GEORGE ELIOT

Scenes of Clerical Life

INTRODUCTION BY GRACE RHYS

DENT London

EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY

All rights reserved

Printed in Great Britain

This edition was first published in Everyman's Library in 1910

INTRODUCTION

George Eliot, or Mary Ann Evans, was born at Arbury Farm, in the parishof Chilvers Coton, Warwickshire, on the 22nd of November, 1819. She wasthe fifth and last child of her father by his second wife--of that fatherwhose sound sense and integrity she so keenly appreciated, and who was toa certain extent the original of her famous characters of Adam Bede andCaleb Garth. 

Both during and after her schooldays George Eliot's history was that of amind continually out-growing its conditions. She became an excellenthousewife and a devoted daughter, but her nature was too large for socramped a life. 'You may try, ' she writes in Daniel Deronda, 'but you cannever imagine what it is to have a man's force of genius in you, and tosuffer the slavery of being a girl. '

While her powers were growing she necessarily passed through many phases. She became deeply religious, and wrote poetry, pious and sweet, fair ofits kind. Music was a passion with her; in a characteristic letterwritten at the age of twenty to a friend she tries but fails to describeher experience on hearing the 'Messiah' of Birmingham: 'With a stupid, drowsy sensation, produced by standing sentinel over damson cheese and awarm stove, I cannot do better than ask you to read, if accessible, Wordsworth's short poem on the "Power of Sound. "' There you have aconcise history of George Eliot's life at this period, divided as it wasbetween music, literature, and damson cheese. 

Sixteen years of mental work and effort then lay between her and herfirst achievement; years during which she read industriously and thoughtmore than she read. The classics, French, German, and Italian literature, she laid them all under contribution. She had besides the art offortunate friendship: her mind naturally chose out the greaterintelligences among those she encountered; it was through a warm andenduring friendship with Herbert Spencer that she met at last with GeorgeHenry Lewes whose wife she became. 

In this way she served no trifling apprenticeship. Natural genius, experience of life, culture, and great companionship had joined to makeher what she was, a philosopher both natural and developed; and, what ismore rare, a philosopher with a sense of humour and a perception of thedramatic. Thus when her chance came she was fully equipped to meet it. 

It came when, at the age of thirty-six she began to write 'Amos Barton, 'her first attempt at fiction, and one that fixed her career. The storyappeared in 'Blackwood's Magazine, ' and was followed by 'Mr. Gilfil'sLove Story' and 'Janet's Repentance. ' Of the three, 'Mr. Gilfil's LoveStory' is perhaps the most finished and artistic; while 'Amos Barton' hasqualities of humour and tenderness that have not often been equalled. 'Janet's Repentance, ' strong though it is, and containing the remarkablesketch of Mr. Tryan, is perhaps less surely attractive. 

The stories, all three of them, have a particular value as records of anEnglish country life that is rapidly passing away. Moreover, it iscountry life seen through the medium of a powerful and right-judgingpersonality. It is her intimate and thorough knowledge of big things andsmall, of literature and damson cheese, enabling her and us to see allround her characters, that provides these characters with their amplebackground of light and shade. 

It is well to realise that since George Eliot's day the fashion ofwriting, the temper of the modern mind, are quite changed; it is acurious fact that the more sophisticated we become the simpler grows ourspeech. Nowadays we talk as nearly as we may in words of one syllable. Our style is stripped more and more of its Latinity. Our writers are moreand more in love with French methods--with the delicate clearness ofshort phrases in which every word tells; with the rejection of allintellectual ambulations round about a subject. To the fanatics of thismodern method the style of George Eliot appears strange, impossible. Itdoes not occur to them that her method has virtues which lack to theirs. They may give us a little laboured masterpiece of art in which the vitalprinciple is wanting. George Eliot was great because she gave us passagesfrom life as it was lived in her day which will be vital so long as theyare sympathetically read. 

George Eliot can be simple enough when she goes straight forward with hernarrative, as, for instance, in the scene of Milly Barton's death; thenher English is clear and sweet for she writes from the heart. But takethe opening chapter of the same story, and then you find herphilosophical Latinity in full swing: the curious and interesting thingbeing that this otherwise ponderous work, which is quite of a sort toalarm a Frenchman, is entirely suffused by humour, and enshrines moreoverthe most charming character studies. 

These lively and acute portraits drawn from English country life give itsabiding value to George Eliot's work. Take the character of Mr. Pilgrimthe doctor who 'is never so comfortable as when relaxing his professionallegs in one of those excellent farmhouses where the mice are sleek andthe mistress sickly;' or of Mrs. Hackit, 'a thin woman with a chronicliver complaint which would have secured her Mr. Pilgrim's entire regardand unreserved good word, even if he had not been in awe of her tongue. '

Or take Mrs. Patten, 'a pretty little old woman of eighty, with a closecap and tiny flat white curls round her face, ' whose function is'quiescence in an easy-chair under the sense of compound interestgradually accumulating, ' and who 'does her malevolence gently;' or Mr. Hackit, a shrewd, substantial man, 'who was fond of soothing theacerbities of the feminine mind by a jocose compliment. ' Where but inGeorge Eliot would you get a tea-party described with such charmingacceptance of whim?

George Eliot wrote poems at various times which showed she never couldhave won fame as a poet; but there are moments of her prose that proveshe shared at times the poet's vision. Such a moment is that when thehalf broken-hearted little Catarina looks out on a windy night landscapelit by moonlight: 'The trees are harassed by that tossing motion whenthey would like to be at rest; the shivering grass makes her quake withsympathetic cold; the willows by the pool, _bent low and white under thatinvisible harshness_, seem agitated and helpless like herself. ' Theitalicised sentence represents the high-water mark of George Eliot'sprose; that passage alone should vindicate her imaginative power. 

G. R. 

 CONTENTS

 The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton

 Mr. Gilfil's Love Story

 Janet's Repentance

SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE

THE SAD FORTUNES OF THE REV. AMOS BARTON

Chapter 1

Shepperton Church was a very different-looking building five-and-twentyyears ago. To be sure, its substantial stone tower looks at you throughits intelligent eye, the clock, with the friendly expression of formerdays; but in everything else what changes! Now there is a wide span ofslated roof flanking the old steeple; the windows are tall andsymmetrical; the outer doors are resplendent with oak-graining, the innerdoors reverentially noiseless with a garment of red baize; and the walls, you are convinced, no lichen will ever again effect a settlement on--theyare smooth and innutrient as the summit of the Rev. Amos Barton's head, after ten years of baldness and supererogatory soap. Pass through thebaize doors and you will see the nave filled with well-shaped benches, understood to be free seats; while in certain eligible corners, lessdirectly under the fire of the clergyman's eye, there are pews reservedfor the Shepperton gentility. Ample galleries are supported on ironpillars, and in one of them stands the crowning glory, the very clasp oraigrette of Shepperton church-adornment--namely, an organ, not very muchout of repair, on which a collector of small rents, differentiated by theforce of circumstances into an organist, will accompany the alacrity ofyour departure after the blessing, by a sacred minuet or an easy'Gloria'. 

Immense improvement! says the well-regulated mind, which unintermittinglyrejoices in the New Police, the Tithe Commutation Act, the penny-post, and all guarantees of human advancement, and has no moments whenconservative-reforming intellect takes a nap, while imagination does alittle Toryism by the sly, revelling in regret that dear, old, brown, crumbling, picturesque inefficiency is everywhere giving place tospick-and-span new-painted, new-varnished efficiency, which will yieldendless diagrams, plans, elevations, and sections, but alas! no picture. Mine, I fear, is not a well-regulated mind: it has an occasionaltenderness for old abuses; it lingers with a certain fondness over thedays of nasal clerks and top-booted parsons, and has a sigh for thedeparted shades of vulgar errors. So it is not surprising that I recallwith a fond sadness Shepperton Church as it was in the old days, with itsouter coat of rough stucco, its red-tiled roof, its heterogeneous windowspatched with desultory bits of painted glass, and its little flight ofsteps with their wooden rail running up the outer wall, and leading tothe school-children's gallery. 

Then inside, what dear old quaintnesses! which I began to look at withdelight, even when I was so crude a members of the congregation, that mynurse found it necessary to provide for the reinforcement of mydevotional patience by smuggling bread-and-butter into the sacrededifice. There was the chancel, guarded by two little cherubims lookinguncomfortably squeezed between arch and wall, and adorned with theescutcheons of the Oldinport family, which showed me inexhaustiblepossibilities of meaning in their blood-red hands, their death's-headsand cross-bones, their leopards' paws, and Maltese crosses. There wereinscriptions on the panels of the singing-gallery, telling ofbenefactions to the poor of Shepperton, with an involuted elegance ofcapitals and final flourishes, which my alphabetic erudition traced withever-new delight. No benches in those days; but huge roomy pews, roundwhich devout church-goers sat during 'lessons', trying to look anywhereelse than into each other's eyes. No low partitions allowing you, with adreary absence of contrast and mystery, to see everything at all moments;but tall dark panels, under whose shadow I sank with a sense ofretirement through the Litany, only to feel with more intensity my burstinto the conspicuousness of public life when I was made to stand up onthe seat during the psalms or the singing. And the singing was nomechanical affair of official routine; it had a drama. As the moment ofpsalmody approached, by some process to me as mysterious and untraceableas the opening of the flowers or the breaking-out of the stars, a slateappeared in front of the gallery, advertising in bold characters thepsalm about to be sung, lest the sonorous announcement of the clerkshould still leave the bucolic mind in doubt on that head. Then followedthe migration of the clerk to the gallery, where, in company with abassoon, two key-bugles, a carpenter understood to have an amazing powerof singing 'counter', and two lesser musical stars, he formed thecomplement of a choir regarded in Shepperton as one of distinguishedattraction, occasionally known to draw hearers from the next parish. Theinnovation of hymn-books was as yet undreamed of; even the New Versionwas regarded with a sort of melancholy tolerance, as part of the commondegeneracy in a time when prices had dwindled, and a cotton gown was nolonger stout enough to last a lifetime; for the lyrical taste of the bestheads in Shepperton had been formed on Sternhold and Hopkins. But thegreatest triumphs of the Shepperton choir were reserved for the Sundayswhen the slate announced an ANTHEM, with a dignified abstinence fromparticularization, both words and music lying far beyond the reach of themost ambitious amateur in the congregation: an anthem in which thekey-bugles always ran away at a great pace, while the bassoon every nowand then boomed a flying shot after them. 

As for the clergyman, Mr. Gilfil, an excellent old gentleman, who smokedvery long pipes and preached very short sermons, I must not speak of him, or I might be tempted to tell the story of his life, which had its littleromance, as most lives have between the ages of teetotum and tobacco. Andat present I am concerned with quite another sort of clergyman--the Rev. Amos Barton, who did not come to Shepperton until long after Mr. Gilfilhad departed this life--until after an interval in which Evangelicalismand the Catholic Question had begun to agitate the rustic mind withcontroversial debates. A Popish blacksmith had produced a strongProtestant reaction by declaring that, as soon as the Emancipation Billwas passed, he should do a great stroke of business in gridirons; and thedisinclination of the Shepperton parishioners generally to dim the uniqueglory of St Lawrence, rendered the Church and Constitution an affair oftheir business and bosoms. A zealous Evangelical preacher had made theold sounding-board vibrate with quite a different sort of elocution fromMr. Gilfil's; the hymn-book had almost superseded the Old and NewVersions; and the great square pews were crowded with new faces fromdistant corners of the parish--perhaps from Dissenting chapels. 

You are not imagining, I hope, that Amos Barton was the incumbent ofShepperton. He was no such thing. Those were days when a man could holdthree small livings, starve a curate a-piece on two of them, and livebadly himself on the third. It was so with the Vicar of Shepperton; avicar given to bricks and mortar, and thereby running into debt far awayin a northern county--who executed his vicarial functions towardsShepperton by pocketing the sum of thirty-five pounds ten per annum, thenet surplus remaining to him from the proceeds of that living, after thedisbursement of eighty pounds as the annual stipend of his curate. Andnow, pray, can you solve me the following problem? Given a man with awife and six children: let him be obliged always to exhibit himself whenoutside his own door in a suit of black broadcloth, such as will notundermine the foundations of the Establishment by a paltry plebeianglossiness or an unseemly whiteness at the edges; in a snowy cravat, which is a serious investment of labour in the hemming, starching, andironing departments; and in a hat which shows no symptom of taking to thehideous doctrine of expediency, and shaping itself according tocircumstances; let him have a parish large enough to create an externalnecessity for abundant shoe-leather, and an internal necessity forabundant beef and mutton, as well as poor enough to require frequentpriestly consolation in the shape of shillings and sixpences; and, lastly, let him be compelled, by his own pride and other people's, todress his wife and children with gentility from bonnet-strings toshoe-strings. By what process of division can the sum of eighty poundsper annum be made to yield a quotient which will cover that man's weeklyexpenses? This was the problem presented by the position of the Rev. AmosBarton, as curate of Shepperton, rather more than twenty years ago. 

What was thought of this problem, and of the man who had to work it out, by some of the well-to-do inhabitants of Shepperton, two years or moreafter Mr. Barton's arrival among them, you shall hear, if you willaccompany me to Cross Farm, and to the fireside of Mrs. Patten, achildless old lady, who had got rich chiefly by the negative process ofspending nothing. Mrs. Patten's passive accumulation of wealth, throughall sorts of 'bad times', on the farm of which she had been sole tenantsince her husband's death, her epigrammatic neighbour, Mrs. Hackit, sarcastically accounted for by supposing that 'sixpences grew on thebents of Cross Farm;' while Mr. Hackit, expressing his views moreliterally, reminded his wife that 'money breeds money'. Mr. And Mrs. Hackit, from the neighbouring farm, are Mrs. Patten's guests thisevening; so is Mr. Pilgrim, the doctor from the nearest market-town, who, though occasionally affecting aristocratic airs, and giving late dinnerswith enigmatic side-dishes and poisonous port, is never so comfortable aswhen he is relaxing his professional legs in one of those excellentfarmhouses where the mice are sleek and the mistress sickly. And he is atthis moment in clover. 

For the flickering of Mrs. Patten's bright fire is reflected in herbright copper tea-kettle, the home-made muffins glisten with an invitingsucculence, and Mrs. Patten's niece, a single lady of fifty, who hasrefused the most ineligible offers out of devotion to her aged aunt, ispouring the rich cream into the fragrant tea with a discreet liberality. 

Reader! _did_ you ever taste such a cup of tea as Miss Gibbs is thismoment handing to Mr. Pilgrim? Do you know the dulcet strength, theanimating blandness of tea sufficiently blended with real farmhousecream? No--most likely you are a miserable town-bred reader, who think ofcream as a thinnish white fluid, delivered in infinitesimal pennyworthsdown area steps; or perhaps, from a presentiment of calves' brains, yourefrain from any lacteal addition, and rasp your tongue with unmitigatedbohea. You have a vague idea of a milch cow as probably a white-plasteranimal standing in a butterman's window, and you know nothing of thesweet history of genuine cream, such as Miss Gibbs's: how it was thismorning in the udders of the large sleek beasts, as they stood lowing apatient entreaty under the milking-shed; how it fell with a pleasantrhythm into Betty's pail, sending a delicious incense into the cool air;how it was carried into that temple of moist cleanliness, the dairy, where it quietly separated itself from the meaner elements of milk, andlay in mellowed whiteness, ready for the skimming-dish which transferredit to Miss Gibbs's glass cream-jug. If I am right in my conjecture, youare unacquainted with the highest possibilities of tea; and Mr. Pilgrim, who is holding that cup in his hands, has an idea beyond you. 

Mrs. Hackit declines cream; she has so long abstained from it with an eyeto the weekly butter-money, that abstinence, wedded to habit, hasbegotten aversion. She is a thin woman with a chronic liver-complaint, which would have secured her Mr. Pilgrim's entire regard and unreservedgood word, even if he had not been in awe of her tongue, which was assharp as his own lancet. She has brought her knitting--no frivolous fancyknitting, but a substantial woollen stocking; the click-click of herknitting-needles is the running accompaniment to all her conversation, and in her utmost enjoyment of spoiling a friend's self-satisfaction, shewas never known to spoil a stocking. Mrs. Patten does not admire thisexcessive click-clicking activity. Quiescence in an easy-chair, under thesense of compound interest perpetually accumulating, has long seemed anample function to her, and she does her malevolence gently. She is apretty little old woman of eighty, with a close cap and tiny flat whitecurls round her face, as natty and unsoiled and invariable as the waxenimage of a little old lady under a glass-case; once a lady's-maid, andmarried for her beauty. She used to adore her husband, and now she adoresher money, cherishing a quiet blood-relation's hatred for her niece, Janet Gibbs, who, she knows, expects a large legacy, and whom she isdetermined to disappoint. Her money shall all go in a lump to a distantrelation of her husband's, and Janet shall be saved the trouble ofpretending to cry, by finding that she is left with a miserable pittance. 

Mrs. Patten has more respect for her neighbour Mr. Hackit than for mostpeople. Mr. Hackit is a shrewd substantial man, whose advice about cropsis always worth listening to, and who is too well off to want to borrowmoney. 

And now that we are snug and warm with this little tea-party, while it isfreezing with February bitterness outside, we will listen to what theyare talking about. 

'So, ' said Mr. Pilgrim, with his mouth only half empty of muffin, 'youhad a row in Shepperton Church last Sunday. I was at Jim Hood's, thebassoon-man's, this morning, attending his wife, and he swears he'll berevenged on the parson--a confounded, methodistical, meddlesome chap, whomust be putting his finger in every pie. What was it all about?'

'O, a passill o' nonsense, ' said Mr. Hackit, sticking one thumb betweenthe buttons of his capacious waistcoat, and retaining a pinch of snuffwith the other--for he was but moderately given to 'the cups that cheerbut not inebriate', and had already finished his tea; 'they began to singthe wedding psalm for a new-married couple, as pretty a psalm an' aspretty a tune as any in the prayer-book. It's been sung for everynew-married couple since I was a boy. And what can be better?' Here Mr. Hackit stretched out his left arm, threw back his head, and broke intomelody--

 'O what a happy thing it is, And joyful for to see, Brethren to dwell together in Friendship and unity. 

But Mr. Barton is all for th' hymns, and a sort o' music as I can't joinin at all. '

'And so, ' said Mr. Pilgrim, recalling Mr. Hackit from lyricalreminiscences to narrative, 'he called out Silence! did he? when he gotinto the pulpit; and gave a hymn out himself to some meeting-house tune?'

'Yes, ' said Mrs. Hackit, stooping towards the candle to pick up a stitch, 'and turned as red as a turkey-cock. I often say, when he preaches aboutmeekness, he gives himself a slap in the face. He's like me--he's got atemper of his own. '

'Rather a low-bred fellow, I think, Barton, ' said Mr. Pilgrim, who hatedthe Reverend Amos for two reasons--because he had called in a new doctor, recently settled in Shepperton; and because, being himself a dabbler indrugs, he had the credit of having cured a patient of Mr. Pilgrim's. 'They say his father was a Dissenting shoemaker; and he's half aDissenter himself. Why, doesn't he preach extempore in that cottage uphere, of a Sunday evening?'

'Tchuh!'--this was Mr. Hackit's favourite interjection--'that preachingwithout book's no good, only when a man has a gift, and has the Bible athis fingers' ends. It was all very well for Parry--he'd a gift; and in myyouth I've heard the Ranters out o' doors in Yorkshire go on for an houror two on end, without ever sticking fast a minute. There was one cleverchap, I remember, as used to say, "You're like the woodpigeon; it saysdo, do, do all day, and never sets about any work itself. " That'sbringing it home to people. But our parson's no gift at all that way; hecan preach as good a sermon as need be heard when he writes it down. Butwhen he tries to preach wi'out book, he rambles about, and doesn't stickto his text; and every now and then he flounders about like a sheep ashas cast itself, and can't get on'ts legs again. You wouldn't like that, Mrs. Patten, if you was to go to church now?'

'Eh, dear, ' said Mrs. Patten, falling back in her chair, and lifting upher little withered hands, 'what 'ud Mr. Gilfil say, if he was worthy toknow the changes as have come about i' the Church these last ten years? Idon't understand these new sort o' doctrines. When Mr. Barton comes tosee me, he talks about nothing but my sins and my need o' marcy. Now, Mr. Hackit, I've never been a sinner. From the fust beginning, when I wentinto service, I al'ys did my duty by my emplyers. I was a good wife asany in the county--never aggravated my husband. The cheese-factor used tosay my cheese was al'ys to be depended on. I've known women, as theircheeses swelled a shame to be seen, when their husbands had counted onthe cheese-money to make up their rent; and yet they'd three gowns to myone. If I'm not to be saved, I know a many as are in a bad way. But it'swell for me as I can't go to church any longer, for if th' old singersare to be done away with, there'll be nothing left as it was in Mr. Patten's time; and what's more, I hear you've settled to pull the churchdown and build it up new?'

Now the fact was that the Rev. Amos Barton, on his last visit to Mrs. Patten, had urged her to enlarge her promised subscription of twentypounds, representing to her that she was only a steward of her riches, and that she could not spend them more for the glory of God than bygiving a heavy subscription towards the rebuilding of SheppertonChurch--a practical precept which was not likely to smooth the way to heracceptance of his theological doctrine. Mr. Hackit, who had moredoctrinal enlightenment than Mrs. Patten, had been a little shocked bythe heathenism of her speech, and was glad of the new turn given to thesubject by this question, addressed to him as church-warden and anauthority in all parochial matters. 

'Ah, ' he answered, 'the parson's bothered us into it at last, and we'reto begin pulling down this spring. But we haven't got money enough yet. Iwas for waiting till we'd made up the sum, and, for my part, I think thecongregation's fell off o' late; though Mr. Barton says that's becausethere's been no room for the people when they've come. You see, thecongregation got so large in Parry's time, the people stood in theaisles; but there's never any crowd now, as I can see. '

'Well, ' said Mrs. Hackit, whose good-nature began to act now that it wasa little in contradiction with the dominant tone of the conversation, '_I_ like Mr. Barton. I think he's a good sort o' man, for all he's notoverburthen'd i' th' upper storey; and his wife's as nice a lady-likewoman as I'd wish to see. How nice she keeps her children! and littleenough money to do't with; and a delicate creatur'--six children, andanother a-coming. I don't know how they make both ends meet, I'm sure, now her aunt has left 'em. But I sent 'em a cheese and a sack o' potatoeslast week; that's something towards filling the little mouths. '

'Ah!' said Mr. Hackit, 'and my wife makes Mr. Barton a good stiff glasso' brandy-and-water, when he comes into supper after his cottagepreaching. The parson likes it; it puts a bit o' colour into 'is face, and makes him look a deal handsomer. '

This allusion to brandy-and-water suggested to Miss Gibbs theintroduction of the liquor decanters, now that the tea was cleared away;for in bucolic society five-and-twenty years ago, the human animal of themale sex was understood to be perpetually athirst, and 'something todrink' was as necessary a 'condition of thought' as Time and Space. 

'Now, that cottage preaching, ' said Mr. Pilgrim, mixing himself a strongglass of 'cold without, ' 'I was talking about it to our Parson Ely theother day, and he doesn't approve of it at all. He said it did as muchharm as good to give a too familiar aspect to religious teaching. Thatwas what Ely said--it does as much harm as good to give a too familiaraspect to religious teaching. '

Mr. Pilgrim generally spoke with an intermittent kind of splutter;indeed, one of his patients had observed that it was a pity such a cleverman had a 'pediment' in his speech. But when he came to what he conceivedthe pith of his argument or the point of his joke, he mouthed out hiswords with slow emphasis; as a hen, when advertising her accouchement, passes at irregular intervals from pianissimo semiquavers to fortissimocrotchets. He thought this speech of Mr. Ely's particularly metaphysicaland profound, and the more decisive of the question because it was agenerality which represented no particulars to his mind. 

'Well, I don't know about that, ' said Mrs. Hackit, who had always thecourage of her opinion, 'but I know, some of our labourers andstockingers as used never to come to church, come to the cottage, andthat's better than never hearing anything good from week's end to week'send. And there's that Track Society's as Mr. Barton has begun--I've seenmore o' the poor people with going tracking, than all the time I've livedin the parish before. And there'd need be something done among 'em; forthe drinking at them Benefit Clubs is shameful. There's hardly a steadyman or steady woman either, but what's a dissenter. '

During this speech of Mrs. Hackit's, Mr. Pilgrim had emitted a successionof little snorts, something like the treble grunts of a guinea-pig, whichwere always with him the sign of suppressed disapproval. But he nevercontradicted Mrs. Hackit--a woman whose 'pot-luck' was always to berelied on, and who on her side had unlimited reliance on bleeding, blistering, and draughts. 

Mrs. Patten, however, felt equal disapprobation, and had no reasons forsuppressing it. 

'Well, ' she remarked, 'I've heared of no good from interfering with one'sneighbours, poor or rich. And I hate the sight o' women going abouttrapesing from house to house in all weathers, wet or dry, and coming inwith their petticoats dagged and their shoes all over mud. Janet wantedto join in the tracking, but I told her I'd have nobody tracking out o'my house; when I'm gone, she may do as she likes. I never dagged mypetticoats in _my_ life, and I've no opinion o' that sort o' religion. '

'No, ' said Mr. Hackit, who was fond of soothing the acerbities of thefeminine mind with a jocose compliment, 'you held your petticoats sohigh, to show your tight ankles: it isn't everybody as likes to show herankles. '

This joke met with general acceptance, even from the snubbed Janet, whoseankles were only tight in the sense of looking extremely squeezed by herboots. But Janet seemed always to identify herself with her aunt'spersonality, holding her own under protest. 

Under cover of the general laughter the gentlemen replenished theirglasses, Mr. Pilgrim attempting to give his the character of astirrup-cup by observing that he 'must be going'. Miss Gibbs seized thisopportunity of telling Mrs. Hackit that she suspected Betty, thedairymaid, of frying the best bacon for the shepherd, when he sat up withher to 'help brew'; whereupon Mrs. Hackit replied that she had alwaysthought Betty false; and Mrs. Patten said there was no bacon stolen when_she_ was able to manage. Mr. Hackit, who often complained that he 'neversaw the like to women with their maids--he never had any trouble with hismen', avoided listening to this discussion, by raising the question ofvetches with Mr. Pilgrim. The stream of conversation had thus diverged:and no more was said about the Rev. Amos Barton, who is the main objectof interest to us just now. So we may leave Cross Farm without waitingtill Mrs. Hackit, resolutely donning her clogs and wrappings, renders itincumbent on Mr. Pilgrim also to fulfil his frequent threat of going. 

Chapter 2

It was happy for the Rev. Amos Barton that he did not, like us, overhearthe conversation recorded in the last chapter. Indeed, what mortal isthere of us, who would find his satisfaction enhanced by an opportunityof comparing the picture he presents to himself of his own doings, withthe picture they make on the mental retina of his neighbours? We are poorplants buoyed up by the air-vessels of our own conceit: alas for us, ifwe get a few pinches that empty us of that windy self-subsistence! Thevery capacity for good would go out of us. For, tell the most impassionedorator, suddenly, that his wig is awry, or his shirt-lap hanging out, andthat he is tickling people by the oddity of his person, instead ofthrilling them by the energy of his periods, and you would infallibly dryup the spring of his eloquence. That is a deep and wide saying, that nomiracle can be wrought without faith--without the worker's faith inhimself, as well as the recipient's faith in him. And the greater part ofthe worker's faith in himself is made up of the faith that others believein him. 

Let me be persuaded that my neighbour Jenkins considers me a blockhead, and I shall never shine in conversation with him any more. Let mediscover that the lovely Phoebe thinks my squint intolerable, and I shallnever be able to fix her blandly with my disengaged eye again. Thankheaven, then, that a little illusion is left to us, to enable us to beuseful and agreeable--that we don't know exactly what our friends thinkof us--that the world is not made of looking-glass, to show us just thefigure we are making, and just what is going on behind our backs! By thehelp of dear friendly illusion, we are able to dream that we are charmingand our faces wear a becoming air of self-possession; we are able todream that other men admire our talents--and our benignity isundisturbed; we are able to dream that we are doing much good--and we doa little. Thus it was with Amos Barton on that very Thursday evening, when he was the subject of the conversation at Cross Farm. He had beendining at Mr. Farquhar's, the secondary squire of the parish, and, stimulated by unwonted gravies and port-wine, had been delivering hisopinion on affairs parochial and otherwise with considerable animation. And he was now returning home in the moonlight--a little chill, it istrue, for he had just now no greatcoat compatible with clerical dignity, and a fur boa round one's neck, with a waterproof cape over one'sshoulders, doesn't frighten away the cold from one's legs; but entirelyunsuspicious, not only of Mr. Hackit's estimate of his oratorical powers, but also of the critical remarks passed on him by the Misses Farquhar assoon as the drawing-room door had closed behind him. Miss Julia hadobserved that she _never_ heard any one sniff so frightfully as Mr. Barton did--she had a great mind to offer him her pocket-handkerchief;and Miss Arabella wondered why he always said he was going _for_ to do athing. He, excellent man! was meditating fresh pastoral exertions on themorrow; he would set on foot his lending library; in which he hadintroduced some books that would be a pretty sharp blow to theDissenters--one especially, purporting to be written by a working manwho, out of pure zeal for the welfare of his class, took the trouble towarn them in this way against those hypocritical thieves, the Dissentingpreachers. The Rev. Amos Barton profoundly believed in the existence ofthat working man, and had thoughts of writing to him. Dissent, heconsidered, would have its head bruised in Shepperton, for did he notattack it in two ways? He preached Low-Church doctrine--as evangelical asanything to be heard in the Independent Chapel; and he made a High-Churchassertion of ecclesiastical powers and functions. Clearly, the Dissenterswould feel that 'the parson' was too many for them. Nothing like a manwho combines shrewdness with energy. The wisdom of the serpent, Mr. Barton considered, was one of his strong points. 

Look at him as he winds through the little churchyard! The silver lightthat falls aslant on church and tomb, enables you to see his slim blackfigure, made all the slimmer by tight pantaloons, as it flits past thepale gravestones. He walks with a quick step, and is now rapping withsharp decision at the vicarage door. It is opened without delay by thenurse, cook, and housemaid, all at once--that is to say, by the robustmaid-of-all-work, Nanny; and as Mr. Barton hangs up his hat in thepassage, you see that a narrow face of no particular complexion--even thesmall-pox that has attacked it seems to have been of a mongrel, indefinite kind--with features of no particular shape, and an eye of noparticular expression is surmounted by a slope of baldness gently risingfrom brow to crown. You judge him, rightly, to be about forty. The houseis quiet, for it is half-past ten, and the children have long been goneto bed. He opens the sitting-room door, but instead of seeing his wife, as he expected, stitching with the nimblest of fingers by the light ofone candle, he finds her dispensing with the light of a candlealtogether. She is softly pacing up and down by the red firelight, holding in her arms little Walter, the year-old baby, who looks over hershoulder with large wide-open eyes, while the patient mother pats hisback with her soft hand, and glances with a sigh at the heap of large andsmall stockings lying unmended on the table. 

She was a lovely woman--Mrs. Amos Barton, a large, fair, gentle Madonna, with thick, close, chestnut curls beside her well-rounded cheeks, andwith large, tender, short-sighted eyes. The flowing lines of her tallfigure made the limpest dress look graceful, and her old frayed blacksilk seemed to repose on her bust and limbs with a placid elegance andsense of distinction, in strong contrast with the uneasy sense of beingno fit, that seemed to express itself in the rustling of Mrs. Farquhar's_gros de Naples_. The caps she wore would have been pronounced, when offher head, utterly heavy and hideous--for in those days even fashionablecaps were large and floppy; but surmounting her long arched neck, andmingling their borders of cheap lace and ribbon with her chestnut curls, they seemed miracles of successful millinery. Among strangers she was shyand tremulous as a girl of fifteen; she blushed crimson if any oneappealed to her opinion; yet that tall, graceful, substantial presencewas so imposing in its mildness, that men spoke to her with an agreeablesensation of timidity. 

Soothing, unspeakable charm of gentle womanhood! which supersedes allacquisitions, all accomplishments. You would never have asked, at anyperiod of Mrs. Amos Barton's life, if she sketched or played the piano. You would even perhaps have been rather scandalized if she had descendedfrom the serene dignity of _being_ to the assiduous unrest of _doing_. Happy the man, you would have thought, whose eye will rest on her in thepauses of his fireside reading--whose hot aching forehead will be soothedby the contact of her cool soft hand who will recover himself fromdejection at his mistakes and failures in the loving light of herunreproaching eyes! You would not, perhaps, have anticipated that thisbliss would fall to the share of precisely such a man as Amos Barton, whom you have already surmised not to have the refined sensibilities forwhich you might have imagined Mrs. Barton's qualities to be destined bypre-established harmony. But I, for one, do not grudge Amos Barton thissweet wife. I have all my life had a sympathy for mongrel ungainly dogs, who are nobody's pets; and I would rather surprise one of them by a patand a pleasant morsel, than meet the condescending advances of theloveliest Skye-terrier who has his cushion by my lady's chair. That, tobe sure, is not the way of the world: if it happens to see a fellow offine proportions and aristocratic mien, who makes no _faux pas_, and winsgolden opinions from all sorts of men, it straightway picks out for himthe loveliest of unmarried women, and says, _There_ would be a propermatch! Not at all, say I: let that successful, well-shapen, discreet andable gentleman put up with something less than the best in thematrimonial department; and let the sweet woman go to make sunshine and asoft pillow for the poor devil whose legs are not models, whose effortsare often blunders, and who in general gets more kicks than halfpence. She--the sweet woman--will like it as well; for her sublime capacity ofloving will have all the more scope; and I venture to say, Mrs. Barton'snature would never have grown half so angelic if she had married the manyou would perhaps have had in your eye for her--a man with sufficientincome and abundant personal eclat. Besides, Amos was an affectionatehusband, and, in his way, valued his wife as his best treasure. 

But now he has shut the door behind him, and said, 'Well, Milly!'

'Well, dear!' was the corresponding greeting, made eloquent by a smile. 

'So that young rascal won't go to sleep! Can't you give him to Nanny?'

'Why, Nanny has been busy ironing this evening; but I think I'll take himto her now. ' And Mrs. Barton glided towards the kitchen, while herhusband ran up-stairs to put on his maize-coloured dressing-gown, inwhich costume he was quietly filling his long pipe when his wife returnedto the sitting-room. Maize is a colour that decidedly did _not_ suit hiscomplexion, and it is one that soon soils; why, then, did Mr. Bartonselect it for domestic wear? Perhaps because he had a knack of hitting onthe wrong thing in garb as well as in grammar. 

Mrs. Barton now lighted her candle, and seated herself before her heap ofstockings. She had something disagreeable to tell her husband, but shewould not enter on it at once. 'Have you had a nice evening, dear?'

'Yes, pretty well. Ely was there to dinner, but went away rather early. Miss Arabella is setting her cap at him with a vengeance. But I don'tthink he's much smitten. I've a notion Ely's engaged to some one at adistance, and will astonish all the ladies who are languishing for himhere, by bringing home his bride one of these days. Ely's a sly dog;he'll like that. '

'Did the Farquhars say anything about the singing last Sunday?'

'Yes; Farquhar said he thought it was time there was some improvement inthe choir. But he was rather scandalized at my setting the tune of"Lydia. " He says he's always hearing it as he passes the Independentmeeting. ' Here Mr. Barton laughed--he had a way of laughing at criticismsthat other people thought damaging--and thereby showed the remainder of aset of teeth which, like the remnants of the Old Guard, were few innumber, and very much the worse for wear. 'But, ' he continued, 'Mrs. Farquhar talked the most about Mr. Bridmain and the Countess. She hastaken up all the gossip about them, and wanted to convert me to heropinion, but I told her pretty strongly what I thought. '

'Dear me! why will people take so much pains to find out evil aboutothers? I have had a note from the Countess since you went, asking us todine with them on Friday. '

Here Mrs. Barton reached the note from the mantelpiece, and gave it toher husband. We will look over his shoulder while he reads it:--

"Sweetest Milly, Bring your lovely face with your husband to dine with uson Friday at seven--do. If not, I will be sulky with you till Sunday, when I shall be obliged to see you, and shall long to kiss you that verymoment. Yours, according to your answer, Caroline Czerlaski. "

'Just like her, isn't it?' said Mrs. Barton. 'I suppose we can go?'

'Yes; I have no engagement. The Clerical Meeting is tomorrow, you know. '

'And, dear, Woods the butcher called, to say he must have some money nextweek. He has a payment to make up. '

This announcement made Mr. Barton thoughtful. He puffed more rapidly, andlooked at the fire. 

'I think I must ask Hackit to lend me twenty pounds, for it is nearly twomonths till Lady-day, and we can't give Woods our last shilling. '

'I hardly like you to ask Mr. Hackit, dear--he and Mrs. Hackit have beenso very kind to us; they have sent us so many things lately. '

'Then I must ask Oldinport. I'm going to write to him tomorrow morning, for to tell him the arrangement I've been thinking of about havingservice in the workhouse while the church is being enlarged. If he agreesto attend service there once or twice, the other people will come. Netthe large fish, and you're sure to have the small fry. '

'I wish we could do without borrowing money, and yet I don't see how wecan. Poor Fred must have some new shoes; I couldn't let him go to Mrs. Bond's yesterday because his toes were peeping out, dear child! and Ican't let him walk anywhere except in the garden. He must have a pairbefore Sunday. Really, boots and shoes are the greatest trouble of mylife. Everything else one can turn and turn about, and make old look likenew; but there's no coaxing boots and shoes to look better than theyare. '

Mrs. Barton was playfully undervaluing her skill in metamorphosing bootsand shoes. She had at that moment on her feet a pair of slippers whichhad long ago lived through the prunella phase of their existence, andwere now running a respectable career as black silk slippers, having beenneatly covered with that material by Mrs. Barton's own neat fingers. Wonderful fingers those! they were never empty; for if she went to spenda few hours with a friendly parishioner, out came her thimble and a pieceof calico or muslin, which, before she left, had become a mysteriouslittle garment with all sorts of hemmed ins and outs. She was even tryingto persuade her husband to leave off tight pantaloons, because if hewould wear the ordinary gun-cases, she knew she could make them so wellthat no one would suspect the sex of the tailor. 

But by this time Mr. Barton has finished his pipe, the candle begins toburn low, and Mrs. Barton goes to see if Nanny has succeeded in lullingWalter to sleep. Nanny is that moment putting him in the little cot byhis mother's bedside; the head, with its thin wavelets of brown hair, indents the little pillow; and a tiny, waxen, dimpled fist hides the rosylips, for baby is given to the infantile peccadillo of thumb-sucking. SoNanny could now join in the short evening prayer, and all could go tobed. Mrs. Barton carried up-stairs the remainder of her heap ofstockings, and laid them on a table close to her bedside, where also sheplaced a warm shawl, removing her candle, before she put it out, to a tinsocket fixed at the head of her bed. Her body was very weary, but herheart was not heavy, in spite of Mr. Woods the butcher, and thetransitory nature of shoe-leather; for her heart so overflowed with love, she felt sure she was near a fountain of love that would care for husbandand babes better than she could foresee; so she was soon asleep. Butabout half-past five o'clock in the morning, if there were any angelswatching round her bed--and angels might be glad of such an office theysaw Mrs. Barton rise up quietly, careful not to disturb the slumberingAmos, who was snoring the snore of the just, light her candle, propherself upright with the pillows, throw the warm shawl round hershoulders, and renew her attack on the heap of undarned stockings. Shedarned away until she heard Nanny stirring, and then drowsiness came withthe dawn; the candle was put out, and she sank into a doze. But at nineo'clock she was at the breakfast-table, busy cutting bread-and-butter forfive hungry mouths, while Nanny, baby on one arm, in rosy cheeks, fatneck, and night-gown, brought in a jug of hot milk-and-water. Nearest hermother sits the nine-year-old Patty, the eldest child, whose sweet fairface is already rather grave sometimes, and who always wants to runup-stairs to save mamma's legs, which get so tired of an evening. Thenthere are four other blond heads--two boys and two girls, graduallydecreasing in size down to Chubby, who is making a round O of her mouthto receive a bit of papa's 'baton'. Papa's attention was divided betweenpetting Chubby, rebuking the noisy Fred, which he did with a somewhatexcessive sharpness, and eating his own breakfast. He had not yet lookedat Mamma, and did not know that her cheek was paler than usual. But Pattywhispered, 'Mamma, have you the headache?'

Happily coal was cheap in the neighbourhood of Shepperton, and Mr. Hackitwould any time let his horses draw a load for 'the parson' withoutcharge; so there was a blazing fire in the sitting-room, and not withoutneed, for the vicarage garden, as they looked out on it from thebow-window, was hard with black frost, and the sky had the white woollylook that portends snow. 

Breakfast over, Mr. Barton mounted to his study, and occupied himself inthe first place with his letter to Mr. Oldinport. It was very much thesame sort of letter as most clergymen would have written under the samecircumstances, except that instead of perambulate, the Rev. Amos wrotepreambulate, and instead of 'if haply', 'if happily', the contingencyindicated being the reverse of happy. Mr. Barton had not the gift ofperfect accuracy in English orthography and syntax, which wasunfortunate, as he was known not to be a Hebrew scholar, and not in theleast suspected of being an accomplished Grecian. These lapses, in a manwho had gone through the Eleusinian mysteries of a university education, surprised the young ladies of his parish extremely; especially the MissesFarquhar, whom he had once addressed in a letter as Dear Mads. , apparently an abbreviation for Madams. The persons least surprised at theRev. Amos's deficiencies were his clerical brethren, who had gone throughthe mysteries themselves. 

At eleven o'clock, Mr. Barton walked forth in cape and boa, with thesleet driving in his face, to read prayers at the workhouse, euphemistically called the 'College'. The College was a huge square stonebuilding, standing on the best apology for an elevation of ground thatcould be seen for about ten miles around Shepperton. A flat ugly districtthis; depressing enough to look at even on the brightest days. The roadsare black with coal-dust, the brick houses dingy with smoke; and at thattime--the time of handloom weavers--every other cottage had a loom at itswindow, where you might see a pale, sickly-looking man or woman pressinga narrow chest against a board, and doing a sort of treadmill work withlegs and arms. A troublesome district for a clergyman; at least to onewho, like Amos Barton, understood the 'cure of souls' in something morethan an official sense; for over and above the rustic stupidity furnishedby the farm-labourers, the miners brought obstreperous animalism, and theweavers in an acrid Radicalism and Dissent. Indeed, Mrs. Hackit oftenobserved that the colliers, who many of them earned better wages than Mr. Barton, 'passed their time in doing nothing but swilling ale and smoking, like the beasts that perish' (speaking, we may presume, in a remotelyanalogical sense); and in some of the alehouse corners the drink wasflavoured by a dingy kind of infidelity, something like rinsings of TomPaine in ditch-water. A certain amount of religious excitement created bythe popular preaching of Mr. Parry, Amos's predecessor, had nearly diedout, and the religious life of Shepperton was falling back towardslow-water mark. Here, you perceive, was a terrible stronghold of Satan;and you may well pity the Rev. Amos Barton, who had to standsingle-handed and summon it to surrender. We read, indeed, that the wallsof Jericho fell down before the sound of trumpets; but we nowhere hearthat those trumpets were hoarse and feeble. Doubtless they were trumpetsthat gave forth clear ringing tones, and sent a mighty vibration throughbrick and mortar. But the oratory of the Rev. Amos resembled rather aBelgian railway-horn, which shows praiseworthy intentions inadequatelyfulfilled. He often missed the right note both in public and privateexhortation, and got a little angry in consequence. For though Amosthought himself strong, he did not _feel_ himself strong. Nature hadgiven him the opinion, but not the sensation. Without that opinion hewould probably never have worn cambric bands, but would have been anexcellent cabinetmaker and deacon of an Independent church, as his fatherwas before him (he was not a shoemaker, as Mr. Pilgrim had reported). Hemight then have sniffed long and loud in the corner of his pew in GunStreet Chapel; he might have indulged in halting rhetoric atprayer-meetings, and have spoken faulty English in private life; andthese little infirmities would not have prevented him, honest faithfulman that he was, from being a shining light in the dissenting circle ofBridgeport. A tallow dip, of the long-eight description, is an excellentthing in the kitchen candlestick, and Betty's nose and eye are notsensitive to the difference between it and the finest wax; it is onlywhen you stick it in the silver candlestick, and introduce it into thedrawing-room, that it seems plebeian, dim, and ineffectual. Alas for theworthy man who, like that candle, gets himself into the wrong place! Itis only the very largest souls who will be able to appreciate and pityhim--who will discern and love sincerity of purpose amid all the bunglingfeebleness of achievement. 

But now Amos Barton has made his way through the sleet as far as theCollege, has thrown off his hat, cape, and boa, and is reading, in thedreary stone-floored dining-room, a portion of the morning service to theinmates seated on the benches before him. Remember, the New Poor-law hadnot yet come into operation, and Mr. Barton was not acting as paidchaplain of the Union, but as the pastor who had the cure of all souls inhis parish, pauper as well as other. After the prayers he alwaysaddressed to them a short discourse on some subject suggested by thelesson for the day, striving if by this means some edifying matter mightfind its way into the pauper mind and conscience--perhaps a task astrying as you could well imagine to the faith and patience of any honestclergyman. For, on the very first bench, these were the faces on whichhis eye had to rest, watching whether there was any stirring under thestagnant surface. 

Right in front of him--probably because he was stone-deaf, and it wasdeemed more edifying to hear nothing at a short distance than at a longone--sat 'Old Maxum', as he was familiarly called, his real patronymicremaining a mystery to most persons. A fine philological sense discernsin this cognomen an indication that the pauper patriarch had once beenconsidered pithy and sententious in his speech; but now the weight ofninety-five years lay heavy on his tongue as well as in his ears, and hesat before the clergyman with protruded chin, and munching mouth, andeyes that seemed to look at emptiness. 

Next to him sat Poll Fodge--known to the magistracy of her county as MaryHiggins--a one-eyed woman, with a scarred and seamy face, the mostnotorious rebel in the workhouse, said to have once thrown her broth overthe master's coat-tails, and who, in spite of nature's apparentsafeguards against that contingency, had contributed to the perpetuationof the Fodge characteristics in the person of a small boy, who wasbehaving naughtily on one of the back benches. Miss Fodge fixed her onesore eye on Mr. Barton with a sort of hardy defiance. 

Beyond this member of the softer sex, at the end of the bench, sat 'SillyJim', a young man afflicted with hydrocephalus, who rolled his head fromside to side, and gazed at the point of his nose. These were thesupporters of Old Maxum on his right. 

On his left sat Mr. Fitchett, a tall fellow, who had once been a footmanin the Oldinport family, and in that giddy elevation had enunciated acontemptuous opinion of boiled beef, which had been traditionally handeddown in Shepperton as the direct cause of his ultimate reduction topauper commons. His calves were now shrunken, and his hair was greywithout the aid of powder; but he still carried his chin as if he wereconscious of a stiff cravat; he set his dilapidated hat on with a knowinginclination towards the left ear; and when he was on field-work, hecarted and uncarted the manure with a sort of flunkey grace, the ghost ofthat jaunty demeanour with which he used to usher in my lady's morningvisitors. The flunkey nature was nowhere completely subdued but in hisstomach, and he still divided society into gentry, gentry's flunkeys, andthe people who provided for them. A clergyman without a flunkey was ananomaly, belonging to neither of these classes. Mr. Fitchett had anirrepressible tendency to drowsiness under spiritual instruction, and inthe recurrent regularity with which he dozed off until he nodded andawaked himself, he looked not unlike a piece of mechanism, ingeniouslycontrived for measuring the length of Mr. Barton's discourse. 

Perfectly wide-awake, on the contrary, was his left-hand neighbour, Mrs. Brick, one of those hard undying old women, to whom age seems to havegiven a network of wrinkles, as a coat of magic armour against theattacks of winters, warm or cold. The point on which Mrs. Brick was stillsensitive--the theme on which you might possibly excite her hope andfear--was snuff. It seemed to be an embalming powder, helping her soul todo the office of salt. 

And now, eke out an audience of which this front benchful was a sample, with a certain number of refractory children, over whom Mr. Spratt, themaster of the workhouse, exercised an irate surveillance, and I think youwill admit that the university-taught clergyman, whose office it is tobring home the gospel to a handful of such souls, has a sufficiently hardtask. For, to have any chance of success, short of miraculousintervention, he must bring his geographical, chronological, exegeticalmind pretty nearly to the pauper point of view, or of no view; he musthave some approximate conception of the mode in which the doctrines thathave so much vitality in the plenum of his own brain will comportthemselves _in vacuo_--that is to say, in a brain that is neithergeographical, chronological, nor exegetical. It is a flexible imaginationthat can take such a leap as that, and an adroit tongue that can adaptits speech to so unfamiliar a position. The Rev. Amos Barton had neitherthat flexible imagination, nor that adroit tongue. He talked of Israeland its sins, of chosen vessels, of the Paschal lamb, of blood as amedium of reconciliation; and he strove in this way to convey religioustruth within reach of the Fodge and Fitchett mind. This very morning, thefirst lesson was the twelfth chapter of Exodus, and Mr. Barton'sexposition turned on unleavened bread. Nothing in the world more suitedto the simple understanding than instruction through familiar types andsymbols! But there is always this danger attending it, that the interestor comprehension of your hearers may stop short precisely at the pointwhere your spiritual interpretation begins. And Mr. Barton this morningsucceeded in carrying the pauper imagination to the dough-tub, butunfortunately was not able to carry it upwards from that well-knownobject to the unknown truths which it was intended to shadow forth. 

Alas! a natural incapacity for teaching, finished by keeping 'terms' atCambridge, where there are able mathematicians, and butter is sold by theyard, is not apparently the medium through which Christian doctrine willdistil as welcome dew on withered souls. 

