afraid that any delay would cost him the unwilling companion he had secured.
"Thank you, Mr. Greswold," said my master, evidently wishing
to distinguish me from a servant, in which rank Lord Ennavant, it seemed,
supposed me to be. "I am sorry to give you the
trouble."
"Oh, I am sure Mr. Greswold does not mind," said Lord
Ennavant, pretending he had thought me a gentleman all the time. "I
am very anxious to get our friend here out for a walk."
I made a sign of acquiescence, and then my master said--
"What if he went with us?"
"Humph," said Lord Ennavant, "it is not the best place
in the world for him."
"Why, where are we going?" said my master.
"Oh, it's very good for you and me, but not quite so well
for such a young man."
"Nay, if it's any harm--" began Mr. Pypps.
"No harm in the world. Oh, let him come then. You
must at all events. Now, here's your hat. Have you got your purse in
your pocket?"
"Yes; my purse. There's not much in it, nor ought to
be."
"Enough, I dare say. Come along."
So we all three sallied out of the house,
and Lord Ennavant, making a few instants' delay on the door step, whispered to me, who was last--
"I'm going to make him gamble, just to give him something to
cry for;" and away we went.
The house we came to had nothing externally to attract attention, but
the door I observed on its opening was strongly defended by bars and locks.
A few yards further in, another door had to be opened which was
similarly defended; and upon the staircase were no less than three more,
each of which had a small barred window through it. We were reconnoitered
before we were let through.
When at last we had cleared all these barriers, we entered a room where
a dozen men were standing about, and rather less than
that number sitting round a table, the surface of which was divided by a line, on each side of which a word was written, I could not at first see what.
One of the men wore a green shade over his eyes, and held a wooden rake
in his hand; and cards were thrown on either side of the line which was
drawn on the table. There was money on the table, which changed
owners frequently; often being raked up to himself by the man with the
shade, and often pushed over by him to one or other of the players; but let
what would happen to the money, nobody made the least remark or
exclamation. They only uttered in unvarying tones, from time to time, one
of the two words "Rouge" or "Noir."
Lord Ennavant spoke to one of the men who were standing round, and who,
smiling
as at some good jest, proceeded to make room for Pypps at the table.
"There, old friend," said Lord Ennavant, "sit down and
take your chance. All you have got to do is to choose a card on either side
of the line; if on this side, call it rouge,
if on the other, noir; and put your money on
it. You will win or lose, that's quite certain. And, mind me:
don't lose more money than
you've got in your purse. It can't ruin you; and it will do
your health good."
"Sad folly, my lord," said Pypps; but he sat down, and named
five shillings for his stake on noir.
Nobody seemed to take any notice whether the stake was large or small;
the cards continued to be laid down on the table, and presently, by no
volition of his own, double
the amount of his venture was pushed over to Mr. Pypps.
"Leave it alone," said Lord Ennavant, interfering to prevent
him from touching the money. "As long as you win, and say nothing,
your stake and your gains double every time."
Mr. Pypps said nothing, but he lost. He immediately put down ten
shillings for a new stake on the noir. That
time he won; and now he rose and was willing to leave off, having gained
nothing, as he said, nor lost.
"Nay, don't finish yet," said Lord Ignorant. "I
have got something to do. Play as if you were just beginning. It's
not worth while to rise as you sat down."
He went into another part of the room, where I believe he played at
cards, and I stayed, watching my master. Again the latter
took his place, winning on the whole, and by degrees caring very much whether the event was or was not favourable.
Lord Ennavant came to him in about half an hour, ready to go home.
"Stay five minutes," said Pypps. "I want to see the
issue of this venture."
It went against him.
"Confound it," he cried; "what luck! I must get that
back again;" and now he named a stake the amount of which would have
frightened him half an hour before.
"Come, never mind," said Lord Ennavant. "Do come now;
I can't stay here all night."
"Go then, my dear lord; don't wait for me on any account. I
must stay a little longer. I begin to feel some life."
"Poor devil!" said his friend. What a
word! "But don't talk so loud, my beloved Pypps. Nobody is ever glad or sorry here. Take my first advice, and stick to one colour; whichever you will. If you win, your money will be pushed over to you; and if you lose it will be raked away from you. Only say nothing, for you disgrace both yourself and me by this acuteness of sensibility."
He turned away again, engaging in some new game, and left old Pypps
playing, and me gazing. Fortune was very favourable to Pypps. He obeyed the
injunction of his friend as far as he was able, but he could not
altogether avoid some bodily expression of his feelings. His face was
flushed; he pulled off his cravat, and flung it on the floor; the rapid
influx of money to him who had made it by driblets appeared
intoxicating.
In a very short time Lord Ennavant's
attention was caught by the buzz in the room of people interested in this wonderful run of luck. He and all the rest of the spectators came up, surrounding the table.
Pypps cast one glance at them, and then seeming to be conscious that he
must make no appeal to sympathy, concentred himself, and supporting his
head on his hands, stooped it over the table where his winnings were
accumulating by a stake that doubled every time. The sum became hundreds.
It rose to thousands. One change of luck would swallow up half his fortune.
Another stroke of it in a favourable direction would go hard to
his opponent.
The banker at the table went on doggedly, but there was a dumb fury in
his abrupt movements which was as intelligible as though it had been
expressed in words. His ruin
was imminent. If Pypps cried content, he had to pay a terrible amount of thousands, but the next turn of the cards might redeem all. Fortune must change at last, but to venture it might only double his destruction. He looked hard at Pypps, not knowing what he himself desired. Suddenly he sprung up, breaking the normal silence of the table--
"Not fair," he cried; "the dead don't
play." Then a little lower--"The man's
dead."
We rushed up; we pulled at the hands. The head fell lower; the wide eyes
were staring at the card table. There was no breath--no pulse. Yes,
the man was dead!
I was little better than he, and the good-natured young man,
perceiving his state and mine to be pretty much the same, offered
to take me with him, saying carelessly, "You have got no employment just now, so you may as well take a run between times."
Nothing could be more agreeable to me than this proposal. I had not
known how I should be able to set myself down to another desk under another
master, so soon after I had lost the kind one whose last look I
could not get out of my head. When I was sitting still, I constantly saw
those open eyes, glazed yet staring--that mouth with a ghastly smile
frozen on it--and the only remedy was to spring up and run,
talk, tire myself; so that just in proportion as it was dreadful to imagine
myself stooping over white paper all day, was it acceptable to think of
perpetually moving among new and delightful objects.
My master had left all his clerks 20l.
apiece; and with this I was independent of
Lord Ennavant, should he tire of me. I got my legacy paid by relating the circumstances I was in to the late Mr. Pypps's sister, Mrs. Crump, who inherited his property, and who, with her daughter, was raised by it from indigence to a situation of luxury. They were passing a sort of probationary time when I saw them, walking slowly, speaking plaintively, correcting any approach to a smile which their lips might commit, and, if unluckily betrayed into interest in subjects foreign to their grief, harking back upon it, with a sudden sigh and a raising of their eyelids. But Mrs. Crump was very kind about my legacy, and what with this money in my pocket, and the degree of sorrow beyond my natural sorrow which I had obliged to assume in her presence, I left that house with a reaction of spirits such as I had not felt since my poor master died.
My kind patron also was relieved by getting rid of all necessity to be
gay, and on the whole we travelled to Folkestone with easier spirits than
either of us had yet enjoyed. It was like getting well after an
illness; you can't do much, but if you are let alone, you can do
something, and have pleasure in quietly getting about.
We were standing in the great station at Folkestone, our tickets taken,
and ready to go down to the packet, when Lord Ennavant's servant,
accompanied by one of the clerks of the establishment, came running
along the gallery, and the latter being brought up by the former to Lord
Ennavant, said a telegraphic message had just come for him, the paper with
a copy of which he put into his lordship's hands.