And so, while the sleet outside was turning to unquestionable snow, andthe stony dining-room looked darker and drearier, and Mr. Fitchett wasnodding his lowest, and Mr. Spratt was boxing the boys' ears with aconstant _rinforzando_, as he felt more keenly the approach ofdinner-time, Mr. Barton wound up his exhortation with something of theFebruary chill at his heart as well as his feet. Mr. Fitchett, thoroughlyroused now the instruction was at an end, obsequiously and gracefullyadvanced to help Mr. Barton in putting on his cape, while Mrs. Brickrubbed her withered forefinger round and round her little shoe-shapedsnuff-box, vainly seeking for the fraction of a pinch. I can't helpthinking that if Mr. Barton had shaken into that little box a smallportion of Scotch high-dried, he might have produced something more likean amiable emotion in Mrs. Brick's mind than anything she had felt underhis morning's exposition of the unleavened bread. But our good Amoslaboured under a deficiency of small tact as well as of small cash; andwhen he observed the action of the old woman's forefinger, he said, inhis brusque way, 'So your snuff is all gone, eh?'

Mrs. Brick's eyes twinkled with the visionary hope that the parson mightbe intending to replenish her box, at least mediately, through thepresent of a small copper. 

'Ah, well! you'll soon be going where there is no more snuff. You'll bein need of mercy then. You must remember that you may have to seek formercy and not find it, just as you're seeking for snuff. '

At the first sentence of this admonition, the twinkle subsided from Mrs. Brick's eyes. The lid of her box went 'click!' and her heart was shut upat the same moment. 

But now Mr. Barton's attention was called for by Mr. Spratt, who wasdragging a small and unwilling boy from the rear. Mr. Spratt was asmall-featured, small-statured man, with a remarkable power of language, mitigated by hesitation, who piqued himself on expressing unexceptionablesentiments in unexceptional language on all occasions. 

'Mr. Barton, sir--aw--aw--excuse my trespassing on your time--aw--to begthat you will administer a rebuke to this boy; he is--aw--aw--mostinveterate in ill-behaviour during service-time. '

The inveterate culprit was a boy of seven, vainly contending against'candles' at his nose by feeble sniffing. But no sooner had Mr. Sprattuttered his impeachment, than Miss Fodge rushed forward and placedherself between Mr. Barton and the accused. 

'That's _my_ child, Muster Barton, ' she exclaimed, further manifestingher maternal instincts by applying her apron to her offspring's nose. 'He's al'ys a-findin' faut wi' him, and a-poundin' him for nothin'. Lethim goo an' eat his roost goose as is a-smellin' up in our noses whilewe're a-swallering them greasy broth, an' let my boy alooan. '

Mr. Spratt's small eyes flashed, and he was in danger of utteringsentiments not unexceptionable before the clergyman; but Mr. Barton, foreseeing that a prolongation of this episode would not be toedification, said 'Silence!' in his severest tones. 

'Let me hear no abuse. Your boy is not likely to behave well, if you sethim the example of being saucy. ' Then stooping down to Master Fodge, andtaking him by the shoulder, 'Do you like being beaten?'

'No-a. '

'Then what a silly boy you are to be naughty. If you were not naughty, you wouldn't be beaten. But if you are naughty, God will be angry, aswell as Mr. Spratt; and God can burn you for ever. That will be worsethan being beaten. '

Master Fodge's countenance was neither affirmative nor negative of thisproposition. 

'But, ' continued Mr. Barton, 'if you will be a good boy, God will loveyou, and you will grow up to be a good man. Now, let me hear nextThursday that you have been a good boy. '

Master Fodge had no distinct vision of the benefit that would accrue tohim from this change of courses. But Mr. Barton, being aware that MissFodge had touched on a delicate subject in alluding to the roast goose, was determined to witness no more polemics between her and Mr. Spratt, so, saying good morning to the latter, he hastily left the College. 

The snow was falling in thicker and thicker flakes, and already thevicarage-garden was cloaked in white as he passed through the gate. Mrs. Barton heard him open the door, and ran out of the sitting-room to meethim. 

'I'm afraid your feet are very wet, dear. What a terrible morning! Let metake your hat. Your slippers are at the fire. '

Mr. Barton was feeling a little cold and cross. It is difficult, when youhave been doing disagreeable duties, without praise, on a snowy day, toattend to the very minor morals. So he showed no recognition of Milly'sattentions, but simply said, 'Fetch me my dressing-gown, will you?'

'It is down, dear. I thought you wouldn't go into the study, because yousaid you would letter and number the books for the Lending Library. Pattyand I have been covering them, and they are all ready in thesitting-room. '

'Oh, I can't do those this morning, ' said Mr. Barton, as he took off hisboots and put his feet into the slippers Milly had brought him; 'you mustput them away into the parlour. '

The sitting-room was also the day nursery and schoolroom; and whileMamma's back was turned, Dickey, the second boy, had insisted onsuperseding Chubby in the guidance of a headless horse, of thered-wafered species, which she was drawing round the room, so that whenPapa opened the door Chubby was giving tongue energetically. 

'Milly, some of these children must go away. I want to be quiet. '

'Yes, dear. Hush, Chubby; go with Patty, and see what Nanny is gettingfor our dinner. Now, Fred and Sophy and Dickey, help me to carry thesebooks into the parlour. There are three for Dickey. Carry them steadily. '

Papa meanwhile settled himself in his easy-chair, and took up a work onEpiscopacy, which he had from the Clerical Book Society; thinking hewould finish it and return it this afternoon, as he was going to theClerical Meeting at Milby Vicarage, where the Book Society had itsheadquarters. 

The Clerical Meetings and Book Society, which had been founded some eightor ten months, had had a noticeable effect on the Rev. Amos Barton. Whenhe first came to Shepperton he was simply an evangelical clergyman, whoseChristian experiences had commenced under the teaching of the Rev. Mr. Johns, of Gun Street Chapel, and had been consolidated at Cambridge underthe influence of Mr. Simeon. John Newton and Thomas Scott were hisdoctrinal ideals; he would have taken in the "Christian Observer" and the"Record, " if he could have afforded it; his anecdotes were chiefly of thepious-jocose kind, current in dissenting circles; and he thought anEpiscopalian Establishment unobjectionable. 

But by this time the effect of the Tractarian agitation was beginning tobe felt in backward provincial regions, and the Tractarian satire on theLow-Church party was beginning to tell even on those who disavowed orresisted Tractarian doctrines. The vibration of an intellectual movementwas felt from the golden head to the miry toes of the Establishment; andso it came to pass that, in the district round Milby, the market-townclose to Shepperton, the clergy had agreed to have a clerical meetingevery month, wherein they would exercise their intellects by discussingtheological and ecclesiastical questions, and cement their brotherly loveby discussing a good dinner. A Book Society naturally suggested itself asan adjunct of this agreeable plan; and thus, you perceive, there wasprovision made for ample friction of the clerical mind. 

Now, the Rev. Amos Barton was one of those men who have a decided willand opinion of their own; he held himself bolt upright, and had noself-distrust. He would march very determinedly along the road he thoughtbest; but then it was wonderfully easy to convince him which was the bestroad. And so a very little unwonted reading and unwonted discussion madehim see that an Episcopalian Establishment was much more thanunobjectionable, and on many other points he began to feel that he heldopinions a little too far-sighted and profound to be crudely and suddenlycommunicated to ordinary minds. He was like an onion that has been rubbedwith spices; the strong original odour was blended with something new andforeign. The Low-Church onion still offended refined High Churchnostrils, and the new spice was unwelcome to the palate of the genuineonion-eater. 

We will not accompany him to the Clerical Meeting today, because we shallprobably want to go thither some day when he will be absent. And just nowI am bent on introducing you to Mr. Bridmain and the Countess Czerlaski, with whom Mr. And Mrs. Barton are invited to dine tomorrow. 

Chapter 3

Outside, the moon is shedding its cold light on the cold snow, and thewhite-bearded fir-trees round Camp Villa are casting a blue shadow acrossthe white ground, while the Rev. Amos Barton, and his wife are audiblycrushing the crisp snow beneath their feet, as, about seven o'clock onFriday evening, they approach the door of the above-named desirablecountry residence, containing dining, breakfast, and drawing rooms, etc. , situated only half a mile from the market-town of Milby. 

Inside, there is a bright fire in the drawing-room, casting a pleasantbut uncertain light on the delicate silk dress of a lady who is recliningbehind a screen in the corner of the sofa, and allowing you to discernthat the hair of the gentleman who is seated in the arm-chair opposite, with a newspaper over his knees, is becoming decidedly grey. A little'King Charles', with a crimson ribbon round his neck, who has been lyingcurled up in the very middle of the hearth-rug, has just discovered thatthat zone is too hot for him, and is jumping on the sofa, evidently withthe intention of accommodating his person on the silk gown. On the tablethere are two wax-candles, which will be lighted as soon as the expectedknock is heard at the door. 

The knock is heard, the candles are lighted, and presently Mr. And Mrs. Barton are ushered in--Mr. Barton erect and clerical, in a faultless tieand shining cranium; Mrs. Barton graceful in a newly-turned black silk. 

'Now this is charming of you, ' said the Countess Czerlaski, advancing tomeet them, and embracing Milly with careful elegance. 'I am reallyashamed of my selfishness in asking my friends to come and see me in thisfrightful weather. ' Then, giving her hand to Amos, 'And you, Mr. Barton, whose time is so precious! But I am doing a good deed in drawing you awayfrom your labours. I have a plot to prevent you from martyrizingyourself. '

While this greeting was going forward, Mr. Bridmain, and Jet the spaniel, looked on with the air of actors who had no idea of by-play. Mr. Bridmain, a stiff and rather thick-set man, gave his welcome with alaboured cordiality. It was astonishing how very little he resembled hisbeautiful sister. 

For the Countess Czerlaski was undeniably beautiful. As she seatedherself by Mrs. Barton on the sofa, Milly's eyes, indeed, rested--must itbe confessed?--chiefly on the details of the tasteful dress, the richsilk of a pinkish lilac hue (the Countess always wore delicate colours inan evening), the black lace pelerine, and the black lace veil falling atthe back of the small closely-braided head. For Milly had oneweakness--don't love her any the less for it, it was a pretty woman'sweakness--she was fond of dress; and often, when she was making up herown economical millinery, she had romantic visions how nice it would beto put on really handsome stylish things--to have very stiff balloonsleeves, for example, without which a woman's dress was nought in thosedays. You and I, too, reader, have our weakness, have we not? which makesus think foolish things now and then. Perhaps it may lie in an excessiveadmiration for small hands and feet, a tall lithe figure, large darkeyes, and dark silken braided hair. All these the Countess possessed, andshe had, moreover, a delicately-formed nose, the least bit curved, and aclear brunette complexion. Her mouth it must be admitted, receded toomuch from her nose and chin and to a prophetic eye threatened'nut-crackers' in advanced age. But by the light of fire and wax candlesthat age seemed very far off indeed, and you would have said that theCountess was not more than thirty. 

Look at the two women on the sofa together! The large, fair, mild-eyedMilly is timid even in friendship: it is not easy to her to speak of theaffection of which her heart is full. The lithe, dark, thin-lippedCountess is racking her small brain for caressing words and charmingexaggerations. 

'And how are all the cherubs at home?' said the Countess, stooping topick up Jet, and without waiting for an answer. 'I have been keptin-doors by a cold ever since Sunday, or I should not have rested withoutseeing you. What have you done with those wretched singers, Mr. Barton?'

'O, we have got a new choir together, which will go on very well with alittle practice. I was quite determined that the old set of singersshould be dismissed. I had given orders that they should not sing thewedding psalm, as they call it, again, to make a new-married couple lookridiculous, and they sang it in defiance of me. I could put them into theEcclesiastical Court, if I chose for to do so, for lifting up theirvoices in church in opposition to the clergyman. '

'And a most wholesome discipline that would be, ' said the Countess, 'indeed, you are too patient and forbearing, Mr. Barton. For my part, _I_lose _my_ temper when I see how far you are from being appreciated inthat miserable Shepperton. '

If, as is probable, Mr. Barton felt at a loss what to say in reply to theinsinuated compliment, it was a relief to him that dinner was announcedjust then, and that he had to offer his arm to the Countess. 

As Mr. Bridmain was leading Mrs. Barton to the dining-room, he observed, 'The weather is very severe. '

'Very, indeed, ' said Milly. 

Mr. Bridmain studied conversation as an art. To ladies he spoke of theweather, and was accustomed to consider it under three points of view: asa question of climate in general, comparing England with other countriesin this respect; as a personal question, inquiring how it affected hislady interlocutor in particular; and as a question of probabilities, discussing whether there would be a change or a continuance of thepresent atmospheric conditions. To gentlemen he talked politics, and heread two daily papers expressly to qualify himself for this function. Mr. Barton thought him a man of considerable political information, but notof lively parts. 

'And so you are always to hold your Clerical Meetings at Mr. Ely's?' saidthe Countess, between her spoonfuls of soup. (The soup was a littleover-spiced. Mrs. Short of Camp Villa, who was in the habit of lettingher best apartments, gave only moderate wages to her cook. )

'Yes, ' said Mr. Barton; 'Milby is a central place, and there are manyconveniences in having only one point of meeting. '

'Well, ' continued the Countess, 'every one seems to agree in giving theprecedence to Mr. Ely. For my part, I _cannot_ admire him. His preachingis too cold for me. It has no fervour--no heart. I often say to mybrother, it is a great comfort to me that Shepperton Church is not toofar off for us to go to; don't I, Edmund?'

'Yes, ' answered Mr. Bridmain; 'they show us into such a bad pew atMilby--just where there is a draught from that door. I caught a stiffneck the first time I went there. '

'O, it is the cold in the pulpit that affects me, not the cold in thepew. I was writing to my friend Lady Porter this morning, and telling herall about my feelings. She and I think alike on such matters. She is mostanxious that when Sir William has an opportunity of giving away theliving at their place, Dippley, they should have a thoroughly zealousclever man there. I have been describing a certain friend of mine to her, who, I think, would be just to her mind. And there is such a prettyrectory, Milly; shouldn't I like to see you the mistress of it?'

Milly smiled and blushed slightly. The Rev. Amos blushed very red, andgave a little embarrassed laugh--he could rarely keep his muscles withinthe limits of a smile. At this moment John, the man-servant, approachedMrs. Barton with a gravy-tureen, and also with a slight odour of thestable, which usually adhered to him through his in-door functions. Johnwas rather nervous; and the Countess happening to speak to him at thisinopportune moment, the tureen slipped and emptied itself on Mrs. Barton's newly-turned black silk. 

'O, horror! Tell Alice to come directly and rub Mrs. Barton's dress, 'said the Countess to the trembling John, carefully abstaining fromapproaching the gravy-sprinkled spot on the floor with her own lilacsilk. But Mr. Bridmain, who had a strictly private interest in silks, good-naturedly jumped up and applied his napkin at once to Mrs. Barton'sgown. 

Milly felt a little inward anguish, but no ill-temper, and tried to makelight of the matter for the sake of John as well as others. The Countessfelt inwardly thankful that her own delicate silk had escaped, but threwout lavish interjections of distress and indignation. 

'Dear saint that you are, ' she said, when Milly laughed, and suggestedthat, as her silk was not very glossy to begin with, the dim patch wouldnot be much seen; 'you don't mind about these things, I know. Just thesame sort of thing happened to me at the Princess Wengstein's one day, ona pink satin. I was in an agony. But you are so indifferent to dress; andwell you may be. It is you who make dress pretty, and not dress thatmakes you pretty. '

Alice, the buxom lady's-maid, wearing a much better dress than Mrs. Barton's, now appeared to take Mr. Bridmain's place in retrieving themischief, and after a great amount of supplementary rubbing, composurewas restored, and the business of dining was continued. When John wasrecounting his accident to the cook in the kitchen, he observed, 'Mrs. Barton's a hamable woman; I'd a deal sooner ha' throwed the gravy o'erthe Countess's fine gownd. But laws! what tantrums she'd ha' been inarter the visitors was gone. '

'You'd a deal sooner not ha' throwed it down at all, _I_ should think, 'responded the unsympathetic cook, to whom John did _not_ make love. 'Whod'you think's to mek gravy anuff, if you're to baste people's gownds wi'it?'

'Well, ' suggested John, humbly, 'you should wet the bottom of the _duree_a bit, to hold it from slippin'. '

'Wet your granny!' returned the cook; a retort which she probablyregarded in the light of a _reductio ad absurdum_, and which in factreduced John to silence. 

Later on in the evening, while John was removing the teathings from thedrawing-room, and brushing the crumbs from the table-cloth with anaccompanying hiss, such as he was wont to encourage himself with inrubbing down Mr. Bridmain's horse, the Rev. Amos Barton drew from hispocket a thin green-covered pamphlet, and, presenting it to the Countess, said, --'You were pleased, I think, with my sermon on Christmas Day. Ithas been printed in "The Pulpit, " and I thought you might like a copy. '

'That indeed I shall. I shall quite value the opportunity of reading thatsermon. There was such depth in it!--such argument! It was not a sermonto be heard only once. I am delighted that it should become generallyknown, as it will be now it is printed in "The Pulpit. "'

'Yes, ' said Milly, innocently, 'I was so pleased with the editor'sletter. ' And she drew out her little pocket-book, where she carefullytreasured the editorial autograph, while Mr. Barton laughed and blushed, and said, 'Nonsense, Milly!'

'You see, ' she said, giving the letter to the Countess, 'I am very proudof the praise my husband gets. '

The sermon in question, by the by, was an extremely argumentative one onthe Incarnation; which, as it was preached to a congregation not one ofwhom had any doubt of that doctrine, and to whom the Socinians thereinconfuted were as unknown as the Arimaspians, was exceedingly well adaptedto trouble and confuse the Sheppertonian mind. 

'Ah, ' said the Countess, returning the editor's letter, 'he may well sayhe will be glad of other sermons from the same source. But I would ratheryou should publish your sermons in an independent volume, Mr. Barton; itwould be so desirable to have them in that shape. For instance, I couldsend a copy to the Dean of Radborough. And there is Lord Blarney, whom Iknew before he was chancellor. I was a special favourite of his, and youcan't think what sweet things he used to say to me. I shall not resistthe temptation to write to him one of these days _sans facon_, and tellhim how he ought to dispose of the next vacant living in his gift. '

Whether Jet the spaniel, being a much more knowing dog than wassuspected, wished to express his disapproval of the Countess's lastspeech, as not accordant with his ideas of wisdom and veracity, I cannotsay; but at this moment he jumped off her lap, and, turning his back uponher, placed one paw on the fender, and held the other up to warm, as ifaffecting to abstract himself from the current of conversation. 

But now Mr. Bridmain brought out the chess-board, and Mr. Barton acceptedhis challenge to play a game, with immense satisfaction. The Rev. Amoswas very fond of chess, as most people are who can continue through manyyears to create interesting vicissitudes in the game, by takinglong-meditated moves with their knights, and subsequently discoveringthat they have thereby exposed their queen. 

Chess is a silent game; and the Countess's chat with Milly is in quite anunder-tone--probably relating to women's matters that it would beimpertinent for us to listen to; so we will leave Camp Villa, and proceedto Milby Vicarage, where Mr. Farquhar has sat out two other guests withwhom he has been dining at Mr. Ely's, and is now rather wearying thatreverend gentleman by his protracted small-talk. 

Mr. Ely was a tall, dark-haired, distinguished-looking man ofthree-and-thirty. By the laity of Milby and its neighbourhood he wasregarded as a man of quite remarkable powers and learning, who must makea considerable sensation in London pulpits and drawing-rooms on hisoccasional visit to the metropolis; and by his brother clergy he wasregarded as a discreet and agreeable fellow. Mr. Ely never got into awarm discussion; he suggested what might be thought, but rarely said whathe thought himself; he never let either men or women see that he waslaughing at them, and he never gave any one an opportunity of laughing at_him_. In one thing only he was injudicious. He parted his dark wavy hairdown the middle; and as his head was rather flat than otherwise, thatstyle of coiffure was not advantageous to him. 

Mr. Farquhar, though not a parishioner of Mr. Ely's, was one of hiswarmest admirers, and thought he would make an unexceptionableson-in-law, in spite of his being of no particular 'family'. Mr. Farquharwas susceptible on the point of 'blood'--his own circulating fluid, whichanimated a short and somewhat flabby person, being, he considered, ofvery superior quality. 

'By the by, ' he said, with a certain pomposity counteracted by a lisp, 'what an ath Barton makth of himthelf, about that Bridmain and theCounteth, ath she callth herthelf. After you were gone the other evening, Mithith Farquhar wath telling him the general opinion about them in theneighbourhood, and he got quite red and angry. Bleth your thoul, hebelievth the whole thtory about her Polish huthband and hith wonderfulethcapeth; and ath for her--why, he thinkth her perfection, a woman ofmotht refined fellingth, and no end of thtuff. '

Mr. Ely smiled. 'Some people would say our friend Barton was not the bestjudge of refinement. Perhaps the lady flatters him a little, and we menare susceptible. She goes to Shepperton Church every Sunday--drawn there, let us suppose, by Mr. Barton's eloquence. '

'Pshaw, ' said Mr. Farquhar: 'Now, to my mind, you have only to look atthat woman to thee what she ith--throwing her eyth about when she comthinto church, and drething in a way to attract attention. I should thay, she'th tired of her brother Bridmain, and looking out for another brotherwith a thtronger family likeneth. Mithith Farquhar ith very fond ofMithith Barton, and ith quite dithtrethed that she should athothiate withthuch a woman, tho she attacked him on the thubject purpothly. But I tellher it'th of no uthe, with a pig-headed fellow like him. Barton'thwell-meaning enough, but _tho_ contheited. I've left off giving him myadvithe. '

Mr. Ely smiled inwardly and said to himself, 'What a punishment!' But toMr. Farquhar he said, 'Barton might be more judicious, it must beconfessed. ' He was getting tired, and did not want to develop thesubject. 

'Why, nobody vithit-th them but the Bartonth, ' continued Mr. Farquhar, 'and why should thuch people come here, unleth they had particularreathonth for preferring a neighbourhood where they are not known? Pooh!it lookth bad on the very fathe of it. _You_ called on them, now; how didyou find them?'

'O!--Mr. Bridmain strikes me as a common sort of man, who is making aneffort to seem wise and well-bred. He comes down on one tremendously withpolitical information, and seems knowing about the king of the French. The Countess is certainly a handsome woman, but she puts on the grand aira little too powerfully. Woodcock was immensely taken with her, andinsisted on his wife's calling on her and asking her to dinner; but Ithink Mrs. Woodcock turned restive after the first visit, and wouldn'tinvite her again. '

'Ha, ha! Woodcock hath alwayth a thoft place in hith heart for a prettyfathe. It'th odd how he came to marry that plain woman, and no fortuneeither. '

'Mysteries of the tender passion, ' said Mr. Ely. 'I am not initiated yet, you know. '

Here Mr. Farquhar's carriage was announced, and as we have not found hisconversation particularly brilliant under the stimulus of Mr. Ely'sexceptional presence, we will not accompany him home to the less excitingatmosphere of domestic life. 

Mr. Ely threw himself with a sense of relief into his easiest chair, sethis feet on the hobs, and in this attitude of bachelor enjoyment began toread Bishop Jebb's Memoirs. 

Chapter 4

I am by no means sure that if the good people of Milby had known thetruth about the Countess Czerlaski, they would not have been considerablydisappointed to find that it was very far from being as bad as theyimagined. Nice distinctions are troublesome. It is so much easier to saythat a thing is black, than to discriminate the particular shade ofbrown, blue, or green, to which it really belongs. It is so much easierto make up your mind that your neighbour is good for nothing, than toenter into all the circumstances that would oblige you to modify thatopinion. 

Besides, think of all the virtuous declamation, all the penetratingobservation, which had been built up entirely on the fundamental positionthat the Countess was a very objectionable person indeed, and which wouldbe utterly overturned and nullified by the destruction of that premiss. Mrs. Phipps, the banker's wife, and Mrs. Landor, the attorney's wife, hadinvested part of their reputation for acuteness in the supposition thatMr. Bridmain was not the Countess's brother. Moreover, Miss Phipps wasconscious that if the Countess was not a disreputable person, she, MissPhipps, had no compensating superiority in virtue to set against theother lady's manifest superiority in personal charms. Miss Phipps'sstumpy figure and unsuccessful attire, instead of looking down from amount of virtue with an aureole round its head, would then be seen on thesame level and in the same light as the Countess Czerlaski's Diana-likeform and well-chosen drapery. Miss Phipps, for her part, didn't likedressing for effect--she had always avoided that style of appearancewhich was calculated to create a sensation. 

Then what amusing innuendoes of the Milby gentlemen over their wine wouldhave been entirely frustrated and reduced to nought, if you had told themthat the Countess had really been guilty of no misdemeanours whichdemanded her exclusion from strictly respectable society; that herhusband had been the veritable Count Czerlaski, who had had wonderfulescapes, as she said, and who, as she did _not_ say, but as was said incertain circulars once folded by her fair hands, had subsequently givendancing lessons in the metropolis; that Mr. Bridmain was neither more norless than her half-brother, who, by unimpeached integrity and industry, had won a partnership in a silk-manufactory, and thereby a moderatefortune, that enabled him to retire, as you see, to study politics, theweather, and the art of conversation at his leisure. Mr. Bridmain, infact, quadragenarian bachelor as he was, felt extremely well pleased toreceive his sister in her widowhood, and to shine in the reflected lightof her beauty and title. Every man who is not a monster, a mathematician, or a mad philosopher, is the slave of some woman or other. Mr. Bridmainhad put his neck under the yoke of his handsome sister, and though hissoul was a very little one--of the smallest description indeed--he wouldnot have ventured to call it his own. He might be slightly recalcitrantnow and then, as is the habit of long-eared pachyderms, under the thongof the fair Countess's tongue; but there seemed little probability thathe would ever get his neck loose. Still, a bachelor's heart is anoutlying fortress that some fair enemy may any day take either by stormor stratagem; and there was always the possibility that Mr. Bridmain'sfirst nuptials might occur before the Countess was quite sure of hersecond. As it was, however, he submitted to all his sister's caprices, never grumbled because her dress and her maid formed a considerable itembeyond her own little income of sixty pounds per annum, and consented tolead with her a migratory life, as personages on the debatable groundbetween aristocracy and commonalty, instead of settling in some spotwhere his five hundred a-year might have won him the definite dignity ofa parochial magnate. 

The Countess had her views in choosing a quiet provincial place likeMilby. After three years of widowhood, she had brought her feelings tocontemplate giving a successor to her lamented Czerlaski, whose finewhiskers, fine air, and romantic fortunes had won her heart ten yearsago, when, as pretty Caroline Bridmain, in the full bloom offive-and-twenty, she was governess to Lady Porter's daughters, whom heinitiated into the mysteries of the _pas de bas_, and the lancers'quadrilles. She had had seven years of sufficiently happy matrimony withCzerlaski, who had taken her to Paris and Germany, and introduced herthere to many of his old friends with large titles and small fortunes. Sothat the fair Caroline had had considerable experience of life, and hadgathered therefrom, not, indeed, any very ripe and comprehensive wisdom, but much external polish, and certain practical conclusions of a verydecided kind. One of these conclusions was, that there were things moresolid in life than fine whiskers and a title, and that, in accepting asecond husband, she would regard these items as quite subordinate to acarriage and a settlement. Now, she had ascertained, by tentativeresidences, that the kind of bite she was angling for was difficult to bemet with at watering-places, which were already preoccupied withabundance of angling beauties, and were chiefly stocked with men whosewhiskers might be dyed, and whose incomes were still more problematic; soshe had determined on trying a neighbourhood where people were extremelywell acquainted with each other's affairs, and where the women weremostly ill-dressed and ugly. Mr. Bridmain's slow brain had adopted hissister's views, and it seemed to him that a woman so handsome anddistinguished as the Countess must certainly make a match that might lifthimself into the region of county celebrities, and give him at least asort of cousinship to the quarter-sessions. 

All this, which was the simple truth, would have seemed extremely flat tothe gossips of Milby, who had made up their minds to something much moreexciting. There was nothing here so very detestable. It is true, theCountess was a little vain, a little ambitious, a little selfish, alittle shallow and frivolous, a little given to white lies. --But whoconsiders such slight blemishes, such moral pimples as these, disqualifications for entering into the most respectable society! Indeed, the severest ladies in Milby would have been perfectly aware that thesecharacteristics would have created no wide distinction between theCountess Czerlaski and themselves; and since it was clear there _was_ awide distinction--why, it must lie in the possession of some vices fromwhich they were undeniably free. 

Hence it came to pass that Milby respectability refused to recognize theCountess Czerlaski, in spite of her assiduous church-going, and the deepdisgust she was known to have expressed at the extreme paucity of thecongregations on Ash-Wednesdays. So she began to feel that she hadmiscalculated the advantages of a neighbourhood where people are wellacquainted with each other's private affairs. Under these circumstances, you will imagine how welcome was the perfect credence and admiration shemet with from Mr. And Mrs. Barton. She had been especially irritated byMr. Ely's behaviour to her; she felt sure that he was not in the leaststruck with her beauty, that he quizzed her conversation, and that hespoke of her with a sneer. A woman always knows where she is utterlypowerless, and shuns a coldly satirical eye as she would shun a Gorgon. And she was especially eager for clerical notice and friendship, notmerely because that is quite the most respectable countenance to beobtained in society, but because she really cared about religiousmatters, and had an uneasy sense that she was not altogether safe in thatquarter. She had serious intentions of becoming _quite_ pious--withoutany reserves--when she had once got her carriage and settlement. Let usdo this one sly trick, says Ulysses to Neoptolemus, and we will beperfectly honest ever after--

 [Greek: all edu gar toi ktema tes uikes labien tolma dikaioi d' authis ekphanoumetha. ]

The Countess did not quote Sophocles, but she said to herself, 'Only thislittle bit of pretence and vanity, and then I will be _quite_ good, andmake myself quite safe for another world. '

And as she had by no means such fine taste and insight in theologicalteaching as in costume, the Rev. Amos Barton seemed to her a man not onlyof learning--_that_ is always understood with a clergyman--but of muchpower as a spiritual director. As for Milly, the Countess really lovedher as well as the preoccupied state of her affections would allow. Foryou have already perceived that there was one being to whom the Countesswas absorbingly devoted, and to whose desires she made everything elsesubservient--namely, Caroline Czerlaski, _nee_ Bridmain. 

Thus there was really not much affectation in her sweet speeches andattentions to Mr. And Mrs. Barton. Still their friendship by no meansadequately represented the object she had in view when she came to Milby, and it had been for some time clear to her that she must suggest a newchange of residence to her brother. 

The thing we look forward to often comes to pass, but never precisely inthe way we have imagined to ourselves. The Countess did actually leaveCamp Villa before many months were past, but under circumstances whichhad not at all entered into her contemplation. 

Chapter 5

The Rev. Amos Barton, whose sad fortunes I have undertaken to relate, was, you perceive, in no respect an ideal or exceptional character; andperhaps I am doing a bold thing to bespeak your sympathy on behalf of aman who was so very far from remarkable, --a man whose virtues were notheroic, and who had no undetected crime within his breast; who had notthe slightest mystery hanging about him, but was palpably andunmistakably commonplace; who was not even in love, but had had thatcomplaint favourably many years ago. 'An utterly uninterestingcharacter!' I think I hear a lady reader exclaim--Mrs. Farthingale, forexample, who prefers the ideal in fiction; to whom tragedy means erminetippets, adultery, and murder; and comedy, the adventures of somepersonage who is quite a 'character'. 

But, my dear madam, it is so very large a majority of yourfellow-countrymen that are of this insignificant stamp. At least eightyout of a hundred of your adult male fellow-Britons returned in the lastcensus are neither extraordinarily silly, nor extraordinarily wicked, norextraordinarily wise; their eyes are neither deep and liquid withsentiment, nor sparkling with suppressed witticisms; they have probablyhad no hairbreadth escapes or thrilling adventures; their brains arecertainly not pregnant with genius, and their passions have notmanifested themselves at all after the fashion of a volcano. They aresimply men of complexions more or less muddy, whose conversation is moreor less bald and disjointed. Yet these commonplace people--many ofthem--bear a conscience, and have felt the sublime prompting to do thepainful right; they have their unspoken sorrows, and their sacred joys;their hearts have perhaps gone out towards their first-born, and theyhave mourned over the irreclaimable dead. Nay, is there not a pathos intheir very insignificance--in our comparison of their dim and narrowexistence with the glorious possibilities of that human nature which theyshare?

Depend upon it, you would gain unspeakably if you would learn with me tosee some of the poetry and the pathos, the tragedy and the comedy, lyingin the experience of a human soul that looks out through dull grey eyes, and that speaks in a voice of quite ordinary tones. In that case, Ishould have no fear of your not caring to know what farther befell theRev. Amos Barton, or of your thinking the homely details I have to tellat all beneath your attention. As it is, you can, if you please, declineto pursue my story farther; and you will easily find reading more to yourtaste, since I learn from the newspapers that many remarkable novels, full of striking situations, thrilling incidents, and eloquent writing, have appeared only within the last season. 

Meanwhile, readers who have begun to feel an interest in the Rev. AmosBarton and his wife, will be glad to learn that Mr. Oldinport lent thetwenty pounds. But twenty pounds are soon exhausted when twelve are dueas back payment to the butcher, and when the possession of eight extrasovereigns in February weather is an irresistible temptation to order anew greatcoat. And though Mr. Bridmain so far departed from the necessaryeconomy entailed on him by the Countess's elegant toilette and expensivemaid, as to choose a handsome black silk, stiff, as his experienced eyediscerned, with the genuine strength of its own texture, and not with thefactitious strength of gum, and present it to Mrs. Barton, in retrievalof the accident that had occurred at his table, yet, dear me--as everyhusband has heard--what is the present of a gown when you are deficientlyfurnished with the et-ceteras of apparel, and when, moreover, there aresix children whose wear and tear of clothes is something incredible tothe non-maternal mind?

Indeed, the equation of income and expenditure was offering new andconstantly accumulating difficulties to Mr. And Mrs. Barton; for shortlyafter the birth of little Walter, Milly's aunt, who had lived with herever since her marriage, had withdrawn herself, her furniture, and heryearly income, to the household of another niece; prompted to that step, very probably, by a slight 'tiff' with the Rev. Amos, which occurredwhile Milly was upstairs, and proved one too many for the elderly lady'spatience and magnanimity. Mr. Barton's temper was a little warm, but, onthe other hand, elderly maiden ladies are known to be susceptible; so wewill not suppose that all the blame lay on his side--the less so, as hehad every motive for humouring an inmate whose presence kept the wolffrom the door. It was now nearly a year since Miss Jackson's departure, and, to a fine ear, the howl of the wolf was audibly approaching. 

It was a sad thing, too, that when the last snow had melted, when thepurple and yellow crocuses were coming up in the garden, and the oldchurch was already half pulled down, Milly had an illness which made herlips look pale, and rendered it absolutely necessary that she should notexert herself for some time. Mr. Brand, the Shepperton doctor soobnoxious to Mr. Pilgrim, ordered her to drink port-wine, and it wasquite necessary to have a charwoman very often, to assist Nanny in allthe extra work that fell upon her. 

Mrs. Hackit, who hardly ever paid a visit to any one but her oldest andnearest neighbour, Mrs. Patten, now took the unusual step of calling atthe vicarage one morning; and the tears came into her unsentimental eyesas she saw Milly seated pale and feeble in the parlour, unable topersevere in sewing the pinafore that lay on the table beside her. LittleDickey, a boisterous boy of five, with large pink cheeks and sturdy legs, was having his turn to sit with Mamma, and was squatting quiet as a mouseat her knee, holding her soft white hand between his little redblack-nailed fists. He was a boy whom Mrs. Hackit, in a severe mood, hadpronounced 'stocky' (a word that etymologically in all probability, conveys some allusion to an instrument of punishment for the refractory);but seeing him thus subdued into goodness, she smiled at him with herkindest smile, and stooping down, suggested a kiss--a favour which Dickyresolutely declined. 

'Now _do_ you take nourishing things enough?' was one of Mrs. Hackit'sfirst questions, and Milly endeavoured to make it appear that no womanwas ever so much in danger of being over-fed and led into self-indulgenthabits as herself. But Mrs. Hackit gathered one fact from her replies, namely, that Mr. Brand had ordered port-wine. 

While this conversation was going forward, Dickey had been furtivelystroking and kissing the soft white hand; so that at last, when a pausecame, his mother said, smilingly, 'Why are you kissing my hand, Dickey?'

'It id to yovely, ' answered Dickey, who, you observe, was decidedlybackward in his pronunciation. 

Mrs. Hackit remembered this little scene in after days, and thought withpeculiar tenderness and pity of the 'stocky boy'. 

The next day there came a hamper with Mrs. Hackit's respects; and onbeing opened it was found to contain half-a-dozen of port-wine and twocouples of fowls. Mrs. Farquhar, too, was very kind; insisted on Mrs. Barton's rejecting all arrowroot but hers, which was genuine Indian, andcarried away Sophy and Fred to stay with her a fortnight. These and othergood-natured attentions made the trouble of Milly's illness morebearable; but they could not prevent it from swelling expenses, and Mr. Barton began to have serious thoughts of representing his case to acertain charity for the relief of needy curates. 

Altogether, as matters stood in Shepperton, the parishioners were morelikely to have a strong sense that the clergyman needed their materialaid, than that they needed his spiritual aid, --not the best state ofthings in this age and country, where faith in men solely on the groundof their spiritual gifts has considerably diminished, and especiallyunfavourable to the influence of the Rev. Amos, whose spiritual giftswould not have had a very commanding power even in an age of faith. 

But, you ask, did not the Countess Czerlaski pay any attention to herfriends all this time? To be sure she did. She was indefatigable invisiting her 'sweet Milly', and sitting with her for hours together. Itmay seem remarkable to you that she neither thought of taking away any ofthe children, nor of providing for any of Milly's probable wants; butladies of rank and of luxurious habits, you know, cannot be expected tosurmise the details of poverty. She put a great deal of eau-de-Cologne onMrs. Barton's pocket-handkerchief, rearranged her pillow and footstool, kissed her cheeks, wrapped her in a soft warm shawl from her ownshoulders, and amused her with stories of the life she had seen abroad. When Mr. Barton joined them she talked of Tractarianism, of herdetermination not to re-enter the vortex of fashionable life, and of heranxiety to see him in a sphere large enough for his talents. Millythought her sprightliness and affectionate warmth quite charming, and wasvery fond of her; while the Rev. Amos had a vague consciousness that hehad risen into aristocratic life, and only associated with hismiddle-class parishioners in a pastoral and parenthetic manner. 

However, as the days brightened, Milly's cheeks and lips brightened too;and in a few weeks she was almost as active as ever, though watchful eyesmight have seen that activity was not easy to her. Mrs. Hackit's eyeswere of that kind, and one day, when Mr. And Mrs. Barton had been diningwith her for the first time since Milly's illness, she observed to herhusband--'That poor thing's dreadful weak an' delicate; she won't stan'havin' many more children. 

Mr. Barton, meanwhile, had been indefatigable in his vocation. He hadpreached two extemporary sermons every Sunday at the workhouse, where aroom had been fitted up for divine service, pending the alterations inthe church; and had walked the same evening to a cottage at one or otherextremity of his parish to deliver another sermon, still moreextemporary, in an atmosphere impregnated with spring-flowers andperspiration. After all these labours you will easily conceive that hewas considerably exhausted by half-past nine o'clock in the evening, andthat a supper at a friendly parishioner's, with a glass, or even twoglasses, of brandy-and-water after it, was a welcome reinforcement. Mr. Barton was not at all an ascetic; he thought the benefits of fasting wereentirely confined to the Old Testament dispensation; he was fond ofrelaxing himself with a little gossip; indeed, Miss Bond, and otherladies of enthusiastic views, sometimes regretted that Mr. Barton did notmore uninterruptedly exhibit a superiority to the things of the flesh. Thin ladies, who take little exercise, and whose livers are not strongenough to bear stimulants, are so extremely critical about one's personalhabits! And, after all, the Rev. Amos never came near the borders of avice. His very faults were middling--he was not _very_ ungrammatical. Itwas not in his nature to be superlative in anything; unless, indeed, hewas superlatively middling, the quintessential extract of mediocrity. Ifthere was any one point on which he showed an inclination to beexcessive, it was confidence in his own shrewdness and ability inpractical matters, so that he was very full of plans which were somethinglike his moves in chess--admirably well calculated, supposing the stateof the case were otherwise. For example, that notable plan of introducinganti-dissenting books into his Lending Library did not in the leastappear to have bruised the head of Dissent, though it had certainly madeDissent strongly inclined to bite the Rev. Amos's heel. Again, he vexedthe souls of his churchwardens and influential parishioners by hisfertile suggestiveness as to what it would be well for them to do in thematter of the church repairs, and other ecclesiastical secularities. 

'I never saw the like to parsons, ' Mr. Hackit said one day inconversation with his brother churchwarden, Mr. Bond; 'they're al'ys formeddling with business, an they know no more about it than my blackfilly. '

'Ah, ' said Mr. Bond, 'they're too high learnt to have much common-sense. '

'Well, ' remarked Mr. Hackit, in a modest and dubious tone, as if throwingout a hypothesis which might be considered bold, 'I should say that's abad sort of eddication as makes folks onreasonable. '

So that, you perceive, Mr. Barton's popularity was in that precariouscondition, in that toppling and contingent state, in which a very slightpush from a malignant destiny would utterly upset it. That push was notlong in being given, as you shall hear. 

One fine May morning, when Amos was out on his parochial visits, and thesunlight was streaming through the bow-window of the sitting-room, whereMilly was seated at her sewing, occasionally looking up to glance at thechildren playing in the garden, there came a loud rap at the door, whichshe at once recognized as the Countess's, and that well-dressed ladypresently entered the sitting-room, with her veil drawn over her face. Milly was not at all surprised or sorry to see her; but when the Countessthrew up her veil, and showed that her eyes were red and swollen, she wasboth surprised and sorry. 

'What can be the matter, dear Caroline?'

Caroline threw down Jet, who gave a little yelp; then she threw her armsround Milly's neck, and began to sob; then she threw herself on the sofa, and begged for a glass of water; then she threw off her bonnet and shawl;and by the time Milly's imagination had exhausted itself in conjuring upcalamities, she said, --'Dear, how shall I tell you? I am the mostwretched woman. To be deceived by a brother to whom I have been sodevoted--to see him degrading himself--giving himself utterly to thedogs!'

'What can it be?' said Milly, who began to picture to herself the soberMr. Bridmain taking to brandy and betting. 

'He is going to be married--to marry my own maid, that deceitful Alice, to whom I have been the most indulgent mistress. Did you ever hear ofanything so disgraceful? so mortifying? so disreputable?'

'And has he only just told you of it?' said Milly, who, having reallyheard of worse conduct, even in her innocent life, avoided a directanswer. 

'Told me of it! he had not even the grace to do that. I went into thedining-room suddenly and found him kissing her--disgusting at his time oflife, is it not?--and when I reproved her for allowing such liberties, she turned round saucily, and said she was engaged to be married to mybrother, and she saw no shame in allowing him to kiss her. Edmund is amiserable coward, you know, and looked frightened; but when she asked himto say whether it was not so, he tried to summon up courage and say yes. I left the room in disgust, and this morning I have been questioningEdmund, and find that he is bent on marrying this woman, and that he hasbeen putting off telling me--because he was ashamed of himself, Isuppose. I couldn't possibly stay in the house after this, with my ownmaid turned mistress. And now, Milly, I am come to throw myself on yourcharity for a week or two. _Will_ you take me in?'

'That we will, ' said Milly, 'if you will only put up with our poor roomsand way of living. It will be delightful to have you!'

'It will soothe me to be with you and Mr. Barton a little while. I feelquite unable to go among my other friends just at present. What those twowretched people will do I don't know--leave the neighbourhood at once, Ihope. I entreated my brother to do so, before he disgraced himself. '

When Amos came home, he joined his cordial welcome and sympathy toMilly's. By-and-by the Countess's formidable boxes, which she hadcarefully packed before her indignation drove her away from Camp Villa, arrived at the vicarage, and were deposited in the spare bedroom, and intwo closets, not spare, which Milly emptied for their reception. A weekafterwards, the excellent apartments at Camp Villa, comprising dining anddrawing rooms, three bedrooms and a dressing-room, were again to let, andMr. Bridmain's sudden departure, together with the Countess Czerlaski'sinstallation as a visitor at Shepperton Vicarage, became a topic ofgeneral conversation in the neighbourhood. The keen-sighted virtue ofMilby and Shepperton saw in all this a confirmation of its worstsuspicions, and pitied the Rev. Amos Barton's gullibility. 

But when week after week, and month after month, slipped by withoutwitnessing the Countess's departure--when summer and harvest had fled, and still left her behind them occupying the spare bedroom and theclosets, and also a large proportion of Mrs. Barton's time and attention, new surmises of a very evil kind were added to the old rumours, and beganto take the form of settled convictions in the minds even of Mr. Barton'smost friendly parishioners. 

And now, here is an opportunity for an accomplished writer toapostrophize calumny, to quote Virgil, and to show that he is acquaintedwith the most ingenious things which have been said on that subject inpolite literature. 

But what is opportunity to the man who can't use it? An undefecundatedegg, which the waves of time wash away into nonentity. So, as my memoryis ill-furnished, and my notebook still worse, I am unable to show myselfeither erudite or eloquent apropos of the calumny whereof the Rev. AmosBarton was the victim. I can only ask my reader, --did you ever upset yourink-bottle, and watch, in helpless agony, the rapid spread of Stygianblackness over your fair manuscript or fairer table-cover? With a likeinky swiftness did gossip now blacken the reputation of the Rev. AmosBarton, causing the unfriendly to scorn and even the friendly to standaloof, at a time when difficulties of another kind were fast thickeningaround him. 

Chapter 6

One November morning, at least six months after the Countess Czerlaskihad taken up her residence at the vicarage, Mrs. Hackit heard that herneighbour Mrs. Patten had an attack of her old complaint, vaguely called'the spasms'. Accordingly, about eleven o'clock, she put on her velvetbonnet and cloth cloak, with a long boa and muff large enough to stow aprize baby in; for Mrs. Hackit regulated her costume by the calendar, andbrought out her furs on the first of November; whatever might be thetemperature. She was not a woman weakly to accommodate herself toshilly-shally proceedings. If the season didn't know what it ought to do, Mrs. Hackit did. In her best days, it was always sharp weather at'Gunpowder Plot', and she didn't like new fashions. 

And this morning the weather was very rationally in accordance with hercostume, for as she made her way through the fields to Cross Farm, theyellow leaves on the hedge-girt elms, which showed bright and goldenagainst the long-hanging purple clouds, were being scattered across thegrassy path by the coldest of November winds. 'Ah, ' Mrs. Hackit thoughtto herself, 'I daresay we shall have a sharp pinch this winter, and if wedo, I shouldn't wonder if it takes the old lady off. They say a greenYule makes a fat churchyard; but so does a white Yule too, for thatmatter. When the stool's rotten enough, no matter who sits on it. '

However, on her arrival at Cross Farm, the prospect of Mrs. Patten'sdecease was again thrown into the dim distance in her imagination, forMiss Janet Gibbs met her with the news that Mrs. Patten was much better, and led her, without any preliminary announcement, to the old lady'sbedroom. Janet had scarcely reached the end of her circumstantialnarrative how the attack came on and what were her aunt's sensations--anarrative to which Mrs. Patten, in her neatly-plaited nightcap, seemed tolisten with a contemptuous resignation to her niece's historicalinaccuracy, contenting herself with occasionally confounding Janet by ashake of the head--when the clatter of a horse's hoofs on the yardpavement announced the arrival of Mr. Pilgrim, whose large, top-bootedperson presently made its appearance upstairs. He found Mrs. Patten goingon so well that there was no need to look solemn. He might glide fromcondolence into gossip without offence, and the temptation of having Mrs. Hackit's ear was irresistible. 

'What a disgraceful business this is turning out of your parson's, ' wasthe remark with which he made this agreeable transition, throwing himselfback in the chair from which he had been leaning towards the patient. 'Eh, dear me!' said Mrs. Hackit, 'disgraceful enough. I stuck to Mr. Barton as long as I could, for his wife's sake; but I can't countenancesuch goings-on. It's hateful to see that woman coming with 'em to serviceof a Sunday, and if Mr. Hackit wasn't churchwarden and I didn't think itwrong to forsake one's own parish, I should go to Knebley Church. There'sa many parish'ners as do. '

'I used to think Barton was only a fool, ' observed Mr. Pilgrim, in a tonewhich implied that he was conscious of having been weakly charitable. 'Ithought he was imposed upon and led away by those people when they firstcame. But that's impossible now. '

'O, it's as plain as the nose in your face, ' said Mrs. Hackit, unreflectingly, not perceiving the equivoque in her comparison--'comin'to Milby, like a sparrow perchin' on a bough, as I may say, with herbrother, as she called him; and then all on a sudden the brother goes offwith himself, and she throws herself on the Bartons. Though what couldmake her take up with a poor notomise of a parson, as hasn't got enoughto keep wife and children, there's One above knows--_I_ don't. '

'Mr. Barton may have attractions we don't know of, ' said Mr. Pilgrim, whopiqued himself on a talent for sarcasm. 'The Countess has no maid now, and they say Mr. Barton is handy in assisting at her toilette--laces herboots, and so forth. '

'Tilette, be fiddled!' said Mrs. Hackit, with indignant boldness ofmetaphor; 'an' there's that poor thing a-sewing her fingers to the bonefor them children--an' another comin' on. What she must have to gothrough! It goes to my heart to turn my back on her. But she's i' thewrong to let herself be put upon i' that manner. '

'Ah! I was talking to Mrs. Farquhar about that the other day. She said, "I think Mrs. Barton a v-e-r-y w-e-a-k w-o-m-a-n". ' (Mr. Pilgrim gavethis quotation with slow emphasis, as if he thought Mrs. Farquhar haduttered a remarkable sentiment. ) 'They find it impossible to invite herto their house while she has that equivocal person staying with her. '

'Well!' remarked Miss Gibbs, 'if I was a wife, nothing should induce meto bear what Mrs. Barton does. '

'Yes, it's fine talking, ' said Mrs. Patten, from her pillow; 'old maids'husbands are al'ys well-managed. If you was a wife you'd be as foolish asyour betters, belike. '

'All my wonder is, ' observed Mrs. Hackit, 'how the Bartons make both endsmeet. You may depend on it, _she's_ got nothing to give 'em; for Iunderstand as he's been having money from some clergy charity. They saidat fust as she stuffed Mr. Barton wi' notions about her writing to theChancellor an' her fine friends, to give him a living. Howiver, I don'tknow what's true an' what's false. Mr. Barton keeps away from our housenow, for I gave him a bit o' my mind one day. Maybe he's ashamed ofhimself. He seems to me to look dreadful thin an' harassed of a Sunday. '

'O, he must be aware he's getting into bad odour everywhere. The clergyare quite disgusted with his folly. They say Carpe would be glad to getBarton out of the curacy if he could; but he can't do that without comingto Shepperton himself, as Barton's a licensed curate; and he wouldn'tlike that, I suppose. '

At this moment Mrs. Patten showed signs of uneasiness, which recalled Mr. Pilgrim to professional attentions; and Mrs. Hackit, observing that itwas Thursday, and she must see after the butter, said good-bye, promisingto look in again soon, and bring her knitting. 