"I shall not go back to London, let it be what it will," he
said, looking at it.
Then in an instant he handed it to me without a word. It ran
thus:--
"Mr. Greswold must return. A Will has been found making him Mr.
Pypps's heir."
I stared and turned it over, looking in vain for more explanation. The
mere words never seem enough, yet there is no questioning the bit of paper
as one does a messenger.
"It must be nonsense," I said; "Mrs. Crump has got the
Will."
"People don't write nonsense at twopence per letter by the
Electric telegraph," said Lord Ennavant. "The news is true;
though wires can't say or swear it."
"Oh no; it can't be true, and even if it is, it does not
matter to me. I shan't take his money of course. The bell is ringing;
let us go, pray."
"Oh, you will take his money--of course
you will. Good-bye, Mr. Greswold. Write to me at Châlons; I shall like to hear details."
"Oh, indeed I must go with you; I do so long to go. This is
ridiculous."
"Pho! you will soon think otherwise. I must be off. No; you are
not to come another step. Good-bye!"
And against all my endeavours and entreaties, he left me behind to
return to London on the authority of a few words which really seemed to
have no meaning at all. They appeared to me so wholly unreal that my
thoughts did not fix upon them scarcely at all.
I felt keenly that my pleasant prospect was over; and that was the
reflection which occupied me as I sadly travelled back.
Then I went straight to my old master's office, where Mr. Hadley,
his head clerk, winding up his affairs. I got an interview with him at
once. He assured me that the news was true, and told me a Will of
later date than any other had been found at the bottom of a bundle of other
Wills, made at different dates, and laid by on the topmost shelf of his
iron closet.
"And there he meant it to remain, no doubt, with the others which
he had superseded," said I. "The one he intended should be
acted upon was that which Mrs. Crump has."
"One has no right to judge from appearance," said Mr.
Hadley. "Facts are the sole standard, and this Will is dated
subsequently to that in favour of Mrs. Crump; therefore it stands good
rather
than that."
"Not if I know his intentions to have been different."
"You can't know that. You can only tell what intention he
has expressed. The law acknowledges no other."
"But you see yourself he put it among other old Wills which he had
annulled by making the one which was left in the place most likely to find
it in."
"The place was a strange one, and why he put it there nobody may
be able to tell. But the fact that it is subsequent to all others
overpowers whatever there may be odd about it."
"Ay, that's the thing, Mr. Hadley; he had been odd some
little time, and it's because he was odd that this Will was
made."
"Hush, hush," said Mr. Hadley; "not a word of that on
our side."
"Why, you know yourself it is true."
"No need for you to say so. Let the other party prove that, if
they can. But you are not called upon to throw away 3000
l. a year if holding your tongue will keep
it."
"Don't you think I am--supposing I feel
convinced?"
"No, indeed I don't. What is the law for, except to look
after everybody's right? Now this money may be yours by right.
Supposing him to have been in his full senses it is yours;
and nobody doubted that he was so. He did business to the last; a client
was consulting him up to the moment he last quitted his house. He liked
you, and he disliked Mrs. Crump. Did he never say a word to you on the
subject?"
"Never; and you know he left me 20l. as
one of the clerks."
"However, he also left you 3000l. a
year. That's the state of the case at present, and it will not be
long before I trust to see you in possession."
My intention had been, when I arrived in London, to go straight to Mrs.
Crump, after I had ascertained the fact briefly communicated by the
telegram, and if I found that a Will in my favour had been really made,
to renounce it at once on the ground of its obvious injustice. But I
altered my purpose after this interview with Mr. Hadley. If I had a right
to 3000l. a year, there was no doubt as to
the pleasure of it. At all events, I would not be in a hurry. There was
always time to give it up, but there would be no time to take it again, if
I renounced it and afterwards repented.
I resolved to consult my mother before I took any decided step; and the
first thing I did after leaving the office was to state the whole matter in
a letter to her.
Next morning I took my way to the residence of Mrs. Crump, the same
where a few days ago she had paid me in advance the 20
l. left me by Mr. Pypps. I was admitted at once,
which was rather more than I had expected, but I soon found it was with no
friendly feeling.
Mrs. Crump was standing up when I entered, and she flew at me as if I
had been a rat and she a hawk.
"Do you dare come into my presence, you great mean
hypocrite?" cried she. "Is this the way you return all my
kindness? But I'll be too much for you;" and faint with passion
she fell
on a chair which was
near her and rocked herself to and fro, sobbing bitterly.
"Mother, mother," cried Miss Crump, "don't take
on so. Judgment must reach the evil doers."
"True, true, my precious child--my poor injured
darling," said the elder lady, clasping her daughter, and both crying
in close contact.
I tried to speak, but was stopped instantly.
"You snake in the grass," cried Mrs. Crump, "to go and
delude that poor foolish old man into wronging his natural heirs for the
sake of a cormorant like you. I daresay you forged every word
yourself, and I'll sell my last shift but what I see justice done
upon you, and this poor wronged innocent child too."
Miss Crump remarked that she did not
mind herself, but to think of her poor mother broke her heart.
"Not that you have got your wicked way," said the mother.
"I'll have the best that is to be had, and that
the old fool might be pretty sure of, or he did not know his sister
Bess."
Though I am excitable in some things, others I am quiet enough;
especially when people choose to exhibit the workings of their secret
souls, for then I look upon it as a play acted before me; and if I myself
am a
party to it, I consider that I am very fortunate to have a seat in the
front box. Thus, this violence, and this unveiling of their real sentiments
towards my old master, had been disguised in black crêpe and
weepers the last time I was here, and occupied me; and I was not in any
haste to answer the accusations heaped upon me.
When the right time came, however, I assured my auditresses that I was
as ignorant of the Will made in my favour as they were till recalled by the
telegram, and they could judge of the truth of this assertion by
the fact that I had obtained from Mrs. Crump the of a legacy which became
mine only in right of the Will in their favour.
"That was another trick on your part," cried the angry lady.
"A dirty trick to get that paltry sum from me besides my
brother's estate. What a villain!" and she cast up eyes and
hands.
"I suppose at all events you mean to pay back at least that
20l.?" said Miss Crump, "that is, if
there should be no reason why we should make you a present of
20l. besides the property," and trying to she overreached her moral balance, and broke into an hysterical sob.
"Don't cry, Miss Crump. Dear Mrs., dear Miss Crump," I
said, coming a little nearer, "it was very good of you to advance
that money so readily, and I am willing, if you request, to return
it. I can pay back 18l. at once, and I'll
get the rest from home if you desire."
With which words I pulled out my purse and pocketbook.
"Snake!" repeated Mrs. Crump, "you think to catch me,
do you?"
"No, indeed, dear ma'am; I have no intention but to restore
the money if you require it."
"Of course I require it."
"Well, then, here it is--only be pleased to give me back the
receipt."
"I give back the receipt? I shall do no such thing, and that
you may depend upon."
"Then, ma'am, I must keep the money."
"Hypocrite; I thought it would come to that."
"One or the other I must have. It would appear otherwise as if you
had paid me 20l., whereas I shall have received
nothing."
"Nothing! Oh, I suppose, 3000l. a year
is nothing, is it?"
"But if I get 3000l. a year I will give
back the 20l.," I observed; "one or
other surely, dear madam, is my right."
"He says it is his right!" cried Mrs. Crump, casting up her
hands and eyes.
"Nay, it is not I--" but she interrupted me.
"No, and it shan't be you. I've sent for counsel, I
can tell you; and if there is law in England I'll have it on
you."
"I think you are quite right, Mrs. Crump, to try the question at
law," I began.
"Upon your word, do ye?" said she, sneering at me with all
her lips.
"Yes, ma'am," I said; "but as you take the
matter in an unpleasant point of view, I am afraid to lose my temper if I
stay longer; so, ma'am, and Miss Crump, I'll wish you good
morning. Good-bye." And I went out, putting my hat on my head
as quietly as I could.
The air soon took away what little agitation had been generated in that
noisy, close little parlour, and I walked back to Mr. Hadley's
who had given me a bed, and allowed my letters to be directed to his house.
There I found a letter from my mother. I was waiting for it to clench
the determination which I had all but taken, for I felt what her opinion
would be.
"My dear Son,
"It would be very pleasant if you
were possessed of two or three thousand a year; but if there is a moral
barrier between you and those thousands they are no more yours than
Windsor Castle, though that would be very pleasant too. Mr. Pypps has done
a palpable injustice to his family. To accept his injustice in your own
favour would be to do it yourself. It is not a doubtful case--you are
a stranger, and they are his heirs. They are excessively poor, and are
naturally the persons to be benefited
by what no longer belongs to their brother and uncle. You have no claim, nor do you stand in the position of one whose benefit would do no injury to others. Mr. Pointz thinks you might agree with them to give up your claim, if they would make over to you some share of the money; but if you are entitled to a part you are entitled to all, and if to none don't ask for charity.
"Your dear brother writes me
word that he shall be in England within a few days. Alas! dear John, he is
dreadfully wounded. My boy is maimed for life, and is become, he says
himself, not only maimed, but an object of disgust. Oh, not to his
mother. God bless you, John; bless you all, my dear
children.
"Ever your loving mother,
"CHARLOTTE
GRESWOLD."
"Yes, yes, noble-minded mother, I knew what you would say.
I learnt it at your knee long before this particular case arose, and
I'll go at once and act as you wish; there is no use in trifling
with a right resolution."
So I straightway walked down to the office.
Mr. Hadley was vexed; he remonstrated and reasoned, but for fear of
losing sight of my instinctive resolution, I would not listen to his
reasonings, and only insisted on executing my purpose in the most effectual
manner.
"And now," said Mr. Hadley, "you are on the wide world
again, what do you mean to do?"
"The same as before, I suppose."
"Will you become a clerk again, and enter the office with me? I am
succeed-
ing to the old master's business, and am ready to take you to-morrow, if you like."
"Thank you, thank you," I said, "But I can't set
to work so soon. A man who has just been possessed of three thousand a year
is entitled to spend a little money like a
gentleman--don't you think so?"
Mr. Hadley smiled.
"Ay! I see the propriety, the necessity--so what shall you
do?"
"Go home for a while. I shall like to talk over matters there; for
I am quite another person since all my adventures. So good-bye, Mr.
Hadley. Many and kind thanks, Mr.
Hadley--good-bye."
"Good-bye, John; and if I can be of any use at any time,
mind I'm ready."
Thus we parted, and that night I put
myself into a railroad-carriage, and went home.
My mother was re-established in her old paternal house, for my
brother had written to her earnestly begging her to come back there, and
offering to made again a home for us all, whenever we chose to
inhabit it. Had he been what he was when he went out--had he brought
back limb and life in the radiant state of health in which he left us, my
mother would have refused this arrangement; but, as it was, he
returned an infirm and an ailing man, and wanted the succour of family
affection. He had received the news of his inheritance to my father's
property when on the eve of a battle. Like any other soldier, he did
what Mr. Ruskin nobly says a soldier nobly does--"Put him in a
fortress-breach with all the pleasures of the
world behind him, and only death and his duty in front of him, he will keep his face to the front." *
He ran the chances of war, and they went against him. It never occurred
to him to regret; that he had done so; but though he had no regrets he had
not the less suffering, He bore all, however, with absolute
firmness; he never uttered a complaint, but his patience was less than his
fortitude.
Pity was intolerable to him. He never endured it except from a little
child of my married sister; whose small face and open mouth would reflect
every change he chose to indicate when telling this child of the
wound, the amputation, and the starting pain.
There was a family near us, that of the
___________________* "Cornhill," Aug.,
1860, p. 163.
Page 59
clergyman of the parish, with whom we had grown up much as if the house had been our own. The father and mother were both people of good families, and of some fortune besides his preferment. They had one daughter, a girl whom my brother had come to love dearly as they both grew up, and to whom he had engaged himself before he left England; though during our father's lifetime they had not means enough to marry.
He was twenty-three, she was not yet seventeen; but her fancy had
fixed itself on him almost more fervently than his had fixed on her. She
was a girl of great personal beauty; her figure was of the
ordinary height; but the slope of her shoulders made her look taller than
she was. The trimmest rounded waist gathered to its due proportions from
her spreading bust. She had a brilliant
colour upon a creamy skin, and black hair naturally waving, so that, where short, it made soft large curls, and where long, thick ringlets. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, but not sparkling; they were gentle, honest eyes, telling all she felt, but not penetrating the hidden meaning of others. Her mouth was rounded at the ends and bowed at the centre of the lips, and the smile which unclosed them gave a new expression, whenever it came, to her otherwise pensive face.
Though her frame was elastic and her spirits excitable, she was easily
tired and easily subdued. She was never strong enough to finish a long walk
with us, though always ready begin one. Her mother watched over
her with the double adoration of affection and anxiety; and her father,
though less alive to anxiety, had wrapped up his being in her,
as though his life and hers were indissolubly one.
My brother Robert knew that all was over between him and her. What pangs
it may cost him I cannot tell; but he never said anything on the subject,
except as to the fact of having renounced the prospect which had
once been his. He spoke of it as a matter of course, and was ready to see
her under that new character.
My mother had prepared her for the terrible change in him; but the quiet
girl had not, I think, realized anything that was told her. I was with
Robert when she came with her mother the first time into the south
parlour, appropriated to him. He would not lie on the sofa, nor in any way
be as complete an invalid as he really was; but moved feebly about the room
to the best of his ability; his
disfigured face bandaged and mortally pale; his sleeve empty, his coat buttoned across his chest.
This was the spectacle which met her instead of the handsome face and
person which had so fondly kissed and bidden her farewell--instead
also of the image I think she had conceived of her lover, pale and
weak, but with all his beauty, and in due time all his recovered
health.
He took her hand when she came in, and one could distinguish the effort
in his voice to speak steadily.
"God bless you, Mary," he said; "see what I am
become--an old man--but you are as young as ever; you have
slipped far, far, behind me."
I think what was said in former days of people who saw a ghost, was what
came over
Mary; his was the presence of something unaccountable, supernatural. The pink hue of her cheeks deepened into excessive colour; her eyebrows contracted themselves a little; she did not know whether to take that left hand which he held out to her, and though she did take it after a few seconds, it seemed as if the fear and the shock had gone to her heart.
My brother let drop her hand, and sitting down beside her, talked of her
father, of her garden, of anything but himself: she was shy like a
frightened child.
I thought it best to relieve them both from spectators, and went out;
her mother called to me at the door, and asked if I would show her where my
sister was.
I thought her right to come out of the way, and gladly held the door for
her. But
my mother told me that when we were gone, and when she also rose to open the garden window, meaning to steal away if it seemed desirable, Mary got up hastily and pressed closely against her, trembling, and seemingly afraid to stay behind. Then my mother sat down, and after a few minutes' painful talk, told Mary they would go into the garden, and leave Robert to rest.
Robert did not take her hand again; only nodded to her, and thanked her
for coming; and then they two stepped over the low window-sill. My
mother told me that Mary at first said nothing, but walked beside
her till they had gone about a hundred yards, then she suddenly said in a
low voice,"Is that Robert?" and flung her arms round my
mother's neck, sobbing unappeasably, and exclaiming in the midst of
her tears--"Oh
my poor Robert--dear, dear Robert,--poor Robert!"