This Thursday, by the by, is the first in the month--the day on which theClerical Meeting is held at Milby Vicarage; and as the Rev. Amos Bartonhas reasons for not attending, he will very likely be a subject ofconversation amongst his clerical brethren Suppose we go there, and hearwhether Mr. Pilgrim has reported their opinion correctly. 

There is not a numerous party today, for it is a season of sore throatsand catarrhs; so that the exegetical and theological discussions, whichare the preliminary of dining, have not been quite so spirited as usual;and although a question relative to the Epistle of Jude has not beenquite cleared up, the striking of six by the church clock, and thesimultaneous announcement of dinner, are sounds that no one feels to beimportunate. 

Pleasant (when one is not in the least bilious) to enter a comfortabledining-room, where the closely-drawn red curtains glow with the doublelight of fire and candle, where glass and silver are glittering on thepure damask, and a soup-tureen gives a hint of the fragrance that willpresently rush out to inundate your hungry senses, and prepare them, bythe delicate visitation of atoms, for the keen gusto of ampler contact!Especially if you have confidence in the dinner-giving capacity of yourhost--if you know that he is not a man who entertains grovelling views ofeating and drinking as a mere satisfaction of hunger and thirst, and, dead to all the finer influences of the palate, expects his guest to bebrilliant on ill-flavoured gravies and the cheapest Marsala. Mr. Ely wasparticularly worthy of such confidence, and his virtues as an Amphitryonhad probably contributed quite as much as the central situation of Milbyto the selection of his house as a clerical rendezvous. He looksparticularly graceful at the head of his table, and, indeed, on alloccasions where he acts as president or moderator: he is a man who seemsto listen well, and is an excellent amalgam of dissimilar ingredients. 

At the other end of the table, as 'Vice', sits Mr. Fellowes, rector andmagistrate, a man of imposing appearance, with a mellifluous voice andthe readiest of tongues. Mr. Fellowes once obtained a living by thepersuasive charms of his conversation, and the fluency with which heinterpreted the opinions of an obese and stammering baronet, so as togive that elderly gentleman a very pleasing perception of his own wisdom. Mr. Fellowes is a very successful man, and has the highest charactereverywhere except in his own parish, where, doubtless because hisparishioners happen to be quarrelsome people, he is always at fierce feudwith a farmer or two, a colliery proprietor, a grocer who was oncechurchwarden, and a tailor who formerly officiated as clerk. 

At Mr. Ely's right hand you see a very small man with a sallow andsomewhat puffy face, whose hair is brushed straight up, evidently withthe intention of giving him a height somewhat less disproportionate tohis sense of his own importance than the measure of five feet threeaccorded him by an oversight of nature. This is Rev. Archibald Duke, avery dyspeptic and evangelical man, who takes the gloomiest view ofmankind and their prospects, and thinks the immense sale of the 'PickwickPapers, ' recently completed, one of the strongest proofs of original sin. Unfortunately, though Mr. Duke was not burdened with a family, his yearlyexpenditure was apt considerably to exceed his income; and the unpleasantcircumstances resulting from this, together with heavy meat-breakfasts, may probably have contributed to his desponding views of the worldgenerally. 

Next to him is seated Mr. Furness, a tall young man, with blond hair andwhiskers, who was plucked at Cambridge entirely owing to his genius; atleast I know that he soon afterwards published a volume of poems, whichwere considered remarkably beautiful by many young ladies of hisacquaintance. Mr. Furness preached his own sermons, as any one oftolerable critical acumen might have certified by comparing them with hispoems: in both, there was an exuberance of metaphor and simile entirelyoriginal, and not in the least borrowed from any resemblance in thethings compared. 

On Mr. Furness's left you see Mr. Pugh, another young curate, of muchless marked characteristics. He had not published any poems; he had noteven been plucked; he had neat black whiskers and a pale complexion; readprayers and a sermon twice every Sunday, and might be seen any daysallying forth on his parochial duties in a white tie, a well-brushedhat, a perfect suit of black, and well-polished boots--an equipment whichhe probably supposed hieroglyphically to represent the spirit ofChristianity to the parishioners of Whittlecombe. 

Mr. Pugh's _vis-a-vis_ is the Rev. Martin Cleves, a man about forty--middle-sized, broad-shouldered, with a negligently-tied cravat, largeirregular features, and a large head, thickly covered with lanky brownhair. To a superficial glance, Mr. Cleves is the plainest and leastclerical-looking of the party; yet, strange to say, _there_ is the trueparish priest, the pastor beloved, consulted, relied on by his flock; aclergyman who is not associated with the undertaker, but thought of asthe surest helper under a difficulty, as a monitor who is encouragingrather than severe. Mr. Cleves has the wonderful art of preaching sermonswhich the wheelwright and the blacksmith can understand; not because hetalks condescending twaddle, but because he can call a spade a spade, andknows how to disencumber ideas of their wordy frippery. Look at him moreattentively, and you will see that his face is a very interesting one--that there is a great deal of humour and feeling playing in his greyeyes, and about the corners of his roughly-cut mouth: a man, you observe, who has most likely sprung from the harder-working section of the middleclass, and has hereditary sympathies with the checkered life of thepeople. He gets together the working men in his parish on a Mondayevening, and gives them a sort of conversational lecture on usefulpractical matters, telling them stories, or reading some select passagesfrom an agreeable book, and commenting on them; and if you were to askthe first labourer or artisan in Tripplegate what sort of man the parsonwas, he would say, --'a uncommon knowin', sensable, free-spoken gentleman;very kind an' good-natur'd too'. Yet for all this, he is perhaps the bestGrecian of the party, if we except Mr. Baird, the young man on his left. 

Mr. Baird has since gained considerable celebrity as an original writerand metropolitan lecturer, but at that time he used to preach in a littlechurch something like a barn, to a congregation consisting of three richfarmers and their servants, about fifteen labourers, and the dueproportion of women and children. The rich farmers understood him to be'very high learnt;' but if you had interrogated them for a more precisedescription, they would have said that he was 'a thinnish-faced man, witha sort o' cast in his eye, like'. 

Seven, altogether: a delightful number for a dinner-party, supposing theunits to be delightful, but everything depends on that. During dinner Mr. Fellowes took the lead in the conversation, which set strongly in thedirection of mangold-wurzel and the rotation of crops; for Mr. Fellowesand Mr. Cleves cultivated their own glebes. Mr. Ely, too, had someagricultural notions, and even the Rev. Archibald Duke was made alive tothat class of mundane subjects by the possession of some potato-ground. The two young curates talked a little aside during these discussions, which had imperfect interest for their unbeneficed minds; and thetranscendental and near-sighted Mr. Baird seemed to listen somewhatabstractedly, knowing little more of potatoes and mangold-wurzel thanthat they were some form of the 'Conditioned'. 

'What a hobby farming is with Lord Watling!' said Mr. Fellowes, when thecloth was being drawn. 'I went over his farm at Tetterley with him lastsummer. It is really a model farm; first-rate dairy, grazing and wheatland, and such splendid farm-buildings! An expensive hobby, though. Hesinks a good deal of money there, I fancy. He has a great whim for blackcattle, and he sends that drunken old Scotch bailiff of his to Scotlandevery year, with hundreds in his pocket, to buy these beasts. '

'By the by, ' said Mr. Ely, 'do you know who is the man to whom LordWatling has given the Bramhill living?'

'A man named Sargent. I knew him at Oxford. His brother is a lawyer, andwas very useful to Lord Watling in that ugly Brounsell affair. That's whySargent got the living. '

'Sargent, ' said Mr. Ely. 'I know him. Isn't he a showy, talkative fellow;has written travels in Mesopotamia, or something of that sort?'

'That's the man. '

'He was at Witherington once, as Bagshawe's curate. He got into ratherbad odour there, through some scandal about a flirtation, I think. '

'Talking of scandal, ' returned Mr. Fellowes, 'have you heard the laststory about Barton? Nisbett was telling me the other day that he dinesalone with the Countess at six, while Mrs. Barton is in the kitchenacting as cook. '

'Rather an apocryphal authority, Nisbett, ' said Mr. Ely. 

'Ah, ' said Mr. Cleves, with good-natured humour twinkling in his eyes, 'depend upon it, that is a corrupt version. The original text is, thatthey all dined together _with_ six--meaning six children--and that Mrs. Barton is an excellent cook. '

'I wish dining alone together may be the worst of that sad business, 'said the Rev. Archibald Duke, in a tone implying that his wish was astrong figure of speech. 

'Well, ' said Mr. Fellowes, filling his glass and looking jocose, 'Bartonis certain either the greatest gull in existence, or he has some cunningsecret, --some philtre or other to make himself charming in the eyes of afair lady. It isn't all of us that can make conquests when our uglinessis past its bloom. '

'The lady seemed to have made a conquest of him at the very outset, ' saidMr. Ely. 'I was immensely amused one night at Granby's when he wastelling us her story about her husband's adventures. He said, "When shetold me the tale, I felt I don't know how, --I felt it from the crown ofmy head to the sole of my feet. "'

Mr. Ely gave these words dramatically, imitating the Rev. Amos's fervourand symbolic action, and every one laughed except Mr. Duke, whoseafter-dinner view of things was not apt to be jovial. He said, --'I thinksome of us ought to remonstrate with Mr. Barton on the scandal he iscausing. He is not only imperilling his own soul, but the souls of hisflock. '

'Depend upon it, ' said Mr. Cleves, 'there is some simple explanation ofthe whole affair, if we only happened to know it. Barton has alwaysimpressed me as a right-minded man, who has the knack of doing himselfinjustice by his manner. '

'Now I never liked Barton, ' said Mr. Fellowes. 'He's not a gentleman. Why, he used to be on terms of intimacy with that canting Prior, who dieda little while ago;--a fellow who soaked himself with spirits, and talkedof the Gospel through an inflamed nose. '

'The Countess has given him more refined tastes, I daresay, ' said Mr. Ely. 

'Well, ' observed Mr. Cleves, 'the poor fellow must have a hard pull toget along, with his small income and large family. Let us hope theCountess does something towards making the pot boil. '

'Not she, ' said Mr. Duke; 'there are greater signs of poverty about themthan ever. '

'Well, come, ' returned Mr. Cleves, who could be caustic sometimes, andwho was not at all fond of his reverend brother, Mr. Duke, 'that'ssomething in Barton's favour at all events. He might be poor _without_showing signs of poverty. '

Mr. Duke turned rather yellow, which was his way of blushing, and Mr. Elycame to his relief by observing, --'They're making a very good piece ofwork of Shepperton Church. Dolby, the architect, who has it in hand, is avery clever fellow. '

'It's he who has been doing Coppleton Church, ' said Mr. Furness. 'They'vegot it in excellent order for the visitation. '

This mention of the visitation suggested the Bishop, and thus opened awide duct, which entirely diverted the stream of animadversion from thatsmall pipe--that capillary vessel, the Rev. Amos Barton. 

The talk of the clergy about their Bishop belongs to the esoteric part oftheir profession; so we will at once quit the dining-room at MilbyVicarage, lest we should happen to overhear remarks unsuited to the layunderstanding, and perhaps dangerous to our repose of mind. 

Chapter 7

I dare say the long residence of the Countess Czerlaski at SheppertonVicarage is very puzzling to you also, dear reader, as well as to Mr. Barton's clerical brethren; the more so, as I hope you are not in theleast inclined to put that very evil interpretation on it which evidentlyfound acceptance with the sallow and dyspeptic Mr. Duke, and with theflorid and highly peptic Mr. Fellowes. You have seen enough, I trust, ofthe Rev. Amos Barton, to be convinced that he was more apt to fall into ablunder than into a sin--more apt to be deceived than to incur anecessity for being deceitful: and if you have a keen eye forphysiognomy, you will have detected that the Countess Czerlaski lovedherself far too well to get entangled in an unprofitable vice. 

How then, you will say, could this fine lady choose to quarter herself onthe establishment of a poor curate, where the carpets were probablyfalling into holes, where the attendance was limited to a maid of allwork, and where six children were running loose from eight o'clock in themorning till eight o'clock in the evening? Surely you must bemisrepresenting the facts. 

Heaven forbid! For not having a lofty imagination, as you perceive, andbeing unable to invent thrilling incidents for your amusement, my onlymerit must lie in the truth with which I represent to you the humbleexperience of an ordinary fellow-mortal. I wish to stir your sympathywith commonplace troubles--to win your tears for real sorrow: sorrow suchas may live next door to you--such as walks neither in rags nor invelvet, but in very ordinary decent apparel. 

Therefore, that you may dismiss your suspicions of my veracity, I willbeg you to consider, that at the time the Countess Czerlaski left CampVilla in dudgeon, she had only twenty pounds in her pocket, being aboutone-third of the income she possessed independently of her brother. Youwill then perceive that she was in the extremely inconvenient predicamentof having quarrelled, not indeed with her bread and cheese, but certainlywith her chicken and tart--a predicament all the more inconvenient toher, because the habit of idleness had quite unfitted her for earningthose necessary superfluities, and because, with all her fascinations, she had not secured any enthusiastic friends whose houses were open toher, and who were dying to see her. Thus she had completely checkmatedherself, unless she could resolve on one unpleasant move--namely, tohumble herself to her brother, and recognize his wife. This seemed quiteimpossible to her as long as she entertained the hope that he would makethe first advances; and in this flattering hope she remained month aftermonth at Shepperton Vicarage, gracefully overlooking the deficiencies ofaccommodation, and feeling that she was really behaving charmingly. 'Whoindeed, ' she thought to herself, 'could do otherwise, with a lovely, gentle creature like Milly? I shall really be sorry to leave the poorthing. '

So, though she lay in bed till ten, and came down to a separate breakfastat eleven, she kindly consented to dine as early as five, when a hotjoint was prepared, which coldly furnished forth the children's table thenext day; she considerately prevented Milly from devoting herself tooclosely to the children, by insisting on reading, talking, and walkingwith her; and she even began to embroider a cap for the next baby, whichmust certainly be a girl, and be named Caroline. 

After the first month or two of her residence at the Vicarage, the Rev. Amos Barton became aware--as, indeed, it was unavoidable that heshould--of the strong disapprobation it drew upon him, and the change offeeling towards him which it was producing in his kindest parishioners. But, in the first place, he still believed in the Countess as a charmingand influential woman, disposed to befriend him, and, in any case, hecould hardly hint departure to a lady guest who had been kind to him andhis, and who might any day spontaneously announce the termination of hervisit; in the second place, he was conscious of his own innocence, andfelt some contemptuous indignation towards people who were ready toimagine evil of him; and, lastly, he had, as I have already intimated, astrong will of his own, so that a certain obstinacy and defiance mingleditself with his other feelings on the subject. 

The one unpleasant consequence which was not to be evaded or counteractedby any mere mental state, was the increasing drain on his slender pursefor household expenses, to meet which the remittance he had received fromthe clerical charity threatened to be quite inadequate. Slander may bedefeated by equanimity; but courageous thoughts will not pay your baker'shill, and fortitude is nowhere considered legal tender for beef. Monthafter month the financial aspect of the Rev. Amos's affairs became moreand more serious to him, and month after month, too, wore away more andmore of that armour of indignation and defiance with which he had atfirst defended himself from the harsh looks of faces that were once thefriendliest. 

But quite the heaviest pressure of the trouble fell on Milly--on gentle, uncomplaining Milly--whose delicate body was becoming daily less fit forall the many things that had to be done between rising up and lying down. At first, she thought the Countess's visit would not last long, and shewas quite glad to incur extra exertion for the sake of making her friendcomfortable. I can hardly bear to think of all the rough work she didwith those lovely hands--all by the sly, without letting her husband knowanything about it, and husbands are not clairvoyant: how she saltedbacon, ironed shirts and cravats, put patches on patches, and re-darneddarns. Then there was the task of mending and eking out baby-linen inprospect, and the problem perpetually suggesting itself how she and Nannyshould manage when there was another baby, as there would be before verymany months were past. 

When time glided on, and the Countess's visit did not end, Milly was notblind to any phase of their position. She knew of the slander; she wasaware of the keeping aloof of old friends; but these she felt almostentirely on her husband's account. A loving woman's world lies within thefour walls of her own home; and it is only through her husband that sheis in any electric communication with the world beyond. Mrs. Simpkins mayhave looked scornfully at her, but baby crows and holds out his littlearms none the less blithely; Mrs. Tomkins may have left off calling onher, but her husband comes home none the less to receive her care andcaresses; it has been wet and gloomy out of doors today, but she haslooked well after the shirt buttons, has cut out baby's pinafores, andhalf finished Willy's blouse. 

So it was with Milly. She was only vexed that her husband should bevexed--only wounded because he was misconceived. But the difficulty aboutways and means she felt in quite a different manner. Her rectitude wasalarmed lest they should have to make tradesmen wait for their money; hermotherly love dreaded the diminution of comforts for the children; andthe sense of her own failing health gave exaggerated force to thesefears. 

Milly could no longer shut her eyes to the fact, that the Countess wasinconsiderate, if she did not allow herself to entertain severerthoughts; and she began to feel that it would soon be a duty to tell herfrankly that they really could not afford to have her visit fartherprolonged. But a process was going forward in two other minds, whichultimately saved Milly from having to perform this painful task. 

In the first place, the Countess was getting weary of Shepperton--wearyof waiting for her brother's overtures which never came; so, one finemorning, she reflected that forgiveness was a Christian duty, that asister should be placable, that Mr. Bridmain must feel the need of heradvice, to which he had been accustomed for three years, and that verylikely 'that woman' didn't make the poor man happy. In this amiable frameof mind she wrote a very affectionate appeal, and addressed it to Mr. Bridmain, through his banker. 

Another mind that was being wrought up to a climax was Nanny's, themaid-of-all-work, who had a warm heart and a still warmer temper. Nannyadored her mistress: she had been heard to say, that she was 'ready tokiss the ground as the missis trod on'; and Walter, she considered, was_her_ baby, of whom she was as jealous as a lover. But she had, from thefirst, very slight admiration for the Countess Czerlaski. That lady, fromNanny's point of view, was a personage always 'drawed out i' fineclothes', the chief result of whose existence was to cause additionalbed-making, carrying of hot water, laying of table-cloths, and cooking ofdinners. It was a perpetually heightening 'aggravation' to Nanny that sheand her mistress had to 'slave' more than ever, because there was thisfine lady in the house. 

'An, she pays nothin' for't neither, ' observed Nanny to Mr. Jacob Tomms, a young gentleman in the tailoring line, who occasionally--simply out ofa taste for dialogue--looked into the vicarage kitchen of an evening. 'Iknow the master's shorter o' money than iver, an' it meks no end o'difference i' th' housekeepin'--her bein' here, besides bein' obliged tohave a charwoman constant. '

'There's fine stories i' the village about her, ' said Mr. Tomms. 'Theysay as Muster Barton's great wi' her, or else she'd niver stop here. '

'Then they say a passill o' lies, an' you ought to be ashamed to go an'tell 'em o'er again. Do you think as the master, as has got a wife likethe missis, 'ud go running arter a stuck-up piece o' goods like thatCountess, as isn't fit to black the missis's shoes? I'm none so fond o'the master, but I know better on him nor that. '

'Well, I didn't b'lieve it, ' said Mr. Tomms, humbly. 

'B'lieve it? you'd ha' been a ninny if yer did. An' she's a nasty, stingything, that Countess. She's niver giv me a sixpence nor an old ragneither, sin' here's she's been. A-lyin' a bed an a-comin' down tobreakfast when other folks wants their dinner!'

If such was the state of Nanny's mind as early as the end of August, whenthis dialogue with Mr. Tomms occurred, you may imagine what it must havebeen by the beginning of November, and that at that time a very slightspark might any day cause the long-smouldering anger to flame forth inopen indignation. 

That spark happened to fall the very morning that Mrs. Hackit paid thevisit to Mrs. Patten, recorded in the last chapter. Nanny's dislike ofthe Countess extended to the innocent dog Jet, whom she 'couldn't a-bearto see made a fuss wi' like a Christian. An' the little ouzle must bewashed, too, ivery Saturday, as if there wasn't children enoo to wash, wi'out washin' dogs. '

Now this particular morning it happened that Milly was quite too poorlyto get up, and Mr. Barton observed to Nanny, on going out, that he wouldcall and tell Mr. Brand to come. These circumstances were already enoughto make Nanny anxious and susceptible. But the Countess, comfortablyignorant of them, came down as usual about eleven o'clock to her separatebreakfast, which stood ready for her at that hour in the parlour; thekettle singing on the hob that she might make her own tea. There was alittle jug of cream, taken according to custom from last night's milk, and specially saved for the Countess's breakfast. Jet always awaited hismistress at her bedroom door, and it was her habit to carry him downstairs. 

'Now, my little Jet, ' she said, putting him down gently on thehearth-rug, 'you shall have a nice, nice breakfast. '

Jet indicated that he thought that observation extremely pertinent andwell-timed, by immediately raising himself on his hind-legs, and theCountess emptied the cream-jug into the saucer. Now there was usually asmall jug of milk standing on the tray by the side of the cream, anddestined for Jet's breakfast, but this morning Nanny, being 'moithered', had forgotten that part of the arrangements, so that when the Countesshad made her tea, she perceived there was no second jug, and rang thebell. Nanny appeared, looking very red and heated--the fact was, she hadbeen 'doing up' the kitchen fire, and that is a sort of work which by nomeans conduces to blandness of temper. 'Nanny, you have forgotten Jet'smilk; will you bring me some more cream, please?'

This was just a little too much for Nanny's forbearance. 'Yes, I daresay. Here am I wi' my hands full o' the children an' the dinner, andmissis ill a-bed, and Mr. Brand a-comin'; and I must run o'er the villageto get more cream, 'cause you've give it to that nasty littleblackamoor. '

'Is Mrs. Barton ill?'

'Ill--yes--I should think she is ill, an' much you care. She's likely tobe ill, moithered as _she_ is from mornin' to night, wi' folks as hadbetter be elsewhere. '

'What do you mean by behaving in this way?'

'Mean? Why I mean as the missis is a slavin' her life out an' a-sittin'up o'nights, for folks as are better able to wait of _her_, i'stid o'lyin' a-bed an' doin' nothin' all the blessed day, but mek work. '

'Leave the room and don't be insolent. '

'Insolent! I'd better be insolent than like what some folks is, --a-livin'on other folks, an' bringin' a bad name on 'em into the bargain. '

Here Nanny flung out of the room, leaving the lady to digest thisunexpected breakfast at her leisure. 

The Countess was stunned for a few minutes, but when she began to recallNanny's words, there was no possibility of avoiding very unpleasantconclusions from them, or of failing to see her position at the Vicaragein an entirely new light. The interpretation too of Nanny's allusion to a'bad name' did not lie out of the reach of the Countess's imagination, and she saw the necessity of quitting Shepperton without delay. Still, she would like to wait for her brother's letter--no--she would ask Millyto forward it to her--still better, she would go at once to London, inquire her brother's address at his banker's, and go to see him withoutpreliminary. 

She went up to Milly's room, and, after kisses and inquiries, said--'Ifind, on consideration, dear Milly, from the letter I had yesterday, thatI must bid you good-bye and go up to London at once. But you must not letme leave you ill, you naughty thing. '

'Oh no, ' said Milly, who felt as if a load had been taken off her back, 'I shall be very well in an hour or two. Indeed, I'm much better now. Youwill want me to help you to pack. But you won't go for two or threedays?'

'Yes, I must go to-morrow. But I shall not let you help me to pack, sodon't entertain any unreasonable projects, but lie still. Mr. Brand iscoming, Nanny says. '

The news was not an unpleasant surprise to Mr. Barton when he came home, though he was able to express more regret at the idea of parting thanMilly could summon to her lips. He retained more of his original feelingfor the Countess than Milly did, for women never betray themselves to menas they do to each other; and the Rev. Amos had not a keen instinct forcharacter. But he felt that he was being relieved from a difficulty, andin the way that was easiest for him. Neither he nor Milly suspected thatit was Nanny who had cut the knot for them, for the Countess took care togive no sign on that subject. As for Nanny, she was perfectly aware ofthe relation between cause and effect in the affair, and secretlychuckled over her outburst of 'sauce' as the best morning's work she hadever done. 

So, on Friday morning, a fly was seen standing at the Vicarage gate withthe Countess's boxes packed upon it; and presently that lady herself wasseen getting into the vehicle. After a last shake of the hand to Mr. Barton, and last kisses to Milly and the children, the door was closed;and as the fly rolled off, the little party at the Vicarage gate caught alast glimpse of the handsome Countess leaning and waving kisses from thecarriage window. Jet's little black phiz was also seen, and doubtless hehad his thoughts and feelings on the occasion, but he kept them strictlywithin his own bosom. 

The schoolmistress opposite witnessed this departure, and lost no time intelling it to the schoolmaster, who again communicated the news to thelandlord of 'The Jolly Colliers', at the close of the morningschool-hours. Nanny poured the joyful tidings into the ear of Mr. Farquhar's footman, who happened to call with a letter, and Mr. Brandcarried them to all the patients he visited that morning, after callingon Mrs. Barton. So that, before Sunday, it was very generally known inShepperton parish that the Countess Czerlaski had left the Vicarage. 

The Countess had left, but alas, the bills she had contributed to swellstill remained; so did the exiguity of the children's clothing, whichalso was partly an indirect consequence of her presence; and so, too, didthe coolness and alienation in the parishioners, which could not at oncevanish before the fact of her departure. The Rev. Amos was notexculpated--the past was not expunged. But what was worse than all, Milly's health gave frequent cause for alarm, and the prospect of baby'sbirth was overshadowed by more than the usual fears. The birth cameprematurely, about six weeks after the Countess's departure, but Mr. Brand gave favourable reports to all inquirers on the following day, which was Saturday. On Sunday, after morning service, Mrs. Hackit calledat the Vicarage to inquire how Mrs. Barton was, and was invited up-stairsto see her. Milly lay placid and lovely in her feebleness, and held outher hand to Mrs. Hackit with a beaming smile. It was very pleasant to herto see her old friend unreserved and cordial once more. The seven months'baby was very tiny and very red, but 'handsome is that handsome does'--hewas pronounced to be 'doing well', and Mrs. Hackit went home gladdened atheart to think that the perilous hour was over. 

Chapter 8

The following Wednesday, when Mr. And Mrs. Hackit were seated comfortablyby their bright hearth, enjoying the long afternoon afforded by an earlydinner, Rachel, the housemaid, came in and said, --'If you please 'm, theshepherd says, have you heard as Mrs. Barton's wuss, and not expected tolive?'

Mrs. Hackit turned pale, and hurried out to question the shepherd, who, she found, had heard the sad news at an ale-house in the village. Mr. Hackit followed her out and said, 'Thee'dst better have the pony-chaise, and go directly. '

'Yes, ' said Mrs. Hackit, too much overcome to utter any exclamations. 'Rachel, come an' help me on wi' my things. '

When her husband was wrapping her cloak round her feet in thepony-chaise, she said, --'If I don't come home to-night, I shall send backthe pony-chaise, and you'll know I'm wanted there. '

'Yes, yes. '

It was a bright frosty day, and by the time Mrs. Hackit arrived at theVicarage, the sun was near its setting. There was a carriage and pairstanding at the gate, which she recognized as Dr Madeley's, the physicianfrom Rotherby. She entered at the kitchen door that she might avoidknocking, and quietly question Nanny. No one was in the kitchen, but, passing on, she saw the sitting-room door open, and Nanny, with Walter inher arms, removing the knives and forks, which had been laid for dinnerthree hours ago. 

'Master says he can't eat no dinner, ' was Nanny's first word. 'He's nevertasted nothin' sin' yesterday mornin', but a cup o' tea. '

'When was your missis took worse?'

'O' Monday night. They sent for Dr Madeley i' the middle o' the dayyisterday, an' he's here again now. '

'Is the baby alive?'

'No, it died last night. The children's all at Mrs. Bond's. She come andtook 'em away last night, but the master says they must be fetched soon. He's up-stairs now, wi' Dr Madeley and Mr. Brand. '

At this moment Mrs. Hackit heard the sound of a heavy, slow foot, in thepassage; and presently Amos Barton entered, with dry despairing eyes, haggard and unshaven. He expected to find the sitting-room as he left it, with nothing to meet his eyes but Milly's work-basket in the corner ofthe sofa, and the children's toys overturned in the bow-window. But whenhe saw Mrs. Hackit come towards him with answering sorrow in her face, the pent-up fountain of tears was opened; he threw himself on the sofa, hid his face, and sobbed aloud. 

'Bear up, Mr. Barton, ' Mrs. Hackit ventured to say at last; 'bear up, forthe sake o' them dear children. '

'The children, ' said Amos, starting up. 'They must be sent for. Some onemust fetch them. Milly will want to . . . '

He couldn't finish the sentence, but Mrs. Hackit understood him, andsaid, 'I'll send the man with the pony-carriage for 'em. '

She went out to give the order, and encountered Dr Madeley and Mr. Brand, who were just going. 

Mr. Brand said: 'I am very glad to see you are here, Mrs. Hackit. No timemust be lost in sending for the children. Mrs. Barton wants to see them. '

'Do you quite give her up then?'

'She can hardly live through the night. She begged us to tell her howlong she had to live; and then asked for the children. '

The pony-carriage was sent; and Mrs. Hackit, returning to Mr. Barton, said she would like to go up-stairs now. He went up-stairs with her andopened the door. The chamber fronted the west; the sun was just setting, and the red light fell full upon the bed, where Milly lay with the handof death visibly upon her. The feather-bed had been removed, and she laylow on a mattress, with her head slightly raised by pillows. Her longfair neck seemed to be struggling with a painful effort; her featureswere pallid and pinched, and her eyes were closed. There was no one inthe room but the nurse, and the mistress of the free school, who had cometo give her help from the beginning of the change. 

Amos and Mrs. Hackit stood beside the bed, and Milly opened her eyes. 

'My darling, Mrs. Hackit is come to see you. '

Milly smiled and looked at her with that strange, far-off look whichbelongs to ebbing life. 

'Are the children coming?' she said, painfully. 

'Yes, they will be here directly. '

She closed her eyes again. 

Presently the pony-carriage was heard; and Amos, motioning to Mrs. Hackitto follow him, left the room. On their way downstairs she suggested thatthe carriage should remain to take them away again afterwards, and Amosassented. 

There they stood in the melancholy sitting-room--the five sweet children, from Patty to Chubby--all, with their mother's eyes--all, except Patty, looking up with a vague fear at their father as he entered. Pattyunderstood the great sorrow that was come upon them, and tried to checkher sobs as she heard her papa's footsteps. 

'My children, ' said Amos, taking Chubby in his arms, 'God is going totake away your dear mamma from us. She wants to see you to say good-bye. You must try to be very good and not cry. '

He could say no more, but turned round to see if Nanny was there withWalter, and then led the way up-stairs, leading Dickey with the otherhand. Mrs. Hackit followed with Sophy and Patty, and then came Nanny withWalter and Fred. 

It seemed as if Milly had heard the little footsteps on the stairs, forwhen Amos entered her eyes were wide open, eagerly looking towards thedoor. They all stood by the bedside--Amos nearest to her, holding Chubbyand Dickey. But she motioned for Patty to come first, and clasping thepoor pale child by the hand, said, --'Patty, I'm going away from you. Loveyour papa. Comfort him; and take care of your little brothers andsisters. God will help you. '

Patty stood perfectly quiet, and said, 'Yes, mamma. '

The mother motioned with her pallid lips for the dear child to leantowards her and kiss her; and then Patty's great anguish overcame her, and she burst into sobs. Amos drew her towards him and pressed her headgently to him, while Milly beckoned Fred and Sophy, and said to them morefaintly, --'Patty will try to be your mamma when I am gone, my darlings. You will be good and not vex her. '

They leaned towards her, and she stroked their fair heads, and kissedtheir tear-stained cheeks. They cried because mamma was ill and papalooked so unhappy; but they thought, perhaps next week things would be asthey used to be again. 

The little ones were lifted on the bed to kiss her. Little Walter said, 'Mamma, mamma', and stretched out his fat arms and smiled; and Chubbyseemed gravely wondering; but Dickey, who had been looking fixedly ather, with lip hanging down, ever since he came into the room, now seemedsuddenly pierced with the idea that mamma was going away somewhere; hislittle heart swelled and he cried aloud. 

Then Mrs. Hackit and Nanny took them all away. Patty at first begged tostay at home and not go to Mrs. Bond's again; but when Nanny reminded herthat she had better go to take care of the younger ones, she submitted atonce, and they were all packed in the pony-carriage once more. 

Milly kept her eyes shut for some time after the children were gone. Amoshad sunk on his knees, and was holding her hand while he watched herface. By-and-by she opened her eyes, and, drawing him close to her, whispered slowly, --'My dear--dear--husband--you have been--very--good tome. You--have--made me--very--happy. '

She spoke no more for many hours. They watched her breathing becomingmore and more difficult, until evening deepened into night, and untilmidnight was past. About half-past twelve she seemed to be trying tospeak, and they leaned to catch her words. 'Music--music--didn't you hearit?'

Amos knelt by the bed and held her hand in his. He did not believe in hissorrow. It was a bad dream. He did not know when she was gone. But Mr. Brand, whom Mrs. Hackit had sent for before twelve o'clock, thinking thatMr. Barton might probably need his help, now came up to him, andsaid, --'She feels no more pain now. Come, my dear sir, come with me. '

'She isn't _dead_?' shrieked the poor desolate man, struggling to shakeoff Mr. Brand, who had taken him by the arm. But his weary weakened framewas not equal to resistance, and he was dragged out of the room. 

Chapter 9

They laid her in the grave--the sweet mother with her baby in herarms--while the Christmas snow lay thick upon the graves. It was Mr. Cleves who buried her. On the first news of Mr. Barton's calamity, he hadridden over from Tripplegate to beg that he might be made of some use, and his silent grasp of Amos's hand had penetrated like the painfulthrill of life-recovering warmth to the poor benumbed heart of thestricken man. 

The snow lay thick upon the graves, and the day was cold and dreary; butthere was many a sad eye watching that black procession as it passed fromthe vicarage to the church, and from the church to the open grave. Therewere men and women standing in that churchyard who had bandied vulgarjests about their pastor, and who had lightly charged him with sin; butnow, when they saw him following the coffin, pale and haggard, he wasconsecrated anew by his great sorrow, and they looked at him withrespectful pity. 

All the children were there, for Amos had willed it so, thinking thatsome dim memory of that sacred moment might remain even with littleWalter, and link itself with what he would hear of his sweet mother inafter years. He himself led Patty and Dickey; then came Sophy and Fred;Mr. Brand had begged to carry Chubby, and Nanny followed with Walter. They made a circle round the grave while the coffin was being lowered. Patty alone of all the children felt that mamma was in that coffin, andthat a new and sadder life had begun for papa and herself. She was paleand trembling, but she clasped his hand more firmly as the coffin wentdown, and gave no sob. Fred and Sophy, though they were only two andthree years younger, and though they had seen mamma in her coffin, seemedto themselves to be looking at some strange show. They had not learned todecipher that terrible handwriting of human destiny, illness and death. Dickey had rebelled against his black clothes, until he was told that itwould be naughty to mamma not to put them on, when he at once submitted;and now, though he had heard Nanny say that mamma was in heaven, he had avague notion that she would come home again tomorrow, and say he had beena good boy and let him empty her work-box. He stood close to his father, with great rosy cheeks, and wide open blue eyes, looking first up at Mr. Cleves and then down at the coffin, and thinking he and Chubby would playat that when they got home. 

The burial was over, and Amos turned with his children to re-enter thehouse--the house where, an hour ago, Milly's dear body lay, where thewindows were half darkened, and sorrow seemed to have a hallowed precinctfor itself, shut out from the world. But now she was gone; the broadsnow-reflected daylight was in all the rooms; the Vicarage again seemedpart of the common working-day world, and Amos, for the first time, feltthat he was alone--that day after day, month after month, year afteryear, would have to be lived through without Milly's love. Spring wouldcome, and she would not be there; summer, and she would not be there; andhe would never have her again with him by the fireside in the longevenings. The seasons all seemed irksome to his thoughts; and how drearythe sunshiny days that would be sure to come! She was gone from him; andhe could never show her his love any more, never make up for omissions inthe past by filling future days with tenderness. 

O the anguish of that thought that we can never atone to our dead for thestinted affection we gave them, for the light answers we returned totheir plaints or their pleadings, for the little reverence we showed tothat sacred human soul that lived so close to us, and was the divinestthing God had given us to know. 

Amos Barton had been an affectionate husband, and while Milly was withhim, he was never visited by the thought that perhaps his sympathy withher was not quick and watchful enough; but now he re-lived all their lifetogether, with that terrible keenness of memory and imagination whichbereavement gives, and he felt as if his very love needed a pardon forits poverty and selfishness. 

No outward solace could counteract the bitterness of this inward woe. Butoutward solace came. Cold faces looked kind again, and parishionersturned over in their minds what they could best do to help their pastor. Mr. Oldinport wrote to express his sympathy, and enclosed anothertwenty-pound note, begging that he might be permitted to contribute inthis way to the relief of Mr. Barton's mind from pecuniary anxieties, under the pressure of a grief which all his parishioners must share; andoffering his interest towards placing the two eldest girls in a schoolexpressly founded for clergymen's daughters. Mr. Cleves succeeded incollecting thirty pounds among his richer clerical brethren, and, addingten pounds himself, sent the sum to Amos, with the kindest and mostdelicate words of Christian fellowship and manly friendship. Miss Jacksonforgot old grievances, and came to stay some months with Milly'schildren, bringing such material aid as she could spare from her smallincome. These were substantial helps, which relieved Amos from thepressure of his money difficulties; and the friendly attentions, the kindpressure of the hand, the cordial looks he met with everywhere in hisparish, made him feel that the fatal frost which had settled on hispastoral duties, during the Countess's residence at the Vicarage, wascompletely thawed, and that the hearts of his parishioners were once moreopen to him. No one breathed the Countess's name now; for Milly's memoryhallowed her husband, as of old the place was hallowed on which an angelfrom God had alighted. 

When the spring came, Mrs. Hackit begged that she might have Dickey tostay with her, and great was the enlargement of Dickey's experience fromthat visit. Every morning he was allowed--being well wrapt up as to hischest by Mrs. Hackit's own hands, but very bare and red as to hislegs--to run loose in the cow and poultry yard, to persecute theturkey-cock by satirical imitations of his gobble-gobble, and to putdifficult questions to the groom as to the reasons why horses had fourlegs, and other transcendental matters. Then Mr. Hackit would take Dickeyup on horseback when he rode round his farm, and Mrs. Hackit had a largeplumcake in cut, ready to meet incidental attacks of hunger. So thatDickey had considerably modified his views as to the desirability of Mrs. Hackit's kisses. 

The Misses Farquhar made particular pets of Fred and Sophy, to whom theyundertook to give lessons twice a-week in writing and geography; and Mrs. Farquhar devised many treats for the little ones. Patty's treat was tostay at home, or walk about with her papa; and when he sat by the fire inan evening, after the other children were gone to bed, she would bring astool, and, placing it against his feet, would sit down upon it and leanher head against his knee. Then his hand would rest on that fair head, and he would feel that Milly's love was not quite gone out of his life. 

So the time wore on till it was May again, and the church was quitefinished and reopened in all its new splendour, and Mr. Barton wasdevoting himself with more vigour than ever to his parochial duties. Butone morning--it was a very bright morning, and evil tidings sometimeslike to fly in the finest weather--there came a letter for Mr. Barton, addressed in the Vicar's handwriting. Amos opened it with someanxiety--somehow or other he had a presentiment of evil. The lettercontained the announcement that Mr. Carpe had resolved on coming toreside at Shepperton, and that, consequently, in six months from thattime Mr. Barton's duties as curate in that parish would be closed. 

O, it was hard! Just when Shepperton had become the place where he mostwished to stay--where he had friends who knew his sorrows--where he livedclose to Milly's grave. To part from that grave seemed like parting withMilly a second time; for Amos was one who clung to all the material linksbetween his mind and the past. His imagination was not vivid, andrequired the stimulus of actual perception. 

It roused some bitter feeling, too, to think that Mr. Carpe's wish toreside at Shepperton was merely a pretext for removing Mr. Barton, inorder that he might ultimately give the curacy of Shepperton to his ownbrother-in-law, who was known to be wanting a new position. 

Still, it must be borne; and the painful business of seeking anothercuracy must be set about without loss of time. After the lapse of somemonths, Amos was obliged to renounce the hope of getting one at all nearShepperton, and he at length resigned himself to accepting one in adistant county. The parish was in a large manufacturing town, where hiswalks would lie among noisy streets and dingy alleys, and where thechildren would have no garden to play in, no pleasant farm-houses tovisit. 

It was another blow inflicted on the bruised man. 

Chapter 10

At length the dreaded week was come, when Amos and his children mustleave Shepperton. There was general regret among the parishioners at hisdeparture: not that any one of them thought his spiritual giftspre-eminent, or was conscious of great edification from his ministry. Buthis recent troubles had called out their better sympathies, and that isalways a source of love. Amos failed to touch the spring of goodness byhis sermons, but he touched it effectually by his sorrows; and there wasnow a real bond between him and his flock. 

'My heart aches for them poor motherless children, ' said Mrs. Hackit toher husband, 'a-going among strangers, and into a nasty town, wherethere's no good victuals to be had, and you must pay dear to get baduns. '

Mrs. Hackit had a vague notion of a town life as a combination of dirtybackyards, measly pork, and dingy linen. 

The same sort of sympathy was strong among the poorer class ofparishioners. Old stiff-jointed Mr. Tozer, who was still able to earn alittle by gardening 'jobs', stopped Mrs. Cramp, the charwoman, on her wayhome from the Vicarage, where she had been helping Nanny to pack up theday before the departure, and inquired very particularly into Mr. Barton's prospects. 

'Ah, poor mon, ' he was heard to say, 'I'm sorry for un. He hedn't muchhere, but he'll be wuss off theer. Half a loaf's better nor ne'er un. '

The sad good-byes had all been said before that last evening; and afterall the packing was done and all the arrangements were made, Amos feltthe oppression of that blank interval in which one has nothing left tothink of but the dreary future--the separation from the loved andfamiliar, and the chilling entrance on the new and strange. In everyparting there is an image of death. 

Soon after ten o'clock, when he had sent Nanny to bed, that she mighthave a good night's rest before the fatigues of the morrow, he stolesoftly out to pay a last visit to Milly's grave. It was a moonless night, but the sky was thick with stars, and their light was enough to show thatthe grass had grown long on the grave, and that there was a tombstonetelling in bright letters, on a dark ground, that beneath were depositedthe remains of Amelia, the beloved wife of Amos Barton, who died in thethirty-fifth year of her age, leaving a husband and six children tolament her loss. The final words of the inscription were, 'Thy will bedone. '

The husband was now advancing towards the dear mound from which he was sosoon to be parted, perhaps for ever. He stood a few minutes reading overand over again the words on the tombstone, as if to assure himself thatall the happy and unhappy past was a reality. For love is frightened atthe intervals of insensibility and callousness that encroach by littleand little on the dominion of grief, and it makes efforts to recall thekeenness of the first anguish. 

Gradually, as his eye dwelt on the words, 'Amelia, the beloved wife, ' thewaves of feeling swelled within his soul, and he threw himself on thegrave, clasping it with his arms, and kissing the cold turf. 

'Milly, Milly, dost thou hear me? I didn't love thee enough--I wasn'ttender enough to thee--but I think of it all now. '

The sobs came and choked his utterance, and the warm tears fell. 

CONCLUSION

Only once again in his life has Amos Barton visited Milly's grave. It wasin the calm and softened light of an autumnal afternoon, and he was notalone. He held on his arm a young woman, with a sweet, grave face, whichstrongly recalled the expression of Mrs. Barton's, but was less lovely inform and colour. She was about thirty, but there were some prematurelines round her mouth and eyes, which told of early anxiety. 

Amos himself was much changed. His thin circlet of hair was nearly white, and his walk was no longer firm and upright. But his glance was calm, andeven cheerful, and his neat linen told of a woman's care. Milly did nottake all her love from the earth when she died. She had left some of itin Patty's heart. 

All the other children were now grown up, and had gone their severalways. Dickey, you will be glad to hear, had shown remarkable talents asan engineer. His cheeks are still ruddy, in spite of mixed mathematics, and his eyes are still large and blue; but in other respects his personwould present no marks of identification for his friend Mrs. Hackit, ifshe were to see him; especially now that her eyes must be grown very dim, with the wear of more than twenty additional years. He is nearly six feethigh, and has a proportionately broad chest; he wears spectacles, andrubs his large white hands through a mass of shaggy brown hair. But I amsure you have no doubt that Mr. Richard Barton is a thoroughly goodfellow, as well as a man of talent, and you will be glad any day to shakehands with him, for his own sake as well as his mother's. 

Patty alone remains by her father's side, and makes the evening sunshineof his life. 

MR. GILFIL'S LOVE STORY

Chapter 1

When old Mr. Gilfil died, thirty years ago, there was general sorrow inShepperton; and if black cloth had not been hung round the pulpit andreading-desk, by order of his nephew and principal legatee, theparishioners would certainly have subscribed the necessary sum out oftheir own pockets, rather than allow such a tribute of respect to bewanting. All the farmers' wives brought out their black bombasines; andMrs. Jennings, at the Wharf, by appearing the first Sunday after Mr. Gilfil's death in her salmon-coloured ribbons and green shawl, excitedthe severest remark. To be sure, Mrs. Jennings was a new-comer, andtown-bred, so that she could hardly be expected to have very clearnotions of what was proper; but, as Mrs. Higgins observed in an undertoneto Mrs. Parrot when they were coming out of church, 'Her husband, who'dbeen born i' the parish, might ha' told her better. ' An unreadiness toput on black on all available occasions, or too great an alacrity inputting it off, argued, in Mrs. Higgins's opinion, a dangerous levity ofcharacter, and an unnatural insensibility to the essential fitness ofthings. 

'Some folks can't a-bear to put off their colours, ' she remarked; 'butthat was never the way i' _my_ family. Why, Mrs. Parrot, from the time Iwas married, till Mr. Higgins died, nine years ago come Candlemas, Iniver was out o' black two year together!'

'Ah, ' said Mrs. Parrot, who was conscious of inferiority in this respect, 'there isn't many families as have had so many deaths as yours, Mrs. Higgins. '

Mrs. Higgins, who was an elderly widow, 'well left', reflected withcomplacency that Mrs. Parrot's observation was no more than just, andthat Mrs. Jennings very likely belonged to a family which had had nofunerals to speak of. 

Even dirty Dame Fripp, who was a very rare church-goer, had been to Mrs. Hackit to beg a bit of old crape, and with this sign of grief pinned onher little coal-scuttle bonnet, was seen dropping her curtsy opposite thereading-desk. This manifestation of respect towards Mr. Gilfil's memoryon the part of Dame Fripp had no theological bearing whatever. It was dueto an event which had occurred some years back, and which, I am sorry tosay, had left that grimy old lady as indifferent to the means of grace asever. Dame Fripp kept leeches, and was understood to have such remarkableinfluence over those wilful animals in inducing them to bite under themost unpromising circumstances, that though her own leeches were usuallyrejected, from a suspicion that they had lost their appetite, she herselfwas constantly called in to apply the more lively individuals furnishedfrom Mr. Pilgrim's surgery, when, as was very often the case, one of thatclever man's paying patients was attacked with inflammation. Thus DameFripp, in addition to 'property' supposed to yield her no less thanhalf-a-crown a-week, was in the receipt of professional fees, the grossamount of which was vaguely estimated by her neighbours as 'pouns an'pouns'. Moreover, she drove a brisk trade in lollipop with epicureanurchins, who recklessly purchased that luxury at the rate of two hundredper cent. Nevertheless, with all these notorious sources of income, theshameless old woman constantly pleaded poverty, and begged for scraps atMrs. Hackit's, who, though she always said Mrs. Fripp was 'as false astwo folks', and no better than a miser and a heathen, had yet a leaningtowards her as an old neighbour. 

'There's that case-hardened old Judy a-coming after the tea-leavesagain, ' Mrs. Hackit would say; 'an' I'm fool enough to give 'em her, though Sally wants 'em all the while to sweep the floors with!'

Such was Dame Fripp, whom Mr. Gilfil, riding leisurely in top-boots andspurs from doing duty at Knebley one warm Sunday afternoon, observedsitting in the dry ditch near her cottage, and by her side a large pig, who, with that ease and confidence belonging to perfect friendship, waslying with his head in her lap, and making no effort to play theagreeable beyond an occasional grunt. 

'Why, Mrs. Fripp, ' said the Vicar, 'I didn't know you had such a finepig. You'll have some rare flitches at Christmas!'

'Eh, God forbid! My son gev him me two 'ear ago, an' he's been company tome iver sin'. I couldn't find i' my heart to part wi'm, if I niver knowedthe taste o' bacon-fat again. '

'Why, he'll eat his head off, and yours too. How can you go on keeping apig, and making nothing by him?'

'O, he picks a bit hisself wi' rootin', and I dooant mind doing wi'out togi' him summat. A bit o' company's meat an' drink too, an' he follers meabout, and grunts when I spake to'm, just like a Christian. '

Mr. Gilfil laughed, and I am obliged to admit that he said good-bye toDame Fripp without asking her why she had not been to church, or makingthe slightest effort for her spiritual edification. But the next day heordered his man David to take her a great piece of bacon, with a message, saying, the parson wanted to make sure that Mrs. Fripp would know thetaste of bacon-fat again. So, when Mr. Gilfil died, Dame Fripp manifestedher gratitude and reverence in the simply dingy fashion I have mentioned. 

You already suspect that the Vicar did not shine in the more spiritualfunctions of his office; and indeed, the utmost I can say for him in thisrespect is, that he performed those functions with undeviating attentionto brevity and despatch. He had a large heap of short sermons, ratheryellow and worn at the edges, from which he took two every Sunday, securing perfect impartiality in the selection by taking them as theycame, without reference to topics; and having preached one of thesesermons at Shepperton in the morning, he mounted his horse and rodehastily with the other in his pocket to Knebley, where he officiated in awonderful little church, with a checkered pavement which had once rung tothe iron tread of military monks, with coats of arms in clusters on thelofty roof, marble warriors and their wives without noses occupying alarge proportion of the area, and the twelve apostles, with their headsvery much on one side, holding didactic ribbons, painted in fresco on thewalls. Here, in an absence of mind to which he was prone, Mr. Gilfilwould sometimes forget to take off his spurs before putting on hissurplice, and only become aware of the omission by feeling somethingmysteriously tugging at the skirts of that garment as he stepped into thereading-desk. But the Knebley farmers would as soon have thought ofcriticizing the moon as their pastor. He belonged to the course ofnature, like markets and toll-gates and dirty bank-notes; and being avicar, his claim on their veneration had never been counteracted by anexasperating claim on their pockets. Some of them, who did not indulge inthe superfluity of a covered cart without springs, had dined half an hourearlier than usual--that is to say, at twelve o'clock--in order to havetime for their long walk through miry lanes, and present themselves dulyin their places at two o'clock, when Mr. Oldinport and Lady Felicia, towhom Knebley Church was a sort of family temple, made their way among thebows and curtsies of their dependants to a carved and canopied pew in thechancel, diffusing as they went a delicate odour of Indian roses on theunsusceptible nostrils of the congregation. 

The farmers' wives and children sat on the dark oaken benches, but thehusbands usually chose the distinctive dignity of a stall under one ofthe twelve apostles, where, when the alternation of prayers and responseshad given place to the agreeable monotony of the sermon, Paterfamiliasmight be seen or heard sinking into a pleasant doze, from which heinfallibly woke up at the sound of the concluding doxology. And then theymade their way back again through the miry lanes, perhaps almost as muchthe better for this simple weekly tribute to what they knew of good andright, as many a more wakeful and critical congregation of the presentday. 

Mr. Gilfil, too, used to make his way home in the later years of hislife, for he had given up the habit of dining at Knebley Abbey on aSunday, having, I am sorry to say, had a very bitter quarrel with Mr. Oldinport, the cousin and predecessor of the Mr. Oldinport who flourishedin the Rev. Amos Barton's time. That quarrel was a sad pity, for the twohad had many a good day's hunting together when they were younger, and inthose friendly times not a few members of the hunt envied Mr. Oldinportthe excellent terms he was on with his vicar; for, as Sir Jasper Sitwellobserved, 'next to a man's wife, there's nobody can be such an infernalplague to you as a parson, always under your nose on your own estate. '

I fancy the original difference which led to the rupture was very slight;but Mr. Gilfil was of an extremely caustic turn, his satire having aflavour of originality which was quite wanting in his sermons; and as Mr. Oldinport's armour of conscious virtue presented some considerable andconspicuous gaps, the Vicar's keen-edged retorts probably made a fewincisions too deep to be forgiven. Such, at least, was the view of thecase presented by Mr. Hackit, who knew as much of the matter as any thirdperson. For, the very week after the quarrel, when presiding at theannual dinner of the Association for the Prosecution of Felons, held atthe Oldinport Arms, he contributed an additional zest to the convivialityon that occasion by informing the company that 'the parson had given thesquire a lick with the rough side of his tongue. ' The detection of theperson or persons who had driven off Mr. Parrot's heifer, could hardlyhave been more welcome news to the Shepperton tenantry, with whom Mr. Oldinport was in the worst odour as a landlord, having kept up his rentsin spite of falling prices, and not being in the least stung to emulationby paragraphs in the provincial newspapers, stating that the HonourableAugustus Purwell, or Viscount Blethers, had made a return of ten per centon their last rent-day. The fact was, Mr. Oldinport had not the slightestintention of standing for Parliament, whereas he had the strongestintention of adding to his unentailed estate. Hence, to the Sheppertonfarmers it was as good as lemon with their grog to know that the Vicarhad thrown out sarcasms against the Squire's charities, as little betterthan those of the man who stole a goose, and gave away the giblets inalms. For Shepperton, you observe, was in a state of Attic culturecompared with Knebley; it had turnpike roads and a public opinion, whereas, in the Boeotian Knebley, men's minds and waggons alike moved inthe deepest of ruts, and the landlord was only grumbled at as a necessaryand unalterable evil, like the weather, the weevils, and the turnip-fly. 

Thus in Shepperton this breach with Mr. Oldinport tended only to heightenthat good understanding which the Vicar had always enjoyed with the restof his parishioners, from the generation whose children he had christeneda quarter of a century before, down to that hopeful generationrepresented by little Tommy Bond, who had recently quitted frocks andtrousers for the severe simplicity of a tight suit of corduroys, relievedby numerous brass buttons. Tommy was a saucy boy, impervious to allimpressions of reverence, and excessively addicted to humming-tops andmarbles, with which recreative resources he was in the habit ofimmoderately distending the pockets of his corduroys. One day, spinninghis top on the garden-walk, and seeing the Vicar advance directly towardsit, at that exciting moment when it was beginning to 'sleep'magnificently, he shouted out with all the force of his lungs--'Stop!don't knock my top down, now!' From that day 'little Corduroys' had beenan especial favourite with Mr. Gilfil, who delighted to provoke his readyscorn and wonder by putting questions which gave Tommy the meanestopinion of his intellect. 

'Well, little Corduroys, have they milked the geese today?'

'Milked the geese! why, they don't milk the geese, you silly!'

'No! dear heart! why, how do the goslings live, then?'

The nutriment of goslings rather transcending Tommy's observations innatural history, he feigned to understand this question in an exclamatoryrather than an interrogatory sense, and became absorbed in winding up histop. 

'Ah, I see you don't know how the goslings live! But did you notice howit rained sugar-plums yesterday?' (Here Tommy became attentive. ) 'Why, they fell into my pocket as I rode along. You look in my pocket and seeif they didn't. ' Tommy, without waiting to discuss the allegedantecedent, lost no time in ascertaining the presence of the agreeableconsequent, for he had a well-founded belief in the advantages of divinginto the Vicar's pocket. Mr. Gilfil called it his wonderful pocket, because, as he delighted to tell the 'young shavers' and 'two-shoes'--sohe called all little boys and girls--whenever he put pennies into it, they turned into sugar-plums or gingerbread, or some other nice thing. Indeed, little Bessie Parrot, a flaxen-headed 'two-shoes', very white andfat as to her neck, always had the admirable directness and sincerity tosalute him with the question--'What zoo dot in zoo pottet?'

You can imagine, then, that the christening dinners were none the lessmerry for the presence of the parson. The farmers relished his societyparticularly, for he could not only smoke his pipe, and season thedetails of parish affairs with abundance of caustic jokes and proverbs, but, as Mr. Bond often said, no man knew more than the Vicar about thebreed of cows and horses. He had grazing-land of his own about five milesoff, which a bailiff, ostensibly a tenant, farmed under his direction;and to ride backwards and forwards, and look after the buying and sellingof stock, was the old gentleman's chief relaxation, now his hunting dayswere over. To hear him discussing the respective merits of the Devonshirebreed and the short-horns, or the last foolish decision of themagistrates about a pauper, a superficial observer might have seen littledifference, beyond his superior shrewdness, between the Vicar and hisbucolic parishioners; for it was his habit to approximate his accent andmode of speech to theirs, doubtless because he thought it a merefrustration of the purposes of language to talk of 'shear-hogs' and'ewes' to men who habitually said 'sharrags' and 'yowes'. Neverthelessthe farmers themselves were perfectly aware of the distinction betweenthem and the parson, and had not at all the less belief in him as agentleman and a clergyman for his easy speech and familiar manners. Mrs. Parrot smoothed her apron and set her cap right with the utmostsolicitude when she saw the Vicar coming, made him her deepest curtsy, and every Christmas had a fat turkey ready to send him with her 'duty'And in the most gossiping colloquies with Mr. Gilfil, you might haveobserved that both men and women 'minded their words', and never becameindifferent to his approbation. 

The same respect attended him in his strictly clerical functions. Thebenefits of baptism were supposed to be somehow bound up with Mr. Gilfil's personality, so metaphysical a distinction as that between a manand his office being, as yet, quite foreign to the mind of a goodShepperton Churchman, savouring, he would have thought, of Dissent on thevery face of it. Miss Selina Parrot put off her marriage a whole monthwhen Mr. Gilfil had an attack of rheumatism, rather than be married in amakeshift manner by the Milby curate. 

'We've had a very good sermon this morning', was the frequent remark, after hearing one of the old yellow series, heard with all the moresatisfaction because it had been heard for the twentieth time; for tominds on the Shepperton level it is repetition, not novelty, thatproduces the strongest effect; and phrases, like tunes, are a long timemaking themselves at home in the brain. 

Mr. Gilfil's sermons, as you may imagine, were not of a highly doctrinal, still less of a polemical, cast. They perhaps did not search theconscience very powerfully; for you remember that to Mrs. Patten, who hadlistened to them thirty years, the announcement that she was a sinnerappeared an uncivil heresy; but, on the other hand, they made nounreasonable demand on the Shepperton intellect--amounting, indeed, tolittle more than an expansion of the concise thesis, that those who dowrong will find it the worse for them, and those who do well will find itthe better for them; the nature of wrong-doing being exposed in specialsermons against lying, backbiting, anger, slothfulness, and the like; andwell-doing being interpreted as honesty, truthfulness, charity, industry, and other common virtues, lying quite on the surface of life, and havingvery little to do with deep spiritual doctrine. Mrs. Patten understoodthat if she turned out ill-crushed cheeses, a just retribution awaitedher; though, I fear, she made no particular application of the sermon onbackbiting. Mrs. Hackit expressed herself greatly edified by the sermonon honesty, the allusion to the unjust weight and deceitful balancehaving a peculiar lucidity for her, owing to a recent dispute with hergrocer; but I am not aware that she ever appeared to be much struck bythe sermon on anger. 

As to any suspicion that Mr. Gilfil did not dispense the pure Gospel, orany strictures on his doctrine and mode of delivery, such thoughts nevervisited the minds of the Shepperton parishioners--of those veryparishioners who, ten or fifteen years later, showed themselves extremelycritical of Mr. Barton's discourses and demeanour. But in the interimthey had tasted that dangerous fruit of the tree of knowledge--innovationwhich is well known to open the eyes, even in an uncomfortable manner. Atpresent, to find fault with the sermon was regarded as almost equivalentto finding fault with religion itself. One Sunday, Mr. Hackit's nephew, Master Tom Stokes, a flippant town youth, greatly scandalized hisexcellent relatives by declaring that he could write as good a sermon asMr. Gilfil's; whereupon Mr. Hackit sought to reduce the presumptuousyouth to utter confusion, by offering him a sovereign if he would fulfilhis vaunt. The sermon was written, however; and though it was notadmitted to be anywhere within reach of Mr. Gilfil's. It was yet soastonishingly like a sermon, having a text, three divisions, and aconcluding exhortation beginning 'And now, my brethren', that thesovereign, though denied formally, was bestowed informally, and thesermon was pronounced, when Master Stokes's back was turned, to be 'anuncommon cliver thing'. 

The Rev. Mr. Pickard, indeed, of the Independent Meeting, had stated, ina sermon preached at Rotheby, for the reduction of a debt on New Zion, built, with an exuberance of faith and a deficiency of funds, by secedersfrom the original Zion, that he lived in a parish where the Vicar wasvery 'dark', and in the prayers he addressed to his own congregation, hewas in the habit of comprehensively alluding to the parishioners outsidethe chapel walls, as those who, 'Gallio-like, cared for none of thesethings'. But I need hardly say that no church-goer ever came withinearshot of Mr. Pickard. 

It was not to the Shepperton farmers only that Mr. Gilfil's society wasacceptable; he was a welcome guest at some of the best houses in thatpart of the country. Old Sir Jasper Sitwell would have been glad to seehim every week; and if you had seen him conducting Lady Sitwell in todinner, or had heard him talking to her with quaint yet gracefulgallantry, you would have inferred that the earlier period of his lifehad been passed in more stately society than could be found inShepperton, and that his slipshod chat and homely manners were but likeweather-stains on a fine old block of marble, allowing you still to seehere and there the fineness of the grain, and the delicacy of theoriginal tint. But in his later years these visits became a little tootroublesome to the old gentleman, and he was rarely to be found anywhereof an evening beyond the bounds of his own parish--most frequently, indeed, by the side of his own sitting-room fire, smoking his pipe, andmaintaining the pleasing antithesis of dryness and moisture by anoccasional sip of gin-and-water. 

Here I am aware that I have run the risk of alienating all my refinedlady-readers, and utterly annihilating any curiosity they may have feltto know the details of Mr. Gilfil's love-story. 'Gin-and-water! foh! youmay as well ask us to interest ourselves in the romance of atallow-chandler, who mingles the image of his beloved with short dips andmoulds. '

But in the first place, dear ladies, allow me to plead thatgin-and-water, like obesity, or baldness, or the gout, does not exclude avast amount of antecedent romance, any more than the neatly-executed'fronts' which you may some day wear, will exclude your presentpossession of less expensive braids. Alas, alas! we poor mortals areoften little better than wood-ashes--there is small sign of the sap, andthe leafy freshness, and the bursting buds that were once there; butwherever we see wood-ashes, we know that all that early fullness of lifemust have been. I, at least, hardly ever look at a bent old man, or awizened old woman, but I see also, with my mind's eye, that Past of whichthey are the shrunken remnant, and the unfinished romance of rosy cheeksand bright eyes seems sometimes of feeble interest and significance, compared with that drama of hope and love which has long ago reached itscatastrophe, and left the poor soul, like a dim and dusty stage, with allits sweet garden-scenes and fair perspectives overturned and thrust outof sight. 

In the second place, let me assure you that Mr. Gilfil's potations ofgin-and-water were quite moderate. His nose was not rubicund; on thecontrary, his white hair hung around a pale and venerable face. He drankit chiefly, I believe, because it was cheap; and here I find myselfalighting on another of the Vicar's weaknesses, which, if I had cared topaint a flattering portrait rather than a faithful one, I might havechosen to suppress. It is undeniable that, as the years advanced, Mr. Gilfil became, as Mr. Hackit observed, more and more 'close-fisted', though the growing propensity showed itself rather in the parsimony ofhis personal habits, than in withholding help from the needy. He wassaving--so he represented the matter to himself--for a nephew, the onlyson of a sister who had been the dearest object, all but one, in hislife. 'The lad, ' he thought, 'will have a nice little fortune to beginlife with, and will bring his pretty young wife some day to see the spotwhere his old uncle lies. It will perhaps be all the better for hishearth that mine was lonely. '

Mr. Gilfil was a bachelor, then?

That is the conclusion to which you would probably have come if you hadentered his sitting-room, where the bare tables, the large old-fashionedhorse-hair chairs, and the threadbare Turkey carpet perpetually fumigatedwith tobacco, seemed to tell a story of wifeless existence that wascontradicted by no portrait, no piece of embroidery, no faded bit ofpretty triviality, hinting of taper-fingers and small feminine ambitions. And it was here that Mr. Gilfil passed his evenings, seldom with othersociety than that of Ponto, his old brown setter, who, stretched out atfull length on the rug with his nose between his fore-paws, would wrinklehis brows and lift up his eyelids every now and then, to exchange aglance of mutual understanding with his master. But there was a chamberin Shepperton Vicarage which told a different story from that bare andcheerless dining-room--a chamber never entered by any one besides Mr. Gilfil and old Martha the housekeeper, who, with David her husband asgroom and gardener, formed the Vicar's entire establishment. The blindsof this chamber were always down, except once a-quarter, when Marthaentered that she might air and clean it. She always asked Mr. Gilfil forthe key, which he kept locked up in his bureau, and returned it to himwhen she had finished her task. 

It was a touching sight that the daylight streamed in upon, as Marthadrew aside the blinds and thick curtains, and opened the Gothic casementof the oriel window! On the little dressing-table there was a daintylooking-glass in a carved and gilt frame; bits of wax-candle were stillin the branched sockets at the sides, and on one of these branches hung alittle black lace kerchief; a faded satin pin-cushion, with the pinsrusted in it, a scent-bottle, and a large green fan, lay on the table;and on a dressing-box by the side of the glass was a work-basket, and anunfinished baby-cap, yellow with age, lying in it. Two gowns, of afashion long forgotten, were hanging on nails against the door, and apair of tiny red slippers, with a bit of tarnished silver embroidery onthem, were standing at the foot of the bed. Two or three water-colourdrawings, views of Naples, hung upon the walls; and over the mantelpiece, above some bits of rare old china, two miniatures in oval frames. One ofthese miniatures represented a young man about seven-and-twenty, with asanguine complexion, full lips, and clear candid grey eyes. The other wasthe likeness of a girl probably not more than eighteen, with smallfeatures, thin cheeks, a pale southern-looking complexion, and large darkeyes. The gentleman wore powder; the lady had her dark hair gathered awayfrom her face, and a little cap, with a cherry-coloured bow, set on thetop of her head--a coquettish head-dress, but the eyes spoke of sadnessrather than of coquetry. 

Such were the things that Martha had dusted and let the air upon, fourtimes a-year, ever since she was a blooming lass of twenty; and she wasnow, in this last decade of Mr. Gilfil's life, unquestionably on thewrong side of fifty. Such was the locked-up chamber in Mr. Gilfil'shouse: a sort of visible symbol of the secret chamber in his heart, wherehe had long turned the key on early hopes and early sorrows, shutting upfor ever all the passion and the poetry of his life. 

There were not many people in the parish, besides Martha, who had anyvery distinct remembrance of Mr. Gilfil's wife, or indeed who knewanything of her, beyond the fact that there was a marble tablet, with aLatin inscription in memory of her, over the vicarage pew. Theparishioners who were old enough to remember her arrival were notgenerally gifted with descriptive powers, and the utmost you could gatherfrom them was, that Mrs. Gilfil looked like a 'furriner, wi' such eyes, you can't think, an' a voice as went through you when she sung atchurch. ' The one exception was Mrs. Patten, whose strong memory and tastefor personal narrative made her a great source of oral tradition inShepperton. Mr. Hackit, who had not come into the parish until ten yearsafter Mrs. Gilfil's death, would often put old questions to Mrs. Pattenfor the sake of getting the old answers, which pleased him in the sameway as passages from a favourite book, or the scenes of a familiar play, please more accomplished people. 

'Ah, you remember well the Sunday as Mrs. Gilfil first come to church, eh, Mrs. Patten?'

'To be sure I do. It was a fine bright Sunday as ever was seen, just atthe beginnin' o' hay harvest. Mr. Tarbett preached that day, and Mr. Gilfil sat i' the pew with his wife. I think I see him now, a-leading herup the aisle, an' her head not reachin' much above his elber: a littlepale woman, with eyes as black as sloes, an' yet lookin' blank-like, asif she see'd nothing with 'em. '

'I warrant she had her weddin' clothes on?' said Mr. Hackit. 

'Nothin' partikler smart--on'y a white hat tied down under her chin, an'a white Indy muslin gown. But you don't know what Mr. Gilfil was in thosetimes. He was fine an' altered before you come into the parish. He'd afresh colour then, an' a bright look wi' his eyes, as did your heart goodto see. He looked rare and happy that Sunday; but somehow, I'd a feelin'as it wouldn't last long. I've no opinion o' furriners, Mr. Hackit, forI've travelled i' their country with my lady in my time, an' seen enougho' their victuals an' their nasty ways. '

'Mrs. Gilfil come from It'ly, didn't she?'

'I reckon she did, but I niver could rightly hear about that. Mr. Gilfilwas niver to be spoke to about her, and nobody else hereabout knowedanythin'. Howiver, she must ha' come over pretty young, for she spokeEnglish as well as you an' me. It's them Italians as has such finevoices, an' Mrs. Gilfil sung, you never heared the like. He brought herhere to have tea with me one afternoon, and says he, in his jovial way, "Now, Mrs. Patten, I want Mrs. Gilfil to see the neatest house, and drinkthe best cup o' tea, in all Shepperton; you must show her your dairy andyour cheese-room, and then she shall sing you a song. " An' so she did;an' her voice seemed sometimes to fill the room; an' then it went low an'soft, as if it was whisperin' close to your heart like. '

'You never heared her again, I reckon?'

'No; she was sickly then, and she died in a few months after. She wasn'tin the parish much more nor half a year altogether. She didn't seemlively that afternoon, an' I could see she didn't care about the dairy, nor the cheeses, on'y she pretended, to please him. As for him, I niversee'd a man so wrapt up in a woman. He looked at her as if he wasworshippin' her, an' as if he wanted to lift her off the ground iveryminute, to save her the trouble o' walkin'. Poor man, poor man! It hadlike to ha' killed him when she died, though he niver gev way, but wenton ridin' about and preachin'. But he was wore to a shadder, an' his eyesused to look as dead--you wouldn't ha' knowed 'em. '

'She brought him no fortune?'

'Not she. All Mr. Gilfil's property come by his mother's side. There wasblood an' money too, there. It's a thousand pities as he married i' thatway--a fine man like him, as might ha' had the pick o' the county, an'had his grandchildren about him now. An' him so fond o' children, too. '

In this manner Mrs. Patten usually wound up her reminiscences of theVicar's wife, of whom, you perceive, she knew but little. It was clearthat the communicative old lady had nothing to tell of Mrs. Gilfil'shistory previous to her arrival in Shepperton, and that she wasunacquainted with Mr. Gilfil's love-story. 

But I, dear reader, am quite as communicative as Mrs. Patten, and muchbetter informed; so that, if you care to know more about the Vicar'scourtship and marriage, you need only carry your imagination back to thelatter end of the last century, and your attention forward into the nextchapter. 

Chapter 2

It is the evening of the 21st of June 1788. The day has been bright andsultry, and the sun will still be more than an hour above the horizon, but his rays, broken by the leafy fretwork of the elms that border thepark, no longer prevent two ladies from carrying out their cushions andembroidery, and seating themselves to work on the lawn in front ofCheverel Manor. The soft turf gives way even under the fairy tread of theyounger lady, whose small stature and slim figure rest on the tiniest offull-grown feet. She trips along before the elder, carrying the cushions, which she places in the favourite spot, just on the slope by a clump oflaurels, where they can see the sunbeams sparkling among thewater-lilies, and can be themselves seen from the dining-room windows. She has deposited the cushions, and now turns round, so that you may havea full view of her as she stands waiting the slower advance of the elderlady. You are at once arrested by her large dark eyes, which, in theirinexpressive unconscious beauty, resemble the eyes of a fawn, and it isonly by an effort of attention that you notice the absence of bloom onher young cheek, and the southern yellowish tint of her small neck andface, rising above the little black lace kerchief which prevents the tooimmediate comparison of her skin with her white muslin gown. Her largeeyes seem all the more striking because the dark hair is gathered awayfrom her face, under a little cap set at the top of her head, with acherry-coloured bow on one side. 

The elder lady, who is advancing towards the cushions, is cast in a verydifferent mould of womanhood. She is tall, and looks the taller becauseher powdered hair is turned backward over a toupee, and surmounted bylace and ribbons. She is nearly fifty, but her complexion is still freshand beautiful, with the beauty of an auburn blond; her proud poutinglips, and her head thrown a little backward as she walks, give anexpression of hauteur which is not contradicted by the cold grey eye. Thetucked-in kerchief, rising full over the low tight bodice of her bluedress, sets off the majestic form of her bust, and she treads the lawn asif she were one of Sir Joshua Reynolds' stately ladies, who had suddenlystepped from her frame to enjoy the evening cool. 

'Put the cushions lower, Caterina, that we may not have so much sun uponus, ' she called out, in a tone of authority, when still at some distance. Caterina obeyed, and they sat down, making two bright patches of red andwhite and blue on the green background of the laurels and the lawn, whichwould look none the less pretty in a picture because one of the women'shearts was rather cold and the other rather sad. 

And a charming picture Cheverel Manor would have made that evening, ifsome English Watteau had been there to paint it: the castellated house ofgrey-tinted stone, with the flickering sunbeams sending dashes of goldenlight across the many-shaped panes in the mullioned windows, and a greatbeech leaning athwart one of the flanking towers, and breaking, with itsdark flattened boughs, the too formal symmetry of the front; the broadgravel-walk winding on the right, by a row of tall pines, alongside thepool--on the left branching out among swelling grassy mounds, surmountedby clumps of trees, where the red trunk of the Scotch fir glows in thedescending sunlight against the bright green of limes and acacias; thegreat pool, where a pair of swans are swimming lazily with one leg tuckedunder a wing, and where the open water-lilies lie calmly accepting thekisses of the fluttering light-sparkles; the lawn, with its smoothemerald greenness, sloping down to the rougher and browner herbage of thepark, from which it is invisibly fenced by a little stream that windsaway from the pool, and disappears under a wooden bridge in the distantpleasure-ground; and on this lawn our two ladies, whose part in thelandscape the painter, standing at a favourable point of view in thepark, would represent with a few little dabs of red and white and blue. 

Seen from the great Gothic windows of the dining-room, they had much moredefiniteness of outline, and were distinctly visible to the threegentlemen sipping their claret there, as two fair women in whom all threehad a personal interest. These gentlemen were a group worth consideringattentively; but any one entering that dining-room for the first time, would perhaps have had his attention even more strongly arrested by theroom itself, which was so bare of furniture that it impressed one withits architectural beauty like a cathedral. A piece of matting stretchedfrom door to door, a bit of worn carpet under the dining-table, and asideboard in a deep recess, did not detain the eye for a moment from thelofty groined ceiling, with its richly-carved pendants, all of creamywhite, relieved here and there by touches of gold. On one side, thislofty ceiling was supported by pillars and arches, beyond which a lowerceiling, a miniature copy of the higher one, covered the squareprojection which, with its three large pointed windows, formed thecentral feature of the building. The room looked less like a place todine in than a piece of space enclosed simply for the sake of beautifuloutline; and the small dining-table, with the party round it, seemed anodd and insignificant accident, rather than anything connected with theoriginal purpose of the apartment. 

But, examined closely, that group was far from insignificant; for theeldest, who was reading in the newspaper the last portentous proceedingsof the French parliaments, and turning with occasional comments to hisyoung companions, was as fine a specimen of the old English gentleman ascould well have been found in those venerable days of cocked-hats andpigtails. His dark eyes sparkled under projecting brows, made moreprominent by bushy grizzled eyebrows; but any apprehension of severityexcited by these penetrating eyes, and by a somewhat aquiline nose, wasallayed by the good-natured lines about the mouth, which retained all itsteeth and its vigour of expression in spite of sixty winters. Theforehead sloped a little from the projecting brows, and its peakedoutline was made conspicuous by the arrangement of the profusely-powderedhair, drawn backward and gathered into a pigtail. He sat in a small hardchair, which did not admit the slightest approach to a lounge, and whichshowed to advantage the flatness of his back and the breadth of hischest. In fact, Sir Christopher Cheverel was a splendid old gentleman, asany one may see who enters the saloon at Cheverel Manor, where hisfull-length portrait, taken when he was fifty, hangs side by side withthat of his wife, the stately lady seated on the lawn. 

Looking at Sir Christopher, you would at once have been inclined to hopethat he had a full-grown son and heir; but perhaps you would have wishedthat it might not prove to be the young man on his right hand, in whom acertain resemblance to the Baronet, in the contour of the nose and brow, seemed to indicate a family relationship. If this young man had been lesselegant in his person, he would have been remarked for the elegance ofhis dress. But the perfections of his slim well-proportioned figure wereso striking that no one but a tailor could notice the perfections of hisvelvet coat; and his small white hands, with their blue veins and taperfingers, quite eclipsed the beauty of his lace ruffles. The face, however--it was difficult to say why--was certainly not pleasing. Nothingcould be more delicate than the blond complexion--its bloom set off bythe powdered hair--than the veined overhanging eye-lids, which gave anindolent expression to the hazel eyes; nothing more finely cut than thetransparent nostril and the short upper-lip. Perhaps the chin and lowerjaw were too small for an irreproachable profile, but the defect was onthe side of that delicacy and _finesse_ which was the distinctivecharacteristic of the whole person, and which was carried out in theclear brown arch of the eyebrows, and the marble smoothness of thesloping forehead. Impossible to say that this face was not eminentlyhandsome; yet, for the majority both of men and women, it was destituteof charm. Women disliked eyes that seemed to be indolently acceptingadmiration instead of rendering it; and men, especially if they had atendency to clumsiness in the nose and ankles, were inclined to thinkthis Antinous in a pig-tail a 'confounded puppy'. I fancy that wasfrequently the inward interjection of the Rev. Maynard Gilfil, who wasseated on the opposite side of the dining-table, though Mr. Gilfil's legsand profile were not at all of a kind to make him peculiarly alive to theimpertinence and frivolity of personal advantages. His healthy open faceand robust limbs were after an excellent pattern for everyday wear, and, in the opinion of Mr. Bates, the north-country gardener, would havebecome regimentals 'a fain saight' better than the 'peaky' features andslight form of Captain Wybrow, notwithstanding that this young gentleman, as Sir Christopher's nephew and destined heir, had the strongesthereditary claim on the gardener's respect, and was undeniably'clean-limbed'. But alas! human longings are perversely obstinate; and tothe man whose mouth is watering for a peach, it is of no use to offer thelargest vegetable marrow. Mr. Gilfil was not sensitive to Mr. Bates'sopinion, whereas he was sensitive to the opinion of another person, whoby no means shared Mr. Bates's preference. 

Who the other person was it would not have required a very keen observerto guess, from a certain eagerness in Mr. Gilfil's glance as that littlefigure in white tripped along the lawn with the cushions. Captain Wybrow, too, was looking in the same direction, but his handsome face remainedhandsome--and nothing more. 

'Ah, ' said Sir Christopher, looking up from his paper, 'there's my lady. Ring for coffee, Anthony; we'll go and join her, and the little monkeyTina shall give us a song. '

The coffee presently appeared, brought not as usual by the footman, inscarlet and drab, but by the old butler, in threadbare but well-brushedblack, who, as he was placing it on the table, said--'If you please, SirChristopher, there's the widow Hartopp a-crying i' the still room, andbegs leave to see your honour. '

'I have given Markham full orders about the widow Hartopp, ' said SirChristopher, in a sharp decided tone. 'I have nothing to say to her. '

'Your honour, ' pleaded the butler, rubbing his hands, and putting on anadditional coating of humility, 'the poor woman's dreadful overcome, andsays she can't sleep a wink this blessed night without seeing yourhonour, and she begs you to pardon the great freedom she's took to comeat this time. She cries fit to break her heart. '

'Ay, ay; water pays no tax. Well, show her into the library. '

Coffee despatched, the two young men walked out through the open window, and joined the ladies on the lawn, while Sir Christopher made his way tothe library, solemnly followed by Rupert, his pet bloodhound, who, in hishabitual place at the Baronet's right hand, behaved with great urbanityduring dinner; but when the cloth was drawn, invariably disappeared underthe table, apparently regarding the claret-jug as a mere human weakness, which he winked at, but refused to sanction. 

The library lay but three steps from the dining-room, on the other sideof a cloistered and matted passage. The oriel window was overshadowed bythe great beech, and this, with the flat heavily-carved ceiling and thedark hue of the old books that lined the walls, made the room looksombre, especially on entering it from the dining-room, with its aerialcurves and cream-coloured fretwork touched with gold. As Sir Christopheropened the door, a jet of brighter light fell on a woman in a widow'sdress, who stood in the middle of the room, and made the deepest ofcurtsies as he entered. She was a buxom woman approaching forty, her eyesred with the tears which had evidently been absorbed by the handkerchiefgathered into a damp ball in her right hand. 

'Now. Mrs. Hartopp, ' said Sir Christopher, taking out his gold snuff-boxand tapping the lid, 'what have you to say to me? Markham has deliveredyou a notice to quit, I suppose?'

'O yis, your honour, an' that's the reason why I've come. I hope yourhonour 'll think better on it, an' not turn me an' my poor children outo' the farm, where my husband al'ys paid his rent as reglar as the daycome. '

'Nonsense! I should like to know what good it will do you and yourchildren to stay on a farm and lose every farthing your husband has leftyou, instead of selling your stock and going into some little place whereyou can keep your money together. It is very well known to every tenantof mine that I never allow widows to stay on their husbands' farms. '

'O, Sir Christifer, if you _would_ consider--when I've sold the hay, an'corn, an' all the live things, an' paid the debts, an' put the money outto use, I shall have hardly enough to keep our souls an' bodies together. An' how can I rear my boys and put 'em 'prentice? They must go fordey-labourers, an' their father a man wi' as good belongings as any onyour honour's estate, an' niver threshed his wheat afore it was well i'the rick, nor sold the straw off his farm, nor nothin'. Ask all thefarmers round if there was a stiddier, soberer man than my husband asattended Ripstone market. An' he says, "Bessie, " says he--them was hislast words--"you'll mek a shift to manage the farm, if Sir Christifer'ull let you stay on. "'

'Pooh, pooh!' said Sir Christopher, Mrs. Hartopp's sobs havinginterrupted her pleadings, 'now listen to me, and try to understand alittle common sense. You are about as able to manage the farm as yourbest milch cow. You'll be obliged to have some managing man, who willeither cheat you out of your money or wheedle you into marrying him. '

'O, your honour, I was never that sort o' woman, an' nobody has known iton me. '

'Very likely not, because you were never a widow before. A woman's alwayssilly enough, but she's never quite as great a fool as she can be untilshe puts on a widow's cap. Now, just ask yourself how much the better youwill be for staying on your farm at the end of four years, when you'vegot through your money, and let your farm run down, and are in arrearsfor half your rent; or, perhaps, have got some great hulky fellow for ahusband, who swears at you and kicks your children. '

'Indeed, Sir Christifer, I know a deal o' farmin, ' an' was brought up i'the thick on it, as you may say. An' there was my husband's great-auntmanaged a farm for twenty year, an' left legacies to all her nephys an'nieces, an' even to my husband, as was then a babe unborn. '

'Psha! a woman six feet high, with a squint and sharp elbows, Idaresay--a man in petticoats. Not a rosy-cheeked widow like you, Mrs. Hartopp. '

'Indeed, your honour, I never heard of her squintin', an' they said asshe might ha' been married o'er and o'er again, to people as had no callto hanker after her money. '

'Ay, ay, that's what you all think. Every man that looks at you wants tomarry you, and would like you the better the more children you have andthe less money. But it is useless to talk and cry. I have good reasonsfor my plans, and never alter them. What you have to do is to take thebest of your stock, and to look out for some little place to go to, whenyou leave The Hollows. Now, go back to Mrs. Bellamy's room, and ask herto give you a dish of tea. '

Mrs. Hartopp, understanding from Sir Christopher's tone that he was notto be shaken, curtsied low and left the library, while the Baronet, seating himself at his desk in the oriel window, wrote the followingletter:

Mr. Markham, --Take no steps about letting Crowsfoot Cottage, as I intendto put in the widow Hartopp when she leaves her farm; and if you will behere at eleven on Saturday morning, I will ride round with you, andsettle about making some repairs, and see about adding a bit of land tothe take, as she will want to keep a cow and some pigs. --Yoursfaithfully, Christopher Cheverel

After ringing the bell and ordering this letter to be sent, SirChristopher walked out to join the party on the lawn. But finding thecushions deserted, he walked on to the eastern front of the building, where, by the side of the grand entrance, was the large bow-window of thesaloon, opening on to the gravel-sweep, and looking towards a long vistaof undulating turf, bordered by tall trees, which, seeming to uniteitself with the green of the meadows and a grassy road through aplantation, only terminated with the Gothic arch of a gateway in the fardistance. The bow-window was open, and Sir Christopher, stepping in, found the group he sought, examining the progress of the unfinishedceiling. It was in the same style of florid pointed Gothic as thedining-room, but more elaborate in its tracery, which was like petrifiedlace-work picked out with delicate and varied colouring. About a fourthof its still remained uncoloured, and under this part were scaffolding, ladders, and tools; otherwise the spacious saloon was empty of furniture, and seemed to be a grand Gothic canopy for the group of five humanfigures standing in the centre. 

'Francesco has been getting on a little better the last day or two, ' saidSir Christopher, as he joined the party: 'he's a sad lazy dog, and Ifancy he has a knack of sleeping as he stands, with his brushes in hishands. But I must spur him on, or we may not have the scaffolding clearedaway before the bride comes, if you show dexterous generalship in yourwooing, eh, Anthony? and take your Magdeburg quickly. '

'Ah, sir, a siege is known to be one of the most tedious operations inwar, ' said Captain Wybrow, with an easy smile. 

'Not when there's a traitor within the walls in the shape of a softheart. And that there will be, if Beatrice has her mother's tenderness aswell as her mother's beauty. '

'What do you think, Sir Christopher, ' said Lady Cheverel, who seemed towince a little under her husband's reminiscences, 'of hanging Guercino's"Sibyl" over that door when we put up the pictures? It is rather lost inmy sitting-room. '

'Very good, my love, ' answered Sir Christopher, in a tone ofpunctiliously polite affection; 'if you like to part with the ornamentfrom your own room, it will show admirably here. Our portraits, by SirJoshua, will hang opposite the window, and the "Transfiguration" at thatend. You see, Anthony, I am leaving no good places on the walls for youand your wife. We shall turn you with your faces to the wall in thegallery, and you may take your revenge on us by-and-by. '

While this conversation was going on, Mr. Gilfil turned to Caterina andsaid, --'I like the view from this window better than any other in thehouse. '

She made no answer, and he saw that her eyes were filling with tears; sohe added, 'Suppose we walk out a little; Sir Christopher and my lady seemto be occupied. '

Caterina complied silently, and they turned down one of the gravel walksthat led, after many windings under tall trees and among grassy openings, to a large enclosed flower-garden. Their walk was perfectly silent, forMaynard Gilfil knew that Caterina's thoughts were not with him, and shehad been long used to make him endure the weight of those moods which shecarefully hid from others. They reached the flower-garden, and turnedmechanically in at the gate that opened, through a high thick hedge, onan expanse of brilliant colour, which, after the green shades they hadpassed through, startled the eye like flames. The effect was assisted byan undulation of the ground, which gradually descended from theentrance-gate, and then rose again towards the opposite end, crowned byan orangery. The flowers were glowing with their evening splendours;verbenas and heliotropes were sending up their finest incense. It seemeda gala where all was happiness and brilliancy, and misery could find nosympathy. This was the effect it had on Caterina. As she wound among thebeds of gold and blue and pink, where the flowers seemed to be looking ather with wondering elf-like eyes, knowing nothing of sorrow, the feelingof isolation in her wretchedness overcame her, and the tears, which hadbeen before trickling slowly down her pale cheeks, now gushed forthaccompanied with sobs. And yet there was a loving human being closebeside her, whose heart was aching for hers, who was possessed by thefeeling that she was miserable, and that he was helpless to soothe her. But she was too much irritated by the idea that his wishes were differentfrom hers, that he rather regretted the folly of her hopes than theprobability of their disappointment, to take any comfort in his sympathy. Caterina, like the rest of us, turned away from sympathy which shesuspected to be mingled with criticism, as the child turns away from thesweetmeat in which it suspects imperceptible medicine. 

'Dear Caterina, I think I hear voices, ' said Mr. Gilfil; 'they may becoming this way. '

She checked herself like one accustomed to conceal her emotions, and ranrapidly to the other end of the garden, where she seemed occupied inselecting a rose. Presently Lady Cheverel entered, leaning on the arm ofCaptain Wybrow, and followed by Sir Christopher. The party stopped toadmire the tiers of geraniums near the gate; and in the mean timeCaterina tripped back with a moss rose-bud in her hand, and, going up toSir Christopher, said--'There, Padroncello--there is a nice rose for yourbutton-hole. '

'Ah, you black-eyed monkey, ' he said, fondly stroking her cheek; 'so youhave been running off with Maynard, either to torment or coax him an inchor two deeper into love. Come, come, I want you to sing us "_Ho perduto_"before we sit down to picquet. Anthony goes tomorrow, you know; you mustwarble him into the right sentimental lover's mood, that he may acquithimself well at Bath. ' He put her little arm under his, and calling toLady Cheverel, 'Come, Henrietta!' led the way towards the house. 

The party entered the drawing-room, which, with its oriel window, corresponded to the library in the other wing, and had also a flatceiling heavy with carving and blazonry; but the window being unshaded, and the walls hung with full-length portraits of knights and dames inscarlet, white, and gold, it had not the sombre effect of the library. Here hung the portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel, who in the reign ofCharles II. Was the renovator of the family splendour, which had sufferedsome declension from the early brilliancy of that Chevreuil who came overwith the Conqueror. A very imposing personage was this Sir Anthony, standing with one arm akimbo, and one fine leg and foot advanced, evidently with a view to the gratification of his contemporaries andposterity. You might have taken off his splendid peruke, and his scarletcloak, which was thrown backward from his shoulders, without annihilatingthe dignity of his appearance. And he had known how to choose a wife, too, for his lady, hanging opposite to him, with her sunny brown hairdrawn away in bands from her mild grave face, and falling in two largerich curls on her snowy gently-sloping neck, which shamed the harsher hueand outline of her white satin robe, was a fit mother of 'large-acred'heirs. 

In this room tea was served; and here, every evening, as regularly as thegreat clock in the court-yard with deliberate bass tones struck nine, SirChristopher and Lady Cheverel sat down to picquet until half-past ten, when Mr. Gilfil read prayers to the assembled household in the chapel. 

But now it was not near nine, and Caterina must sit down to theharpsichord and sing Sir Christopher's favourite airs from Gluck's'Orfeo', an opera which, for the happiness of that generation, was thento be heard on the London stage. It happened this evening that thesentiment of these airs, '_Che faro senza Eurydice?_' and '_Ho perduto ilbel sembiante_', in both of which the singer pours out his yearning afterhis lost love, came very close to Caterina's own feeling. But heremotion, instead of being a hindrance to her singing, gave her additionalpower. Her singing was what she could do best; it was her one point ofsuperiority, in which it was probable she would excel the highborn beautywhom Anthony was to woo; and her love, her jealousy, her pride, herrebellion against her destiny, made one stream of passion which welledforth in the deep rich tones of her voice. She had a rare contralto, which Lady Cheverel, who had high musical taste, had been careful topreserve her from straining. 

'Excellent, Caterina, ' said Lady Cheverel, as there was a pause after thewonderful linked sweetness of '_Che faro_'. 'I never heard you sing thatso well. Once more!'

It was repeated; and then came, 'Ho perduto', which Sir Christopherencored, in spite of the clock, just striking nine. When the last notewas dying out he said--'There's a clever black-eyed monkey. Now bring outthe table for picquet. '

Caterina drew out the table and placed the cards; then, with her rapidfairy suddenness of motion, threw herself on her knees, and clasped SirChristopher's knee. He bent down, stroked her cheek and smiled. 

'Caterina, that is foolish, ' said Lady Cheverel. 'I wish you would leaveoff those stage-players' antics. '

She jumped up, arranged the music on the harpsichord, and then, seeingthe Baronet and his lady seated at picquet, quietly glided out of theroom. 

Captain Wybrow had been leaning near the harpsichord during the singing, and the chaplain had thrown himself on a sofa at the end of the room. They both now took up a book. Mr. Gilfil chose the last number of the'Gentleman's Magazine'; Captain Wybrow, stretched on an ottoman near thedoor, opened 'Faublas'; and there was perfect silence in the room which, ten minutes before, was vibrating to the passionate tones of Caterina. 

She had made her way along the cloistered passages, now lighted here andthere by a small oil-lamp, to the grand-staircase, which led directly toa gallery running along the whole eastern side of the building, where itwas her habit to walk when she wished to be alone. The bright moonlightwas streaming through the windows, throwing into strange light and shadowthe heterogeneous objects that lined the long walls Greek statues andbusts of Roman emperors; low cabinets filled with curiosities, naturaland antiquarian; tropical birds and huge horns of beasts; Hindoo gods andstrange shells; swords and daggers, and bits of chain-armour; Roman lampsand tiny models of Greek temples; and, above all these, queer old familyportraits--of little boys and girls, once the hope of the Cheverels, withclose-shaven heads imprisoned in stiff ruffs--of faded, pink-facedladies, with rudimentary features and highly-developed head-dresses--ofgallant gentlemen, with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointedbeards. 

Here, on rainy days, Sir Christopher and his lady took their promenade, and here billiards were played; but, in the evening, it was forsaken byall except Caterina--and, sometimes, one other person. 

She paced up and down in the moonlight, her pale face and thinwhite-robed form making her look like the ghost of some former LadyCheverel come to revisit the glimpses of the moon. 

By-and-by she paused opposite the broad window above the portico, andlooked out on the long vista of turf and trees now stretching chill andsaddened in the moonlight. 

Suddenly a breath of warmth and roses seemed to float towards her, and anarm stole gently round her waist, while a soft hand took up her tinyfingers. Caterina felt an electric thrill, and was motionless for onelong moment; then she pushed away the arm and hand, and, turning round, lifted up to the face that hung over her eyes full of tenderness andreproach. The fawn-like unconsciousness was gone, and in that one lookwere the ground tones of poor little Caterina's nature--intense love andfierce jealousy. 

'Why do you push me away, Tina?' said Captain Wybrow in a half-whisper;'are you angry with me for what a hard fate puts upon me? Would you haveme cross my uncle--who has done so much for us both--in his dearest wish?You know I have duties--we both have duties--before which feeling must besacrificed. '

'Yes, yes, ' said Caterina, stamping her foot, and turning away her head;'don't tell me what I know already. '

There was a voice speaking in Caterina's mind to which she had never yetgiven vent. That voice said continually. 'Why did he make me lovehim--why did he let me know he loved me, if he knew all the while that hecouldn't brave everything for my sake?' Then love answered, 'He was ledon by the feeling of the moment, as you have been, Caterina; and now youought to help him to do what is right. ' Then the voice rejoined, 'It wasa slight matter to him. He doesn't much mind giving you up. He will soonlove that beautiful woman, and forget a poor little pale thing like you. '

Thus love, anger, and jealousy were struggling in that young soul. 

'Besides, Tina, ' continued Captain Wybrow in still gentler tones, 'Ishall not succeed. Miss Assher very likely prefers some one else; and youknow I have the best will in the world to fail. I shall come back ahapless bachelor--perhaps to find you already married to the good-lookingchaplain, who is over head and ears in love with you. Poor SirChristopher has made up his mind that you're to have Gilfil. 

'Why will you speak so? You speak from your own want of feeling. Go awayfrom me. '

'Don't let us part in anger, Tina. All this may pass away. It's as likelyas not that I may never marry any one at all. These palpitations maycarry me off, and you may have the satisfaction of knowing that I shallnever be anybody's bride-groom. Who knows what may happen? I may be myown master before I get into the bonds of holy matrimony, and be able tochoose my little singing-bird. Why should we distress ourselves beforethe time?'

'It is easy to talk so when you are not feeling, ' said Caterina, thetears flowing fast. 'It is bad to bear now, whatever may come after. Butyou don't care about my misery. '

'Don't I, Tina?' said Anthony in his tenderest tones, again stealing hisarm round her waist, and drawing her towards him. Poor Tina was the slaveof this voice and touch. Grief and resentment, retrospect and foreboding, vanished--all life before and after melted away in the bliss of thatmoment, as Anthony pressed his lips to hers. 

Captain Wybrow thought, 'Poor little Tina! it would make her very happyto have me. But she is a mad little thing. '

At that moment a loud bell startled Caterina from her trance of bliss. Itwas the summons to prayers in the chapel, and she hastened away, leavingCaptain Wybrow to follow slowly. 

It was a pretty sight, that family assembled to worship in the littlechapel, where a couple of wax-candles threw a mild faint light on thefigures kneeling there. In the desk was Mr. Gilfil, with his face a shadegraver than usual. On his right hand, kneeling on their red velvetcushions, were the master and mistress of the household, in their elderlydignified beauty. On his left, the youthful grace of Anthony andCaterina, in all the striking contrast of their colouring--he, with hisexquisite outline and rounded fairness, like an Olympian god; she, darkand tiny, like a gypsy changeling. Then there were the domestics kneelingon red-covered forms, --the women headed by Mrs. Bellamy, the natty littleold housekeeper, in snowy cap and apron, and Mrs. Sharp, my lady's maid, of somewhat vinegar aspect and flaunting attire; the men by Mr. Bellamythe butler, and Mr. Warren, Sir Christopher's venerable valet. 

A few collects from the Evening Service was what Mr. Gilfil habituallyread, ending with the simple petition, 'Lighten our darkness. '

And then they all rose, the servants turning to curtsy and bow as theywent out. The family returned to the drawing-room, said good-night toeach other, and dispersed--all to speedy slumber except two. Caterinaonly cried herself to sleep after the clock had struck twelve. Mr. Gilfillay awake still longer, thinking that very likely Caterina was crying. 

Captain Wybrow, having dismissed his valet at eleven, was soon in a softslumber, his face looking like a fine cameo in high relief on theslightly indented pillow. 