It was hard enough for my mother to bear, but she had compassion on the
poor young thing, and let her tears flow freely without attempting to stop
them or reason with her. Pity and tender caresses were all that
could do her good, and at last the paroxysm subsided, and my mother left
her on the turf, hiding her face on the trunk of a tree, while she fetched
her own mother, and saw them go away together.
Robert said nothing about this till he and I were alone when the rest
had retired for night; for we constantly talked together, when all was
still in the house, and while he lay unable to sleep on his uneasy
couch. He had been lying silent, with open eyes, for a little time, and
till he spoke I would
not break in on what I readily conjectured was the train of his thoughts.
At last, "John," said he, "if I were the stout fellow
I was on the morning of the battle and if you had three thousand a year of
your own, we should be more thought of than we are
now."
"True, Bob," said I; "but neither of us would choose
to be other than we are."
"I would," cried he, "only I cannot; therefore I make
the best of it. That is the ground on which to take one's stand.
Should I, a soldier and a Christian gentleman, lower myself to
complain of what is irremediable?"
"And for me to complain," I said, "would be
ridiculous, for it is my own free choice."
"Ay, but I'll tell you what, Master Jack,
you are rather drawing upon that honourable choice, for it was honourable, though simply right; you are squandering your small moneys because you have renounced the great moneys you might have had to squander."
"Oh, well, a little; but I'll pull up, Robert. What you say
is true, but I never conceived before what it was to have money."
"Then forget it now. How much have you spent?"
"Oh, no great deal. It don't matter. But I love you the
better for being so stout-hearted."
"Ay, ay; ready to die for one's country sounds
best, but it is much more difficult to be ready to be wounded for
one's country."
"John," he began again, after a pause, "the two things
in the world which I should like best would be for you to marry Mary, and
for me to die. To die is not so very much to ask, is it?"
I thought in my own heart it was much. It was like asking
to go home at three o'clock when office hours would not be over till
six. But I did not say so.
"No, no, dear Bob," I said, and laid my hand upon his as it
rested outside the counterpane.
"I can't put it in my Will," Robert went on,"
that I wish and hope Mary may become your wife; but I should like to leave
her 5000l. whether she is or no; and yet
it does not seem fair to you, who will come into the property after me, to
burthen it with that sum."
"Oh, Robert," I said, "don't think of that. It
is your own, out and out. If ever I possess it, whatever comes will be a
clear windfall to me, so to speak."
"True," said he; "and it is possible, John, is it not,
that she may bring my legacy back to you?"
"No, not that; she, having been your affianced wife, seems my own
sister."
"That's done with, and doubly done with," said
Robert.
He proceeded shortly after this conversation to charge his estate with
the sum he wished Mary should inherit from him, and at the same time I
became perfectly acquainted with the state of the family affairs. My
father had left 5000l. in money to the owner of
the estate, charged with 150l. per annum for the
three younger children, from which payment the estate was to be
relieved at the death of my mother, who had
30,000l. of her own, which was to be divided
amongst us three; that is, my married sister, my single sister Bessie, and
myself. My mother was young, comparatively speaking. Her eldest child, Robert, was just twenty-three, and she was not more than twenty-five years older; so that we had to look to ourselves to maintain ourselves, with the help of our 50l. a-piece, for the chief part, as we hoped, of our lives.
It was quite necessary, therefore, that I should be looking out again
for employment. But just at present my brother wanted me at home, and till
he should be better, I was to not to leave him. It suited me in
every respect to remain where I was.
In the first place, Robert and I had the most perfect brotherly regard
and communion, and in the next, I had all the instincts of the
money-spending class in which I was born, and liked my gun and a
horse
a thousand times better than my pen and a three-legged stool.
Mary often came to see us. After the first shock of meeting was over,
she did her very best to act naturally, and to resume the relation she had
held to us all, but it would not do. She was very young, and had
grown up connecting all her future with Robert, and now his life was worse
to her than his death would have been, for he was present, yet totally
separated from her. She had loved him, yet now shuddered at him. She
was his affianced wife, yet he himself treated her as a father might, and
it was so only that she could wish to look on the man whose
love-letters were scarce a month old.
Her mother's heart was heavier even than hers, for she saw at home
how hard it went with her child, and confided to my mother what tears, what
hysterical agitation, what
failing appetite this state of things cost poor Mary; and before long it was agreed between the two matrons, both equally interested in her, that an absence from home was the best chance there was for her recovery.
Robert eagerly approved the proposal, and it was settled that Mrs. Percy
and Mary should go to a sister of the former in London, who was glad to
have the beautiful girl and her own calm, handsome sister. They
came to bid us good-bye; Robert was suffering dreadfully that
morning, and forced to be quiet on the sofa.
At the end of the brief visit, when Mary came up to touch his hand and
say farewell, he held hers a few moments and drew her down towards him;
then laid his hand on her hair, and said-
"God bless you, Mary. I have got a little
ornament for you; will you wear it in London?"
Alas! it was, I believe, the wedding present he had brought home. It was
a necklace worked of the lightest little bars of gold--slenderest
golden fetters--the clasp ornamented with pearls, and the links
of the chain were fashioned into these words--"Léger
Poids d'Amour."
Mary took it, and blinded with tears, saw it not at all--choked
with sobs, could not thank at all. I know not what pressure there might be
of that left hand which grasped hers. I saw the tears fill
Robert's eyes, and he withdrew it to dash them away. Then my mother
laid hold of Mary's arm, and took her hastily from the room.
"Now we shall have the true state of
things," said he, and impatiently waited till she returned.
She opened it, and soon turned to the window with her back to us while
she read it.
"What is it, mother?" said Robert. "Bad
news?"
"No," said my mother, "I don't think so. I hope
not."
"Well, mother, give me the letter," said Robert.
"Pshaw," he added, as she hesitated, "my mind is not shot
away, though my face and my arm are. I can stand news, good or
bad."
She instantly gave it him, saying--
" Mary is not well."
He read it without a word, and gave it to me, shading his eyes with his
hand while I also read.
"MY DEAR FRIEND,
"I should have written sooner if I
could have written what you would have been glad to hear; and I have been
hoping to have such news to give, but there is none. My child
cannot lift her head, from the blow dear Robert's afflictions have
given her. She is very young, and has never seen illness at home before;
never seen it, but as the portion of another class, and the subject
of from her own hand as a superior; but now it comes all at once on her
dearest prospects and her fondest affections. Forgive her, my kind friend.
She has done her best.
"My sister was very, very kind to
her, and to turn the current of her thoughts, took us to scenes so gay and
splendid that the like had never passed through the thoughts of my
country-bred girl. Her beauty made her
conspicuous even in those gay assemblies. Alas! I may say it, for where will that fair, that dear, dear face be another year? She did her best. She endeavoured to enjoy. She danced, and tried to talk, and to be pleased with the music her aunt took her to hear; but I could see her listless look whenever she was not absolutely excited. I could see her absence in spirit from the scene around her. I could see her stealing her fingers up to hide and brush off the tears that would come.
"In
her room I have found her in floods of tears. She can scarcely eat. The
book lies on her lap unread, and yet when she sees I observe all
this, her sweet smile trying to be happy goes to my very
heart.
"Yesterday I asked a doctor about her.
He said the low state of energy in spirits was letting the bodily organs go down like a watch unwound. He told me the act of living thus unsustained had already overwrought the lungs, and that whether the cause could be removed or not, they must breathe an air easier to be digested than that of our winter.
"Oh, my friend, it was like a sentence of death
that he pronounced when he told me that a winter at Algiers might save her.
How can we go so far, so expensively?
"My sister does not see
it in the light I do. She says that doctors recommend impossible things to
save their own credit. But when a man of experience says,
there is life, and here is, or may be, death,
what anguish does he leave behind him?
"Meantime, Sarah has
arranged that we
shall go to their place in Surrey, and try the quiet and novelty of that scene.
"Write to me, Farhurst, Guildford. Is dear Robert
better?
"Yours affectionately,
"A.
PERCY."
That post took a letter from my brother to Farhurst. He sent me to the
county town to arrange with his banker for advancing him
300l., and when that should be safely settled I
was to post the following letter:--
"MY DEAR MRS. PERCY,
"Mary was my affianced wife.
She is the widow of my better days. My spirit dwells upon her as it might
have done out of another state of being.
"Let her be the heir of all I could have
left her had I died while she was my betrothed, and so let me partake a
gleam of happiness by enabling her to go where health, I trust, awaits her.
You are too just to refuse me.
"Yours
affectionately,
"R. GRESWOLD."
curate trouble. From his habits of study, his poorer parishioners had got to say of him he had a book-craze, and all errors he committed of omission or commission were excused by them on that plea. They saw him reward the little children at school with tracts addressed to "Women in Childbirth," and heard him preach a sermon to a body of young, active fellows emigrating to New Zealand on "The Utility of Bedridden Old Women."
He himself walked home on such occasions with a placid smile arising
from a sense of his well-composed discourse; while the scandalized
school-mistress or half-offended congregation excused
him on the plea of his having the "book-craze."
Accordingly, when he undertook to guide
the new curate over the parish, he took him into that of a neighbour to see the Runic stones half-way up Coynston Hill; and setting out next morning to inspect a chapel-of-ease where duty was sometimes done on a weekday, they found themselves, instead of in the plain little brick building, at the famous church belonging to the living of Peckle, where there is a unique specimen of a double chancel.
Mr. Winspear, the young curate, by no means saw the propriety of
studying antiquities when he came in order to be made acquainted with
living men and women. He was intent upon his new duties, and finding
efforts
fruitless to extract either the actual state of things, or the state
desired, from the preoccupied brain of Mr. Percy, he wished for nothing
more than the end
of their walk and to be sole master of the scene.
"Besides," said he to Robert and me, "though I
don't care much about what I eat and drink, the old fellow poisons me
with fried liver every day. What is the final cause, as he would say,
of that fancy?"
Neither of us could tell; especially as Mrs. Percy's table, though
very unpretending, was always fit for an emperor, if the emperor had as
healthy an appetite as Winspear.
We advised him to ask an explanation; and he afterwards told us that
when he proposed the subject at dinner one day, Mr. Percy, collecting what
his curate meant with some difficulty I daresay he intruded it into
the midst of a dissertation on the marriage-feast of Ataulphus),
broke into a real pet on
the subject, and causing the cook to be summoned, exclaimed--
"What's this Mr. Winspear tells me? I've been eating
liver he tells me. How could you let me eat liver? You know I can't
bear it; you know how I dislike it."
"It is all you've had for three days," said the cook,
her wrath something raised. "You told me yourself, sir, to give it
you till further orders, and I've been sending the all over
the county for it."
"I could not do that, Anne, since I dislike it so much; and if I
did, you ought not to have attended to me," said Mr. Percy,
apologetically.
"I shan't another time," said Anne, and flounced out
of the room with some words grumbled about "Missus never trusted
him with anything useful."
It was not till he was just leaving the house to set off on his African
journey that Mr. Winspear was witness to any further interview between the
master and maid. Then, while the former was looking in a
bewildered manner at the list of articles which his servant had given him
to take away, a knock at the door heralded in Anne, who, after the pleasant
manner of small families, took an interest in her employers which
is seldom felt by the members of larger establishments.
"Please sir, give my duty to Mrs. Percy, and I hope Miss Mary is
better, and all will come back safe and hearty."
"Thank you, I will indeed."
"And tell her I've put down five dozen eggs and twenty
pounds of butter. And sir, now there's only the young gentleman and
Amos and me in the house, there'll be nothing fit for the pig to eat; he's too big us; what shall I do with him?"
"Can't you kill him?" said Mr. Percy.
"What, half fat--and in October? You might as well throw him
away."
"Might I, really?" said Mr. Percy.
"To be sure, it was all very well while we were to be all at home
with him, but now he's far too big for our waste meat."
"Oh yes, very likely," said her master.
"But what shall I do with him?" persisted Anne, driving her
master to a corner.
"Well," said Mr. Percy, collecting all his wits to bear on
this one point--"I'll tell you. Mr. Nerood at the farm is
always very civil to me; take it over with my com-
pliments, and ask if he'll change it for a little one."
"Lord, sir!" said Anne, and uttered no more on the
subject.
Mr. Winspear enjoyed this scene extremely, and came up in the evening to
make Robert smile at it.
He was a great addition to our society, and gave my brother one new
object in the day to which he could look for some variety in his sick and
painful hours. Our new neighbour gladly yielded any assistance he
could in this way, and taking an unaffected pleasure in Robert's
society, quickly became a fast though a new friend.
He had been accustomed to a large family at home, and he was glad
occasionally to exchange his solitary sitting-room for the society
of ours, where he would take a book,
or talk if we talked, or do such offices for Robert as he permitted, and sometimes Robert was more willing that a stranger should wait upon him than one of his own family.
We soon called our friend by the name which was not his, but which, like
most others, was the one he was known by much better than his own. Being
christened George, we called him Peter.
* It was a letter from
his sister accidentally shown to us which
made us aware that such was his appellation at home.
This sister, Ruth by name, was one of two daughters of his house, and
there were three brothers besides himself. One brother was older than our
friend Peter, and two were
___________________"Pourquoi vous
appelez vous Tarare?" "Parceque ce n'est pas mon
nom," repliqua-t-il.
Page 90
younger. These two boys and the other sister were children still, and were learning their parts for the world at school, or at home under the mother's eye.
They were not wealthy. Colonel Winspear, to increase his means, had
sought and obtained the office of Chief of the County Police, and the
income thence arising was more than half of what he had. He was of noble
descent, being the uncle of my transient friend, Lord Ennavant. In him all
the wealth of the family centred, and his cousins, the sons of Colonel
Winspear, had to earn their own living. They were being trained to do
so, and the daughters to make the best of the small provision which the
father could lay up for them.
The eldest son was in the army, and unluckily, as it seemed, had been
placed in
a regiment of an expensive class, better fitted for those who are born to waste than to make money. I discovered that his position was one that caused them great anxiety, and even influenced the habits of the family.
Peter had been first led towards his clerical profession by the prospect
of a family living, but he had become sincerely attached to its duties, and
was happy and useful in exercising them. This was the first
time he had been entirely alone and independent in the care of a parish and
he enjoyed the sense of a home and responsibilities of his own.
She was much the better for the change of climate and of scene, and her
mother's
gratitude was proportionably lively and tender.
Robert was pleased.
"I can be her brother still," said he. "She will love
me like a sister, and that will be enough happiness. I could ill endure to
see her shrink from me as she did at first; but now, though
another must one day be her husband, she will still love her brother
Robert."
He pleased himself with these ideas, and writing to Mary or her mother,
and receiving their letters, formed an object in the slow moving days.
Another variety in them arose from the acquaintance we made with
Winspear's family. Naturally enough they came to sec their son and
brother keeping house for the first time, to hear him read and preach in
his church, and to take a new impression of him who had been a child, a schoolboy, and a collegian among them; but was now a teacher, a man amongst men, the head of an independent house--however small the house, however limited the occupation.