Chapter 3

The last chapter has given the discerning reader sufficient insight intothe state of things at Cheverel Manor in the summer of 1788. In thatsummer, we know, the great nation of France was agitated by conflictingthoughts and passions, which were but the beginning of sorrows. And inour Caterina's little breast, too, there were terrible struggles. Thepoor bird was beginning to flutter and vainly dash its soft breastagainst the hard iron bars of the inevitable, and we see too plainly thedanger, if that anguish should go on heightening instead of beingallayed, that the palpitating heart may be fatally bruised. 

Meanwhile, if, as I hope, you feel some interest in Caterina and herfriends at Cheverel Manor, you are perhaps asking, How came she to bethere? How was it that this tiny, dark-eyed child of the south, whoseface was immediately suggestive of olive-covered hills and taper-litshrines, came to have her home in that stately English manor-house, bythe side of the blonde matron, Lady Cheverel--almost as if a humming-birdwere found perched on one of the elm-trees in the park, by the side ofher ladyship's handsomest pouter-pigeon? Speaking good English, too, andjoining in Protestant prayers! Surely she must have been adopted andbrought over to England at a very early age. She was. 

During Sir Christopher's last visit to Italy with his lady, fifteen yearsbefore, they resided for some time at Milan, where Sir Christopher, whowas an enthusiast for Gothic architecture, and was then entertaining theproject of metamorphosing his plain brick family mansion into the modelof a Gothic manor-house, was bent on studying the details of that marblemiracle, the Cathedral. Here Lady Cheverel, as at other Italian citieswhere she made any protracted stay, engaged a _maestro_ to give herlessons in singing, for she had then not only fine musical taste, but afine soprano voice. Those were days when very rich people used manuscriptmusic, and many a man who resembled Jean Jacques in nothing else, resembled him in getting a livelihood 'a copier la musique a tant lapage'. Lady Cheverel having need of this service, Maestro Albani told herhe would send her a poveraccio of his acquaintance, whose manuscript wasthe neatest and most correct he knew of. Unhappily, the poveraccio wasnot always in his best wits, and was sometimes rather slow inconsequence; but it would be a work of Christian charity worthy of thebeautiful Signora to employ poor Sarti. 

The next morning, Mrs. Sharp, then a blooming abigail ofthree-and-thirty, entered her lady's private room and said, 'If youplease, my lady, there's the frowsiest, shabbiest man you ever saw, outside, and he's told Mr. Warren as the singing-master sent him to seeyour ladyship. But I think you'll hardly like him to come in here. Belikehe's only a beggar. '

'O yes, show him in immediately. '

Mrs. Sharp retired, muttering something about 'fleas and worse'. She hadthe smallest possible admiration for fair Ausonia and its natives, andeven her profound deference for Sir Christopher and her lady could notprevent her from expressing her amazement at the infatuation ofgentlefolks in choosing to sojourn among 'Papises, in countries wherethere was no getting to air a bit o' linen, and where the people smelt o'garlick fit to knock you down. '

However she presently reappeared, ushering in a small meagre man, sallowand dingy, with a restless wandering look in his dull eyes, and anexcessive timidity about his deep reverences, which gave him the air of aman who had been long a solitary prisoner. Yet through all this squalorand wretchedness there were some traces discernible of comparative youthand former good looks. Lady Cheverel, though not very tender-hearted, still less sentimental, was essentially kind, and liked to dispensebenefits like a goddess, who looks down benignly on the halt, the maimed, and the blind that approach her shrine. She was smitten with somecompassion at the sight of poor Sarti, who struck her as the merebattered wreck of a vessel that might have once floated gaily enough onits outward voyage to the sound of pipes and tabors. She spoke gently asshe pointed out to him the operatic selections she wished him to copy, and he seemed to sun himself in her auburn, radiant presence, so thatwhen he made his exit with the music-books under his arm, his bow, thoughnot less reverent, was less timid. 

It was ten years at least since Sarti had seen anything so bright andstately and beautiful as Lady Cheverel. For the time was far off in whichhe had trod the stage in satin and feathers, the _primo tenore_ of oneshort season. He had completely lost his voice in the following winter, and had ever since been little better than a cracked fiddle, which isgood for nothing but firewood. For, like many Italian singers, he was tooignorant to teach, and if it had not been for his one talent ofpenmanship, he and his young helpless wife might have starved. Then, justafter their third child was born, fever came, swept away the sicklymother and the two eldest children, and attacked Sarti himself, who rosefrom his sick-bed with enfeebled brain and muscle, and a tiny baby on hishands, scarcely four months old. He lodged over a fruit-shop kept by astout virago, loud of tongue and irate in temper, but who had hadchildren born to her, and so had taken care of the tiny yellow, black-eyed _bambinetto_, and tended Sarti himself through his sickness. Here he continued to live, earning a meagre subsistence for himself andhis little one by the work of copying music, put into his hands chieflyby Maestro Albani. He seemed to exist for nothing but the child: hetended it, he dandled it, he chatted to it, living with it alone in hisone room above the fruit-shop, only asking his landlady to take care ofthe marmoset during his short absences in fetching and carrying homework. Customers frequenting that fruit-shop might often see the tinyCaterina seated on the floor with her legs in a heap of pease, which itwas her delight to kick about; or perhaps deposited, like a kitten, in alarge basket out of harm's way. 

Sometimes, however, Sarti left his little one with another kind ofprotectress. He was very regular in his devotions, which he paid thricea-week in the great cathedral, carrying Caterina with him. Here, when thehigh morning sun was warming the myriad glittering pinnacles without, andstruggling against the massive gloom within, the shadow of a man with achild on his arm might be seen flitting across the more stationaryshadows of pillar and mullion, and making its way towards a little tinselMadonna hanging in a retired spot near the choir. Amid all thesublimities of the mighty cathedral, poor Sarti had fixed on this tinselMadonna as the symbol of divine mercy and protection, --just as a child, in the presence of a great landscape, sees none of the glories of woodand sky, but sets its heart on a floating feather or insect that happensto be on a level with its eye. Here, then, Sarti worshipped and prayed, setting Caterina on the floor by his side; and now and then, when thecathedral lay near some place where he had to call, and did not like totake her, he would leave her there in front of the tinsel Madonna, whereshe would sit, perfectly good, amusing herself with low crowing noisesand see-sawings of her tiny body. And when Sarti came back, he alwaysfound that the Blessed Mother had taken good care of Caterina. 

That was briefly the history of Sarti, who fulfilled so well the ordersLady Cheverel gave him, that she sent him away again with a stock of newwork. But this time, week after week passed, and he neither reappearednor sent home the music intrusted to him. Lady Cheverel began to beanxious, and was thinking of sending Warren to inquire at the addressSarti had given her, when one day, as she was equipped for driving out, the valet brought in a small piece of paper, which, he said, had beenleft for her ladyship by a man who was carrying fruit. The papercontained only three tremulous lines, in Italian:--'Will theEccelentissima, for the love of God, have pity on a dying man, and cometo him?'

Lady Cheverel recognized the handwriting as Sarti's in spite of itstremulousness, and, going down to her carriage, ordered the Milanesecoachman to drive to Strada Quinquagesima, Numero 10. The coach stoppedin a dirty narrow street opposite La Pazzini's fruit-shop, and that largespecimen of womanhood immediately presented herself at the door, to theextreme disgust of Mrs. Sharp, who remarked privately to Mr. Warren thatLa Pazzini was a 'hijeous porpis'. The fruit-woman, however, was allsmiles and deep curtsies to the Eccelentissima, who, not very wellunderstanding her Milanese dialect, abbreviated the conversation byasking to be shown at once to Signor Sarti. La Pazzini preceded her upthe dark narrow stairs, and opened a door through which she begged herladyship to enter. Directly opposite the door lay Sarti, on a lowmiserable bed. His eyes were glazed, and no movement indicated that hewas conscious of their entrance. 

On the foot of the bed was seated a tiny child, apparently not threeyears old, her head covered by a linen cap, her feet clothed with leatherboots, above which her little yellow legs showed thin and naked. A frock, made of what had once been a gay flowered silk, was her only othergarment. Her large dark eyes shone from out her queer little face, liketwo precious stones in a grotesque image carved in old ivory. She held anempty medicine-bottle in her hand, and was amusing herself with puttingthe cork in and drawing it out again, to hear how it would pop. 

La Pazzini went up to the bed and said, 'Ecco la nobilissima donna;' butdirectly after screamed out, 'Holy mother! he is dead!'

It was so. The entreaty had not been sent in time for Sarti to carry outhis project of asking the great English lady to take care of hisCaterina. That was the thought which haunted his feeble brain as soon ashe began to fear that his illness would end in death. She had wealth--shewas kind--she would surely do something for the poor orphan. And so, atlast, he sent that scrap of paper which won the fulfilment of his prayer, though he did not live to utter it. Lady Cheverel gave La Pazzini moneythat the last decencies might be paid to the dead man, and carried awayCaterina, meaning to consult Sir Christopher as to what should be donewith her. Even Mrs. Sharp had been so smitten with pity by the scene shehad witnessed when she was summoned up-stairs to fetch Caterina, as toshed a small tear, though she was not at all subject to that weakness;indeed, she abstained from it on principle, because, as she often said, it was known to be the worst thing in the world for the eyes. 

On the way back to her hotel, Lady Cheverel turned over various projectsin her mind regarding Caterina, but at last one gained the preferenceover all the rest. Why should they not take the child to England, andbring her up there? They had been married twelve years, yet CheverelManor was cheered by no children's voices, and the old house would be allthe better for a little of that music. Besides, it would be a Christianwork to train this little Papist into a good Protestant, and graft asmuch English fruit as possible on the Italian stem. 

Sir Christopher listened to this plan with hearty acquiescence. He lovedchildren, and took at once to the little black-eyed monkey--his name forCaterina all through her short life. But neither he nor Lady Cheverel hadany idea of adopting her as their daughter, and giving her their own rankin life. They were much too English and aristocratic to think of anythingso romantic. No! the child would be brought up at Cheverel Manor as aprotegee, to be ultimately useful, perhaps, in sorting worsteds, keepingaccounts, reading aloud, and otherwise supplying the place of spectacleswhen her ladyship's eyes should wax dim. 

So Mrs. Sharp had to procure new clothes, to replace the linen cap, flowered frock, and leathern boots; and now, strange to say, littleCaterina, who had suffered many unconscious evils in her existence ofthirty moons, first began to know conscious troubles. 'Ignorance, ' saysAjax, 'is a painless evil;' so, I should think, is dirt, considering themerry faces that go along with it. At any rate, cleanliness is sometimesa painful good, as any one can vouch who has had his face washed thewrong way, by a pitiless hand with a gold ring on the third finger. Ifyou, reader, have not known that initiatory anguish, it is idle to expectthat you will form any approximate conception of what Caterina enduredunder Mrs. Sharp's new dispensation of soap-and-water. Happily, thispurgatory came presently to be associated in her tiny brain with apassage straightway to a seat of bliss--the sofa in Lady Cheverel'ssitting-room, where there were toys to be broken, a ride was to be had onSir Christopher's knee, and a spaniel of resigned temper was prepared toundergo small tortures without flinching. 

Chapter 4

In three months from the time of Caterina's adoption--namely, in the lateautumn of 1773--the chimneys of Cheverel Manor were sending up unwontedsmoke, and the servants were awaiting in excitement the return of theirmaster and mistress after a two years' absence. Great was theastonishment of Mrs. Bellamy, the housekeeper, when Mr. Warren lifted alittle black-eyed child out of the carriage, and great was Mrs. Sharp'ssense of superior information and experience, as she detailed Caterina'shistory, interspersed with copious comments, to the rest of the upperservants that evening, as they were taking a comfortable glass of grogtogether in the housekeeper's room. 

A pleasant room it was as any party need desire to muster in on a coldNovember evening. The fireplace alone was a picture: a wide and deeprecess with a low brick altar in the middle, where great logs of dry woodsent myriad sparks up the dark chimney-throat; and over the front of thisrecess a large wooden entablature bearing this motto, finely carved inold English letters, 'Fear God and honour the King'. And beyond theparty, who formed a half-moon with their chairs and well-furnished tableround this bright fireplace, what a space of chiaroscuro for theimagination to revel in! Stretching across the far end of the room, whatan oak table, high enough surely for Homer's gods, standing on fourmassive legs, bossed and bulging like sculptured urns! and, lining thedistant wall, what vast cupboards, suggestive of inexhaustible apricotjam and promiscuous butler's perquisites! A stray picture or two hadfound their way down there, and made agreeable patches of dark brown onthe buff-coloured walls. High over the loud-resounding double door hungone which, from some indications of a face looming out of blackness, might, by a great synthetic effort, be pronounced a Magdalen. Considerably lower down hung the similitude of a hat and feathers, withportions of a ruff, stated by Mrs. Bellamy to represent Sir FrancisBacon, who invented gunpowder, and, in her opinion, 'might ha' beenbetter emplyed. '

But this evening the mind is but slightly arrested by the great Verulam, and is in the humour to think a dead philosopher less interesting than aliving gardener, who sits conspicuous in the half-circle round thefireplace. Mr. Bates is habitually a guest in the housekeeper's room ofan evening, preferring the social pleasures there--the feast of gossipand the flow of grog--to a bachelor's chair in his charming thatchedcottage on a little island, where every sound is remote, but the cawingof rooks and the screaming of wild geese, poetic sounds, doubtless, but, humanly speaking, not convivial. 

Mr. Bates was by no means an average person, to be passed without specialnotice. He was a sturdy Yorkshireman, approaching forty, whose faceNature seemed to have coloured when she was in a hurry, and had no timeto attend to _nuances_, for every inch of him visible above his neckclothwas of one impartial redness; so that when he was at some distance yourimagination was at liberty to place his lips anywhere between his noseand chin. Seen closer, his lips were discerned to be of a peculiar cut, and I fancy this had something to do with the peculiarity of his dialect, which, as we shall see, was individual rather than provincial. Mr. Bateswas further distinguished from the common herd by a perpetual blinking ofthe eyes; and this, together with the red-rose tint of his complexion, and a way he had of hanging his head forward, and rolling it from side toside as he walked, gave him the air of a Bacchus in a blue apron, who, inthe present reduced circumstances of Olympus, had taken to the managementof his own vines. Yet, as gluttons are often thin, so sober men are oftenrubicund; and Mr. Bates was sober, with that manly, British, churchman-like sobriety which can carry a few glasses of grog without anyperceptible clarification of ideas. 

'Dang my boottons!' observed Mr. Bates, who, at the conclusion of Mrs. Sharp's narrative, felt himself urged to his strongest interjection, 'it's what I shouldn't ha' looked for from Sir Cristhifer an' my ledy, tobring a furrin child into the coonthry; an' depend on't, whether you an'me lives to see't or noo, it'll coom to soom harm. The first sitiationiver I held--it was a hold hancient habbey, wi' the biggest orchard o'apples an' pears you ever see--there was a French valet, an' he stoolsilk stoockins, an' shirts, an' rings, an' iverythin' he could ley hishands on, an' run awey at last wi' th' missis's jewl-box. They're allalaike, them furriners. It roons i' th' blood. '

'Well, ' said Mrs. Sharp, with the air of a person who held liberal views, but knew where to draw the line, 'I'm not a-going to defend thefurriners, for I've as good reason to know what they are as most folks, an' nobody'll ever hear me say but what they're next door to heathens, and the hile they eat wi' their victuals is enough to turn anyChristian's stomach. But for all that--an' for all as the trouble inrespect o' washin' and managin' has fell upo' me through the journey--Ican't say but what I think as my Lady an' Sir Cristifer's done a rightthing by a hinnicent child as doesn't know its right hand from its left, i' bringing it where it'll learn to speak summat better nor gibberish, and be brought up i' the true religion. For as for them furrin churchesas Sir Cristifer is so unaccountable mad after, wi' pictures o' men an'women a-showing themselves just for all the world as God made 'em. Ithink, for my part, as it's welly a sin to go into 'em. '

'You're likely to have more foreigners, however, ' said Mr. Warren, wholiked to provoke the gardener, 'for Sir Christopher has engaged someItalian workmen to help in the alterations in the house. '

'Olterations!' exclaimed Mrs. Bellamy, in alarm. 'What olterations!'

'Why, ' answered Mr. Warren, 'Sir Christopher, as I understand, is goingto make a new thing of the old Manor-house both inside and out. And he'sgot portfolios full of plans and pictures coming. It is to be cased withstone, in the Gothic style--pretty near like the churches, you know, asfar as I can make out; and the ceilings are to be beyond anything that'sbeen seen in the country. Sir Christopher's been giving a deal of studyto it. '

'Dear heart alive!' said Mrs. Bellamy, 'we shall be pisoned wi' lime an'plaster, an' hev the house full o' workmen colloguing wi' the maids, an'makin' no end o' mischief. '

'That ye may ley your life on, Mrs. Bellamy, ' said Mr. Bates. 'Howiver, I'll noot denay that the Goothic stayle's prithy anoof, an' it'swoonderful how near them stoon-carvers cuts oot the shapes o' the pineapples, an' shamrucks, an' rooses. I dare sey Sir Cristhifer'll meck anaice thing o' the Manor, an' there woon't be many gentlemen's houses i'the coonthry as'll coom up to't, wi' sich a garden an' pleasure-groonsan' wall-fruit as King George maight be prood on. '

'Well, I can't think as the house can be better nor it is, Gothic or noGothic, ' said Mrs. Bellamy; 'an' I've done the picklin' and preservin' init fourteen year Michaelmas was a three weeks. But what does my lady sayto't?'

'My lady knows better than cross Sir Cristifer in what he's set his mindon, ' said Mr. Bellamy, who objected to the critical tone of theconversation. 'Sir Cristifer'll hev his own way, _that_ you may tek youroath. An' i' the right on't too. He's a gentleman born, an's got themoney. But come, Mester Bates, fill your glass, an' we'll drink healthan' happiness to his honour an' my lady, and then you shall give us asong. Sir Cristifer doesn't come hum from Italy ivery night. '

This demonstrable position was accepted without hesitation as ground fora toast; but Mr. Bates, apparently thinking that his song was not anequally reasonable sequence, ignored the second part of Mr. Bellamy'sproposal. So Mrs. Sharp, who had been heard to say that she had nothoughts at all of marrying Mr. Bates, though he was 'a sensablefresh-coloured man as many a woman 'ud snap at for a husband, ' enforcedMr. Bellamy's appeal. 

'Come, Mr. Bates, let us hear "Roy's Wife. " I'd rether hear a good oldsong like that, nor all the fine Italian toodlin. '

Mr. Bates, urged thus flatteringly, stuck his thumbs into the armholes ofhis waistcoat, threw himself back in his chair with his head in thatposition in which he could look directly towards the zenith, and struckup a remarkably _staccato_ rendering of 'Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch'. Thismelody may certainly be taxed with excessive iteration, but that wasprecisely its highest recommendation to the present audience, who foundit all the easier to swell the chorus. Nor did it at all diminish theirpleasure that the only particular concerning 'Roy's Wife', which Mr. Bates's enunciation allowed them to gather, was that she 'chated'him, --whether in the matter of garden stuff or of some other commodity, or why her name should, in consequence, be repeatedly reiterated withexultation, remaining an agreeable mystery. 

Mr. Bates's song formed the climax of the evening's good-fellowship, andthe party soon after dispersed--Mrs. Bellamy perhaps to dream ofquicklime flying among her preserving-pans, or of love-sick housemaidsreckless of unswept corners--and Mrs. Sharp to sink into pleasant visionsof independent housekeeping in Mr. Bates's cottage, with no bells toanswer, and with fruit and vegetables_ ad libitum_. 

Caterina soon conquered all prejudices against her foreign blood; forwhat prejudices will hold out against helplessness and broken prattle?She became the pet of the household, thrusting Sir Christopher'sfavourite bloodhound of that day, Mrs. Bellamy's two canaries, and Mr. Bates's largest Dorking hen, into a merely secondary position. Theconsequence was, that in the space of a summer's day she went through agreat cycle of experiences, commencing with the somewhat acidulatedgoodwill of Mrs. Sharp's nursery discipline. Then came the grave luxuryof her ladyship's sitting-room, and, perhaps, the dignity of a ride onSir Christopher's knee, sometimes followed by a visit with him to thestables, where Caterina soon learned to hear without crying the baying ofthe chained bloodhounds, and say, with ostentatious bravery, clinging toSir Christopher's leg all the while, 'Dey not hurt Tina. ' Then Mrs. Bellamy would perhaps be going out to gather the rose-leaves andlavender, and Tina was made proud and happy by being allowed to carry ahandful in her pinafore; happier still, when they were spread out onsheets to dry, so that she could sit down like a frog among them, andhave them poured over her in fragrant showers. Another frequent pleasurewas to take a journey with Mr. Bates through the kitchen-gardens and thehothouses, where the rich bunches of green and purple grapes hung fromthe roof, far out of reach of the tiny yellow hand that could not helpstretching itself out towards them; though the hand was sure at last tobe satisfied with some delicate-flavoured fruit or sweet-scented flower. Indeed, in the long monotonous leisure of that great country-house, youmay be sure there was always some one who had nothing better to do thanto play with Tina. So that the little southern bird had its northern nestlined with tenderness, and caresses, and pretty things. A lovingsensitive nature was too likely, under such nurture, to have itssusceptibility heightened into unfitness for an encounter with any harderexperience; all the more, because there were gleams of fierce resistanceto any discipline that had a harsh or unloving aspect. For the only thingin which Caterina showed any precocity was a certain ingenuity invindictiveness. When she was five years old she had revenged herself foran unpleasant prohibition by pouring the ink into Mrs. Sharp'swork-basket; and once, when Lady Cheverel took her doll from her, becauseshe was affectionately licking the paint off its face, the little minxstraightway climbed on a chair and threw down a flower-vase that stood ona bracket. This was almost the only instance in which her anger overcameher awe of Lady Cheverel, who had the ascendancy always belonging tokindness that never melts into caresses, and is severely but uniformlybeneficent. 

By-and-by the happy monotony of Cheverel Manor was broken in upon in theway Mr. Warren had announced. The roads through the park were cut up bywaggons carrying loads of stone from a neighbouring quarry, the greencourtyard became dusty with lime, and the peaceful house rang with thesound of tools. For the next ten years Sir Christopher was occupied withthe architectural metamorphosis of his old family mansion; thusanticipating, through the prompting of his individual taste, that generalreaction from the insipid imitation of the Palladian style, towards arestoration of the Gothic, which marked the close of the eighteenthcentury. This was the object he had set his heart on, with a singlenessof determination which was regarded with not a little contempt by hisfox-hunting neighbours, who wondered greatly that a man with some of thebest blood in England in his veins, should be mean enough to economize inhis cellar, and reduce his stud to two old coach-horses and a hack, forthe sake of riding a hobby, and playing the architect. Their wives didnot see so much to blame in the matter of the cellar and stables, butthey were eloquent in pity for poor Lady Cheverel, who had to live in nomore than three rooms at once, and who must be distracted with noises, and have her constitution undermined by unhealthy smells. It was as badas having a husband with an asthma. Why did not Sir Christopher take ahouse for her at Bath, or, at least, if he must spend his time inoverlooking workmen, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Manor? Thispity was quite gratuitous, as the most plentiful pity always is; forthough Lady Cheverel did not share her husband's architecturalenthusiasm, she had too rigorous a view of a wife's duties, and tooprofound a deference for Sir Christopher, to regard submission as agrievance. As for Sir Christopher, he was perfectly indifferent tocriticism. 'An obstinate, crotchety man, ' said his neighbours. But I, whohave seen Cheverel Manor, as he bequeathed it to his heirs, ratherattribute that unswerving architectural purpose of his, conceived andcarried out through long years of systematic personal exertion, tosomething of the fervour of genius, as well as inflexibility of will; andin walking through those rooms, with their splendid ceilings and theirmeagre furniture, which tell how all the spare money had been absorbedbefore personal comfort was thought of, I have felt that there dwelt inthis old English baronet some of that sublime spirit which distinguishesart from luxury, and worships beauty apart from self-indulgence. 

While Cheverel Manor was growing from ugliness into beauty, Caterina toowas growing from a little yellow bantling into a whiter maiden, with nopositive beauty indeed, but with a certain light airy grace, which, withher large appealing dark eyes, and a voice that, in its low-tonedtenderness, recalled the love-notes of the stock-dove, gave her a morethan usual charm. Unlike the building, however, Caterina's developmentwas the result of no systematic or careful appliances. She grew up verymuch like the primroses, which the gardener is not sorry to see withinhis enclosure, but takes no pains to cultivate. Lady Cheverel taught herto read and write, and say her catechism; Mr. Warren, being a goodaccountant, gave her lessons in arithmetic, by her ladyship's desire; andMrs. Sharp initiated her in all the mysteries of the needle. But, for along time, there was no thought of giving her any more elaborateeducation. It is very likely that to her dying day Caterina thought theearth stood still, and that the sun and stars moved round it; but so, forthe matter of that, did Helen, and Dido, and Desdemona, and Juliet;whence I hope you will not think my Caterina less worthy to be a heroineon that account. The truth is, that, with one exception, her only talentlay in loving; and there, it is probable, the most astronomical of womencould not have surpassed her. Orphan and protegee though she was, thissupreme talent of hers found plenty of exercise at Cheverel Manor, andCaterina had more people to love than many a small lady and gentlemanaffluent in silver mugs and blood relations. I think the first place inher childish heart was given to Sir Christopher, for little girls are aptto attach themselves to the finest-looking gentleman at hand, especiallyas he seldom has anything to do with discipline. Next to the Baronet cameDorcas, the merry rosy-cheeked damsel who was Mrs. Sharp's lieutenant inthe nursery, and thus played the part of the raisins in a dose of senna. It was a black day for Caterina when Dorcas married the coachman, andwent, with a great sense of elevation in the world, to preside over a'public' in the noisy town of Sloppeter. A little china-box, bearing themotto 'Though lost to sight, to memory dear', which Dorcas sent her as aremembrance, was among Caterina's treasures ten years after. 

The one other exceptional talent, you already guess, was music. When thefact that Caterina had a remarkable ear for music, and a still moreremarkable voice, attracted Lady Cheverel's notice, the discovery wasvery welcome both to her and Sir Christopher. Her musical educationbecame at once an object of interest. Lady Cheverel devoted much time toit; and the rapidity of Tina's progress surpassing all hopes, an Italiansinging-master was engaged, for several years, to spend some monthstogether at Cheverel Manor. This unexpected gift made a great alterationin Caterina's position. After those first years in which little girls arepetted like puppies and kittens, there comes a time when it seems lessobvious what they can be good for, especially when, like Caterina, theygive no particular promise of cleverness or beauty; and it is notsurprising that in that uninteresting period there was no particular planformed as to her future position. She could always help Mrs. Sharp, supposing she were fit for nothing else, as she grew up; but now, thisrare gift of song endeared her to Lady Cheverel, who loved music aboveall things, and it associated her at once with the pleasures of thedrawing-room. Insensibly she came to be regarded as one of the family, and the servants began to understand that Miss Sarti was to be a ladyafter all. 

'And the raight on't too, ' said Mr. Bates, 'for she hasn't the cut of agell as must work for her bread; she's as nesh an' dilicate as apaich-blossom--welly laike a linnet, wi' on'y joost body anoof to holdher voice. '

But long before Tina had reached this stage of her history, a new era hadbegun for her, in the arrival of a younger companion than any she hadhitherto known. When she was no more than seven, a ward of SirChristopher's--a lad of fifteen, Maynard Gilfil by name--began to spendhis vacations at Cheverel Manor, and found there no playfellow so much tohis mind as Caterina. Maynard was an affectionate lad, who retained apropensity to white rabbits, pet squirrels, and guinea-pigs, perhaps alittle beyond the age at which young gentlemen usually look down on suchpleasures as puerile. He was also much given to fishing, and tocarpentry, considered as a fine art, without any base view to utility. And in all these pleasures it was his delight to have Caterina as hiscompanion, to call her little pet names, answer her wondering questions, and have her toddling after him as you may have seen a Blenheim spanieltrotting after a large setter. Whenever Maynard went back to school, there was a little scene of parting. 

'You won't forget me, Tina, before I come back again? I shall leave youall the whip-cord we've made; and don't you let Guinea die. Come, give mea kiss, and promise not to forget me. '

As the years wore on, and Maynard passed from school to college, and froma slim lad to a stalwart young man, their companionship in the vacationsnecessarily took a different form, but it retained a brotherly andsisterly familiarity. With Maynard the boyish affection had insensiblygrown into ardent love. Among all the many kinds of first love, thatwhich begins in childish companionship is the strongest and mostenduring: when passion comes to unite its force to long affection, loveis at its spring-tide. And Maynard Gilfil's love was of a kind to makehim prefer being tormented by Caterina to any pleasure, apart from her, which the most benevolent magician could have devised for him. It is theway with those tall large-limbed men, from Samson downwards. As for Tina, the little minx was perfectly well aware that Maynard was her slave; hewas the one person in the world whom she did as she pleased with; and Ineed not tell you that this was a symptom of her being perfectlyheart-whole so far as he was concerned: for a passionate woman's love isalways overshadowed by fear. 

Maynard Gilfil did not deceive himself in his interpretation ofCaterina's feelings, but he nursed the hope that some time or other shewould at least care enough for him to accept his love. So he waitedpatiently for the day when he might venture to say, 'Caterina, I loveyou!' You see, he would have been content with very little, being one ofthose men who pass through life without making the least clamour aboutthemselves; thinking neither the cut of his coat, nor the flavour of hissoup, nor the precise depth of a servant's bow, at all momentous. Hethought--foolishly enough, as lovers _will_ think--that it was a goodaugury for him when he came to be domesticated at Cheverel Manor in thequality of chaplain there, and curate of a neighbouring parish; judgingfalsely, from his own case, that habit and affection were the likeliestavenues to love. Sir Christopher satisfied several feelings in installingMaynard as chaplain in his house. He liked the old-fashioned dignity ofthat domestic appendage; he liked his ward's companionship; and, asMaynard had some private fortune, he might take life easily in thatagreeable home, keeping his hunter, and observing a mild regimen ofclerical duty, until the Cumbermoor living should fall in, when he mightbe settled for life in the neighbourhood of the manor. 'With Caterina fora wife, too, ' Sir Christopher soon began to think; for though the goodBaronet was not at all quick to suspect what was unpleasant and opposedto his views of fitness, he was quick to see what would dovetail with hisown plans; and he had first guessed, and then ascertained, by directinquiry, the state of Maynard's feelings. He at once leaped to theconclusion that Caterina was of the same mind, or at least would be, whenshe was old enough. But these were too early days for anything definiteto be said or done. 

Meanwhile, new circumstances were arising, which, though they made nochange in Sir Christopher's plans and prospects, converted Mr. Gilfil'shopes into anxieties, and made it clear to him not only that Caterina'sheart was never likely to be his, but that it was given entirely toanother. 

Once or twice in Caterina's childhood, there had been another boy-visitorat the manor, younger than Maynard Gilfil--a beautiful boy with browncurls and splendid clothes, on whom Caterina had looked with shyadmiration. This was Anthony Wybrow, the son of Sir Christopher'syoungest sister, and chosen heir of Cheverel Manor. The Baronet hadsacrificed a large sum, and even straitened the resources by which he wasto carry out his architectural schemes, for the sake of removing theentail from his estate, and making this boy his heir--moved to the step, I am sorry to say, by an implacable quarrel with his elder sister; for apower of forgiveness was not among Sir Christopher's virtues. At length, on the death of Anthony's mother, when he was no longer a curly-headedboy, but a tall young man, with a captain's commission, Cheverel Manorbecame _his_ home too, whenever he was absent from his regiment. Caterinawas then a little woman, between sixteen and seventeen, and I need notspend many words in explaining what you perceive to be the most naturalthing in the world. 

There was little company kept at the Manor, and Captain Wybrow would havebeen much duller if Caterina had not been there. It was pleasant to payher attentions--to speak to her in gentle tones, to see her littleflutter of pleasure, the blush that just lit up her pale cheek, and themomentary timid glance of her dark eyes, when he praised her singing, leaning at her side over the piano. Pleasant, too, to cut out thatchaplain with his large calves! What idle man can withstandthe temptation of a woman to fascinate, and another man toeclipse?--especially when it is quite clear to himself that he means nomischief, and shall leave everything to come right again by-and-by? Atthe end of eighteen months, however, during which Captain Wybrow hadspent much of his time at the Manor, he found that matters had reached apoint which he had not at all contemplated. Gentle tones had led totender words, and tender words had called forth a response of looks whichmade it impossible not to carry on the _crescendo_ of love-making. Tofind one's self adored by a little, graceful, dark-eyed, sweet-singingwoman, whom no one need despise, is an agreeable sensation, comparable tosmoking the finest Latakia, and also imposes some return of tenderness asa duty. 

Perhaps you think that Captain Wybrow, who knew that it would beridiculous to dream of his marrying Caterina, must have been a recklesslibertine to win her affections in this manner! Not at all. He was ayoung man of calm passions, who was rarely led into any conduct of whichhe could not give a plausible account to himself; and the tiny fragileCaterina was a woman who touched the imagination and the affectionsrather than the senses. He really felt very kindly towards her, and wouldvery likely have loved her--if he had been able to love any one. Butnature had not endowed him with that capability. She had given him anadmirable figure, the whitest of hands, the most delicate of nostrils, and a large amount of serene self-satisfaction; but, as if to save such adelicate piece of work from any risk of being shattered, she had guardedhim from the liability to a strong emotion. There was no list of youthfulmisdemeanours on record against him, and Sir Christopher and LadyCheverel thought him the best of nephews, the most satisfactory of heirs, full of grateful deference to themselves, and, above all things, guidedby a sense of duty. Captain Wybrow always did the thing easiest and mostagreeable to him from a sense of duty: he dressed expensively, because itwas a duty he owed to his position; from a sense of duty he adaptedhimself to Sir Christopher's inflexible will, which it would have beentroublesome as well as useless to resist; and, being of a delicateconstitution, he took care of his health from a sense of duty. His healthwas the only point on which he gave anxiety to his friends; and it wasowing to this that Sir Christopher wished to see his nephew earlymarried, the more so as a match after the Baronet's own heart appearedimmediately attainable. Anthony had seen and admired Miss Assher, theonly child of a lady who had been Sir Christopher's earliest love, butwho, as things will happen in this world, had married another baronetinstead of him. Miss Assher's father was now dead, and she was inpossession of a pretty estate. If, as was probable, she should provesusceptible to the merits of Anthony's person and character, nothingcould make Sir Christopher so happy as to see a marriage which might beexpected to secure the inheritance of Cheverel Manor from getting intothe wrong hands. Anthony had already been kindly received by Lady Assheras the nephew of her early friend; why should he not go to Bath, whereshe and her daughter were then residing, follow up the acquaintance, andwin a handsome, well-born, and sufficiently wealthy bride?

Sir Christopher's wishes were communicated to his nephew, who at onceintimated his willingness to comply with them--from a sense of duty. Caterina was tenderly informed by her lover of the sacrifice demandedfrom them both; and three days afterwards occurred the parting scene youhave witnessed in the gallery, on the eve of Captain Wybrow's departurefor Bath. 

Chapter 5

The inexorable ticking of the clock is like the throb of pain tosensations made keen by a sickening fear. And so it is with the greatclockwork of nature. Daisies and buttercups give way to the brown wavinggrasses, tinged with the warm red sorrel; the waving grasses are sweptaway, and the meadows lie like emeralds set in the bushy hedgerows; thetawny-tipped corn begins to bow with the weight of the full ear; thereapers are bending amongst it, and it soon stands in sheaves, thenpresently, the patches of yellow stubble lie side by side with streaks ofdark-red earth, which the plough is turning up in preparation for thenew-thrashed seed. And this passage from beauty to beauty, which to thehappy is like the flow of a melody, measures for many a human heart theapproach of foreseen anguish--seems hurrying on the moment when theshadow of dread will be followed up by the reality of despair. 

How cruelly hasty that summer of 1788 seemed to Caterina! Surely theroses vanished earlier, and the berries on the mountain-ash were moreimpatient to redden, and bring on the autumn, when she would be face toface with her misery, and witness Anthony giving all his gentle tones, tender words, and soft looks to another. 

Before the end of July, Captain Wybrow had written word that Lady Assherand her daughter were about to fly from the heat and gaiety of Bath tothe shady quiet of their place at Farleigh, and that he was invited tojoin the party there. His letters implied that he was on an excellentfooting with both the ladies, and gave no hint of a rival; so that SirChristopher was more than usually bright and cheerful after reading them. At length, towards the close of August, came the announcement thatCaptain Wybrow was an accepted lover, and after much complimentary andcongratulatory correspondence between the two families, it was understoodthat in September Lady Assher and her daughter would pay a visit toCheverel Manor, when Beatrice would make the acquaintance of her futurerelatives, and all needful arrangements could be discussed. CaptainWybrow would remain at Farleigh till then, and accompany the ladies ontheir journey. 

In the interval, every one at Cheverel Manor had something to do by wayof preparing for the visitors. Sir Christopher was occupied inconsultations with his steward and lawyer, and in giving orders to everyone else, especially in spurring on Francesco to finish the saloon. Mr. Gilfil had the responsibility of procuring a lady's horse, Miss Assherbeing a great rider. Lady Cheverel had unwonted calls to make andinvitations to deliver. Mr. Bates's turf, and gravel, and flower-bedswere always at such a point of neatness and finish that nothingextraordinary could be done in the garden, except a little extraordinaryscolding of the under-gardener, and this addition Mr. Bates did notneglect. 

Happily for Caterina, she too had her task, to fill up the long drearydaytime: it was to finish a chair-cushion which would complete the set ofembroidered covers for the drawing-room, Lady Cheverel's year-long work, and the only noteworthy bit of furniture in the Manor. Over thisembroidery she sat with cold lips and a palpitating heart, thankful thatthis miserable sensation throughout the daytime seemed to counteract thetendency to tears which returned with night and solitude. She was mostfrightened when Sir Christopher approached her. The Baronet's eye wasbrighter and his step more elastic than ever, and it seemed to him thatonly the most leaden or churlish souls could be otherwise than brisk andexulting in a world where everything went so well. Dear old gentleman! hehad gone through life a little flushed with the power of his will, andnow his latest plan was succeeding, and Cheverel Manor would be inheritedby a grand-nephew, whom he might even yet live to see a fine young fellowwith at least the down on his chin. Why not? one is still young at sixty. 

Sir Christopher had always something playful to say to Caterina. 

'Now, little monkey, you must be in your best voice: you're the minstrelof the Manor, you know, and be sure you have a pretty gown and a newribbon. You must not be dressed in russet, though you are asinging-bird. ' Or perhaps, 'It is your turn to be courted next, Tina. Butdon't you learn any naughty proud airs. I must have Maynard let offeasily. '

Caterina's affection for the old Baronet helped her to summon up a smileas he stroked her cheek and looked at her kindly, but that was the momentat which she felt it most difficult not to burst out crying. LadyCheverel's conversation and presence were less trying; for her ladyshipfelt no more than calm satisfaction in this family event; and besides, she was further sobered by a little jealousy at Sir Christopher'santicipation of pleasure in seeing Lady Assher, enshrined in his memoryas a mild-eyed beauty of sixteen, with whom he had exchanged locks beforehe went on his first travels. Lady Cheverel would have died rather thanconfess it, but she couldn't help hoping that he would be disappointed inLady Assher, and rather ashamed of having called her so charming. 

Mr. Gilfil watched Caterina through these days with mixed feelings. Hersuffering went to his heart; but, even for her sake, he was glad that alove which could never come to good should be no longer fed by falsehopes; and how could he help saying to himself, 'Perhaps, after a while, Caterina will be tired of fretting about that cold-hearted puppy, andthen . . . '

At length the much-expected day arrived, and the brightest of Septembersuns was lighting up the yellowing lime-trees, as about five o'clock LadyAssher's carriage drove under the portico. Caterina, seated at work inher own room, heard the rolling of the wheels, followed presently by theopening and shutting of doors, and the sound of voices in the corridors. Remembering that the dinner-hour was six, and that Lady Cheverel haddesired her to be in the drawing-room early, she started up to dress, andwas delighted to find herself feeling suddenly brave and strong. Curiosity to see Miss Assher--the thought that Anthony was in thehouse--the wish not to look unattractive, were feelings that broughtsome colour to her lips, and made it easy to attend to her toilette. They would ask her to sing this evening, and she would sing well. MissAssher should not think her utterly insignificant. So she put on hergrey silk gown and her cherry coloured ribbon with as much care as ifshe had been herself the betrothed; not forgetting the pair of roundpearl earrings which Sir Christopher had told Lady Cheverel to give her, because Tina's little ears were so pretty. 

Quick as she had been, she found Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel in thedrawing-room chatting with Mr. Gilfil, and telling him how handsome MissAssher was, but how entirely unlike her mother--apparently resembling herfather only. 

'Aha!' said Sir Christopher, as he turned to look at Caterina, 'what doyou think of this, Maynard? Did you ever see Tina look so pretty before?Why, that little grey gown has been made out of a bit of mylady's, hasn't it? It doesn't take anything much larger than apocket-handkerchief to dress the little monkey. '

Lady Cheverel, too, serenely radiant in the assurance a single glance hadgiven her of Lady Assher's inferiority, smiled approval, and Caterina wasin one of those moods of self possession and indifference which come asthe ebb-tide between the struggles of passion. She retired to the piano, and busied herself with arranging her music, not at all insensible to thepleasure of being looked at with admiration the while, and thinking that, the next time the door opened, Captain Wybrow would enter, and she wouldspeak to him quite cheerfully. But when she heard him come in, and thescent of roses floated towards her, her heart gave one great leap. Sheknew nothing till he was pressing her hand, and saying, in the old easyway, 'Well, Caterina, how do you do? You look quite blooming. '

She felt her cheeks reddening with anger that he could speak and lookwith such perfect nonchalance. Ah! he was too deeply in love with someone else to remember anything he had felt for _her_. But the next momentshe was conscious of her folly;--'as if he could show any feeling then!'This conflict of emotions stretched into a long interval the few momentsthat elapsed before the door opened again, and her own attention, as wellas that of all the rest, was absorbed by the entrance of the two ladies. 

The daughter was the more striking, from the contrast she presented toher mother, a round-shouldered, middle-sized woman, who had once had thetransient pink-and-white beauty of a blonde, with ill-defined featuresand early embonpoint. Miss Assher was tall, and gracefully thoughsubstantially formed, carrying herself with an air of mingledgraciousness and self-confidence; her dark-brown hair, untouched bypowder, hanging in bushy curls round her face, and falling in long thickringlets nearly to her waist. The brilliant carmine tint of herwell-rounded cheeks, and the finely-cut outline of her straight nose, produced an impression of splendid beauty, in spite of commonplace browneyes, a narrow forehead, and thin lips. She was in mourning, and the deadblack of her crape dress, relieved here and there by jet ornaments, gavethe fullest effect to her complexion, and to the rounded whiteness of herarms, bare from the elbow. The first coup d'oeil was dazzling, and as shestood looking down with a gracious smile on Caterina, whom Lady Cheverelwas presenting to her, the poor little thing seemed to herself to feel, for the first time, all the folly of her former dream. 

'We are enchanted with your place, Sir Christopher, ' said Lady Assher, with a feeble kind of pompousness, which she seemed to be copying fromsome one else: 'I'm sure your nephew must have thought Farleighwretchedly out of order. Poor Sir John was so very careless about keepingup the house and grounds. I often talked to him about it, but he said, "Pooh pooh! as long as my friends find a good dinner and a good bottle ofwine, they won't care about my ceilings being rather smoky. " He was sovery hospitable, was Sir John. '

'I think the view of the house from the park, just after we passed thebridge, particularly fine, ' said Miss Assher, interposing rather eagerly, as if she feared her mother might be making infelicitous speeches, 'andthe pleasure of the first glimpse was all the greater because Anthonywould describe nothing to us beforehand. He would not spoil our firstimpressions by raising false ideas. I long to go over the house, SirChristopher, and learn the history of all your architectural designs, which Anthony says have cost you so much time and study. '

'Take care how you set an old man talking about the past, my dear, ' saidthe Baronet; 'I hope we shall find something pleasanter for you to dothan turning over my old plans and pictures. Our friend Mr. Gilfil herehas found a beautiful mare for you and you can scour the country to yourheart's content. Anthony has sent us word what a horsewoman you are. '

Miss Assher turned to Mr. Gilfil with her most beaming smile, andexpressed her thanks with the elaborate graciousness of a person whomeans to be thought charming, and is sure of success. 

'Pray do not thank me, ' said Mr. Gilfil, 'till you have tried the mare. She has been ridden by Lady Sara Linter for the last two years; but onelady's taste may not be like another's in horses, any more than in othermatters. '

While this conversation was passing, Captain Wybrow was leaning againstthe mantelpiece, contenting himself with responding from under hisindolent eyelids to the glances Miss Assher was constantly directingtowards him as she spoke. 'She is very much in love with him, ' thoughtCaterina. But she was relieved that Anthony remained passive in hisattentions. She thought, too, that he was looking paler and more languidthan usual. 'If he didn't love her very much--if he sometimes thought ofthe past with regret, I think I could bear it all, and be glad to see SirChristopher made happy. '

During dinner there was a little incident which confirmed these thoughts. When the sweets were on the table, there was a mould of jelly justopposite Captain Wybrow, and being inclined to take some himself, hefirst invited Miss Assher, who coloured, and said, in rather a sharperkey than usual, 'Have you not learned by this time that I never takejelly?'

'Don't you?' said Captain Wybrow, whose perceptions were not acute enoughfor him to notice the difference of a semitone. 'I should have thoughtyou were fond of it. There was always some on the table at Farleigh, Ithink. '

'You don't seem to take much interest in my likes and dislikes. '

'I'm too much possessed by the happy thought that you like me, ' was the_ex officio_ reply, in silvery tones. 

This little episode was unnoticed by every one but Caterina. SirChristopher was listening with polite attention to Lady Assher's historyof her last man-cook, who was first-rate at gravies, and for that reasonpleased Sir John--he was so particular about his gravies, was Sir John:and so they kept the man six years in spite of his bad pastry. LadyCheverel and Mr. Gilfil were smiling at Rupert the bloodhound, who hadpushed his great head under his master's arm, and was taking a survey ofthe dishes, after snuffing at the contents of the Baronet's plate. 

When the ladies were in the drawing-room again, Lady Assher was soon deepin a statement to Lady Cheverel of her views about burying people inwoollen. 

'To be sure, you must have a woollen dress, because it's the law, youknow; but that need hinder no one from putting linen underneath. I alwaysused to say, "If Sir John died tomorrow, I would bury him in his shirt;"and I did. And let me advise you to do so by Sir Christopher. You neversaw Sir John, Lady Cheverel. He was a large tall man, with a nose justlike Beatrice, and so very particular about his shirts. '

Miss Assher, meanwhile, had seated herself by Caterina, and, with thatsmiling affability which seems to say, 'I am really not at all proud, though you might expect it of me, ' said, --'Anthony tells me you sing sovery beautifully. I hope we shall hear you this evening. '

'O yes, ' said Caterina, quietly, without smiling; 'I always sing when Iam wanted to sing. '

'I envy you such a charming talent. Do you know, I have no ear; I cannothum the smallest tune, and I delight in music so. Is it not unfortunate?But I shall have quite a treat while I am here; Captain Wybrow says youwill give us some music every day. '

'I should have thought you wouldn't care about music if you had no ear, 'said Caterina, becoming epigrammatic by force of grave simplicity. 

'O, I assure you, I doat on it; and Anthony is so fond of it; it would beso delightful if I could play and sing to him; though he says he likes mebest not to sing, because it doesn't belong to his idea of me. What styleof music do you like best?'

'I don't know. I like all beautiful music. '

'And are you as fond of riding as of music?'

'No; I never ride. I think I should be very frightened. '

'O no! indeed you would not, after a little practice. I have never beenin the least timid. I think Anthony is more afraid for me than I am formyself; and since I have been riding with him, I have been obliged to bemore careful, because he is so nervous about me. '

Caterina made no reply; but she said to herself, 'I wish she would goaway and not talk to me. She only wants me to admire her good-nature, andto talk about Anthony. '

Miss Assher was thinking at the same time, 'This Miss Sarti seems astupid little thing. Those musical people often are. But she is prettierthan I expected; Anthony said she was not pretty. '

Happily at this moment Lady Assher called her daughter's attention to theembroidered cushions, and Miss Assher, walking to the opposite sofa, wassoon in conversation with Lady Cheverel about tapestry and embroidery ingeneral, while her mother, feeling herself superseded there, came andplaced herself beside Caterina. 

'I hear you are the most beautiful singer, ' was of course the openingremark. 'All Italians sing so beautifully. I travelled in Italy with SirJohn when we were first married, and we went to Venice, where they goabout in gondolas, you know. You don't wear powder, I see. No more willBeatrice; though many people think her curls would look all the betterfor powder. She has so much hair, hasn't she? Our last maid dressed itmuch better than this; but, do you know, she wore Beatrice's stockingsbefore they went to the wash, and we couldn't keep her after that, couldwe?'

Caterina, accepting the question as a mere bit of rhetorical effect, thought it superfluous to reply, till Lady Assher repeated, 'Could we, now?' as if Tina's sanction were essential to her repose of mind. After afaint 'No', she went on. 

'Maids are so very troublesome, and Beatrice is so particular, you can'timagine. I often say to her, "My dear, you can't have perfection. " Thatvery gown she has on--to be sure, it fits her beautifully now--but it hasbeen unmade and made up again twice. But she is like poor Sir John--hewas so very particular about his own things, was Sir John. Is LadyCheverel particular?'

'Rather. But Mrs. Sharp has been her maid twenty years. '

'I wish there was any chance of our keeping Griffin twenty years. But Iam afraid we shall have to part with her because her health is sodelicate; and she is so obstinate, she will not take bitters as I wanther. _You_ look delicate, now. Let me recommend you to take camomile teain a morning, fasting. Beatrice is so strong and healthy, she never takesany medicine; but if I had had twenty girls, and they had been delicate, I should have given them all camomile tea. It strengthens theconstitution beyond anything. Now, will you promise me to take camomiletea?'

'Thank you: I'm not at all ill, ' said Caterina. 'I've always been paleand thin. '

Lady Assher was sure camomile tea would make all the difference in theworld--Caterina must see if it wouldn't--and then went dribbling on likea leaky shower-bath, until the early entrance of the gentlemen created adiversion, and she fastened on Sir Christopher, who probably began tothink that, for poetical purposes, it would be better not to meet one'sfirst love again, after a lapse of forty years. 

Captain Wybrow, of course, joined his aunt and Miss Assher, and Mr. Gilfil tried to relieve Caterina from the awkwardness of sitting aloofand dumb, by telling her how a friend of his had broken his arm andstaked his horse that morning, not at all appearing to heed that shehardly listened, and was looking towards the other side of the room. Oneof the tortures of jealousy is, that it can never turn its eyes away fromthe thing that pains it. 

'By-and-by every one felt the need of a relief from chit-chat--SirChristopher perhaps the most of all--and it was he who made theacceptable proposition--

'Come, Tina, are we to have no music to-night before we sit down tocards? Your ladyship plays at cards, I think?' he added, recollectinghimself, and turning to Lady Assher. 

'O yes! Poor dear Sir John would have a whist-table every night. '

Caterina sat down to the harpsichord at once, and had no sooner begun tosing than she perceived with delight that Captain Wybrow was glidingtowards the harpsichord, and soon standing in the old place. Thisconsciousness gave fresh strength to her voice; and when she noticed thatMiss Assher presently followed him with that air of ostentatiousadmiration which belongs to the absence of real enjoyment, her closing_bravura_ was none the worse for being animated by a little triumphantcontempt. 

'Why, you are in better voice than ever, Caterina, ' said Captain Wybrow, when she had ended. 'This is rather different from Miss Hibbert's smallpiping that we used to be glad of at Farleigh, is it not, Beatrice?'

'Indeed it is. You are a most enviable creature, Miss Sarti--Caterina--may I not call you Caterina? for I have heardAnthony speak of you so often, I seem to know you quite well. You willlet me call you Caterina?'

'O yes, every one calls me Caterina, only when they call me Tina. '

'Come, come, more singing, more singing, little monkey, ' Sir Christophercalled out from the other side of the room. 'We have not had half enoughyet. '

Caterina was ready enough to obey, for while she was singing she wasqueen of the room, and Miss Assher was reduced to grimacing admiration. Alas! you see what jealousy was doing in this poor young soul. Caterina, who had passed her life as a little unobtrusive singing-bird, nestling sofondly under the wings that were outstretched for her, her heart beatingonly to the peaceful rhythm of love, or fluttering with some easilystifled fear, had begun to know the fierce palpitations of triumph andhatred. 

When the singing was over, Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel sat down towhist with Lady Assher and Mr. Gilfil, and Caterina placed herself at theBaronet's elbow, as if to watch the game, that she might not appear tothrust herself on the pair of lovers. At first she was glowing with herlittle triumph, and felt the strength of pride; but her eye _would_ stealto the opposite side of the fireplace, where Captain Wybrow had seatedhimself close to Miss Assher, and was leaning with his arm over the backof the chair, in the most lover-like position. Caterina began to feel achoking sensation. She could see, almost without looking, that he wastaking up her arm to examine her bracelet; their heads were bending closetogether, her curls touching his cheek--now he was putting his lips toher hand. Caterina felt her cheeks burn--she could sit no longer. She gotup, pretended to be gliding about in search of something, and at lengthslipped out of the room. 

Outside, she took a candle, and, hurrying along the passages and up thestairs to her own room, locked the door. 

'O, I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it!' the poor thing burst out aloud, clasping her little fingers, and pressing them back against her forehead, as if she wanted to break them. 

Then she walked hurriedly up and down the room. 

'And this must go on for days and days, and I must see it. '

She looked about nervously for something to clutch. There was a muslinkerchief lying on the table; she took it up and tore it into shreds asshe walked up and down, and then pressed it into hard balls in her hand. 

'And Anthony, ' she thought, 'he can do this without caring for what Ifeel. O, he can forget everything: how he used to say he loved me--how heused to take my hand in his as we walked--how he used to stand near me inthe evenings for the sake of looking into my eyes. '

'Oh, it is cruel, it is cruel!' she burst out again aloud, as all thoselove-moments in the past returned upon her. Then the tears gushed forth, she threw herself on her knees by the bed, and sobbed bitterly. 

She did not know how long she had been there, till she was startled bythe prayer-bell; when, thinking Lady Cheverel might perhaps send some oneto inquire after her, she rose, and began hastily to undress, that theremight be no possibility of her going down again. She had hardlyunfastened her hair, and thrown a loose gown about her, before there wasa knock at the door, and Mrs. Sharp's voice said--'Miss Tina, my ladywants to know if you're ill. '

Caterina opened the door and said, 'Thank you, dear Mrs. Sharp; I have abad headache; please tell my lady I felt it come on after singing. ''Then, goodness me! why arn't you in bed, istid o' standing shiveringthere, fit to catch your death? Come, let me fasten up your hair and tuckyou up warm. '

'O no, thank you; I shall really be in bed very soon. Good-night, dearSharpy; don't scold; I will be good, and get into bed. '

Caterina kissed her old friend coaxingly, but Mrs. Sharp was not to be'come over' in that way, and insisted on seeing her former charge in bed, taking away the candle which the poor child had wanted to keep as acompanion. But it was impossible to lie there long with that beatingheart; and the little white figure was soon out of bed again, seekingrelief in the very sense of chill and uncomfort. It was light enough forher to see about her room, for the moon, nearly at full, was riding highin the heavens among scattered hurrying clouds. Caterina drew aside thewindow-curtain; and, sitting with her forehead pressed against the coldpane, looked out on the wide stretch of park and lawn. 

How dreary the moonlight is! robbed of all its tenderness and repose bythe hard driving wind. The trees are harassed by that tossing motion, when they would like to be at rest; the shivering grass makes her quakewith sympathetic cold; and the willows by the pool, bent low and whiteunder that invisible harshness, seem agitated and helpless like herself. But she loves the scene the better for its sadness: there is some pity init. It is not like that hard unfeeling happiness of lovers, flaunting inthe eyes of misery. 

She set her teeth tight against the window-frame, and the tears fellthick and fast. She was so thankful she could cry, for the mad passionshe had felt when her eyes were dry frightened her. If that dreadfulfeeling were to come on when Lady Cheverel was present, she should neverbe able to contain herself. 

Then there was Sir Christopher--so good to her--so happy about Anthony'smarriage; and all the while she had these wicked feelings. 

'O, I cannot help it, I cannot help it!' she said in a loud whisperbetween her sobs. 'O God, have pity upon me!'

In this way Tina wore out the long hours of the windy moon-light, till atlast, with weary aching limbs, she lay down in bed again, and slept frommere exhaustion. 

While this poor little heart was being bruised with a weight too heavyfor it, Nature was holding on her calm inexorable way, in unmoved andterrible beauty. The stars were rushing in their eternal courses; thetides swelled to the level of the last expectant weed; the sun was makingbrilliant day to busy nations on the other side of the swift earth. Thestream of human thought and deed was hurrying and broadening onward. Theastronomer was at his telescope; the great ships were labouring over thewaves; the toiling eagerness of commerce, the fierce spirit ofrevolution, were only ebbing in brief rest; and sleepless statesmen weredreading the possible crisis of the morrow. What were our little Tina andher trouble in this mighty torrent, rushing from one awful unknown toanother? Lighter than the smallest centre of quivering life in thewaterdrop, hidden and uncared for as the pulse of anguish in the breastof the tiniest bird that has fluttered down to its nest with thelong-sought food, and has found the nest torn and empty. 

Chapter 6

The next morning, when Caterina was waked from her heavy sleep by Marthabringing in the warm water, the sun was shining, the wind had abated, andthose hours of suffering in the night seemed unreal and dreamlike, inspite of weary limbs and aching eyes. She got up and began to dress witha strange feeling of insensibility, as if nothing could make her cryagain; and she even felt a sort of longing to be down-stairs in the midstof company, that she might get rid of this benumbed condition by contact. 

There are few of us that are not rather ashamed of our sins and folliesas we look out on the blessed morning sunlight, which comes to us like abright-winged angel beckoning us to quit the old path of vanity thatstretches its dreary length behind us; and Tina, little as she knew aboutdoctrines and theories, seemed to herself to have been both foolish andwicked yesterday. Today she would try to be good; and when she knelt downto say her short prayer--the very form she had learned by heart when shewas ten years old--she added, 'O God, help me to bear it!'

That day the prayer seemed to be answered, for after some remarks on herpale looks at breakfast, Caterina passed the morning quietly, Miss Assherand Captain Wybrow being out on a riding excursion. In the evening therewas a dinner-party, and after Caterina had sung a little, Lady Cheverelremembering that she was ailing, sent her to bed, where she soon sankinto a deep sleep. Body and mind must renew their force to suffer as wellas to enjoy. 

On the morrow, however, it was rainy, and every one must stay in-doors;so it was resolved that the guests should be taken over the house by SirChristopher, to hear the story of the architectural alterations, thefamily portraits, and the family relics. All the party, except Mr. Gilfil, were in the drawing-room when the proposition was made; and whenMiss Assher rose to go, she looked towards Captain Wybrow, expecting tosee him rise too; but he kept his seat near the fire, turning his eyestowards the newspaper which he had been holding unread in his hand. 

'Are you not coming, Anthony?' said Lady Cheverel, noticing Miss Assher'slook of expectation. 

'I think not, if you'll excuse me, ' he answered, rising and opening thedoor; 'I feel a little chilled this morning, and I am afraid of the coldrooms and draughts. '

Miss Assher reddened, but said nothing, and passed on, Lady Cheverelaccompanying her. 

Caterina was seated at work in the oriel window. It was the first timeshe and Anthony had been alone together, and she had thought before thathe wished to avoid her. But now, surely, he wanted to speak to her--hewanted to say something kind. Presently he rose from his seat near thefire, and placed himself on the ottoman opposite to her. 

'Well, Tina, and how have you been all this long time?' Both the tone andthe words were an offence to her; the tone was so different from the oldone, the words were so cold and unmeaning. She answered, with a littlebitterness, --'I think you needn't ask. It doesn't make much difference toyou. '

'Is that the kindest thing you have to say to me after my long absence?'

'I don't know why you should expect me to say kind things. '

Captain Wybrow was silent. He wished very much to avoid allusions to thepast or comments on the present. And yet he wished to be well withCaterina. He would have liked to caress her, make her presents, and haveher think him very kind to her. But these women are plaguy perverse!There's no bringing them to look rationally at anything. At last he said, 'I hoped you would think all the better of me, Tina, for doing as I havedone, instead of bearing malice towards me. I hoped you would see that itis the best thing for every one--the best for your happiness too. '

'O pray don't make love to Miss Assher for the sake of my happiness, 'answered Tina. 

At this moment the door opened, and Miss Assher entered, to fetch herreticule, which lay on the harpsichord. She gave a keen glance atCaterina, whose face was flushed, and saying to Captain Wybrow with aslight sneer, 'Since you are so chill I wonder you like to sit in thewindow, ' left the room again immediately. 

The lover did not appear much discomposed, but sat quiet a little longer, and then, seating himself on the music-stool, drew it near to Caterina, and, taking her hand, said, 'Come, Tina, look kindly at me, and let us befriends. I shall always be your friend. '

'Thank you, ' said Caterina, drawing away her hand. 'You are verygenerous. But pray move away. Miss Assher may come in again. '

'Miss Assher be hanged!' said Anthony, feeling the fascination of oldhabit returning on him in his proximity to Caterina. He put his arm roundher waist, and leaned his cheek down to hers. The lips couldn't helpmeeting after that; but the next moment, with heart swelling and tearsrising, Caterina burst away from him, and rushed out of the room. 

Chapter 7

Caterina tore herself from Anthony with the desperate effort of one whohas just self-recollection enough left to be conscious that the fumes ofcharcoal will master his senses unless he bursts a way for himself to thefresh air; but when she reached her own room, she was still toointoxicated with that momentary revival of old emotions, too muchagitated by the sudden return of tenderness in her lover, to know whetherpain or pleasure predominated. It was as if a miracle had happened in herlittle world of feeling, and made the future all vague--a dim morninghaze of possibilities, instead of the sombre wintry daylight and clearrigid outline of painful certainty. 

She felt the need of rapid movement. She must walk out in spite of therain. Happily, there was a thin place in the curtain of clouds whichseemed to promise that now, about noon, the day had a mind to clear up. Caterina thought to herself, 'I will walk to the Mosslands, and carry Mr. Bates the comforter I have made for him, and then Lady Cheverel will notwonder so much at my going out. ' At the hall door she found Rupert, theold bloodhound, stationed on the mat, with the determination that thefirst person who was sensible enough to take a walk that morning shouldhave the honour of his approbation and society. As he thrust his greatblack and tawny head under her hand, and wagged his tail with vigorouseloquence, and reached the climax of his welcome by jumping up to lickher face, which was at a convenient licking height for him, Caterina feltquite grateful to the old dog for his friendliness. Animals are suchagreeable friends--they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms. 

The 'Mosslands' was a remote part of the grounds, encircled by the littlestream issuing from the pool; and certainly, for a wet day, Caterinacould hardly have chosen a less suitable walk, for though the rain wasabating, and presently ceased altogether, there was still a smart showerfalling from the trees which arched over the greater part of her way. Butshe found just the desired relief from her feverish excitement inlabouring along the wet paths with an umbrella that made her arm ache. This amount of exertion was to her tiny body what a day's hunting oftenwas to Mr. Gilfil, who at times had _his_ fits of jealousy and sadness toget rid of, and wisely had recourse to nature's innocent opium--fatigue. 

When Caterina reached the pretty arched wooden bridge which formed theonly entrance to the Mosslands for any but webbed feet, the sun hadmastered the clouds, and was shining through the boughs of the tall elmsthat made a deep nest for the gardener's cottage--turning the raindropsinto diamonds, and inviting the nasturtium flowers creeping over theporch and low-thatched roof to lift up their flame-coloured heads oncemore. The rooks were cawing with many-voiced monotony, apparently--by aremarkable approximation to human intelligence--finding greatconversational resources in the change of weather. The mossy turf, studded with the broad blades of marsh-loving plants, told that Mr. Bates's nest was rather damp in the best of weather; but he was ofopinion that a little external moisture would hurt no man who was notperversely neglectful of that obvious and providential antidote, rum-and-water. 

Caterina loved this nest. Every object in it, every sound that hauntedit, had been familiar to her from the days when she had been carriedthither on Mr. Bates's arm, making little cawing noises to imitate therooks, clapping her hands at the green frogs leaping in the moist grass, and fixing grave eyes on the gardener's fowls cluck-clucking under theirpens. And now the spot looked prettier to her than ever; it was so out ofthe way of Miss Assher, with her brilliant beauty, and personal claims, and small civil remarks. She thought Mr. Bates would not be come into hisdinner yet, so she would sit down and wait for him. 

But she was mistaken. Mr. Bates was seated in his arm-chair, with hispocket-handkerchief thrown over his face, as the most eligible mode ofpassing away those superfluous hours between meals when the weatherdrives a man in-doors. Roused by the furious barking of his chainedbulldog, he descried his little favourite approaching, and forthwithpresented himself at the doorway, looking disproportionately tallcompared with the height of his cottage. The bulldog, meanwhile, unbentfrom the severity of his official demeanour, and commenced a friendlyinterchange of ideas with Rupert. 

Mr. Bates's hair was now grey, but his frame was none the less stalwart, and his face looked all the redder, making an artistic contrast with thedeep blue of his cotton neckerchief, and of his linen apron twisted intoa girdle round his waist. 

'Why, dang my boottons, Miss Tiny, ' he exclaimed, 'hoo coom ye to coomoot dabblin' your faet laike a little Muscovy duck, sich a day as this?Not but what ai'm delaighted to sae ye. Here Hesther, ' he called to hisold humpbacked house-keeper, 'tek the young ledy's oombrella an' spreadit oot to dray. Coom, coom in, Miss Tiny, an' set ye doon by the fairean' dray yer faet, an' hev summat warm to kape ye from ketchin' coold. '

Mr. Bates led the way, stooping under the doorplaces, into his smallsitting-room, and, shaking the patchwork cushion in his arm-chair, movedit to within a good roasting distance of the blazing fire. 

'Thank you, uncle Bates' (Caterina kept up her childish epithets for herfriends, and this was one of them); 'not quite so close to the fire, forI am warm with walking. '

'Eh, but yer shoes are faine an' wet, an' ye must put up yer faet on thefender. Rare big faet, baint 'em?--aboot the saize of a good big spoon. Iwoonder ye can mek a shift to stan' on 'em. Now, what'll ye hev to warmyer insaide?--a drop o' hot elder wain, now?'

'No, not anything to drink, thank you; it isn't very long sincebreakfast, ' said Caterina, drawing out the comforter from her deeppocket. Pockets were capacious in those days. 'Look here, uncle Bates, here is what I came to bring you. I made it on purpose for you. You mustwear it this winter, and give your red one to old Brooks. '

'Eh, Miss Tiny, this _is_ a beauty. An' ye made it all wi' yer littlefingers for an old feller laike mae! I tek it very kaind on ye, an' Ibelave ye I'll wear it, and be prood on't too. These sthraipes, blue an'whaite, now, they mek it uncommon pritty. '

'Yes, that will suit your complexion, you know, better than the oldscarlet one. I know Mrs. Sharp will be more in love with you than everwhen she sees you in the new one. '

'My complexion, ye little roogue! ye're a laughin' at me. But talkin' o'complexions, what a beautiful colour the bride as is to be has on hercheeks! Dang my boottons! she looks faine and handsome o' hossback--sitsas upraight as a dart, wi' a figure like a statty! Misthress Sharp haspromised to put me behaind one o' the doors when the ladies are comin'doon to dinner, so as I may sae the young un i' full dress, wi' all hercurls an' that. Misthress Sharp says she's almost beautifuller nor myledy was when she was yoong; an' I think ye'll noot faind man i' thecounthry as'll coom up to that. '

'Yes, Miss Assher is very handsome, ' said Caterina, rather faintly, feeling the sense of her own insignificance returning at this picture ofthe impression Miss Assher made on others. 

'Well, an' I hope she's good too, an'll mek a good naice to SirCristhifer an' my ledy. Misthress Griffin, the maid, says as she's rethertatchy and find-fautin' aboot her cloothes, laike. But she's yoong--she'syoong; that'll wear off when she's got a hoosband, an' children, an'summat else to think on. Sir Cristhifer's fain an' delaighted, I can see. He says to me th' other mornin', says he, "Well, Bates, what do you thinkof your young misthress as is to be?" An' I says, "Whay, yer honour, Ithink she's as fain a lass as iver I set eyes on; an' I wish the Captainluck in a fain family, an' your honour laife an' health to see't. " Mr. Warren says as the masther's all for forrardin' the weddin', an' it'llvery laike be afore the autumn's oot. '

As Mr. Bates ran on, Caterina felt something like a painful contractionat her heart. 'Yes, ' she said, rising, 'I dare say it will. SirChristopher is very anxious for it. But I must go, uncle Bates; LadyCheverel will be wanting me, and it is your dinner-time. '

'Nay, my dinner doon't sinnify a bit; but I moosn't kaep ye if my ledywants ye. Though I hevn't thanked ye half anoof for the comfiter--thewrapraskil, as they call't. My feckins, it's a beauty. But ye look verywhaite and sadly, Miss Tiny; I doubt ye're poorly; an' this walking i'th' wet isn't good for ye. '

'O yes, it is indeed, ' said Caterina, hastening out, and taking up herumbrella from the kitchen floor. 'I must really go now; so good-bye. '

She tripped off, calling Rupert, while the good gardener, his handsthrust deep in his pockets, stood looking after her and shaking his headwith rather a melancholy air. 

'She gets moor nesh and dillicat than iver, ' he said, half to himself andhalf to Hester. 'I shouldn't woonder if she fades away laike themcyclamens as I transplanted. She puts me i' maind on 'em somehow, hangin'on their little thin stalks, so whaite an' tinder. '

The poor little thing made her way back, no longer hungering for the coldmoist air as a counteractive of inward excitement, but with a chill ather heart which made the outward chill only depressing. The goldensunlight beamed through the dripping boughs like a Shechinah, or visibledivine presence, and the birds were chirping and trilling their newautumnal songs so sweetly, it seemed as if their throats, as well as theair, were all the clearer for the rain; but Caterina moved through allthis joy and beauty like a poor wounded leveret painfully dragging itslittle body through the sweet clover-tufts--for it, sweet in vain. Mr. Bates's words about Sir Christopher's joy, Miss Assher's beauty, and thenearness of the wedding, had come upon her like the pressure of a coldhand, rousing her from confused dozing to a perception of hard, familiarrealities. It is so with emotional natures whose thoughts are no morethan the fleeting shadows cast by feeling: to them words are facts, andeven when known to be false, have a mastery over their smiles and tears. Caterina entered her own room again, with no other change from her formerstate of despondency and wretchedness than an additional sense of injuryfrom Anthony. His behaviour towards her in the morning was a new wrong. To snatch a caress when she justly claimed an expression of penitence, ofregret, of sympathy, was to make more light of her than ever. 

Chapter 8

That evening Miss Assher seemed to carry herself with unusualhaughtiness, and was coldly observant of Caterina. There was unmistakablythunder in the air. Captain Wybrow appeared to take the matter veryeasily, and was inclined to brave it out by paying more than ordinaryattention to Caterina. Mr. Gilfil had induced her to play a game atdraughts with him, Lady Assher being seated at picquet with SirChristopher, and Miss Assher in determined conversation with LadyCheverel. Anthony, thus left as an odd unit, sauntered up to Caterina'schair, and leaned behind her, watching the game. Tina, with all theremembrances of the morning thick upon her, felt her cheeks becoming moreand more crimson, and at last said impatiently, 'I wish you would goaway. '

This happened directly under the view of Miss Assher, who saw Caterina'sreddening cheeks, saw that she said something impatiently, and thatCaptain Wybrow moved away in consequence. There was another person, too, who had noticed this incident with strong interest, and who was moreoveraware that Miss Assher not only saw, but keenly observed what waspassing. That other person was Mr. Gilfil, and he drew some painfulconclusions which heightened his anxiety for Caterina. 

The next morning, in spite of the fine weather, Miss Assher declinedriding, and Lady Cheverel, perceiving that there was something wrongbetween the lovers, took care that they should be left together in thedrawing-room. Miss Assher, seated on the sofa near the fire, was busywith some fancy-work, in which she seemed bent on making great progressthis morning. Captain Wybrow sat opposite with a newspaper in his hand, from which he obligingly read extracts with an elaborately easy air, wilfully unconscious of the contemptuous silence with which she pursuedher filigree work. At length he put down the paper, which he could nolonger pretend not to have exhausted, and Miss Assher then said, --'Youseem to be on very intimate terms with Miss Sarti. '

'With Tina? oh yes; she has always been the pet of the house, you know. We have been quite brother and sister together. '

'Sisters don't generally colour so very deeply when their brothersapproach them. '

'Does she colour? I never noticed it. But she's a timid little thing. '

'It would be much better if you would not be so hypocritical, CaptainWybrow. I am confident there has been some flirtation between you. MissSarti, in her position, would never speak to you with the petulance shedid last night, if you had not given her some kind of claim on you. '

'My dear Beatrice, now do be reasonable; do ask yourself what earthlyprobability there is that I should think of flirting with poor littleTina. _Is_ there anything about her to attract that sort of attention?She is more child than woman. One thinks of her as a little girl to bepetted and played with. '

'Pray, what were you playing at with her yesterday morning, when I camein unexpectedly, and her cheeks were flushed, and her hands trembling?

'Yesterday morning?--O, I remember. You know I always tease her aboutGilfil, who is over head and ears in love with her; and she is angry atthat, --perhaps, because she likes him. They were old playfellows yearsbefore I came here, and Sir Christopher has set his heart on theirmarrying. '

'Captain Wybrow, you are very false. It had nothing to do with Mr. Gilfilthat she coloured last night when you leaned over her chair. You mightjust as well be candid. If your own mind is not made up, pray do noviolence to yourself. I am quite ready to give way to Miss Sarti'ssuperior attractions. Understand that, so far as I am concerned, you areperfectly at liberty. I decline any share in the affection of a man whoforfeits my respect by duplicity. '

In saying this Miss Assher rose, and was sweeping haughtily out of theroom, when Captain Wybrow placed himself before her, and took her hand. 'Dear, dear Beatrice, be patient; do not judge me so rashly. Sit downagain, sweet, ' he added in a pleading voice, pressing both her handsbetween his, and leading her back to the sofa, where he sat down besideher. Miss Assher was not unwilling to be led back or to listen, but sheretained her cold and haughty expression. 

'Can you not trust me, Beatrice? Can you not believe me, although theremay be things I am unable to explain?'

'Why should there be anything you are unable to explain? An honourableman will not be placed in circumstances which he cannot explain to thewoman he seeks to make his wife. He will not ask her to _believe_ that heacts properly; he will let her _know_ that he does so. Let me go, sir. '

She attempted to rise, but he passed his hand round her waist anddetained her. 

'Now, Beatrice dear, ' he said imploringly, 'can you not understand thatthere are things a man doesn't like to talk about--secrets that he mustkeep for the sake of others, and not for his own sake? Everything thatrelates to myself you may ask me, but do not ask me to tell otherpeople's secrets. Don't you understand me?'

'O yes, ' said Miss Assher scornfully, 'I understand. Whenever you makelove to a woman--that is her secret, which you are bound to keep for her. But it is folly to be talking in this way, Captain Wybrow. It is veryplain that there is some relation more than friendship between you andMiss Sarti. Since you cannot explain that relation, there is no more tobe said between us. '

'Confound it, Beatrice! you'll drive me mad. Can a fellow help a girl'sfalling in love with him? Such things are always happening, but men don'ttalk of them. These fancies will spring up without the slightestfoundation, especially when a woman sees few people; they die out againwhen there is no encouragement. If you could like me, you ought not to besurprised that other people can; you ought to think the better of themfor it. '

'You mean to say, then, that Miss Sarti is in love with you, without yourever having made love to her. '

'Do not press me to say such things, dearest. It is enough that you knowI love you--that I am devoted to you. You naughty queen, you, you knowthere is no chance for any one else where you are. You are onlytormenting me, to prove your power over me. But don't be too cruel; foryou know they say I have another heart-disease besides love, and thesescenes bring on terrible palpitations. '

'But I must have an answer to this one question, ' said Miss Assher, alittle softened: 'Has there been, or is there, any love on your sidetowards Miss Sarti? I have nothing to do with her feelings, but I have aright to know yours. '

'I like Tina very much; who would not like such a little simple thing?You would not wish me not to like her? But love--that is a very differentaffair. One has a brotherly affection for such a woman as Tina; but it isanother sort of woman that one loves. '

These last words were made doubly significant by a look of tenderness, and a kiss imprinted on the hand Captain Wybrow held in his. Miss Assherwas conquered. It was so far from probable that Anthony should love thatpale insignificant little thing--so highly probable that he should adorethe beautiful Miss Assher. On the whole, it was rather gratifying thatother women should be languishing for her handsome lover; he really wasan exquisite creature. Poor Miss Sarti! Well, she would get over it. 

Captain Wybrow saw his advantage. 'Come, sweet love, ' he continued, 'letus talk no more about unpleasant things. You will keep Tina's secret, andbe very kind to her--won't you?--for my sake. But you will ride out now?See what a glorious day it is for riding. Let me order the horses. I'mterribly in want of the air. Come, give me one forgiving kiss, and sayyou will go. '

Miss Assher complied with the double request, and then went to equipherself for the ride, while her lover walked to the stables. 

Chapter 9

Meanwhile Mr. Gilfil, who had a heavy weight on his mind, had watched forthe moment when, the two elder ladies having driven out, Caterina wouldprobably be alone in Lady Cheverel's sitting-room. He went up and knockedat the door. 

'Come in, ' said the sweet mellow voice, always thrilling to him as thesound of rippling water to the thirsty. 

He entered and found Caterina standing in some confusion as if she hadbeen startled from a reverie. She felt relieved when she saw it wasMaynard, but, the next moment, felt a little pettish that he should havecome to interrupt and frighten her. 

'Oh, it is you, Maynard! Do you want Lady Cheverel?'

'No, Caterina, ' he answered gravely; 'I want you. I have something veryparticular to say to you. Will you let me sit down with you for half anhour?'

'Yes, dear old preacher, ' said Caterina, sitting down with an air ofweariness; 'what is it?'

Mr. Gilfil placed himself opposite to her, and said, 'I hope you will notbe hurt, Caterina, by what I am going to say to you. I do not speak fromany other feelings than real affection and anxiety for you. I puteverything else out of the question. You know you are more to me than allthe world; but I will not thrust before you a feeling which you areunable to return. I speak to you as a brother--the old Maynard that usedto scold you for getting your fishing-line tangled ten years ago. Youwill not believe that I have any mean, selfish motive in mentioningthings that are painful to you?'

'No; I know you are very good, ' said Caterina, abstractedly. 

'From what I saw yesterday evening, ' Mr. Gilfil went on, hesitating andcolouring slightly, 'I am led to fear--pray forgive me if I am wrong, Caterina--that you--that Captain Wybrow is base enough still to triflewith your feelings, that he still allows himself to behave to you as noman ought who is the declared lover of another woman. '

'What do you mean, Maynard?' said Caterina, with anger flashing from hereyes. 'Do you mean that I let him make love to me? What right have you tothink that of me? What do you mean that you saw yesterday evening?'

'Do not be angry, Caterina. I don't suspect you of doing wrong. I onlysuspect that heartless puppy of behaving so as to keep awake feelings inyou that not only destroy your own peace of mind, but may lead to verybad consequences with regard to others. I want to warn you that MissAssher has her eyes open on what passes between you and Captain Wybrow, and I feel sure she is getting jealous of you. Pray be very careful, Caterina, and try to behave with politeness and indifference to him. Youmust see by this time that he is not worth the feeling you have givenhim. He's more disturbed at his pulse beating one too many in a minute, than at all the misery he has caused you by his foolish tritling. '

'You ought not to speak so of him, Maynard, ' said Caterina, passionately. 'He is not what you think. He _did_ care for me; he _did_ love me; onlyhe wanted to do what his uncle wished. '

'O to be sure! I know it is only from the most virtuous motives that hedoes what is convenient to himself. '

Mr. Gilfil paused. He felt that he was getting irritated, and defeatinghis own object. Presently he continued in a calm and affectionate tone. 

'I will say no more about what I think of him, Caterina. But whether heloved you or not, his position now with Miss Assher is such that any loveyou may cherish for him can bring nothing but misery. God knows, I don'texpect you to leave off loving him at a moment's notice. Time andabsence, and trying to do what is right, are the only cures. If it werenot that Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel would be displeased andpuzzled at your wishing to leave home just now, I would beg you to pay avisit to my sister. She and her husband are good creatures, and wouldmake their house a home to you. But I could not urge the thing just nowwithout giving a special reason; and what is most of all to be dreaded isthe raising of any suspicion in Sir Christopher's mind of what hashappened in the past, or of your present feelings. You think so too, don't you, Tina?'

Mr. Gilfil paused again, but Caterina said nothing. She was looking awayfrom him, out of the window, and her eyes were filling with tears. Herose, and, advancing a little towards her, held out his hand and said, --'Forgive me, Caterina, for intruding on your feelings in this way. Iwas so afraid you might not be aware how Miss Assher watched you. Remember, I entreat you, that the peace of the whole family depends onyour power of governing yourself. Only say you forgive me before I go. '

'Dear, good Maynard, ' she said, stretching out her little hand, andtaking two of his large fingers in her grasp, while her tears flowedfast; 'I am very cross to you. But my heart is breaking. I don't knowwhat I do. Good-bye. '

He stooped down, kissed the little hand, and then left the room. 

'The cursed scoundrel!' he muttered between his teeth, as he closed thedoor behind him. 'If it were not for Sir Christopher, I should like topound him into paste to poison puppies like himself. '

Chapter 10

That evening Captain Wybrow, returning from a long ride with Miss Assher, went up to his dressing-room, and seated himself with an air ofconsiderable lassitude before his mirror. The reflection there presentedof his exquisite self was certainly paler and more worn than usual, andmight excuse the anxiety with which he first felt his pulse, and thenlaid his hand on his heart. 

'It's a devil of a position this for a man to be in, ' was the train ofhis thought, as he kept his eyes fixed on the glass, while he leaned backin his chair, and crossed his hands behind his head; 'between two jealouswomen, and both of them as ready to take fire as tinder. And in my stateof health, too! I should be glad enough to run away from the wholeaffair, and go off to some lotos-eating place or other where there are nowomen, or only women who are too sleepy to be jealous. Here am I, doingnothing to please myself, trying to do the best thing for everybody else, and all the comfort I get is to have fire shot at me from women's eyes, and venom spirted at me from women's tongues. If Beatrice takes anotherjealous fit into her head--and it's likely enough, Tina is sounmanageable--I don't know what storm she may raise. And any hitch inthis marriage, especially of that sort, might be a fatal business for theold gentleman. I wouldn't have such a blow fall upon him for a greatdeal. Besides, a man must be married some time in his life, and I couldhardly do better than marry Beatrice. She's an uncommonly fine woman, andI'm really very fond of her; and as I shall let her have her own way, hertemper won't signify much. I wish the wedding was over and done with, forthis fuss doesn't suit me at all. I haven't been half so well lately. That scene about Tina this morning quite upset me. Poor little Tina! Whata little simpleton it was, to set her heart on me in that way! But sheought to see how impossible it is that things should be different. If shewould but understand how kindly I feel towards her, and make up her mindto look on me as a friend;--but that it what one never can get a woman todo. Beatrice is very good-natured; I'm sure she would be kind to thelittle thing. It would be a great comfort if Tina would take to Gilfil, if it were only in anger against me. He'd make her a capital husband, andI should like to see the little grass-hopper happy. If I had been in adifferent position, I would certainly have married her myself: hut thatwas out of the question with my responsibilities to Sir Christopher. Ithink a little persuasion from my uncle would bring her to accept Gilfil;I know she would never be able to oppose my uncle's wishes. And if theywere once married, she's such a loving little thing, she would soon bebilling and cooing with him as if she had never known me. It wouldcertainly be the best thing for her happiness if that marriage werehastened. Heigho! Those are lucky fellows that have no women falling inlove with them. It's a confounded responsibility. '

At this point in his meditations he turned his head a little, so as toget a three-quarter view of his face. Clearly it was the '_dono infelicedella bellezza_' that laid these onerous duties upon him--an idea whichnaturally suggested that he should ring for his valet. 

For the next few days, however, there was such a cessation of threateningsymptoms as to allay the anxiety both of Captain Wybrow and Mr. Gilfil. All earthly things have their lull: even on nights when the mostunappeasable wind is raging, there will be a moment of stillness beforeit crashes among the boughs again, and storms against the windows, andhowls like a thousand lost demons through the keyholes. 

Miss Assher appeared to be in the highest good-humour; Captain Wybrow wasmore assiduous than usual, and was very circumspect in his behaviour toCaterina, on whom Miss Assher bestowed unwonted attentions. The weatherwas brilliant; there were riding excursions in the mornings anddinner-parties in the evenings. Consultations in the library between SirChristopher and Lady Assher seemed to be leading to a satisfactoryresult; and it was understood that this visit at Cheverel Manor wouldterminate in another fortnight, when the preparations for the weddingwould be carried forward with all despatch at Farleigh. The Baronetseemed every day more radiant. Accustomed to view people who entered intohis plans by the pleasant light which his own strong will and brighthopefulness were always casting on the future, he saw nothing hutpersonal charms and promising domestic qualities in Miss Assher, whosequickness of eye and taste in externals formed a real ground of sympathybetween her and Sir Christopher. Lady Cheverel's enthusiasm never roseabove the temperate mark of calm satisfaction, and, having quite hershare of the critical acumen which characterizes the mutual estimates ofthe fair sex, she had a more moderate opinion of Miss Assher's qualities. She suspected that the fair Beatrice had a sharp and imperious temper;and being herself, on principle and by habitual self-command, the mostdeferential of wives, she noticed with disapproval Miss Assher'soccasional air of authority towards Captain Wybrow. A proud woman who haslearned to submit, carries all her pride to the reinforcement of hersubmission, and looks down with severe superiority on all feminineassumption as 'unbecoming'. Lady Cheverel, however, confined hercriticisms to the privacy of her own thoughts, and, with a reticencewhich I fear may seem incredible, did not use them as a means ofdisturbing her husband's complacency. 

And Caterina? How did she pass these sunny autumn days, in which theskies seemed to be smiling on the family gladness? To her the change inMiss Assher's manner was unaccountable. Those compassionate attentions, those smiling condescensions, were torture to Caterina, who wasconstantly tempted to repulse them with anger. She thought, 'PerhapsAnthony has told her to be kind to poor Tina. ' This was an insult. Heought to have known that the mere presence of Miss Assher was painful toher, that Miss Assher's smiles scorched her, that Miss Assher's kindwords were like poison stings inflaming her to madness. And he--Anthony--he was evidently repenting of the tenderness he had been betrayed intothat morning in the drawing-room. He was cold and distant and civil toher, to ward off Beatrice's suspicions, and Beatrice could be so graciousnow, because she was sure of Anthony's entire devotion. Well! and so itought to be--and she ought not to wish it otherwise. And yet--oh, he_was_ cruel to her. She could never have behaved so to him. To make herlove him so--to speak such tender words--to give her such caresses, andthen to behave as if such things had never been. He had given her thepoison that seemed so sweet while she was drinking it, and now it was inher blood, and she was helpless. '

With this tempest pent up in her bosom, the poor child went up to herroom every night, and there it all burst forth. There, with loud whispersand sobs, restlessly pacing up and down, lying on the hard floor, courting cold and weariness, she told to the pitiful listening night theanguish which she could pour into no mortal ear. But always sleep came atlast, and always in the morning the reactive calm that enabled her tolive through the day. 

It is amazing how long a young frame will go on battling with this sortof secret wretchedness, and yet show no traces of the conflict for anybut sympathetic eyes. The very delicacy of Caterina's usual appearance, her natural paleness and habitually quiet mouse-like ways, made anysymptoms of fatigue and suffering less noticeable. And her singing--theone thing in which she ceased to be passive, and became prominent--lostnone of its energy. She herself sometimes wondered how it was that, whether she felt sad or angry, crushed with the sense of Anthony'sindifference, or burning with impatience under Miss Assher's attentions, it was always a relief to her to sing. Those full deep notes she sentforth seemed to be lifting the pain from her heart--seemed to be carryingaway the madness from her brain. 

Thus Lady Cheverel noticed no change in Caterina, and it was only Mr. Gilfil who discerned with anxiety the feverish spot that sometimes roseon her cheek, the deepening violet tint under her eyes, and the strangeabsent glance, the unhealthy glitter of the beautiful eyes themselves. But those agitated nights were producing a more fatal effect than wasrepresented by these slight outward changes. 

Chapter 11

The following Sunday, the morning being rainy, it was determined that thefamily should not go to Cumbermoor Church as usual, but that Mr. Gilfil, who had only an afternoon service at his curacy, should conduct themorning service in the chapel. 

Just before the appointed hour of eleven, Caterina came down into thedrawing-room, looking so unusually ill as to call forth an anxiousinquiry from Lady Cheverel, who, on learning that she had a severeheadache, insisted that she should not attend service, and at once packedher up comfortably on a sofa near the fire, putting a volume ofTillotson's Sermons into her hands--as appropriate reading, if Caterinashould feel equal to that means of edification. 

Excellent medicine for the mind are the good Archbishop's sermons, but amedicine, unhappily, not suited to Tina's case. She sat with the bookopen on her knees, her dark eyes fixed vacantly on the portrait of thathandsome Lady Cheverel, wife of the notable Sir Anthony. She gazed at thepicture without thinking of it, and the fair blonde dame seemed to lookdown on her with that benignant unconcern, that mild wonder, with whichhappy self-possessed women are apt to look down on their agitated andweaker sisters. 

Caterina was thinking of the near future--of the wedding that was so soonto come--of all she would have to live through in the next months. 

'I wish I could be very ill, and die before then, ' she thought. 'Whenpeople get very ill, they don't mind about things. Poor Patty Richardslooked so happy when she was in a decline. She didn't seem to care anymore about her lover that she was engaged to be married to, and she likedthe smell of the flowers so, that I used to take her. O, if I could butlike anything--if I could but think about anything else! If thesedreadful feelings would go away, I wouldn't mind about not being happy. Iwouldn't want anything--and I could do what would please Sir Christopherand Lady Cheverel. But when that rage and anger comes into me, I don'tknow what to do. I don't feel the ground under me; I only feel my headand heart beating, and it seems as if I must do something dreadful. O! Iwonder if any one ever felt like me before. I must be very wicked. ButGod will have pity on me; He knows all I have to bear. '

In this way the time wore on till Tina heard the sound of voices alongthe passage, and became conscious that the volume of Tillotson hadslipped on the floor. She had only just picked it up, and seen with alarmthat the pages were bent, when Lady Assher, Beatrice, and Captain Wybrowentered, all with that brisk and cheerful air which a sermon is oftenobserved to produce when it is quite finished. 

Lady Assher at once came and seated herself by Caterina. Her ladyship hadbeen considerably refreshed by a doze, and was in great force formonologue. 

'Well, my dear Miss Sarti, and how do you feel now?--a little better, Isee. I thought you would be, sitting quietly here. These headaches, now, are all from weakness. You must not over-exert yourself, and you musttake bitters. I used to have just the same sort of headaches when I wasyour age, and old Dr Samson used to say to my mother, "Madam, what yourdaughter suffers from is weakness. " He was such a curious old man, was DrSamson. But I wish you could have heard the sermon this morning. Such anexcellent sermon! It was about the ten virgins: five of them werefoolish, and five were clever, you know; and Mr. Gilfil explained allthat. What a very pleasant young man he is! so very quiet and agreeable, and such a good hand at whist. I wish we had him at Farleigh. Sir Johnwould have liked him beyond anything; he is so good-tempered at cards, and he was such a man for cards, was Sir John. And our rector is a veryirritable man; he can't bear to lose his money at cards. I don't think aclergyman ought to mind about losing his money; do you?--do you now?'

'O pray, Lady Assher, ' interposed Beatrice, in her usual tone ofsuperiority, 'do not weary poor Caterina with such uninterestingquestions. Your head seems very bad still, dear, ' she continued, in acondoling tone, to Caterina; 'do take my vinaigrette, and keep it in yourpocket. It will perhaps refresh you now and then. '

'No, thank you, ' answered Caterina; 'I will not take it away from you. '

'Indeed, dear, I never use it; you must take it, ' Miss Assher persisted, holding it close to Tina's hand. Tina coloured deeply, pushed thevinaigrette away with some impatience, and said, 'Thank you, I never usethose things. I don't like vinaigrettes. '

Miss Assher returned the vinaigrette to her pocket in surprise andhaughty silence, and Captain Wybrow, who had looked on in some alarm, said hastily, 'See! it is quite bright out of doors now. There is timefor a walk before luncheon. Come, Beatrice, put on your hat and cloak, and let us have half an hour's walk on the gravel. '

'Yes, do, my dear, ' said Lady Assher, 'and I will go and see if SirChristopher is having his walk in the gallery. '

As soon as the door had closed behind the two ladies, Captain Wybrow, standing with his back to the fire, turned towards Caterina, and said ina tone of earnest remonstrance, 'My dear Caterina. Let me beg of you toexercise more control over your feelings; you are really rude to MissAssher, and I can see that she is quite hurt. Consider how strange yourbehaviour must appear to her. She will wonder what can be the cause ofit. Come, dear Tina, ' he added, approaching her, and attempting to takeher hand; 'for your own sake let me entreat you to receive her attentionspolitely. She really feels very kindly towards you, and I should be sohappy to see you friends. '

Caterina was already in such a state of diseased susceptibility that themost innocent words from Captain Wybrow would have been irritating toher, as the whirr of the most delicate wing will afflict a nervouspatient. But this tone of benevolent remonstrance was intolerable. He hadinflicted a great and unrepented injury on her, and now he assumed an airof benevolence towards her. This was a new outrage. His profession ofgoodwill was insolence. 

Caterina snatched away her hand and said indignantly, 'Leave me tomyself, Captain Wybrow! I do not disturb you. '

'Caterina, why will you be so violent--so unjust to me? It is for youthat I feel anxious. Miss Assher has already noticed how strange yourbehaviour is both to her and me, and it puts me into a very difficultposition. What can I say to her?'

'Say?' Caterina burst forth with intense bitterness, rising, and movingtowards the door; 'say that I am a poor silly girl, and have fallen inlove with you, and am jealous of her; but that you have never had anyfeeling but pity for me--you have never behaved with anything more thanfriendliness to me. Tell her that, and she will think all the better ofyou. '

Tina uttered this as the bitterest sarcasm her ideas would furnish herwith, not having the faintest suspicion that the sarcasm derived any ofits bitterness from truth. Underneath all her sense of wrong, which wasrather instinctive than reflective--underneath all the madness ofher jealousy, and her ungovernable impulses of resentment andvindictiveness--underneath all this scorching passion there were stillleft some hidden crystal dews of trust, of self-reproof, of belief thatAnthony was trying to do the right. Love had not all gone to feed thefires of hatred. Tina still trusted that Anthony felt more for her thanhe seemed to feel; she was still far from suspecting him of a wrongwhich a woman resents even more than inconstancy. And she threw out thistaunt simply as the most intense expression she could find for the angerof the moment. 

As she stood nearly in the middle of the room, her little body tremblingunder the shock of passions too strong for it, her very lips pale, andher eyes gleaming, the door opened, and Miss Assher appeared, tall, blooming, and splendid, in her walking costume. As she entered, her facewore the smile appropriate to the exits and entrances of a young lady whofeels that her presence is an interesting fact; but the next moment shelooked at Caterina with grave surprise, and then threw a glance of angrysuspicion at Captain Wybrow, who wore an air of weariness and vexation. 

'Perhaps you are too much engaged to walk out, Captain Wybrow? I will goalone. '

'No, no, I am coming, ' he answered, hurrying towards her, and leading herout of the room; leaving poor Caterina to feel all the reaction of shameand self-reproach after her outburst of passion. 

Chapter 12

'Pray, what is likely to be the next scene in the drama between you andMiss Sarti?' said Miss Assher to Captain Wybrow as soon as they were outon the gravel. 'It would be agreeable to have some idea of what iscoming. '

Captain Wybrow was silent. He felt out of humour, wearied, annoyed. Therecome moments when one almost determines never again to oppose anythingbut dead silence to an angry woman. 'Now then, confound it, ' he said tohimself, 'I'm going to be battered on the other flank. ' He lookedresolutely at the horizon, with something more like a frown on his facethan Beatrice had ever seen there. 

After a pause of two or three minutes, she continued in a still haughtiertone, 'I suppose you are aware, Captain Wybrow, that I expect anexplanation of what I have just seen. '

'I have no explanation, my dear Beatrice, ' he answered at last, making astrong effort over himself, 'except what I have already given you. Ihoped you would never recur to the subject. '

'Your explanation, however, is very far from satisfactory. I can only saythat the airs Miss Sarti thinks herself entitled to put on towards you, are quite incompatible with your position as regards me. And herbehaviour to me is most insulting. I shall certainly not stay in thehouse under such circumstances, and mamma must state the reasons to SirChristopher. '

'Beatrice, ' said Captain Wybrow, his irritation giving way to alarm, 'Ibeseech you to be patient, and exercise your good feelings in thisaffair. It is very painful, I know, but I am sure you would be grieved toinjure poor Caterina--to bring down my uncle's anger upon her. Considerwhat a poor little dependent thing she is. '

'It is very adroit of you to make these evasions, but do not suppose thatthey deceive me. Miss Sarti would never dare to behave to you as shedoes, if you had not flirted with her, or made love to her. I suppose sheconsiders your engagement to me a breach of faith to her. I am muchobliged to you, certainly, for making me Miss Sarti's rival. You havetold me a falsehood, Captain Wybrow. '

'Beatrice, I solemnly declare to you that Caterina is nothing more to methan a girl I naturally feel kindly to--as a favourite of my uncle's, anda nice little thing enough. I should be glad to see her married to Gilfilto-morrow; that's a good proof that I'm not in love with her, I shouldthink. As to the past, I may have shown her little attentions, which shehas exaggerated and misinterpreted. What man is not liable to that sortof thing?'

'But what can she found her behaviour on? What had she been saying to youthis morning to make her tremble and turn pale in that way?'

'O, I don't know. I just said something about her behaving peevishly. With that Italian blood of hers, there's no knowing how she may take whatone says. She's a fierce little thing, though she seems so quietgenerally. '

'But she ought to be made to know how unbecoming and indelicate herconduct is. For my part, I wonder Lady Cheverel has not noticed her shortanswers and the airs she puts on. '

'Let me beg of you, Beatrice, not to hint anything of the kind to LadyCheverel. You must have observed how strict my aunt is. It never entersher head that a girl can be in love with a man who has not made her anoffer. '

'Well, I shall let Miss Sarti know myself that I have observed herconduct. It will be only a charity to her. '

'Nay, dear, that will be doing nothing but harm. Caterina's temper ispeculiar. The best thing you can do will be to leave her to herself asmuch as possible. It will all wear off. I've no doubt she'll be marriedto Gilfil before long. Girls' fancies are easily diverted from one objectto another. By jove, what a rate my heart is galloping at! Theseconfounded palpitations get worse instead of better. '

Thus ended the conversation, so far as it concerned Caterina, not withoutleaving a distinct resolution in Captain Wybrow's mind--a resolutioncarried into effect the next day, when he was in the library with SirChristopher for the purpose of discussing some arrangements about theapproaching marriage. 

'By the by, ' he said carelessly, when the business came to a pause, andhe was sauntering round the room with his hands in his coat-pockets, surveying the backs of the books that lined the walls, 'when is thewedding between Gilfil and Caterina to come off, sir? I've afellow-feeling for a poor devil so many fathoms deep in love as Maynard. Why shouldn't their marriage happen as soon as ours? I suppose he hascome to an understanding with Tina?'