My first acquaintance with them occurred in so unheroic a manner, that
it would not do to form part of a story if it were not true, and if the
heroine of it were anything less unapproachable by the ignoble than
Ruth Winspear.
The Rectory stood alone in the country, half a mile from the church and
from the few scattered houses which formed the village. The approach was
down a very steep hill opposite to the one on which the house
stood.
I was coming over the brow of this hill
when I saw before me signs of an accident--an empty carriage, figures about it, and as for the horse I could not make out what had become of it.
I ran on, and as I came near perceived that the horse had fallen as it
descended the steep road, and that it was kept from struggling by a young
lady, who had adopted the effectual but unheroic method of sitting
upon its head.
An elderly lady stood by, half crying, and suggesting modes of
proceeding none of which were eligible and few feasible; but I took no time
to listen, only hastened at once to begin unbuckling the harness and
freeing the horse, exhorting the young lady to keep fast a few moments
longer until the horse could struggle with impunity.
When I told her she could leave it, she
did so with as much simplicity as if she had been rising from an arm-chair, and handy and active in helping me to get beast free from its trammels, and in holding it by the broken bridle, while I patched the headstall and drew the little carriage on one side.
"Where is your servant?" said I, like a fool. "What
can I do for you?"
"Why," began the old lady, "the horse is so quiet, and
my daughter likes driving--"
"We have not a servant," said the young lady, "but we
sent a boy to the Rectory to my brother for help; he will be back directly,
I dare say."
"We are going there, to my son's, to stay with him,"
said the elder lady. "You know Mr. Winspear, I dare say."
"Oh yes l" cried I. "My name is
Greswold; perhaps he may have mentioned us. Let me help you, pray. I'll put the hone in again; but I am sorry to say the shaft is broken. Can you walk that little way?"
"I am not very much used to walking exercise," said the
elder lady; "but with your arm, I dare say I can manage it. Cannot I,
Ruth? Only I'm sorry to give you the trouble."
"I am very glad to take it," said I. "I'll just
put my other hand on the bridle."
"No, don't do that," said Miss Winspear. "I can
lead the horse; oh, I can do it quite easily."
"Ruth, my love, can you carry my little writing-case? I
don't like to leave it here by the road side."
"It will be safe, mother, if we put it into the seat."
"Still I don't quite like."
"Oh, I'll hang it on my finger," said I, taking it up;
although then I found it not so very light. However, I put my hand through
the strap.
"Now, then!" and we set out; Mrs. Winspear leaning on my
arm, and puzzled with the mud; her daughter stepping like Diana free and
fair, though she was holding the horse's head to bring it along.
I, with an arm soon aching from the heavy box and the shawl which I had
also taken charge of, but ready that my fingers should crack before I would
let it be seen that they suffered, or that it should be supposed I
had not my right arm quite at the service of the tired lady. And so we
arrived at my friend's
door, who saw us coming up to the house from his study window, and came forth with laughter and with chaff to greet us.
He took the horse from his sister, and bidding us enter the house, led
the animal to the stable himself, as there was no one else to do it; but
his mother did not like this act to appear (even to me) one of
necessity.
"How can Peter be so fond of that horse as to think it necessary
to see it taken care of himself?" she said. "Why can't he
come and welcome me?"
"He will come as soon as he can," said her daughter.
"Perhaps there is nobody belonging to the stable."
"Did not Mr. Percy leave him a groom, do you know?" said
Mrs. Winspear. "If we had been aware of that, I think
we should hardly have let him take the curacy."
Miss Winspear did not contradict her, the colour mounted into her face
slightly, and she asked some trifling question about the garden when her
brother broke into the room
"I've just wiped old Rampage over with a wisp of straw till
Ralph could leave his job in the garden to attend to him. But don't
be uneasy about him, mother; I can do such a turn as that by a
horse, and better still, as you very well knew at home. And now, have some
tea; I'll call the maid, if she will come. Come along, Ruth, and look
at my domestic establishment. I am in want of you to put it in
order."
"First, I think," said she, smiling, "you ought to
thank Mr. Greswold for his timely help to us."
"So I do," said he, putting his hand on my shoulder.
"He's my good friend always, and I forgot civility."
"I want none," said I. "I am very much pleased to have
made acquaintance. I hope I may come again, 'since I have had the
luck to know you so soon?"
"By all means," said Peter, "come and dine
to-morrow. Ruth is so handy and quick that I shall have a clean
tablecloth and two or three plates that match by tomorrow."
"That will not require any wonderful dexterity, will it?"
said Ruth.
"I am not quite sure," said I; "for the governing
spirit here, Mrs. Anne, tyrannizes over your brother tremendously. But I
wont keep myself in your way now. Good morning! good morning!
Good-bye, Peter.
My mother will hope to pay her respects soon."
I went away with a new interest in life. I longed for the hour when I
should see Miss Winspear again. I began to count how many hours would
intervene before dinner time to-morrow. Surely I had fallen in
love?
Yet, the bare foolish thought was presumption! I, a youth, rather
younger as I thought than she; a youth, too, with no certain future the
evil of which occurred to me strongly to-day; whereas
she was highly allied and showed it in every moulding of her
shape and hue of her colour; and whereas there was a self-possession
and a grace about her which no awkward situation could make
ridiculous as had been proved to-day, and which would become any
graceful and any conspicuous position.
She was poor, however, very evidently; and that was the only comfort.
Her father, I had often heard, had much difficulty in meeting the expenses
of his large family; and she herself, I could see,
was accustomed to lend a hand to the business of living, and freely avowed
it.
What would be beneath her notice if her means were like her merits,
might be comparative ease under her present circumstances; and if a man
offers all he has in the world he can do no more, and he deserves some
consideration. But then, was it credible that a creature so invaluable
should not be sought by those who had every human advantage to offer her?
Would not they lay before her everything I had not, and were there not
many already enjoying the advantage of long acquaintance and already
seeking to improve it?
Her cousin, for instance, Lord Ennavant. By-the-bye I had
heard her father lived in a house belonging to his nephew, and not more
than two or three miles from Winspear Castle. No doubt Lord Ennavant
must have sought to make himself acceptable to her; perhaps they were half
engaged already. But then his habits were improvident, as I knew, and great
as was his income, he might have made it impossible for himself
to add the expenses of a wife to his establishment.
"Oh, I hope he will ruin himself. I hope he will have to sell
Winspear Castle, and be reduced to 50l. a year
like me. It would be out of the question then to marry her.
"But perhaps her generous nature would induce her all the more to
share his poverty if he were brought so low. Only it would be
impossible to exist on 50l. a year, and he could not work to increase it. I could. I would become clerk to Mr. Hadley; he will soon raise me to 200l., and we will take a house in St. John's Wood, in Primrose Row, where they have gardens before the houses.
"What nonsense!" cried I, aloud, when my thoughts had
silently run on to this point, and were interrupted by the necessity of
passing a gate which stood in my way. "This is real dreaming. If I
had been asleep and arrived at hiring a house to live in with Ruth
Winspear, I should have been dreaming a ridiculous dream; and so I have
been now. What absurdity!"
And brushing along, I soon reached my own home, and went in to tell my
people of my new acquaintance.
Robert heard me and smiled.
"Describe them to me," said he, "since they have left
so strong an impression, for must be some time before they will come to my
sick-room to see me. First tell us about the
mother."
"Oh, she is short and all out of shape, like an elderly woman past
stays-time. She wore a very white, neat cap round her face and a
black bonnet with very clean strings; she had got a kind of holiday
gown, black and white in checks, but she did not hold it out of the mud;
and she talked a little grand, but more as if she had in some far back ages
been really grand than as if she only copied it. I think, however,
she is rather a foolish old woman."
"With a sensible daughter?" said Robert.