'Why, ' said Sir Christopher, 'I did think of letting the thing be untilold Crichley died; he can't hold out very long, poor fellow; and thenMaynard might have entered into matrimony and the rectory both at once. But, after all, that really is no good reason for waiting. There is noneed for them to leave the Manor when they are married. The little monkeyis quite old enough. It would be pretty to see her a matron, with a babyabout the size of a kitten in her arms. '

'I think that system of waiting is always bad. And if I can further anysettlement you would like to make on Caterina, I shall be delighted tocarry out your wishes. '

'My dear boy, that's very good of you; but Maynard will have enough; andfrom what I know of him--and I know him well--I think he would ratherprovide for Caterina himself. However, now you have put this matter intomy head, I begin to blame myself for not having thought of it before. I've been so wrapt up in Beatrice and you, you rascal, that I had reallyforgotten poor Maynard. And he's older than you--it's high time he wassettled in life as a family man. '

Sir Christopher paused, took snuff in a meditative manner, and presentlysaid, more to himself than to Anthony, who was humming a tune at the farend of the room, 'Yes, yes. It will be a capital plan to finish off allour family business at once. '

Riding out with Miss Assher the same morning, Captain Wybrow mentioned toher incidentally, that Sir Christopher was anxious to bring about thewedding between Gilfil and Caterina as soon as possible, and that he, forhis part, should do all he could to further the affair. It would be thebest thing in the world for Tina, in whose welfare he was reallyinterested. 

With Sir Christopher there was never any long interval between purposeand execution. He made up his mind promptly, and he acted promptly. Onrising from luncheon, he said to Mr. Gilfil, 'Come with me into thelibrary, Maynard. I want to have a word with you. '

'Maynard, my boy, ' he began, as soon as they were seated, tapping hissnuff-box, and looking radiant at the idea of the unexpected pleasure hewas about to give, 'why shouldn't we have two happy couples instead ofone, before the autumn is over, eh?'

'Eh?' he repeated, after a moment's pause, lengthening out themonosyllable, taking a slow pinch, and looking up at Maynard with a slysmile. 

'I'm not quite sure that I understand you, sir, ' answered Mr. Gilfil, whofelt annoyed at the consciousness that he was turning pale. 

'Not understand me, you rogue? You know very well whose happiness liesnearest to my heart after Anthony's. You know you let me into yoursecrets long ago, so there's no confession to make. Tina's quite oldenough to be a grave little wife now; and though the Rectory's not readyfor you, that's no matter. My lady and I shall feel all the morecomfortable for having you with us. We should miss our littlesinging-bird if we lost her all at once. '

Mr. Gilfil felt himself in a painfully difficult position. He dreadedthat Sir Christopher should surmise or discover the true state ofCaterina's feelings, and yet he was obliged to make those feelings theground of his reply. 

'My dear sir, ' he at last said with some effort, 'you will not supposethat I am not alive to your goodness--that I am not grateful for yourfatherly interest in my happiness; but I fear that Caterina's feelingstowards me are not such as to warrant the hope that she would accept aproposal of marriage from me. '

'Have you ever asked her?'

'No, sir. But we often know these things too well without asking. '

'Pooh, pooh! the little monkey _must_ love you. Why, you were her firstplayfellow; and I remember she used to cry if you cut your finger. Besides, she has always silently admitted that you were her lover. Youknow I have always spoken of you to her in that light. I took it forgranted you had settled the business between yourselves; so did Anthony. Anthony thinks she's in love with you, and he has young eyes, which areapt enough to see clearly in these matters. He was talking to me about itthis morning, and pleased me very much by the friendly interest he showedin you and Tina. '

The blood--more than was wanted--rushed back to Mr. Gilfil's face; he sethis teeth and clenched his hands in the effort to repress a burst ofindignation. Sir Christopher noticed the flush, but thought it indicatedthe fluctuation of hope and fear about Caterina. He went on:--'You're toomodest by half, Maynard. A fellow who can take a five-barred gate as youcan, ought not to be so faint-hearted. If you can't speak to heryourself, leave me to talk to her. '

'Sir Christopher, ' said poor Maynard earnestly, 'I shall really feel itthe greatest kindness you can possibly show me not to mention thissubject to Caterina at present. I think such a proposal, madeprematurely, might only alienate her from me. '

Sir Christopher was getting a little displeased at this contradiction. His tone became a little sharper as he said, 'Have you any grounds tostate for this opinion, beyond your general notion that Tina is notenough in love with you?'

'I can state none beyond my own very strong impression that she does notlove me well enough to marry me. '

'Then I think that ground is worth nothing at all. I am tolerably correctin my judgement of people; and if I am not very much deceived in Tina, she looks forward to nothing else but to your being her husband. Leave meto manage the matter as I think best. You may rely on me that I shall dono harm to your cause, Maynard. '

Mr. Gilfil, afraid to say more, yet wretched in the prospect of whatmight result from Sir Christopher's determination, quitted the library ina state of mingled indignation against Captain Wybrow, and distress forhimself and Caterina. What would she think of him? She might suppose that_he_ had instigated or sanctioned Sir Christopher's proceeding. He shouldperhaps not have an opportunity of speaking to her on the subject intime; he would write her a note, and carry it up to her room after thedressing-bell had rung. No; that would agitate her, and unfit her forappearing at dinner, and passing the evening calmly. He would defer ittill bed-time. After prayers, he contrived to lead her back to thedrawing-room, and to put a letter in her hand. She carried it up to herown room, wondering, and there read, --

'Dear Caterina, Do not suspect for a moment that anything Sir Christophermay say to you about our marriage has been prompted by me. I have doneall I dare do to dissuade him from urging the subject, and have only beenprevented from speaking more strongly by the dread of provoking questionswhich I could not answer without causing you fresh misery. I write this, both to prepare you for anything Sir Christopher may say, and to assureyou--but I hope you already believe it--that your feelings are sacred tome. I would rather part with the dearest hope of my life than be themeans of adding to your trouble. 

'It is Captain Wybrow who has prompted Sir Christopher to take up thesubject at this moment. I tell you this, to save you from hearing itsuddenly when you are with Sir Christopher. You see now what sort ofstuff that dastard's heart is made of. Trust in me always, dearestCaterina, as--whatever may come--your faithful friend and brother, 'Maynard Gilfil. '

Caterina was at first too terribly stung by the words about CaptainWybrow to think of the difficulty which threatened her--to think eitherof what Sir Christopher would say to her, or of what she could say inreply. Bitter sense of injury, fierce resentment, left no room for fear. With the poisoned garment upon him, the victim writhes under thetorture--he has no thought of the coming death. 

Anthony could do this!--Of this there could be no explanation but thecoolest contempt for her feelings, the basest sacrifice of all theconsideration and tenderness he owed her to the ease of his position withMiss Assher. No. It was worse than that: it was deliberate, gratuitouscruelty. He wanted to show her how he despised her; he wanted to make herfeel her folly in having ever believed that he loved her. 

The last crystal drops of trust and tenderness, she thought, were driedup; all was parched, fiery hatred. Now she need no longer check herresentment by the fear of doing him an injustice: he _had_ trifled withher, as Maynard had said; he _had_ been reckless of her; and now he wasbase and cruel. She had cause enough for her bitterness and anger; theywere not so wicked as they had seemed to her. 

As these thoughts were hurrying after each other like so many sharpthrobs of fevered pain, she shed no tear. She paced restlessly to andfro, as her habit was--her hands clenched, her eyes gleaming fiercely andwandering uneasily, as if in search of something on which she might throwherself like a tigress. 

'If I could speak to him, ' she whispered, 'and tell him I hate him, Idespise him, I loathe him!'

Suddenly, as if a new thought had struck her, she drew a key from herpocket, and, unlocking an inlaid desk where she stored up her keepsakes, took from it a small miniature. It was in a very slight gold frame, witha ring to it, as if intended to be worn on a chain; and under the glassat the back were two locks of hair, one dark and the other auburn, arranged in a fantastic knot. It was Anthony's secret present to her ayear ago a copy he had had made specially for her. For the last month shehad not taken it from its hiding-place: there was no need to heighten thevividness of the past. But now she clutched it fiercely, and dashed itacross the room against the bare hearth-stone. 

Will she crush it under her feet, and grind it under her high-heeledshoe, till every trace of those false cruel features is gone? Ah, no! Sherushed across the room; but when she saw the little treasure she hadcherished so fondly, so often smothered with kisses, so often laid underher pillow, and remembered with the first return of consciousness in themorning--when she saw this one visible relic of the too happy past lyingwith the glass shivered, the hair fallen out, the thin ivory cracked, there was a revulsion of the overstrained feeling: relenting came, andshe burst into tears. 

Look at her stooping down to gather up her treasure, searching for thehair and replacing it, and then mournfully examining the crack thatdisfigures the once-loved image. Alas! there is no glass now to guardeither the hair or the portrait; but see how carefully she wraps delicatepaper round it, and locks it up again in its old place. Poor child! Godsend the relenting may always come before the worst irrevocable deed!

This action had quieted her, and she sat down to read Maynard's letteragain. She read it two or three times without seeming to take in thesense; her apprehension was dulled by the passion of the last hour, andshe found it difficult to call up the ideas suggested by the words. Atlast she began to have a distinct conception of the impending interviewwith Sir Christopher. The idea of displeasing the Baronet, of whom everyone at the Manor stood in awe, frightened her so much that she thought itwould be impossible to resist his wish. He believed that she lovedMaynard; he had always spoken as if he were quite sure of it. How couldshe tell him he was deceived--and what if he were to ask her whether sheloved anybody else? To have Sir Christopher looking angrily at her, wasmore than she could bear, even in imagination. He had always been so goodto her! Then she began to think of the pain she might give him, and themore selfish distress of fear gave way to the distress of affection. Unselfish tears began to flow, and sorrowful gratitude to Sir Christopherhelped to awaken her sensibility to Mr. Gilfil's tenderness andgenerosity. 

'Dear, good Maynard!--what a poor return I make him! If I could but haveloved him instead--but I can never love or care for anything again. Myheart is broken. '

Chapter 13

The next morning the dreaded moment came. Caterina, stupified by thesuffering of the previous night, with that dull mental aching whichfollows on acute anguish, was in Lady Cheverel's sitting-room, copyingout some charity lists, when her ladyship came in, and said, --'Tina, SirChristopher wants you; go down into the library. '

She went down trembling. As soon as she entered, Sir Christopher, who wasseated near his writing-table, said, 'Now, little monkey, come and sitdown by me; I have something to tell you. '

Caterina took a footstool, and seated herself on it at the Baronet'sfeet. It was her habit to sit on these low stools, and in this way shecould hide her face better. She put her little arm round his leg, andleaned her cheek against his knee. 

'Why, you seem out of spirits this morning, Tina. What's the matter, eh?'

'Nothing, Padroncello; only my head is bad. '

'Poor monkey! Well, now, wouldn't it do the head good if I were topromise you a good husband, and smart little wedding-gowns, and by-and-bya house of your own, where you would be a little mistress, andPadroncello would come and see you sometimes?'

'O no, no! I shouldn't like ever to be married. Let me always stay withyou!'

'Pooh, pooh, little simpleton. I shall get old and tiresome, and therewill be Anthony's children putting your nose out of joint. You will wantsome one to love you best of all, and you must have children of your ownto love. I can't have you withering away into an old maid. I hate oldmaids: they make me dismal to look at them. I never see Sharp withoutshuddering. My little black-eyed monkey was never meant for anything sougly. And there's Maynard Gilfil the best man in the county, worth hisweight in gold, heavy as he is; he loves you better than his eyes. Andyou love him too, you silly monkey, whatever you may say about not beingmarried. '

'No, no, dear Padroncello, do not say so; I could not marry him. '

'Why not, you foolish child? You don't know your own mind. Why, it isplain to everybody that you love him. My lady has all along said she wassure you loved him--she has seen what little princess airs you put on tohim; and Anthony too, he thinks you are in love with Gilfil. Come, whathas made you take it into your head that you wouldn't like to marry him?'

Caterina was now sobbing too deeply to make any answer. Sir Christopherpatted her on the back and said, 'Come, come; why, Tina, you are not wellthis morning. Go and rest, little one. You will see things in quiteanother light when you are well. Think over what I have said, andremember there is nothing, after Anthony's marriage, that I have set myheart on so much as seeing you and Maynard settled for life. I must haveno whims and follies--no nonsense. ' This was said with a slight severity;but he presently added, in a soothing tone, There, there, stop crying, and be a good little monkey. Go and lie down and get to sleep. '

Caterina slipped from the stool on to her knees, took the old Baronet'shand, covered it with tears and kisses, and then ran out of the room. 

Before the evening, Captain Wybrow had heard from his uncle the result ofthe interview with Caterina. He thought, 'If I could have a long quiettalk with her, I could perhaps persuade her to look more reasonably atthings. But there's no speaking to her in the house without beinginterrupted, and I can hardly see her anywhere else without Beatrice'sfinding it out. ' At last he determined to make it a matter of confidencewith Miss Assher--to tell her that he wished to talk to Caterina quietlyfor the sake of bringing her to a calmer state of mind, and persuade herto listen to Gilfil's affection. He was very much pleased with thisjudicious and candid plan, and in the course of the evening he hadarranged with himself the time and place of meeting, and had communicatedhis purpose to Miss Assher, who gave her entire approval. Anthony, shethought, would do well to speak plainly and seriously to Miss Sarti. Hewas really very patient and kind to her, considering how she behaved. 

Tina had kept her room all that day, and had been carefully tended as aninvalid, Sir Christopher having told her ladyship how matters stood. Thistendance was so irksome to Caterina, she felt so uneasy under attentionsand kindness that were based on a misconception, that she exerted herselfto appear at breakfast the next morning, and declared herself well, though head and heart were throbbing. To be confined in her own room wasintolerable; it was wretched enough to be looked at and spoken to, but itwas more wretched to be left alone. She was frightened at her ownsensations: she was frightened at the imperious vividness with whichpictures of the past and future thrust themselves on her imagination. Andthere was another feeling, too, which made her want to be down-stairs andmoving about. Perhaps she might have an opportunity of speaking toCaptain Wybrow alone--of speaking those words of hatred and scorn thatburned on her tongue. That opportunity offered itself in a veryunexpected manner. 

Lady Cheverel having sent Caterina out of the drawing-room to fetch somepatterns of embroidery from her sitting-room, Captain Wybrow presentlywalked out after her, and met her as she was returning down stairs. 

'Caterina, ' he said, laying his hand on her arm as she was hurrying onwithout looking at him, 'will you meet me in the Rookery at twelveo'clock? I must speak to you, and we shall be in privacy there. I cannotspeak to you in the house. '

To his surprise, there was a flash of pleasure across her face; sheanswered shortly and decidedly, 'Yes', then snatched her arm away fromhim, and passed down stairs. 

Miss Assher was this morning busy winding silks, being bent on emulatingLady Cheverel's embroidery, and Lady Assher chose the passive amusementof holding the skeins. Lady Cheverel had now all her working apparatusabout her, and Caterina, thinking she was not wanted, went away and satdown to the harpsichord in the sitting-room. It seemed as if playingmassive chords--bringing out volumes of sound, would be the easiest wayof passing the long feverish moments before twelve o'clock. Handel'sMessiah stood open on the desk, at the chorus 'All we like sheep', andCaterina threw herself at once into the impetuous intricacies of thatmagnificent fugue. In her happiest moments she could never have played itso well: for now all the passion that made her misery was hurled by aconvulsive effort into her music, just as pain gives new force to theclutch of the sinking wrestler, and as terror gives farsounding intensityto the shriek of the feeble. 

But at half-past eleven she was interrupted by Lady Cheverel, who said, 'Tina, go down, will you, and hold Miss Assher's silks for her. LadyAssher and I have decided on having our drive before luncheon. '

Caterina went down, wondering how she should escape from the drawing-roomin time to be in the Rookery at twelve. Nothing should prevent her fromgoing; nothing should rob her of this one precious moment--perhaps thelast--when she could speak out the thoughts that were in her. After that, she would be passive; she would bear anything. 

But she had scarcely sat down with a skein of yellow silk on her hands, when Miss Assher said, graciously, --'I know you have an engagement withCaptain Wybrow this morning. You must not let me detain you beyond thetime. '

'So he has been talking to her about me, ' thought Caterina. Her handsbegan to tremble as she held the skein. 

Miss Assher continued in the same gracious tone: 'It is tedious workholding these skeins. I am sure I am very much obliged to you. '

'No, you are not obliged to me, ' said Caterina, completely mastered byher irritation; 'I have only done it because Lady Cheverel told me. '

The moment was come when Miss Assher could no longer suppress her longlatent desire to 'let Miss Sarti know the impropriety of her conduct. 'With the malicious anger that assumes the tone of compassion, she said, --'Miss Sarti, I am really sorry for you, that you are not able tocontrol yourself better. This giving way to unwarrantable feelings islowering you--it is indeed. '

'What unwarrantable feelings?' said Caterina, letting her hands fall, andfixing her great dark eyes steadily on Miss Assher. 'It is quiteunnecessary for me to say more. You must be conscious what I mean. Onlysummon a sense of duty to your aid. You are paining Captain Wybrowextremely by your want of self-control. '

'Did he tell you I pained him?'

'Yes, indeed, he did. He is very much hurt that you should behave to meas if you had a sort of enmity towards me. He would like you to make afriend of me. I assure you we both feel very kindly towards you, and aresorry you should cherish such feelings. '

'He is very good, ' said Caterina, bitterly. 'What feelings did he say Icherished?'

This bitter tone increased Miss Assher's irritation. There was still alurking suspicion in her mind, though she would not admit it to herself, that Captain Wybrow had told her a falsehood about his conduct andfeelings towards Caterina. It was this suspicion, more even than theanger of the moment, which urged her to say something that would test thetruth of his statement. That she would be humiliating Caterina at thesame time, was only an additional temptation. 

'These are things I do not like to talk of, Miss Sarti. I cannot evenunderstand how a woman can indulge a passion for a man who has nevergiven her the least ground for it, as Captain Wybrow assures me is thecase. '

'He told you that, did he?' said Caterina, in clear low tones, her lipsturning white as she rose from her chair. 

'Yes, indeed, he did. He was bound to tell it me after your strangebehaviour. '

Caterina said nothing, but turned round suddenly and left the room. 

See how she rushes noiselessly, like a pale meteor, along the passagesand up the gallery stairs! Those gleaming eyes, those bloodless lips, that swift silent tread, make her look like the incarnation of a fiercepurpose, rather than a woman. The mid-day sun is shining on the armour inthe gallery, making mimic suns on bossed sword-hilts and the angles ofpolished breast-plates. Yes, there are sharp weapons in the gallery. There is a dagger in that cabinet; she knows it well. And as a dragon-flywheels in its flight to alight for an instant on a leaf, she darts to thecabinet, takes out the dagger, and thrusts it into her pocket. In threeminutes more she is out, in hat and cloak, on the gravel-walk, hurryingalong towards the thick shades of the distant Rookery. She threads thewindings of the plantations, not feeling the golden leaves that rain uponher, not feeling the earth beneath her feet. Her hand is in her pocket, clenching the handle of the dagger, which she holds half out of itssheath. 

She has reached the Rookery, and is under the gloom of the interlacingboughs. Her heart throbs as if it would burst her bosom--as if every nextleap must be its last. Wait, wait, O heart!--till she has done this onedeed. He will be there--he will be before her in a moment. He will cometowards her with that false smile, thinking she does not know hisbaseness--she will plunge that dagger into his heart. 

Poor child! poor child! she who used to cry to have the fish put backinto the water--who never willingly killed the smallest livingthing--dreams now, in the madness of her passion, that she can kill theman whose very voice unnerves her. 

But what is that lying among the dank leaves on the path three yardsbefore her?

Good God! it is he--lying motionless--his hat fallen off. He is ill, then--he has fainted. Her hand lets go the dagger, and she rushes towardshim. His eyes are fixed; he does not see her. She sinks down on herknees, takes the dear head in her arms, and kisses the cold forehead. 

'Anthony, Anthony! speak to me--it is Tina--speak to me! O God, he isdead!'

Chapter 14

'Yes, Maynard, ' said Sir Christopher, chatting with Mr. Gilfil in thelibrary, 'it really is a remarkable thing that I never in my life laid aplan, and failed to carry it out. I lay my plans well, and I never swervefrom them--that's it. A strong will is the only magic. And next tostriking out one's plans, the pleasantest thing in the world is to seethem well accomplished. This year, now, will be the happiest of my life, all but the year '53, when I came into possession of the Manor, andmarried Henrietta. The last touch is given to the old house; Anthony'smarriage--the thing I had nearest my heart--is settled to my entiresatisfaction; and by-and-by you will be buying a little wedding-ring forTina's finger. Don't shake your head in that forlorn way;--when I makeprophecies they generally come to pass. But there's a quarter aftertwelve striking. I must be riding to the High Ash to meet Markham aboutfelling some timber. My old oaks will have to groan for this wedding, but'--

The door burst open, and Caterina, ghastly and panting, her eyesdistended with terror, rushed in, threw her arms round Sir Christopher'sneck, and gasping out--'Anthony . . . The Rookery . . . Dead . . . In theRookery', fell fainting on the floor. 

In a moment Sir Christopher was out of the room, and Mr. Gilfil wasbending to raise Caterina in his arms. As he lifted her from the groundhe felt something hard and heavy in her pocket. What could it be? Theweight of it would be enough to hurt her as she lay. He carried her tothe sofa, put his hand in her pocket, and drew forth the dagger. 

Maynard shuddered. Did she mean to kill herself, then, or . . . Or . . . Ahorrible suspicion forced itself upon him. 'Dead--in the Rookery. ' Hehated himself for the thought that prompted him to draw the dagger fromits sheath. No! there was no trace of blood, and he was ready to kiss thegood steel for its innocence. He thrust the weapon into his own pocket;he would restore it as soon as possible to its well-known place in thegallery. Yet, why had Caterina taken this dagger? What was it that hadhappened in the Rookery? Was it only a delirious vision of hers?

He was afraid to ring--afraid to summon any one to Caterina's assistance. What might she not say when she awoke from this fainting fit? She mightbe raving. He could not leave her, and yet he felt as if he were guiltyfor not following Sir Christopher to see what was the truth. It took buta moment to think and feel all this, but that moment seemed such a longagony to him that he began to reproach himself for letting it passwithout seeking some means of reviving Caterina. Happily the decanter ofwater on Sir Christopher's table was untouched. He would at least try theeffect of throwing that water over her. She might revive without hisneeding to call any one else. Meanwhile Sir Christopher was hurrying athis utmost speed towards the Rookery; his face, so lately bright andconfident, now agitated by a vague dread. The deep alarmed bark ofRupert, who ran by his side, had struck the ear of Mr. Bates, then on hisway homeward, as something unwonted, and, hastening in the direction ofthe sound, he met the Baronet just as he was approaching the entrance ofthe Rookery. Sir Christopher's look was enough. Mr. Bates said nothing, but hurried along by his side, while Rupert dashed forward among the deadleaves with his nose to the ground. They had scarcely lost sight of him aminute when a change in the tone of his bark told them that he had foundsomething, and in another instant he was leaping back over one of thelarge planted mounds. They turned aside to ascend the mound, Rupertleading them; the tumultuous cawing of the rooks, the very rustling ofthe leaves, as their feet plunged among them, falling like an evil omenon the Baronet's ear. 

They had reached the summit of the mound, and had begun to descend. SirChristopher saw something purple down on the path below among the yellowleaves. Rupert was already beside it, but Sir Christopher could not movefaster. A tremor had taken hold of the firm limbs. Rupert came back andlicked the trembling hand, as if to say 'Courage!' and then was downagain snuffing the body. Yes, it was a body . . . Anthony's body. There wasthe white hand with its diamond-ring clutching the dark leaves. His eyeswere half open, but did not heed the gleam of sunlight that darted itselfdirectly on them from between the boughs. 

Still he might only have fainted; it might only be a fit. Sir Christopherknelt down, unfastened the cravat, unfastened the waistcoat, and laid hishand on the heart. It might be syncope; it might not--it could not bedeath. No! that thought must be kept far off. 

'Go, Bates, get help; we'll carry him to your cottage. Send some one tothe house to tell Mr. Gilfil and Warren. Bid them send off for DoctorHart, and break it to my lady and Miss Assher that Anthony is ill. '

Mr. Bates hastened away, and the Baronet was left alone kneeling besidethe body. The young and supple limbs, the rounded cheeks, the delicateripe lips, the smooth white hands, were lying cold and rigid; and theaged face was bending over them in silent anguish; the aged deep-veinedhands were seeking with tremulous inquiring touches for some symptom thatlife was not irrevocably gone. 

Rupert was there too, waiting and watching; licking first the dead andthen the living hands; then running off on Mr. Bates's track as if hewould follow and hasten his return, but in a moment turning back again, unable to quit the scene of his master's sorrow. 

Chapter 15

It is a wonderful moment, the first time we stand by one who has fainted, and witness the fresh birth of consciousness spreading itself over theblank features, like the rising sunlight on the alpine summits that layghastly and dead under the leaden twilight. A slight shudder, and thefrost-bound eyes recover their liquid light; for an instant they show theinward semi-consciousness of an infant's; then, with a little start, theyopen wider and begin to look; the present is visible, but only as astrange writing, and the interpreter Memory is not yet there. 

Mr. Gilfil felt a trembling joy as this change passed over Caterina'sface. He bent over her, rubbing her chill hands, and looking at her withtender pity as her dark eyes opened on him wonderingly. He thought theremight be some wine in the dining-room close by. He left the room, andCaterina's eyes turned towards the window--towards Sir Christopher'schair. There was the link at which the chain of consciousness hadsnapped, and the events of the morning were beginning to recur dimly likea half-remembered dream, when Maynard returned with some wine. He raisedher, and she drank it; but still she was silent, seeming lost in theattempt to recover the past, when the door opened, and Mr. Warrenappeared with looks that announced terrible tidings. Mr. Gilfil, dreadinglest he should tell them in Caterina's presence, hurried towards him withhis finger on his lips, and drew him away into the dining-room on theopposite side of the passage. 

Caterina, revived by the stimulant, was now recovering the fullconsciousness of the scene in the Rookery. Anthony was lying there dead;she had left him to tell Sir Christopher; she must go and see what theywere doing with him; perhaps he was not really dead--only in a trance;people did fall into trances sometimes. While Mr. Gilfil was tellingWarren how it would be best to break the news to Lady Cheverel and MissAssher, anxious himself to return to Caterina, the poor child had madeher way feebly to the great entrance-door, which stood open. Her strengthincreased as she moved and breathed the fresh air, and with everyincrease of strength came increased vividness of emotion, increasedyearning to be where her thought was--in the Rookery with Anthony. Shewalked more and more swiftly, and at last, gathering the artificialstrength of passionate excitement, began to run. 

But now she heard the tread of heavy steps, and under the yellow shadenear the wooden bridge she saw men slowly carrying something. Soon shewas face to face with them. Anthony was no longer in the Rookery: theywere carrying him stretched on a door, and there behind him was SirChristopher, with the firmly-set mouth, the deathly paleness, and theconcentrated expression of suffering in the eye, which mark thesuppressed grief of the strong man. The sight of this face, on whichCaterina had never before beheld the signs of anguish, caused a rush ofnew feeling which for the moment submerged all the rest. She went gentlyup to him, put her little hand in his, and walked in silence by his side. Sir Christopher could not tell her to leave him, and so she went on withthat sad procession to Mr. Bates's cottage in the Mosslands, and satthere in silence, waiting and watching to know if Anthony were reallydead. She had not yet missed the dagger from her pocket; she had not yeteven thought of it. At the sight of Anthony lying dead, her nature hadrebounded from its new bias of resentment and hatred to the old sweethabit of love. The earliest and the longest has still the mastery overus; and the only past that linked itself with those glazed unconsciouseyes, was the past when they beamed on her with tenderness. She forgotthe interval of wrong and jealousy and hatred--all his cruelty, and allher thoughts of revenge--as the exile forgets the stormy passage that laybetween home and happiness and the dreary land in which he finds himselfdesolate. 

Chapter 16

Before night all hope was gone. Dr Hart had said it was death; Anthony'sbody had been carried to the house, and every one there knew the calamitythat had fallen on them. 

Caterina had been questioned by Dr Hart, and had answered briefly thatshe found Anthony lying in the Rookery. That she should have been walkingthere just at that time was not a coincidence to raise conjectures in anyone besides Mr. Gilfil. Except in answering this question, she had notbroken her silence. She sat mute in a corner of the gardener's kitchenshaking her head when Maynard entreated her to return with him, andapparently unable to think of anything but the possibility that Anthonymight revive, until she saw them carrying away the body to the house. Then she followed by Sir Christopher's side again, so quietly, that evenDr Hart did not object to her presence. 

It was decided to lay the body in the library until after the coroner'sinquest to-morrow; and when Caterina saw the door finally closed, sheturned up the gallery stairs on her way to her own room, the place whereshe felt at home with her sorrows. It was the first time she had been inthe gallery since that terrible moment in the morning, and now the spotand the objects around began to reawaken her half-stunned memory. Thearmour was no longer glittering in the sunlight, but there it hung deadand sombre above the cabinet from which she had taken the dagger. Yes!now it all came back to her--all the wretchedness and all the sin. Butwhere was the dagger now? She felt in her pocket; it was not there. Couldit have been her fancy--all that about the dagger? She looked in thecabinet; it was not there. Alas! no; it could not have been her fancy, and she _was_ guilty of that wickedness. But where could the dagger benow? Could it have fallen out of her pocket? She heard steps ascendingthe stairs, and hurried on to her room, where, kneeling by the bed, andburying her face to shut out the hateful light, she tried to recall everyfeeling and incident of the morning. 

It all came back; everything Anthony had done, and everything she hadfelt for the last month--for many months--ever since that June eveningwhen he had last spoken to her in the gallery. She looked back on herstorms of passion, her jealousy and hatred of Miss Assher, her thoughtsof revenge on Anthony. O how wicked she had been! It was she who had beensinning; it was she who had driven him to do and say those things thathad made her so angry. And if he had wronged her, what had she been onthe verge of doing to him? She was too wicked ever to be pardoned. Shewould like to confess how wicked she had been, that they might punishher; she would like to humble herself to the dust before everyone--before Miss Assher even. Sir Christopher would send her away--wouldnever see her again, if he knew all; and she would be happier to bepunished and frowned on, than to be treated tenderly while she had thatguilty secret in her breast. But then, if Sir Christopher were to knowall, it would add to his sorrow, and make him more wretched than ever. No! she could not confess it--she should have to tell about Anthony. Butshe could not stay at the Manor; she must go away; she could not bear SirChristopher's eye, could not bear the sight of all these things thatreminded her of Anthony and of her sin. Perhaps she should die soon: shefelt very feeble; there could not be much life in her. She would go awayand live humbly, and pray to God to pardon her, and let her die. 

The poor child never thought of suicide. No sooner was the storm of angerpassed than the tenderness and timidity of her nature returned, and shecould do nothing but love and mourn. Her inexperience prevented her fromimagining the consequences of her disappearance from the Manor; sheforesaw none of the terrible details of alarm and distress and searchthat must ensue. 'They will think I am dead, ' she said to herself, 'andby-and-by they will forget me, and Maynard will get happy again, and lovesome one else. '

She was roused from her absorption by a knock at the door. Mrs. Bellamywas there. She had come by Mr. Gilfil's request to see how Miss Sartiwas, and to bring her some food and wine. 

'You look sadly, my dear, ' said the old housekeeper, 'an' you're all of aquake wi' cold. Get you to bed, now do. Martha shall come an' warm it, an' light your fire. See now, here's some nice arrowroot, wi' a drop o'wine in it. Take that, an' it'll warm you. I must go down again, for Ican't awhile to stay. There's so many things to see to; an' Miss Assher'sin hysterics constant, an' her maid's ill i' bed--a poor creachything--an' Mrs. Sharp's wanted every minute. But I'll send Martha up, an'do you get ready to go to bed, there's a dear child, an' take care o'yourself. '

'Thank you, dear mammy, ' said Tina, kissing the little old woman'swrinkled cheek; 'I shall eat the arrowroot, and don't trouble about meany more to-night. I shall do very well when Martha has lighted my fire. Tell Mr. Gilfil I'm better. I shall go to bed by-and-by, so don't youcome up again, because you may only disturb me. '

'Well, well, take care o' yourself, there's a good child, an' God sendyou may sleep. '

Caterina took the arrowroot quite eagerly, while Martha was lighting herfire. She wanted to get strength for her journey, and she kept the plateof biscuits by her that she might put some in her pocket. Her whole mindwas now bent on going away from the Manor, and she was thinking of allthe ways and means her little life's experience could suggest. 

It was dusk now; she must wait till early dawn, for she was too timid togo away in the dark, but she must make her escape before any one was upin the house. There would be people watching Anthony in the library, butshe could make her way out of a small door leading into the garden, against the drawing-room on the other side of the house. 

She laid her cloak, bonnet, and veil ready; then she lighted a candle, opened her desk, and took out the broken portrait wrapped in paper. Shefolded it again in two little notes of Anthony's, written in pencil, andplaced it in her bosom. There was the little china box, too--Dorcas'spresent, the pearl ear-rings, and a silk purse, with fifteenseven-shilling pieces in it, the presents Sir Christopher had made her onher birthday, ever since she had been at the Manor. Should she take theearrings and the seven-shilling pieces? She could not bear to part withthem; it seemed as if they had some of Sir Christopher's love in them. She would like them to be buried with her. She fastened the little roundearrings in her ears, and put the purse with Dorcas's box in her pocket. She had another purse there, and she took it out to count her money, forshe would never spend her seven-shilling pieces. She had a guinea andeight shillings; that would be plenty. 

So now she sat down to wait for the morning, afraid to lay herself on thebed lest she should sleep too long. If she could but see Anthony oncemore and kiss his cold forehead! But that could not be. She did notdeserve it. She must go away from him, away from Sir Christopher, andLady Cheverel, and Maynard, and everybody who had been kind to her, andthought her good while she was so wicked. 

Chapter 17

Some of Mrs. Sharp's earliest thoughts, the next morning, were given toCaterina whom she had not been able to visit the evening before, andwhom, from a nearly equal mixture of affection and self-importance, shedid not at all like resigning to Mrs. Bellamy's care. At half-past eighto'clock she went up to Tina's room, bent on benevolent dictation as todoses and diet and lying in bed. But on opening the door she found thebed smooth and empty. Evidently it had not been slept in. What could thismean? Had she sat up all night, and was she gone out to walk? The poorthing's head might be touched by what had happened yesterday; it was sucha shock--finding Captain Wybrow in that way; she was perhaps gone out ofher mind. Mrs. Sharp looked anxiously in the place where Tina kept herhat and cloak; they were not there, so that she had had at least thepresence of mind to put them on. Still the good woman felt greatlyalarmed, and hastened away to tell Mr. Gilfil, who, she knew, was in hisstudy. 

'Mr. Gilfil, ' she said, as soon as she had closed the door behind her, 'my mind misgives me dreadful about Miss Sarti. '

'What is it?' said poor Maynard, with a horrible fear that Caterina hadbetrayed something about the dagger. 

'She's not in her room, an' her bed's not been slept in this night, an'her hat an' cloak's gone. '

For a minute or two Mr. Gilfil was unable to speak. He felt sure theworst had come: Caterina had destroyed herself. The strong man suddenlylooked so ill and helpless that Mrs. Sharp began to be frightened at theeffect of her abruptness. 

'O, sir, I'm grieved to my heart to shock you so; but I didn't know whoelse to go to. '

'No, no, you were quite right. '

He gathered some strength from his very despair. It was all over, and hehad nothing now to do but to suffer and to help the suffering. He went onin a firmer voice--'Be sure not to breathe a word about it to any one. Wemust not alarm Lady Cheverel and Sir Christopher. Miss Sarti may be onlywalking in the garden. She was terribly excited by what she sawyesterday, and perhaps was unable to lie down from restlessness. Just goquietly through the empty rooms, and see whether she is in the house. Iwill go and look for her in the grounds. '

He went down, and, to avoid giving any alarm in the house, walked at oncetowards the Mosslands in search of Mr. Bates, whom he met returning fromhis breakfast. To the gardener he confided his fear about Caterina, assigning as a reason for this fear the probability that the shock shehad undergone yesterday had unhinged her mind, and begging him to sendmen in search of her through the gardens and park, and inquire if she hadbeen seen at the lodges; and if she were not found or heard of in thisway, to lose no time in dragging the waters round the Manor. 

'God forbid it should be so, Bates, but we shall be the easier for havingsearched everywhere. '

'Troost to mae, troost to mae, Mr. Gilfil. Eh! but I'd ha' worked forday-wage all the rest o' my life, rether than anythin' should ha'happened to her. '

The good gardener, in deep distress, strode away to the stables that hemight send the grooms on horseback through the park. 

Mr. Gilfil's next thought was to search the Rookery: she might behaunting the scene of Captain Wybrow's death. He went hastily over everymound, looked round every large tree, and followed every winding of thewalks. In reality he had little hope of finding her there; but the barepossibility fenced off for a time the fatal conviction that Caterina'sbody would be found in the water. When the Rookery had been searched invain, he walked fast to the border of the little stream that bounded oneside of the grounds. The stream was almost everywhere hidden among trees, and there was one place where it was broader and deeper thanelsewhere--she would be more likely to come to that spot than to thepool. He hurried along with strained eyes, his imagination continuallycreating what he dreaded to see. 

There is something white behind that overhanging bough. His knees trembleunder him. He seems to see part of her dress caught on a branch, and herdear dead face upturned. O God, give strength to thy creature, on whomthou hast laid this great agony! He is nearly up to the bough, and thewhite object is moving. It is a waterfowl, that spreads its wings andflies away screaming. He hardly knows whether it is a relief or adisappointment that she is not there. The conviction that she is deadpresses its cold weight upon him none the less heavily. 

As he reached the great pool in front of the Manor, he saw Mr. Bates, with a group of men already there, preparing for the dreadful searchwhich could only displace his vague despair by a definite horror; for thegardener, in his restless anxiety, had been unable to defer this untilother means of search had proved vain. The pool was not now laughing withsparkles among the water-lilies. It looked black and cruel under thesombre sky, as if its cold depths held relentlessly all the murdered hopeand joy of Maynard Gilfil's life. 

Thoughts of the sad consequences for others as well as himself werecrowding on his mind. The blinds and shutters were all closed in front ofthe Manor, and it was not likely that Sir Christopher would be aware ofanything that was passing outside; but Mr. Gilfil felt that Caterina'sdisappearance could not long be concealed from him. The coroner's inquestwould be held shortly; she would be inquired for, and then it would beinevitable that the Baronet should know all. 

Chapter 18

At twelve o'clock, when all search and inquiry had been in vain, and thecoroner was expected every moment, Mr. Gilfil could no longer defer thehard duty of revealing this fresh calamity to Sir Christopher, who mustotherwise have it discovered to him abruptly. 

The Baronet was seated in his dressing-room, where the darkwindow-curtains were drawn so as to admit only a sombre light. It was thefirst time Mr. Gilfil had had an interview with him this morning, and hewas struck to see how a single day and night of grief had aged the fineold man. The lines in his brow and about his mouth were deepened; hiscomplexion looked dull and withered; there was a swollen ridge under hiseyes; and the eyes themselves, which used to cast so keen a glance on thepresent, had the vacant expression which tells that vision is no longer asense, but a memory. 

He held out his hand to Maynard, who pressed it, and sat down beside himin silence. Sir Christopher's heart began to swell at this unspokensympathy; the tears would rise, would roll in great drops down hischeeks. The first tears he had shed since boyhood were for Anthony. 

Maynard felt as if his tongue were glued to the roof of his mouth. Hecould not speak first: he must wait until Sir Christopher said somethingwhich might lead on to the cruel words that must be spoken. 

At last the Baronet mastered himself enough to say, 'I'm very weak, Maynard--God help me! I didn't think anything would unman me in this way;but I'd built everything on that lad. Perhaps I've been wrong in notforgiving my sister. She lost one of _her_ sons a little while ago. I'vebeen too proud and obstinate. '

'We can hardly learn humility and tenderness enough except by suffering, 'said Maynard; 'and God sees we are in need of suffering, for it isfalling more and more heavily on us. We have a new trouble this morning. '

'Tina?' said Sir Christopher, looking up anxiously--'is Tina ill?'

'I am in dreadful uncertainty about her. She was very much agitatedyesterday--and with her delicate health--I am afraid to think what turnthe agitation may have taken. '

'Is she delirious, poor dear little one?'

'God only knows how she is. We are unable to find her. When Mrs. Sharpwent up to her room this morning, it was empty. She had not been in bed. Her hat and cloak were gone. I have had search made for hereverywhere--in the house and garden, in the park, and--in the water. Noone has seen her since Martha went up to light her fire at seven o'clockin the evening. '

While Mr. Gilfil was speaking, Sir Christopher's eyes, which were eagerlyturned on him, recovered some of their old keenness, and some suddenpainful emotion, as at a new thought, flitted rapidly across his alreadyagitated face, like the shadow of a dark cloud over the waves. When thepause came, he laid his hand on Mr. Gilfil's arm, and said in a lowervoice, --'Maynard, did that poor thing love Anthony?'

'She did. '

Maynard hesitated after these words, struggling between his reluctance toinflict a yet deeper wound on Sir Christopher, and his determination thatno injustice should be done to Caterina. Sir Christopher's eyes werestill fixed on him in solemn inquiry, and his own sunk towards theground, while he tried to find the words that would tell the truth leastcruelly. 

'You must not have any wrong thoughts about Tina, ' he said at length. 'Imust tell you now, for her sake, what nothing but this should ever havecaused to pass my lips. Captain Wybrow won her affections by attentionswhich, in his position, he was bound not to show her. Before his marriagewas talked of, he had behaved to her like a lover. '

Sir Christopher relaxed his hold of Maynard's arm, and looked away fromhim. He was silent for some minutes, evidently attempting to masterhimself, so as to be able to speak calmly. 

'I must see Henrietta immediately, ' he said at last, with something ofhis old sharp decision; 'she must know all; but we must keep it fromevery one else as far as possible. My dear boy, ' he continued in a kindertone, 'the heaviest burthen has fallen on you. But we may find her yet;we must not despair: there has not been time enough for us to be certain. Poor dear little one! God help me! I thought I saw everything, and wasstone-blind all the while. '

Chapter 19

The sad slow week was gone by at last. At the coroner's inquest a verdictof sudden death had been pronounced. Dr Hart, acquainted with CaptainWybrow's previous state of health, had given his opinion that death hadbeen imminent from long-established disease of the heart, though it hadprobably been accelerated by some unusual emotion. Miss Assher was theonly person who positively knew the motive that had led Captain Wybrow tothe Rookery; but she had not mentioned Caterina's name, and all painfuldetails or inquiries were studiously kept from her. Mr. Gilfil and SirChristopher, however, knew enough to conjecture that the fatal agitationwas due to an appointed meeting with Caterina. 

All search and inquiry after her had been fruitless, and were the morelikely to be so because they were carried on under the prepossession thatshe had committed suicide. No one noticed the absence of the trifles shehad taken from her desk; no one knew of the likeness, or that she hadhoarded her seven-shilling pieces, and it was not remarkable that sheshould have happened to be wearing the pearl earrings. She had left thehouse, they thought, taking nothing with her; it seemed impossible shecould have gone far; and she must have been in a state of mentalexcitement, that made it too probable she had only gone to seek relief indeath. The same places within three or four miles of the Manor weresearched again and again--every pond, every ditch in the neighbourhoodwas examined. 

Sometimes Maynard thought that death might have come on unsought, fromcold and exhaustion; and not a day passed but he wandered through theneighbouring woods, turning up the heaps of dead leaves, as if it werepossible her dear body could be hidden there. Then another horriblethought recurred, and before each night came he had been again throughall the uninhabited rooms of the house, to satisfy himself once more thatshe was not hidden behind some cabinet, or door, or curtain--that heshould not find her there with madness in her eyes, looking and looking, and yet not seeing him. 

But at last those five long days and nights were at an end, the funeralwas over, and the carriages were returning through the park. When theyhad set out, a heavy rain was falling; but now the clouds were breakingup, and a gleam of sunshine was sparkling among the dripping boughs underwhich they were passing. This gleam fell upon a man on horseback who wasjogging slowly along, and whom Mr. Gilfil recognized, in spite ofdiminished rotundity, as Daniel Knott, the coachman who had married therosy-cheeked Dorcas ten years before. 

Every new incident suggested the same thought to Mr. Gilfil; and his eyeno sooner fell on Knott than he said to himself 'Can he be come to tellus anything about Caterina?' Then he remembered that Caterina had beenvery fond of Dorcas, and that she always had some present ready to sendher when Knott paid an occasional visit to the Manor. Could Tina havegone to Dorcas? But his heart sank again as he thought, very likely Knotthad only come because he had heard of Captain Wybrow's death, and wantedto know how his old master had borne the blow. 

As soon as the carriage reached the house, he went up to his study andwalked about nervously, longing, but afraid, to go down and speak toKnott, lest his faint hope should be dissipated. Any one looking at thatface, usually so full of calm goodwill, would have seen that the lastweek's suffering had left deep traces. By day he had been riding orwandering incessantly, either searching for Caterina himself, ordirecting inquiries to be made by others. By night he had not knownsleep--only intermittent dozing, in which he seemed to be findingCaterina dead, and woke up with a start from this unreal agony to thereal anguish of believing that he should see her no more. The clear greyeyes looked sunken and restless, the full careless lips had a strangetension about them, and the brow, formerly so smooth and open, wascontracted as if with pain. He had not lost the object of a few months'passion; he had lost the being who was bound up with his power of loving, as the brook we played by or the flowers we gathered in childhood arebound up with our sense of beauty. Love meant nothing for him but to loveCaterina. For years, the thought of her had been present in everything, like the air and the light; and now she was gone, it seemed as if allpleasure had lost its vehicle: the sky, the earth, the daily ride, thedaily talk might be there, but the loveliness and the joy that were inthem had gone for ever. 

Presently, as he still paced backwards and forwards, he heard steps alongthe corridor, and there was a knock at his door. His voice trembled as hesaid 'Come in', and the rush of renewed hope was hardly distinguishablefrom pain when he saw Warren enter with Daniel Knott behind him. 

'Knott is come, sir, with news of Miss Sarti. I thought it best to bringhim to you first. '

Mr. Gilfil could not help going up to the old coachman and wringing hishand; but he was unable to speak, and only motioned to him to take achair, while Warren left the room. He hung upon Daniel's moon-face, andlistened to his small piping voice, with the same solemn yearningexpectation with which he would have given ear to the most awfulmessenger from the land of shades. 

'It war Dorkis, sir, would hev me come; but we knowed nothin' o' what'shappened at the Manor. She's frightened out on her wits about Miss Sarti, an' she would hev me saddle Blackbird this mornin', an' leave theploughin', to come an' let Sir Christifer an' my lady know. P'raps you'veheared, sir, we don't keep the Cross Keys at Sloppeter now; a uncle o'mine died three 'ear ago, an' left me a leggicy. He was bailiff to SquireRamble, as hed them there big farms on his hans; an' so we took a littlefarm o' forty acres or thereabouts, becos Dorkis didn't like the publicwhen she got moithered wi' children. As pritty a place as iver you see, sir, wi' water at the back convenent for the cattle. '

'For God's sake, ' said Maynard, 'tell me what it is about Miss Sarti. Don't stay to tell me anything else now. '

'Well, sir, ' said Knott, rather frightened by the parson's vehemence, 'she come t' our house i' the carrier's cart o' Wednesday, when it waswelly nine o'clock at night; and Dorkis run out, for she heared the cartstop, an' Miss Sarti throwed her arms roun' Dorkis's neck an' says, "Tekme in, Dorkis, tek me in, " an' went off into a swoond, like. An' Dorkiscalls out to me, --"Dannel, " she calls--an' I run out and carried theyoung miss in, an' she come roun' arter a hit, an' opened her eyes, andDorkis got her to drink a spoonful o' rum-an'-water--we've got somecapital rum as we brought from the Cross Keys, and Dorkis won't letnobody drink it. She says she keeps it for sickness; but for my part, Ithink it's a pity to drink good rum when your mouth's out o' taste; youmay just as well hev doctor's stuff. However, Dorkis got her to bed, an'there she's lay iver sin', stoopid like, an' niver speaks, an' on'y tekslittle bits an' sups when Dorkis coaxes her. An' we begun to befrightened, and couldn't think what had made her come away from theManor, and Dorkis was afeared there was summat wrong. So this mornin' shecould hold no longer, an' would hev no nay but I must come an' see; an'so I've rode twenty mile upo' Blackbird, as thinks all the while he'sa-ploughin', an' turns sharp roun', every thirty yards, as if he was atthe end of a furrow. I've hed a sore time wi' him, I can tell you, sir. '

'God bless you, Knott, for coming!' said Mr. Gilfil, wringing the oldcoachman's hand again. 'Now go down and have something and rest yourself. You will stay here to-night, and by-and-by I shall come to you to learnthe nearest way to your house. I shall get ready to ride thereimmediately, when I have spoken to Sir Christopher. '

In an hour from that time Mr. Gilfil was galloping on a stout maretowards the little muddy village of Callam, five miles beyond Sloppeter. Once more he saw some gladness in the afternoon sunlight; once more itwas a pleasure to see the hedgerow trees flying past him, and to beconscious of a 'good seat' while his black Kitty bounded beneath him, andthe air whistled to the rhythm of her pace. Caterina was not dead; he hadfound her; his love and tenderness and long-suffering seemed so strong, they must recall her to life and happiness. 