"Yes, but with very easy sense; pliable sense, that could be
nonsensical. You can't
think how lightly she could meet Peter's high spirits."
"That's good," said Robert; "and she is
good-looking, too, you say. What does she look like?"
"She looks a sort of princess, though I don't know why. A
stature of five feet six or so, shoulders which throw her shawl into long
lines, and a waist which brings the puckers of her gown down to a
point, should belong to a princess."
"What a strange sort of shawl and gown you are talking
about!" said my sister; "and what do you mean by
puckers?"'
"I understood him quite well," said Robert; "and
then--?"
"Then her nose is fine, and her nostrils well marked, her hair
waves across her forehead, her eyebrows are like clear lines
drawn by a fine brush; she reefed her gown through two loops in two seconds, and the petticoat underneath was dark grey. It just came down above her ankles and her small thick boots. She looked as if I had done her a small service which was her due, and for which she was obliged, but not much obliged."
Robert and my mother laughed.
"You are in love, John," said the latter.
"I begin to think so," said I.
"Yes," said Robert, "she is your loadstone. It does
not matter what she is, she captivates you. After all your admiration, you
don't think her very handsome, I believe."
"Well, I really think I do not," I said, reverting in my own
mind to Mary, the most lovely, the most perfect beauty my
eyes ever beheld; "but her figure is perfect, and her face agrees with her figure better than any other possibly could. I don't think she would be so beautiful if she were handsomer."
"All right," said Robert; "I must see her some
day."
To-day, however, as Winspear took delight
observe, all was amended. I smelt flowers as soon as the sitting-room door opened; and when we went in to dinner, all was unobservably neat, if it had not been for the remarkable untidiness with which it contrasted.
"See," said Peter to me, "what active fingers have
mended the holes, wiped the dust, roasted--"
"They have done none of these things," said Ruth; "all
my merit lies in overthrowing the despot downstairs."
"It is good-natured of you, my love," said Mrs.
Winspear, "to exert yourself in the house as you have done
to-day."
"Don't I always, dear mother?" said Ruth.
"Thanks to you, none of us have learned to be idle."
"No, indeed," said the son; "and, mother,
you must leave Ruth with me till she has reduced my shirts and tablecloths, that Swiss governess used to say when lessons were over. Reduisez vos livres, Ma'mselle."
This turned the conversation from domestic economy to misused idioms, a
change which Ruth seemed very glad to promote, and on which subject we all
had an anecdote or two to relate.
Mrs. Winspear was very well bred and well mannered, only a little
nervous about being undervalued as to her position in life; therefore,
whatever adventitious circumstances could throw that into sunshine, she
inclined to avail herself of them.
In a pause of conversation therefore, she said, addressing her
son--
"I find, George, that your cousin and
Lady Ennavant are come back to Winspear Castle. Have you seen them?"
"No; but they have been at home six weeks. They are going to give
a great ball," said he. "Somebody told me who was going
there."
"Really!" cried his mother, in a tone of deadly surprise;
then recovering a little, she added, "True, I think we did hear
something of it; did not we, Ruth?"
"No, I think not," said Ruth, gently. "You did not
mention it to me at all events."
"Oh, it's quite a new idea," said Peter; "his
mother has got a niece she wants to amuse, and Ennavant was willing enough
to do so in this manner."
"Is she pretty?" said I.
"Who? the niece!--I'm sure I can't tell;
I don't even know who she is. Why do wish to know?"
The hope had struck me that perhaps she might captivate her host, and so
bar Ruth's way to her cousin's heart. I said no more.
"It's Miss Styles, I dare say," said Mrs. Winspear;
"her sister's girl. She might have done as much for her
husband's niece. I think."
"Oh, no; that's not likely," said Ruth.
"She is very fond of you, my dear," answered the mother;
"and she said to me how like you were to your poor uncle, the last
lord."
"Is the castle a fine place?" I asked Ruth.
"Yes," said Ruth, "very."
"I hear they give many great things there," I went on.
"Are they well done?"
"I never was at one," said Ruth.
"Have you never been at the Castle fêtes my dear?"
cried her mother. "I'm sure you've been asked often
enough."
"Have I?" said Ruth. "At all events I never
went."
"And yet your aunt is so fond of you."
"Is she? Oh, she is very civil always."
"That she is; driving over to see us, and that sort of
thing."
"Ay," said Peter, "once in two years at
least."
"Much oftener than that," said the mother.
Ruth seemed anxious to drop the subject. She had a degree of sincerity
in her composition which rejected all false appearances as the sun melts
snow and leaves the thing covered bare.
However, she did not seem to consider it necessary to unveil everybody
else, and preferred getting rid of an uneasy subject to exposing its
deformity.
On this occasion she suggested to her mother to move into the
dining-room, and promised to make some coffee with her own hands by
the time we followed. When Peter and I were alone he came back to the
subject of the ball, and said he fancied there was an invitation impending,
but he thought Ruth would enjoy it so much that he would not hint it, lest
he should be mistaken. He had met Lord Ennavant, who was with
foxhounds, trotting through a wood which he himself was crossing on foot.
The meeting was but for a minute, but as his cousin put his horse in motion
again, he had turned round in his saddle, and cried--
"You are coming to our ball, are not you?"
Winspear answered, "Am I?"
He shouted back, "All of you." "And," continued
Winspear to me, "if he thinks of it again, we shall all have
invitations; but he is as thoughtless as a grasshopper, and may very
likely remember neither it nor us any more."
"I knew him once," said I; "I was very near going
abroad with him; but he has taken no notice of me since."
"Because he has forgotten you. If he met you, he would take you up
at the very point where you parted. Where did you know him?"
"Accidentally, at poor old Mr. Pypps's. You know Pypps was
his man of business."
"Oh, true; well, I wish he would send you a card too. I say
too, but I've no confidence in one myself
yet."
As for me, I found myself wishing no card might come for anybody,
neither for them nor me.
It made me uneasy (especially as I had no right whatever to be so), to
think other people proffering admiration, and occupying Ruth's
thoughts with their splendour or their wit. If she should go I felt she
must be the first object there, and what place could I keep in
her thoughts under such circumstances!
Nothing more was said on the subject, however, and I went home more
thoughtful and restless than I had ever been before,--at least than I
had ever been when there was no occasion whatever to be so.
Next day I made my mother and sister come with me to call at the
Rectory. The first thing I saw on the table was a card with "Lady
Ennavant requests the pleasure, &c. &c." Mrs. Winspear called
my attention to it.
"I knew, of course, we should have our card as soon as possible,
and I am glad for Ruth's sake. I never go to such things, but she
will have her father and brother."
"I am glad; yes," said Ruth to me; "I like dancing. It
comes because I was certain it would not come."
"Why should you have supposed that?" said her mother.
"Of course I was perfectly aware you would be at your own
aunt's ball."
This was a flourish for my mother, who
cared nothing at all about it. My sister was more on the alert.
"Is your dress made?" said she.
"I have not thought about it yet. The letter is but just
come."
"But you wont have much time," said my sister. "I know
the ball is fixed for the 10th, and this is the 3rd. How odd to invite
people so late for a ball!"
"Oh," said Ruth, "I daresay most of the cards have
been sent out long ago, but perhaps they did not think of us till
yesterday."
"People take liberties with their own relations," said Mrs.
Winspear. "However, you must set about your preparations, for your
aunt would be dreadfully disappointed if you were not
there."
"Can't you trust your dressmaker?" said my sister,
rather grandly.
"That is myself," said Ruth.
"How very clever!" my sister began. "I daresay you do
it better than--" but Miss Winspear interrupted her.
"Not at all," said she; "it is merely necessary. I
should prefer employing a dressmaker of course, but it suits me best to do
things myself. Can one buy tarlatan and ribbon in your town
here?" she added; and the two girls fell into conversation about
shops and prices. I could hear Ruth's sweet calm voice deciding upon
whatever was economical, and never for an instant giving in to the
traps for vanity and love of seeming well with the world, which my
sister's share of those articles laid for her. Even in the buying of
a ball gown she
was doing all things "decently and in order."
For the two next days, I saw the little drawing-room at the
Rectory encumbered with a white, gauzy-looking material at which
Miss Winspear sewed and hemmed, looping it up here and folding it there,
while we talked or read; no notice was taken of her work, and if there was
any household matter wanted arrangement the work was laid aside in a
moment.
"It is nothing very exquisite," said she, smiling at the
admiration I expressed one evening. "It is the plainest thing, to
look well at all, that I could get; and I have doubts at times whether
it will look well after all. You think it very fine, but
remember your own ignorance of such woman's work," she added,
smiling at me.
"Are not you going to the ball?" said the old
lady; "you know my nephew, I think. Why don't you
go?"
"I would, if he asked me," I said.
"Well, but surely I might very well write a word, and request a
card for you," said she. "It is no such great favour to
ask--an invitation for a young man."
"No, it's no favour at all," said George.
"Well, then, really I think I will. Don't you think so,
Ruth?"
"Indeed, mother, I hardly do. Their ball is no affair of ours; we
have no right to make it an occasion for obliging our friends."
"Not much of an oblige," Mrs. Winspear began. But George
broke in--"Perhaps Ruth is right?" and I eagerly
added--" I am sure she is quite right--not to ask anybody
anything is the cleanest way;" at which the lovely Ruth smiled at me, and I was a thousand times more obliged to her, than to her mother for her offers of a whole evening's amusement.
Ruth had never inhabited a clergyman's house before, and though in
all kindly country houses there is an intimate connexion between the rich
and the poor, she had to learn how nearly this connexion is drawn
when they stand in the relation of pastor and people.
Being new to her, she took a pride and a delight in seeing her brother
appealed to, as the friend of all occasions; not as the richer man whose
purse was thought of, but as the wiser, kinder, better man, to act
for them and with them. She stood by silently when the walk they were
taking together was interrupted by a peasant, to say he had a sick child,
and the doctor said "it was bound to die; would his Reverence
please to come and comfort its mother?"
Or another had a son come home,"unexpected, as had given his
mother and him a deal of trouble. Perhaps if Mr. Winspear spoke to him he
would take thought and mend," like Burns' auld Nicky Ben.
Ruth's hand was ready with her slender purse, but her brother
silently withheld her; he would not be looked upon as money by his
people. And then she would heartily adopt his views and content herself with employing her skilful fingers with desultory works for their benefit; or would take her tin case, inclosed in its wicker basket, with some small delicacy for a sickly appetite. Often I met her carrying this prettily-shaped basket, and if possible, got permission to relieve her of it, and waited at a distance to join her again accidentally, as I pretended, when she should have finished her errand at the cottage.
She did not forbid me. I almost wished she had given permission less
willingly. For a young man's ambition is not limited to be looked
upon no better than a dog who has been taught to run after one with a
stick in its mouth.
Ruth had pleasure in all that wore the appearance of duty refined from
self. Her
brother told me, laughingly, how glad she was one stormy night when he was summoned after midnight to give a pastoral blessing to a little life, just born to die again, and whom, "in such times of extremity," he received suddenly into holy church.
Another day he learned that fever was in the house of one of his
parishioners, and he called Ruth aside to tell her he was going thither
himself, but she should neither accompany him nor mention the fact to his
mother. "She thought it probable I should be catch the fever,"
he went on, and answered--"No, I'll say nothing, for fear
you should be prevented from going." "I really
wished," added Peter, "that there had been some danger, that I
might have acted up to the brave answer."
A brave, a quiet, a generous spirit, indeed
she had, clothed in a body as noble as itself. I loved her over well before I was aware of it. An incident occurred which further set forth her gentle and generous qualities.
It chanced that in one of the cottages belonging to my brother there
lived a widow who had been a servant in Colonel Winspear's family,
and had been present at Ruth's birth, and had the charge of her
childish years. She was a friend and favourite of Ruth, and when she
married the man who had occupied this cottage, she came into our parish
charged with many a token of the good-will of her young
mistress.
Yet fortune had not proved kind to her in her further life. If any one
might be called unlucky, indeed, it was this poor
woman. As she gained a blessing, so she lost it. The husband whose industry at first provided a comfortable home for her and the children she bore, suffered the bankruptcy of the poor, the loss of health; and their state of ease and sufficiency changed at once, as the rich man's luxuries do when his ships founder and his banks break. Instead of enjoying independence they had to be thankful for charity; and finally he died, leaving her alone to provide for the subsistence of their family.
She worked hard, but did not prosper. She suffered from her
over-exertions, and had to undergo torments of bodily pain from the
irritated nerves of her head, under which infliction, however, there was no
relaxation from the necessity of labour. Neither was there a change in her
downward fortunes.
This poor head of hers made certain sounds intolerable; that is, as intolerable as things can be to those who have little means of escaping the necessity of tolerating. And once when a wandering minstrel, with his German pianoforte and its dancing figures, was performing before her door, she took him out a halfpenny to beg him to relieve her of the sounds, telling how and why they aggrieved her. He stopped to recommend a nostrum, and while she listened as people in pain will listen to the promise of ease, a bright light flashed on her from her cottage door and window, and rushing back she found that the draught of the door had drawn the clothes she had been drying into the flames, and her poor house and all the property it contained was destroyed.
This is but an example of her bad luck.
She had two sons who left her early to get their own living; like heroes
they got out to the mining districts, to fight with and take prisoner the
great potentate Money, but an accident befell the youngest, and
the eldest had enough to do to supply him with lodging, food, and
doctors' stuff. Meantime the giant whom they went out to conquer
escaped; and in return for their time and labour expended, they came home
at
last no better off, nay not so well as if they had sat in idleness all that
time by the cottage hearth. With ragged clothes, with enfeebled bodies,
with little debts, they wanted assistance from the patient mother
to whom they had hoped to bring it. But she was thankful to share with her
boys the pittance of her labour.
We, at the squirealty, had come to their assistance, and done them what
kindness we
could--the best being that the two sons were at last employed as waggoners on the homefarm.
But in no long time trouble came again to the door. The eldest son, who
had behaved so well to his brother in his illness, was not a perfect
character for all that. He did wrong about the horses under his care,
and when reproved used as bad words to the bailiff as the bailiff did to
him. He was instantly dismissed; there was no room for repentance; the
unpardonable sin had been committed.
Then he fell on his mother's hands again, and though he tried many
ways of living, never prospered; till at last both brothers went off again
to the coal-mines, and here they gained a living, and
were able to bring back assistance from time to time to the submissive and
uncomplaining cottage.
Things looked well again therefore; one afternoon during the time when
Ruth and her mother were paying their visit to the Vicarage, a rumour came,
changed soon after to a certainty, that the Widow Morgan's
two sons had been killed in an explosion of mines where they worked.
She lived in an out-of-the-way cottage, had
suffered this misery some days before was known to us. We learned at the
same time that the poor woman had instantly upon hearing of the
catastrophe set out for the scene, of it, and had returned the evening
previous to this very day. My mother dispatched me to her to find out if
any relief in her power was available; and I willingly undertook the
errand, interested both by my human feelings and my curiosity in this deep
tragedy.
Two of her kindly neighhours were with
her, and, seeing me coming up the cottage garden, met me, excited to tears by the dismal scene, yet treating my expressions of sympathy in it as if, because I was richer than they, it was a good action in me to feel what they themselves felt so deeply