After that week of despair, the rebound was so violent that it carriedhis hopes at once as far as the utmost mark they had ever reached. Caterina would come to love him at last; she would be his. They had beencarried through all that dark and weary way that she might know the depthof his love. How he would cherish her--his little bird with the timidbright eye, and the sweet throat that trembled with love and music! Shewould nestle against him, and the poor little breast which had been soruffled and bruised should be safe for evermore. In the love of a braveand faithful man there is always a strain of maternal tenderness; hegives out again those beams of protecting fondness which were shed on himas he lay on his mother's knee. It was twilight as he entered the villageof Callam, and, asking a homeward-bound labourer the way to DanielKnott's, learned that it was by the church, which showed its stumpyivy-clad spire on a slight elevation of ground; a useful addition to themeans of identifying that desirable homestead afforded by Daniel'sdescription--'the prittiest place iver you see'--though a small cow-yardfull of excellent manure, and leading right up to the door, without anyfrivolous interruption from garden or railing, might perhaps have beenenough to make that description unmistakably specific. 

Mr. Gilfil had no sooner reached the gate leading into the cow-yard, thanhe was descried by a flaxen-haired lad of nine, prematurely invested withthe _toga virilis_, or smock-frock, who ran forward to let in the unusualvisitor. In a moment Dorcas was at the door, the roses on her cheeksapparently all the redder for the three pair of cheeks which formed agroup round her, and for the very fat baby who stared in her arms, andsucked a long crust with calm relish. 

'Is it Mr. Gilfil, sir?' said Dorcas, curtsying low as he made his waythrough the damp straw, after tying up his horse. 

'Yes, Dorcas; I'm grown out of your knowledge. How is Miss Sarti?'

'Just for all the world the same, sir, as I suppose Dannel's told you;for I reckon you've come from the Manor, though you're come uncommonquick, to be sure. '

'Yes, he got to the Manor about one o'clock, and I set off as soon as Icould. She's not worse, is she?'

'No change, sir, for better or wuss. Will you please to walk in, sir? Shelies there takin' no notice o' nothin', no more nor a baby as is on'y aweek old, an' looks at me as blank as if she didn't know me. O what canit be, Mr. Gilfil? How come she to leave the Manor? How's his honour an'my lady?'

'In great trouble, Dorcas. Captain Wybrow, Sir Christopher's nephew, youknow, has died suddenly. Miss Sarti found him lying dead, and I think theshock has affected her mind. '

'Eh, dear! that fine young gentlemen as was to be th' heir, as Danneltold me about. I remember seein' him when he was a little un, a-visitin'at the Manor. Well-a-day, what a grief to his honour and my lady. Butthat poor Miss Tina--an' she found him a-lyin' dead? O dear, O dear!'

Dorcas had led the way into the best kitchen, as charming a room as bestkitchens used to be in farmhouses which had no parlours--the firereflected in a bright row of pewter plates and dishes; the sand-scoureddeal tables so clean you longed to stroke them; the salt-coffer in onechimney-corner, and a three-cornered chair in the other, the walls behindhandsomely tapestried with flitches of bacon, and the ceiling ornamentedwith pendent hams. 

'Sit ye down, sir--do, ' said Dorcas, moving the three-cornered chair, 'an' let me get you somethin' after your long journey. Here, Becky, comean' tek the baby. '

Becky, a red-armed damsel, emerged from the adjoining back-kitchen, andpossessed herself of baby, whose feelings or fat made him convenientlyapathetic under the transference. 

'What'll you please to tek, sir, as I can give you? I'll get you a rashero' bacon i' no time, an' I've got some tea, or be-like you'd tek a glasso' rum-an'-water. I know we've got nothin' as you're used t' eat anddrink; but such as I hev, sir, I shall be proud to give you. '

'Thank you, Dorcas; I can't eat or drink anything. I'm not hungry ortired. Let us talk about Tina. Has she spoken at all?'

'Niver since the fust words. "Dear Dorkis, " says she, "tek me in;" an'then went off into a faint, an' not a word has she spoken since. I gether t' eat little bits an' sups o' things, but she teks no notice o'nothin'. I've took up Bessie wi' me now an' then'--here Dorcas lifted toher lap a curly-headed little girl of three, who was twisting a corner ofher mother's apron, and opening round eyes at the gentleman--'folks'lltek notice o' children sometimes when they won't o' nothin' else. An' wegathered the autumn crocuses out o' th' orchard, and Bessie carried 'emup in her hand, an' put 'em on the bed. I knowed how fond Miss Tina waso' flowers an' them things, when she was a little un. But she looked atBessie an' the flowers just the same as if she didn't see 'em. It cuts meto th' heart to look at them eyes o' hers; I think they're bigger noriver, an' they look like my poor baby's as died, when it got so thin--Odear, its little hands you could see thro' 'em. But I've great hopes ifshe was to see you, sir, as come from the Manor, it might bring back hermind, like. '

Maynard had that hope too, but he felt cold mists of fear gathering roundhim after the few bright warm hours of joyful confidence which had passedsince he first heard that Caterina was alive. The thought _would_ urgeitself upon him that her mind and body might never recover the strainthat had been put upon them--that her delicate thread of life had alreadynearly spun itself out. 

'Go now, Dorcas, and see how she is, but don't say anything about mybeing here. Perhaps it would be better for me to wait till daylightbefore I see her, and yet it would be very hard to pass another night inthis way. '

Dorcas set down little Bessie, and went away. The three other children, including young Daniel in his smock-frock, were standing opposite to Mr. Gilfil, watching him still more shyly now they were without theirmother's countenance. He drew little Bessie towards him, and set her onhis knee. She shook her yellow curls out of her eyes, and looked up athim as she said, --'Zoo tome to tee ze yady? Zoo mek her peak? What zoo doto her? Tiss her?'

'Do you like to be kissed, Bessie?'

'Det, ' said Bessie, immediately ducking down her head very low, inresistance to the expected rejoinder. 

'We've got two pups, ' said young Daniel, emboldened by observing thegentleman's amenities towards Bessie. 'Shall I show 'em yer? One's gotwhite spots. '

'Yes, let me see them. '

Daniel ran out, and presently reappeared with two blind puppies, eagerlyfollowed by the mother, affectionate though mongrel, and an excitingscene was beginning when Dorcas returned and said, --'There's niver anydifference in her hardly. I think you needn't wait, sir. She lies verystill, as she al'ys does. I've put two candle i' the room, so as she maysee you well. You'll please t' excuse the room, sir, an' the cap as shehas on; it's one o' mine. '

Mr. Gilfil nodded silently, and rose to follow her up-stairs. They turnedin at the first door, their footsteps making little noise on the plasterfloor. The red-checkered linen curtains were drawn at the head of thebed, and Dorcas had placed the candles on this side of the room, so thatthe light might not fall oppressively on Caterina's eyes. When she hadopened the door, Dorcas whispered, 'I'd better leave you, sir, I think?'

Mr. Gilfil motioned assent, and advanced beyond the curtain. Caterina laywith her eyes turned the other way, and seemed unconscious that any onehad entered. Her eyes, as Dorcas had said, looked larger than ever, perhaps because her face was thinner and paler, and her hair quitegathered away under one of Dorcas's thick caps. The small hands, too, that lay listlessly on the outside of the bed-clothes were thinner thanever. She looked younger than she really was, and any one seeing the tinyface and hands for the first time might have thought they belonged to alittle girl of twelve, who was being taken away from coming instead ofpast sorrow. 

When Mr. Gilfil advanced and stood opposite to her, the light fell fullupon his face. A slight startled expression came over Caterina's eyes;she looked at him earnestly for a few moments, then lifted up her hand asif to beckon him to stoop down towards her, and whispered 'Maynard!'

He seated himself on the bed, and stooped down towards her. She whisperedagain--'Maynard, did you see the dagger?'

He followed his first impulse in answering her, and it was a wise one. 

'Yes, ' he whispered, 'I found it in your pocket, and put it back again inthe cabinet. '

He took her hand in his and held it gently, awaiting what she would saynext. His heart swelled so with thankfulness that she had recognized him, he could hardly repress a sob. Gradually her eyes became softer and lessintense in their gaze. The tears were slowly gathering, and presentlysome large hot drops rolled down her cheek. Then the flood-gates wereopened, and the heart-easing stream gushed forth; deep sobs came; and fornearly an hour she lay without speaking, while the heavy icy pressurethat withheld her misery from utterance was thus melting away. Howprecious these tears were to Maynard, who day after day had beenshuddering at the continually recurring image of Tina with the dryscorching stare of insanity!

By degrees the sobs subsided, she began to breathe calmly, and lay quietwith her eyes shut. Patiently Maynard sat, not heeding the flight of thehours, not heeding the old clock that ticked loudly on the landing. Butwhen it was nearly ten, Dorcas, impatiently anxious to know the result ofMr. Gilfil's appearance, could not help stepping in on tip-toe. Withoutmoving, he whispered in her ear to supply him with candles, see that thecow-boy had shaken down his mare, and go to bed--he would watch withCaterina--a great change had come over her. 

Before long, Tina's lips began to move. 'Maynard, ' she whispered again. He leaned towards her, and she went on. 

'You know how wicked I am, then? You know what I meant to do with thedagger?'

'Did you mean to kill yourself, Tina?'

She shook her head slowly, and then was silent for a long while. At last, looking at him with solemn eyes, she whispered, 'To kill _him_. '

'Tina, my loved one, you would never have done it. God saw your wholeheart; He knows you would never harm a living thing. He watches over Hischildren, and will not let them do things they would pray with theirwhole hearts not to do. It was the angry thought of a moment, and Heforgives you. '

She sank into silence again till it was nearly midnight. The wearyenfeebled spirit seemed to be making its slow way with difficulty throughthe windings of thought; and when she began to whisper again, it was inreply to Maynard's words. 

'But I had had such wicked feelings for a long while. I was so angry, andI hated Miss Assher so, and I didn't care what came to anybody, because Iwas so miserable myself. I was full of bad passions. No one else was everso wicked. '

'Yes, Tina, many are just as wicked. I often have very wicked feelings, and am tempted to do wrong things; but then my body is stronger thanyours, and I can hide my feelings and resist them better. They do notmaster me so. You have seen the little birds when they are very young andjust begin to fly, how all their feathers are ruffled when they arefrightened or angry; they have no power over themselves left, and mightfall into a pit from mere fright. You were like one of those littlebirds. Your sorrow and suffering had taken such hold of you, you hardlyknew what you did. '

He would not speak long. Lest he should tire her, and oppress her withtoo many thoughts. Long pauses seemed needful for her before she couldconcentrate her feelings in short words. 

'But when I meant to do it, ' was the next thing she whispered, 'it was asbad as if I had done it. '

'No, my Tina, ' answered Maynard slowly, waiting a little between eachsentence; 'we mean to do wicked things that we never could do, just as wemean to do good or clever things that we never could do. Our thoughts areoften worse than we are, just as they are often better than we are. AndGod sees us as we are altogether, not in separate feelings or actions, asour fellow-men see us. We are always doing each other injustice, andthinking better or worse of each other than we deserve, because we onlyhear and see separate words and actions. We don't see each other's wholenature. But God sees that you could not have committed that crime. '

Caterina shook her head slowly, and was silent. After a while, --'I don'tknow, ' she said; 'I seemed to see him coming towards me, just as he wouldreally have looked, and I meant--I meant to do it. '

'But when you saw him--tell me how it was, Tina?'

'I saw him lying on the ground and thought he was ill. I don't know howit was then; I forgot everything. I knelt down and spoke to him, and--andhe took no notice of me, and his eyes were fixed, and I began to think hewas dead. '

'And you have never felt angry since?'

'O no, no; it is I who have been more wicked than any one; it is I whohave been wrong all through. '

'No, Tina; the fault has not all been yours; _he_ was wrong; he gave youprovocation. And wrong makes wrong. When people use us ill, we can hardlyhelp having ill feeling towards them. But that second wrong is moreexcusable. I am more sinful than you, Tina; I have often had very badfeelings towards Captain Wybrow; and if he had provoked me as he did you, I should perhaps have done something more wicked. '

'O, it was not so wrong in him; he didn't know how he hurt me. How was itlikely he could love me as I loved him? And how could he marry a poorlittle thing like me?'

Maynard made no reply to this, and there was again silence, till Tinasaid, 'Then I was so deceitful; they didn't know how wicked I was. Padroncello didn't know; his good little monkey he used to call me; andif he had known, O how naughty he would have thought me!'

'My Tina, we have all our secret sins; and if we knew ourselves, weshould not judge each other harshly. Sir Christopher himself has felt, since this trouble came upon him, that he has been too severe andobstinate. '

In this way--in these broken confessions and answering words ofcomfort--the hours wore on, from the deep black night to the chill earlytwilight, and from early twilight to the first yellow streak of morningparting the purple cloud. Mr. Gilfil felt as if in the long hours of thatnight the bond that united his love for ever and alone to Caterina hadacquired fresh strength and sanctity. It is so with the human relationsthat rest on the deep emotional sympathy of affection: every new day andnight of joy or sorrow is a new ground, a new consecration, for the lovethat is nourished by memories as well as hopes--the love to whichperpetual repetition is not a weariness but a want, and to which aseparated joy is the beginning of pain. 

The cocks began to crow; the gate swung; there was a tramp of footstepsin the yard, and Mr. Gilfil heard Dorcas stirring. These sounds seemed toaffect Caterina, for she looked anxiously at him and said, 'Maynard, areyou going away?'

'No, I shall stay here at Callam until you are better, and then you willgo away too. '

'Never to the Manor again, O no! I shall live poorly, and get my ownbread. '

'Well, dearest, you shall do what you would like best. But I wish youcould go to sleep now. Try to rest quietly, and by-and-by you willperhaps sit up a little. God has kept you in life in spite of all thissorrow; it will be sinful not to try and make the best of His gift. DearTina, you will try;--and little Bessie brought you some crocuses once, you didn't notice the poor little thing; but you _will_ notice her whenshe comes again, will you not?'

'I will try, ' whispered Tina humbly, and then closed her eyes. 

By the time the sun was above the horizon, scattering the clouds, andshining with pleasant morning warmth through the little leaded window, Caterina was asleep. Maynard gently loosed the tiny hand, cheered Dorcaswith the good news, and made his way to the village inn, with a thankfulheart that Tina had been so far herself again. Evidently the sight of himhad blended naturally with the memories in which her mind was absorbed, and she had been led on to an unburthening of herself that might be thebeginning of a complete restoration. But her body was so enfeebled--hersoul so bruised--that the utmost tenderness and care would be necessary. The next thing to be done was to send tidings to Sir Christopher and LadyCheverel; then to write and summon his sister, under whose care he haddetermined to place Caterina. The Manor, even if she had been wishing toreturn thither, would, he knew, be the most undesirable home for her atpresent: every scene, every object there, was associated with stillunallayed anguish. If she were domesticated for a time with his mildgentle sister, who had a peaceful home and a prattling little boy, Tinamight attach herself anew to life, and recover, partly at least, theshock that had been given to her constitution. When he had written hisletters and taken a hasty breakfast, he was soon in his saddle again, onhis way to Sloppeter, where he would post them, and seek out a medicalman, to whom he might confide the moral causes of Caterina's enfeebledcondition. 

Chapter 20

In less than a week from that time, Caterina was persuaded to travel in acomfortable carriage, under the care of Mr. Gilfil and his sister, Mrs. Heron, whose soft blue eyes and mild manners were very soothing to thepoor bruised child--the more so as they had an air of sisterly equalitywhich was quite new to her. Under Lady Cheverel's uncaressingauthoritative goodwill, Tina had always retained a certain constraint andawe; and there was a sweetness before unknown in having a young andgentle woman, like an elder sister, bending over her caressingly, andspeaking in low loving tones. 

Maynard was almost angry with himself for feeling happy while Tina's mindand body were still trembling on the verge of irrecoverable decline; butthe new delight of acting as her guardian angel, of being with her everyhour of the day, of devising everything for her comfort, of watching fora ray of returning interest in her eyes, was too absorbing to leave roomfor alarm or regret. 

On the third day the carriage drove up to the door of Foxholm Parsonage, where the Rev. Arthur Heron presented himself on the door-step, eager togreet his returning Lucy, and holding by the hand a broad-chestedtawny-haired boy of five, who was smacking a miniature hunting-whip withgreat vigour. 

Nowhere was there a lawn more smooth-shaven, walks better swept, or aporch more prettily festooned with creepers, than at Foxholm Parsonage, standing snugly sheltered by beeches and chestnuts half-way down thepretty green hill which was surmounted by the church, and overlooking avillage that straggled at its ease among pastures and meadows, surroundedby wild hedgerows and broad shadowing trees, as yet unthreatened byimproved methods of farming. 

Brightly the fire shone in the great parlour, and brightly in the littlepink bedroom, which was to be Caterina's, because it looked away from thechurchyard, and on to a farm homestead, with its little cluster ofbeehive ricks, and placid groups of cows, and cheerful matin sounds ofhealthy labour. Mrs. Heron, with the instinct of a delicate, impressiblewoman, had written to her husband to have this room prepared forCaterina. Contented speckled hens, industriously scratching for therarely-found corn, may sometimes do more for a sick heart than a grove ofnightingales; there is something irresistibly calming in theunsentimental cheeriness of top-knotted pullets, unpetted sheep-dogs, andpatient cart-horses enjoying a drink of muddy water. 

In such a home as this parsonage, a nest of comfort, without any of thestateliness that would carry a suggestion of Cheverel Manor, Mr. Gilfilwas not unreasonable in hoping that Caterina might gradually shake offthe haunting vision of the past, and recover from the languor andfeebleness which were the physical sign of that vision's blightingpresence. The next thing to be done was to arrange an exchange of dutieswith Mr. Heron's curate, that Maynard might be constantly near Caterina, and watch over her progress. She seemed to like him to be with her, tolook uneasily for his return; and though she seldom spoke to him, she wasmost contented when he sat by her, and held her tiny hand in his largeprotecting grasp. But Oswald, _alias_ Ozzy, the broad-chested boy, wasperhaps her most beneficial companion. With something of his uncle'sperson, he had inherited also his uncle's early taste for a domesticmenagerie, and was very imperative in demanding Tina's sympathy in thewelfare of his guinea-pigs, squirrels, and dormice. With him she seemednow and then to have gleams of her childhood coming athwart the leadenclouds, and many hours of winter went by the more easily for being spentin Ozzy's nursery. 

Mrs. Heron was not musical, and had no instrument; but one of Mr. Gilfil's cares was to procure a harpsichord, and have it placed in thedrawing-room, always open, in the hope that some day the spirit of musicwould be reawakened in Caterina, and she would be attracted towards theinstrument. But the winter was almost gone by, and he had waited in vain. The utmost improvement in Tina had not gone beyond passiveness andacquiescence--a quiet grateful smile, compliance with Oswald's whims, andan increasing consciousness of what was being said and done around her. Sometimes she would take up a bit of woman's work, but she seemed toolanguid to persevere in it; her fingers soon dropped, and she relapsedinto motionless reverie. 

At last--it was one of those bright days in the end of February, when thesun is shining with a promise of approaching spring. Maynard had beenwalking with her and Oswald round the garden to look at the snowdrops, and she was resting on the sofa after the walk. Ozzy, roaming about theroom in quest of a forbidden pleasure, came to the harpsichord, andstruck the handle of his whip on a deep bass note. 

The vibration rushed through Caterina like an electric shock: it seemedas if at that instant a new soul were entering into her, and filling herwith a deeper, more significant life. She looked round, rose from thesofa, and walked to the harpsichord. In a moment her fingers werewandering with their old sweet method among the keys, and her soul wasfloating in its true familiar element of delicious sound, as thewater-plant that lies withered and shrunken on the ground expands intofreedom and beauty when once more bathed in its native flood. 

Maynard thanked God. An active power was re-awakened, and must make a newepoch in Caterina's recovery. 

Presently there were low liquid notes blending themselves with the hardertones of the instrument, and gradually the pure voice swelled intopredominance. Little Ozzy stood in the middle of the room, with his mouthopen and his legs very wide apart, struck with something like awe at thisnew power in 'Tin-Tin, ' as he called her, whom he had been accustomed tothink of as a playfellow not at all clever, and very much in need of hisinstruction on many subjects. A genie soaring with broad wings out of hismilkjug would not have been more astonishing. 

Caterina was singing the very air from the _Orfeo_ which we heard hersinging so many months ago at the beginning of her sorrows. It was '_Hoperduto_', Sir Christopher's favourite, and its notes seemed to carry ontheir wings all the tenderest memories of her life, when Cheverel Manorwas still an untroubled home. The long happy days of childhood andgirlhood recovered all their rightful predominance over the shortinterval of sin and sorrow. 

She paused, and burst into tears--the first tears she had shed since shehad been at Foxholm. Maynard could not help hurrying towards her, puttinghis arm round her, and leaning down to kiss her hair. She nestled to him, and put up her little mouth to be kissed. 

The delicate-tendrilled plant must have something to cling to. The soulthat was born anew to music was born anew to love. 

Chapter 21

On the 30th of May 1790, a very pretty sight was seen by the villagersassembled near the door of Foxholm Church. The sun was bright upon thedewy grass, the air was alive with the murmur of bees and the trilling ofbirds, the bushy blossoming chestnuts and the foamy flowering hedgerowsseemed to be crowding round to learn why the church-bells were ringing somerrily, as Maynard Gilfil, his face bright with happiness, walked out ofthe old Gothic doorway with Tina on his arm. The little face was stillpale, and there was a subdued melancholy in it, as of one who sups withfriends for the last time, and has his ear open for the signal that willcall him away. But the tiny hand rested with the pressure of contentedaffection on Maynard's arm, and the dark eyes met his downward glancewith timid answering love. 

There was no train of bridesmaids; only pretty Mrs. Heron leaning on thearm of a dark-haired young man hitherto unknown in Foxholm, and holdingby the other hand little Ozzy, who exulted less in his new velvet cap andtunic, than in the notion that he was bridesman to Tin-Tin. 

Last of all came a couple whom the villagers eyed yet more eagerly thanthe bride and bridegroom: a fine old gentleman, who looked round withkeen glances that cowed the conscious scapegraces among them, and astately lady in blue-and-white silk robes, who must surely be like QueenCharlotte. 

'Well, that theer's whut I coal a pictur, ' said old 'Mester' Ford, a trueStaffordshire patriarch, who leaned on a stick and held his head verymuch on one side, with the air of a man who had little hope of thepresent generation, but would at all events give it the benefit of hiscriticism. 'Th' yoong men noo-a-deys, the're poor squashy things--the'looke well anoof, but the' woon't wear, the' woon't wear. Theer's ne'erun'll carry his 'ears like that Sir Cris'fer Chuvrell. '

'Ull bet ye two pots, ' said another of the seniors, 'as that yoongstera-walkin' wi' th' parson's wife 'll be Sir Cris'fer's son--he fevourshim. '

'Nay, yae'll bet that wi' as big a fule as yersen; hae's noo son at all. As I oonderstan', hae's the nevey as is' t' heir th' esteate. Thecoochman as puts oop at th' White Hoss tellt me as theer war anothernevey, a deal finer chap t' looke at nor this un, as died in a fit, allon a soodden, an' soo this here yoong un's got upo' th' perch istid. '

At the church gate Mr. Bates was standing in a new suit, ready to speakwords of good omen as the bride and bridegroom approached. He had comeall the way from Cheverel Manor on purpose to see Miss Tina happy oncemore, and would have been in a state of unmixed joy but for theinferiority of the wedding nosegays to what he could have furnished fromthe garden at the Manor. 

'God A'maighty bless ye both, an' send ye long laife an' happiness, ' werethe good gardener's rather tremulous words. 

'Thank you, uncle Bates; always remember Tina, ' said the sweet low voice, which fell on Mr. Bates's ear for the last time. 

The wedding journey was to be a circuitous route to Shepperton, where Mr. Gilfil had been for several months inducted as vicar. This small livinghad been given him through the interest of an old friend who had someclaim on the gratitude of the Oldinport family; and it was a satisfactionboth to Maynard and Sir Christopher that a home to which he might takeCaterina had thus readily presented itself at a distance from CheverelManor. For it had never yet been thought safe that she should revisit thescene of her sufferings, her health continuing too delicate to encouragethe slightest risk of painful excitement. In a year or two, perhaps, bythe time old Mr. Crichley, the rector of Cumbermoor, should have left aworld of gout, and when Caterina would very likely be a happy mother, Maynard might safely take up his abode at Cumbermoor, and Tina would feelnothing but content at seeing a new 'little black-eyed monkey' running upand down the gallery and gardens of the Manor. A mother dreads nomemories--those shadows have all melted away in the dawn of baby's smile. 

In these hopes, and in the enjoyment of Tina's nestling affection, Mr. Gilfil tasted a few months of perfect happiness. She had come to leanentirely on his love, and to find life sweet for his sake. Her continuallanguor and want of active interest was a natural consequence of bodilyfeebleness, and the prospect of her becoming a mother was a new groundfor hoping the best. But the delicate plant had been too deeply bruised, and in the struggle to put forth a blossom it died. 

Tina died, and Maynard Gilfil's love went with her into deep silence forevermore. 

EPILOGUE

This was Mr. Gilfil's love-story, which lay far back from the time whenhe sat, worn and grey, by his lonely fireside in Shepperton Vicarage. Rich brown locks, passionate love, and deep early sorrow, strangelydifferent as they seem from the scanty white hairs, the apatheticcontent, and the unexpectant quiescence of old age, are but part of thesame life's journey; as the bright Italian plains, with the sweet _Addio_of their beckoning maidens, are part of the same day's travel that bringsus to the other side of the mountain, between the sombre rocky walls andamong the guttural voices of the Valais. 

To those who were familiar only with the grey-haired Vicar, joggingleisurely along on his old chestnut cob, it would perhaps have been hardto believe that he had ever been the Maynard Gilfil who, with a heartfull of passion and tenderness, had urged his black Kitty to her swiftestgallop on the way to Callam, or that the old gentleman of caustic tongue, and bucolic tastes, and sparing habits, had known all the deep secrets ofdevoted love, had struggled through its days and nights of anguish, andtrembled under its unspeakable joys. 

And indeed the Mr. Gilfil of those late Shepperton days had more of theknots and ruggedness of poor human nature than there lay any clear hintof in the open-eyed loving Maynard. But it is with men as with trees: ifyou lop off their finest branches, into which they were pouring theiryoung life-juice, the wounds will be healed over with some rough boss, some odd excrescence; and what might have been a grand tree expandinginto liberal shade, is but a whimsical misshapen trunk. Many anirritating fault, many an unlovely oddity, has come of a hard sorrow, which has crushed and maimed the nature just when it was expanding intoplenteous beauty; and the trivial erring life which we visit with ourharsh blame, may be but as the unsteady motion of a man whose best limbis withered. 

And so the dear old Vicar, though he had something of the knottedwhimsical character of the poor lopped oak, had yet been sketched out bynature as a noble tree. The heart of him was sound, the grain was of thefinest; and in the grey-haired man who filled his pocket with sugar-plumsfor the little children, whose most biting words were directed againstthe evil doing of the rich man, and who, with all his social pipes andslipshod talk, never sank below the highest level of his parishioners'respect, there was the main trunk of the same brave, faithful, tendernature that had poured out the finest, freshest forces of itslife-current in a first and only love--the love of Tina. 

JANET'S REPENTANCE

Chapter 1

'No!' said lawyer Dempster, in a loud, rasping, oratorical tone, struggling against chronic huskiness, 'as long as my Maker grants mepower of voice and power of intellect, I will take every legal means toresist the introduction of demoralizing, methodistical doctrine into thisparish; I will not supinely suffer an insult to be inflicted on ourvenerable pastor, who has given us sound instruction for half a century. '

It was very warm everywhere that evening, but especially in the bar ofthe Red Lion at Milby, where Mr. Dempster was seated mixing his thirdglass of brandy-and-water. He was a tall and rather massive man, and thefront half of his large surface was so well dredged' with snuff, that thecat, having inadvertently come near him, had been seized with a severefit of sneezing--an accident which, being cruelly misunderstood, hadcaused her to be driven contumeliously from the bar. Mr. Dempsterhabitually held his chin tucked in, and his head hanging forward, weigheddown, perhaps, by a preponderant occiput and a bulging forehead, betweenwhich his closely-clipped coronal surface lay like a flat and new-mowntable-land. The only other observable features were puffy cheeks and aprotruding yet lipless mouth. Of his nose I can only say that it wassnuffy; and as Mr. Dempster was never caught in the act of looking atanything in particular, it would have been difficult to swear to thecolour of his eyes. 

'Well! I'll not stick at giving myself trouble to put down suchhypocritical cant, ' said Mr. Tomlinson, the rich miller. 'I know wellenough what your Sunday evening lectures are good for--for wenches tomeet their sweethearts, and brew mischief. There's work enough with theservant-maids as it is--such as I never heard the like of in my mother'stime, and it's all along o' your schooling and newfangled plans. Give mea servant as can nayther read nor write, I say, and doesn't know the yearo' the Lord as she was born in. I should like to know what good thoseSunday schools have done, now. Why, the boys used to go a birds-nestingof a Sunday morning; and a capital thing too--ask any farmer; and verypretty it was to see the strings o' heggs hanging up in poor people'shouses. You'll not see 'em nowhere now. '

'Pooh!' said Mr. Luke Byles, who piqued himself on his reading, and wasin the habit of asking casual acquaintances if they knew anything ofHobbes; 'it is right enough that the lower orders should be instructed. But this sectarianism within the Church ought to be put down. In point offact, these Evangelicals are not Churchmen at all; they're no better thanPresbyterians. '

'Presbyterians? what are they?' inquired Mr. Tomlinson, who often saidhis father had given him 'no eddication, and he didn't care who knowedit; he could buy up most o' th' eddicated men he'd ever come across. '

'The Presbyterians, ' said Mr. Dempster, in rather a louder tone thanbefore, holding that every appeal for information must naturally beaddressed to him, 'are a sect founded in the reign of Charles I. , by aman named John Presbyter, who hatched all the brood of Dissenting verminthat crawl about in dirty alleys, and circumvent the lord of the manor inorder to get a few yards of ground for their pigeon-house conventicles. '

'No, no, Dempster, ' said Mr. Luke Byles, 'you're out there. Presbyterianism is derived from the word presbyter, meaning an elder. '

'Don't contradict _me_, sir!' stormed Dempster. 'I say the wordpresbyterian is derived from John Presbyter, a miserable fanatic who worea suit of leather, and went about from town to village, and from villageto hamlet, inoculating the vulgar with the asinine virus of dissent. '

'Come, Byles, that seems a deal more likely, ' said Mr. Tomlinson, in aconciliatory tone, apparently of opinion that history was a process ofingenious guessing. 

'It's not a question of likelihood; it's a known fact. I could fetch youmy Encyclopaedia, and show it you this moment. '

'I don't care a straw, sir, either for you or your Encyclopaedia, ' saidMr. Dempster; 'a farrago of false information, of which you picked up animperfect copy in a cargo of waste paper. Will you tell _me_, sir, that Idon't know the origin of Presbyterianism? I, sir, a man known through thecounty, intrusted with the affairs of half a score parishes; while you, sir, are ignored by the very fleas that infest the miserable alley inwhich you were bred. '

A loud and general laugh, with 'You'd better let him alone Byles';'You'll not get the better of Dempster in a hurry', drowned the retort ofthe too well-informed Mr. Byles, who, white with rage, rose and walkedout of the bar. 

'A meddlesome, upstart, Jacobinical fellow, gentlemen', continued Mr. Dempster. 'I was determined to be rid of him. What does he mean bythrusting himself into our company? A man with about as much principle ashe has property, which, to my knowledge, is considerably less than none. An insolvent atheist, gentlemen. A deistical prater, fit to sit in thechimney-corner of a pot-house, and make blasphemous comments on the onegreasy newspaper fingered by beer-swilling tinkers. I will not suffer inmy company a man who speaks lightly of religion. The signature of afellow like Byles would be a blot on our protest. '

'And how do you get on with your signatures?' said Mr. Pilgrim, thedoctor, who had presented his large top-booted person within the barwhile Mr. Dempster was speaking. Mr. Pilgrim had just returned from oneof his long day's rounds among the farm-houses, in the course of which hehad sat down to two hearty meals that might have been mistaken fordinners if he had not declared them to be 'snaps'; and as each snap hadbeen followed by a few glasses of 'mixture'; containing a less liberalproportion of water than the articles he himself labelled with thatbroadly generic name, he was in that condition which his groom indicatedwith poetic ambiguity by saying that 'master had been in the sunshine'. Under these circumstances, after a hard day, in which he had really hadno regular meal, it seemed a natural relaxation to step into the bar ofthe Red Lion, where, as it was Saturday evening, he should be sure tofind Dempster, and hear the latest news about the protest against theevening lecture. 

'Have you hooked Ben Landor yet?' he continued, as he took two chairs, one for his body, and the other for his right leg. 

'No, ' said Mr. Budd, the churchwarden, shaking his head; 'Ben Landor hasa way of keeping himself neutral in everything, and he doesn't like tooppose his father. Old Landor is a regular Tryanite. But we haven't gotyour name yet, Pilgrim. '

'Tut tut, Budd, ' said Mr. Dempster, sarcastically, 'you don't expectPilgrim to sign? He's got a dozen Tryanite livers under his treatment. Nothing like cant and methodism for producing a superfluity of bile. '

'O, I thought, as Pratt had declared himself a Tryanite, we should besure to get Pilgrim on our side. '

Mr. Pilgrim was not a man to sit quiet under a sarcasm, nature havingendowed him with a considerable share of self-defensive wit. In his mostsober moments he had an impediment in his speech, and as copiousgin-and-water stimulated not the speech but the impediment, he had timeto make his retort sufficiently bitter. 

'Why, to tell you the truth, Budd, ' he spluttered, 'there's a report allover the town that Deb Traunter swears you shall take her with you as oneof the delegates, and they say there's to be a fine crowd at your doorthe morning you start, to see the row. Knowing your tenderness for thatmember of the fair sex, I thought you might find it impossible to denyher. I hang back a little from signing on that account, as Prendergastmight not take the protest well if Deb Traunter went with you. '

Mr. Budd was a small, sleek-headed bachelor of five-and-forty, whosescandalous life had long furnished his more moral neighbours with anafter-dinner joke. He had no other striking characteristic, except thathe was a currier of choleric temperament, so that you might wonder why hehad been chosen as clergyman's churchwarden, if I did not tell you thathe had recently been elected through Mr. Dempster's exertions, in orderthat his zeal against the threatened evening lecture might be backed bythe dignity of office. 

'Come, come, Pilgrim, ' said Mr. Tomlinson, covering Mr. Budd's retreat, 'you know you like to wear the crier's coat, ' green o' one side and redo' the other. You've been to hear Tryan preach at Paddiford Common--youknow you have. '

'To be sure I have; and a capital sermon too. It's a pity you were notthere. It was addressed to those "void of understanding. "'

'No, no, you'll never catch me there, ' returned Mr. Tomlinson, not in theleast stung: 'he preaches without book, they say, just like a Dissenter. It must be a rambling sort of a concern. '

'That's not the worst, ' said Mr. Dempster; 'he preaches against goodworks; says good works are not necessary to salvation--a sectarian, antinomian, anabaptist doctrine. Tell a man he is not to be saved by hisworks, and you open the flood-gates of all immorality. You see it in allthese canting innovators; they're all bad ones by the sly; smooth-faced, drawling, hypocritical fellows, who pretend ginger isn't hot in theirmouths, and cry down all innocent pleasures; their hearts are all theblacker for their sanctimonious outsides. Haven't we been warned againstthose who make clean the outside of the cup and the platter? There's thisTryan, now, he goes about praying with old women, and singing withcharity children; but what has he really got his eye on all the while? Adomineering ambitious Jesuit, gentlemen; all he wants is to get his footfar enough into the parish to step into Crewe's shoes when the oldgentleman dies. Depend upon it, whenever you see a man pretending to bebetter than his neighbours, that man has either some cunning end toserve, or his heart is rotten with spiritual pride. '

As if to guarantee himself against this awful sin, Mr. Dempster seizedhis glass of brandy-and-water, and tossed off the contents with evengreater rapidity than usual. 

'Have you fixed on your third delegate yet?' said Mr. Pilgrim, whosetaste was for detail rather than for dissertation. 

'That's the man, ' answered Dempster, pointing to Mr. Tomlinson. 'We startfor Elmstoke Rectory on Tuesday morning; so, if you mean to give us yoursignature, you must make up your mind pretty quickly, Pilgrim. '

Mr. Pilgrim did not in the least mean it, so he only said, 'I shouldn'twonder if Tryan turns out too many for you, after all. He's got awell-oiled tongue of his own, and has perhaps talked over Prendergastinto a determination to stand by him. '

'Ve-ry little fear of that, ' said Dempster, in a confident tone. 'I'll soon bring him round. Tryan has got his match. I've plenty of rodsin pickle for Tryan. '

At this moment Boots entered the bar, and put a letter into the lawyer'shands, saying, 'There's Trower's man just come into the yard wi' a gig, sir, an' he's brought this here letter. '

Mr. Dempster read the letter and said, 'Tell him to turn the gig--I'll bewith him in a minute. Here, run to Gruby's and get this snuff-box filled--quick!'

'Trower's worse, I suppose; eh, Dempster? Wants you to alter his will, eh?' said Mr. Pilgrim. 

'Business--business--business--I don't know exactly what, ' answered thecautious Dempster, rising deliberately from his chair, thrusting on hislow-crowned hat, and walking with a slow but not unsteady step out of thebar. 

'I never see Dempster's equal; if I did I'll be shot, ' said Mr. Tomlinson, looking after the lawyer admiringly. 'Why, he's drunk the bestpart of a bottle o' brandy since here we've been sitting, and I'll bet aguinea, when he's got to Trower's his head'll be as clear as mine. Heknows more about law when he's drunk than all the rest on 'em whenthey're sober. '

'Ay, and other things too, besides law, ' said Mr. Budd. 'Did you noticehow he took up Byles about the Presbyterians? Bless your heart, he knowseverything, Dempster does. He studied very hard when he was a young man. '

Chapter 2

The conversation just recorded is not, I am aware, remarkably refined orwitty; but if it had been, it could hardly have taken place in Milby whenMr. Dempster flourished there, and old Mr. Crewe, the curate, was yetalive. 

More than a quarter of a century has slipped by since then, and in theinterval Milby has advanced at as rapid a pace as other market-towns inher Majesty's dominions. By this time it has a handsome railway station, where the drowsy London traveller may look out by the brilliant gas-lightand see perfectly sober papas and husbands alighting with theirleatherbags after transacting their day's business at the county town. There is a resident rector, who appeals to the consciences of his hearerswith all the immense advantages of a divine who keeps his own carriage;the church is enlarged by at least five hundred sittings; and the grammarschool, conducted on reformed principles, has its upper forms crowdedwith the genteel youth of Milby. The gentlemen there fall into no otherexcess at dinner-parties than the perfectly well-bred and virtuous excessof stupidity; and though the ladies are still said sometimes to take toomuch upon themselves, they are never known to take too much in any otherway. The conversation is sometimes quite literary, for there is aflourishing book-club, and many of the younger ladies have carried theirstudies so far as to have forgotten a little German. In short, Milby isnow a refined, moral, and enlightened town; no more resembling the Milbyof former days than the huge, long-skirted, drab great-coat thatembarrassed the ankles of our grandfathers resembled the light paletot inwhich we tread jauntily through the muddiest streets, or than thebottle-nosed Britons, rejoicing over a tankard, in the old sign of theTwo Travellers at Milby, resembled the severe-looking gentleman in strapsand high collars whom a modern artist has represented as sipping theimaginary port of that well-known commercial house. 

But pray, reader, dismiss from your mind all the refined and fashionableideas associated with this advanced state of things, and transport yourimagination to a time when Milby had no gas-lights; when the mail droveup dusty or bespattered to the door of the Red Lion; when old Mr. Crewe, the curate, in a brown Brutus wig, delivered inaudible sermons on aSunday, and on a week-day imparted the education of a gentleman--that isto say, an arduous inacquaintance with Latin through the medium of theEton Grammar--to three pupils in the upper grammar-school. 

If you had passed through Milby on the coach at that time, you would havehad no idea what important people lived there, and how very high a senseof rank was prevalent among them. It was a dingy-looking town, with astrong smell of tanning up one street and a great shaking of hand-loomsup another; and even in that focus of aristocracy, Friar's Gate, thehouses would not have seemed very imposing to the hasty and superficialglance of a passenger. You might still less have suspected that thefigure in light fustian and large grey whiskers, leaning against thegrocer's door-post in High Street, was no less a person than Mr. Lowme, one of the most aristocratic men in Milby, said to have been 'brought upa gentleman', and to have had the gay habits accordant with that station, keeping his harriers and other expensive animals. He was now quite anelderly Lothario, reduced to the most economical sins; the prominent formof his gaiety being this of lounging at Mr. Gruby's door, embarrassingthe servant-maids who came for grocery, and talking scandal with the rarepassers-by. Still, it was generally understood that Mr. Lowme belonged tothe highest circle of Milby society; his sons and daughters held up theirheads very high indeed; and in spite of his condescending way of chattingand drinking with inferior people, he would himself have scorned anycloser identification with them. It must be admitted that he was of someservice to the town in this station at Mr. Gruby's door, for he and Mr. Landor's Newfoundland dog, who stretched himself and gaped on theopposite causeway, took something from the lifeless air that belonged tothe High Street on every day except Saturday. 

Certainly, in spite of three assemblies and a charity ball in the winter, the occasional advent of a ventriloquist, or a company of itinerantplayers, some of whom were very highly thought of in London, and theannual three-days' fair in June, Milby might be considered dull by peopleof a hypochondriacal temperament; and perhaps this was one reason whymany of the middle-aged inhabitants, male and female, often found itimpossible to keep up their spirits without a very abundant supply ofstimulants. It is true there were several substantial men who had areputation for exceptional sobriety, so that Milby habits were really notas bad as possible; and no one is warranted in saying that old Mr. Crewe's flock could not have been worse without any clergyman at all. 

The well-dressed parishioners generally were very regular church-goers, and to the younger ladies and gentlemen I am inclined to think that theSunday morning service was the most exciting event of the week; for fewplaces could present a more brilliant show of out-door toilettes thanmight be seen issuing from Milby church at one o'clock. There were thefour tall Miss Pittmans, old lawyer Pittman's daughters, with cannoncurls surmounted by large hats, and long, drooping ostrich feathers ofparrot green. There was Miss Phipps, with a crimson bonnet, very muchtilted up behind, and a cockade of stiff feathers on the summit. Therewas Miss Landor, the belle of Milby, clad regally in purple and ermine, with a plume of feathers neither drooping nor erect, but maintaining adiscreet medium. There were the three Miss Tomlinsons, who imitated MissLandor, and also wore ermine and feathers; but their beauty wasconsidered of a coarse order, and their square forms were quite unsuitedto the round tippet which fell with such remarkable grace on MissLandor's sloping shoulders. Looking at this plumed procession of ladies, you would have formed rather a high idea of Milby wealth; yet there wasonly one close carriage in the place, and that was old Mr. Landor's, thebanker, who, I think, never drove more than one horse. Thesesumptuously-attired ladies flashed past the vulgar eye in one-horsechaises, by no means of a superior build. 

The young gentlemen, too, were not without their little Sunday displaysof costume, of a limited masculine kind. Mr. Eustace Landor, being nearlyof age, had recently acquired a diamond ring, together with the habit ofrubbing his hand through his hair. He was tall and dark, and thus had anadvantage which Mr. Alfred Phipps, who, like his sister, was blond andstumpy, found it difficult to overtake, even by the severest attention toshirt-studs, and the particular shade of brown that was best relieved bygilt buttons. 

The respect for the Sabbath, manifested in this attention to costume, wasunhappily counterbalanced by considerable levity of behaviour during theprayers and sermon; for the young ladies and gentlemen of Milby were of avery satirical turn, Miss Landor especially being considered remarkablyclever, and a terrible quiz; and the large congregation necessarilycontaining many persons inferior in dress and demeanour to thedistinguished aristocratic minority, divine service offered irresistibletemptations to joking, through the medium of telegraphic communicationsfrom the galleries to the aisles and back again. I remember blushing verymuch, and thinking Miss Landor was laughing at me, because I wasappearing in coat-tails for the first time, when I saw her look downslyly towards where I sat, and then turn with a titter to handsome Mr. Bob Lowme, who had such beautiful whiskers meeting under his chin. Butperhaps she was not thinking of me, after all; for our pew was near thepulpit, and there was almost always something funny about old Mr. Crewe. His brown wig was hardly ever put on quite right, and he had a way ofraising his voice for three or four words, and lowering it again to amumble, so that we could scarcely make out a word he said; though, as mymother observed, that was of no consequence in the prayers, since everyone had a prayer-book; and as for the sermon, she continued with somecausticity, we all of us heard more of it than we could remember when wegot home. 

This youthful generation was not particularly literary. The young ladieswho frizzed their hair, and gathered it all into large barricades infront of their heads, leaving their occipital region exposed withoutornament, as if that, being a back view, was of no consequence, dreamedas little that their daughters would read a selection of German poetry, and be able to express an admiration for Schiller, as that they wouldturn all their hair the other way--that instead of threatening us withbarricades in front, they would be most killing in retreat, 'And, like the Parthian, wound us as they fly. '

Those charming well-frizzed ladies spoke French indeed with considerablefacility, unshackled by any timid regard to idiom, and were in the habitof conducting conversations in that language in the presence of theirless instructed elders; for according to the standard of those backwarddays, their education had been very lavish, such young ladies as MissLandor, Miss Phipps, and the Miss Pittmans, having been 'finished' atdistant and expensive schools. 

Old lawyer Pittman had once been a very important person indeed, havingin his earlier days managed the affairs of several gentlemen in thoseparts, who had subsequently been obliged to sell everything and leave thecountry, in which crisis Mr. Pittman accommodatingly stepped in as apurchaser of their estates, taking on himself the risk and trouble of amore leisurely sale; which, however, happened to turn out very much tohis advantage. Such opportunities occur quite unexpectedly in the way ofbusiness. But I think Mr. Pittman must have been unlucky in his laterspeculations, for now, in his old age, he had not the reputation of beingvery rich; and though he rode slowly to his office in Milby every morningon an old white hackney, he had to resign the chief profits, as well asthe active business of the firm, to his younger partner, Dempster. No onein Milby considered old Pittman a virtuous man, and the elder townspeoplewere not at all backward in narrating the least advantageous portions ofhis biography in a very round unvarnished manner. Yet I could neverobserve that they trusted him any the less, or liked him any the worse. Indeed, Pittman and Dempster were the popular lawyers of Milby and itsneighbourhood, and Mr. Benjamin Landor, whom no one had anythingparticular to say against, had a very meagre business in comparison. Hardly a landholder, hardly a farmer, hardly a parish within ten miles ofMilby, whose affairs were not under the legal guardianship of Pittman andDempster; and I think the clients were proud of their lawyers'unscrupulousness, as the patrons of the fancy's are proud of theirchampion's 'condition'. It was not, to be sure, the thing for ordinarylife, but it was the thing to be bet on in a lawyer. Dempster's talent in'bringing through' a client was a very common topic of conversation withthe farmers, over an incidental glass of grog at the Red Lion. 'He's along-headed feller, Dempster; why, it shows yer what a headpiece Dempsterhas, as he can drink a bottle o' brandy at a sittin', an' yit see furtherthrough a stone wall when he's done, than other folks 'll see through aglass winder. ' Even Mr. Jerome, chief member of the congregation at SalemChapel, an elderly man of very strict life, was one of Dempster'sclients, and had quite an exceptional indulgence for his attorney'sfoibles, perhaps attributing them to the inevitable incompatibility oflaw and gospel. 

The standard of morality at Milby, you perceive, was not inconvenientlyhigh in those good old times, and an ingenuous vice or two was what everyman expected of his neighbour. Old Mr. Crewe, the curate, for example, was allowed to enjoy his avarice in comfort, without fear of sarcasticparish demagogues; and his flock liked him all the better for havingscraped together a large fortune out of his school and curacy, and theproceeds of the three thousand pounds he had with his little deaf wife. It was clear he must be a learned man, for he had once had a largeprivate school in connection with the grammar school, and had evennumbered a young nobleman or two among his pupils. The fact that he readnothing at all now, and that his mind seemed absorbed in the commonestmatters, was doubtless due to his having exhausted the resources oferudition earlier in life. It is true he was not spoken of in terms ofhigh respect, and old Crewe's stingy housekeeping was a frequent subjectof jesting; but this was a good old-fashioned characteristic in a parsonwho had been part of Milby life for half a century: it was like the dentsand disfigurements in an old family tankard, which no one would like topart with for a smart new piece of plate fresh from Birmingham. Theparishioners saw no reason at all why it should be desirable to veneratethe parson or any one else; they were much more comfortable to look downa little on their fellow-creatures. 

Even the Dissent in Milby was then of a lax and indifferent kind. Thedoctrine of adult baptism, struggling under a heavy load of debt, had letoff half its chapel area as a ribbon-shop; and Methodism was only to bedetected, as you detect curious larvae, by diligent search in dirtycorners. The Independents were the only Dissenters of whose existenceMilby gentility was at all conscious, and it had a vague idea that thesalient points of their creed were prayer without book, red brick, andhypocrisy. The Independent chapel, known as Salem, stood red andconspicuous in a broad street; more than one pew-holder kept abrass-bound gig; and Mr. Jerome, a retired corn-factor, and the mosteminent member of the congregation, was one of the richest men in theparish. But in spite of this apparent prosperity, together with the usualamount of extemporaneous preaching mitigated by furtive notes, Salembelied its name, and was not always the abode of peace. For some reasonor other, it was unfortunate in the choice of its ministers. The Rev. Mr. Horner, elected with brilliant hopes, was discovered to be given totippling and quarrelling with his wife; the Rev. Mr. Rose's doctrine wasa little too 'high', verging on antinomianism; the Rev. Mr. Stickney'sgift as a preacher was found to be less striking on a more extendedacquaintance; and the Rev. Mr. Smith, a distinguished minister muchsought after in the iron districts, with a talent for poetry, becameobjectionable from an inclination to exchange verses with the youngladies of his congregation. It was reasonably argued that such verses asMr. Smith's must take a long time for their composition, and the habitalluded to might intrench seriously on his pastoral duties. Thesereverend gentlemen, one and all, gave it as their opinion that the Salemchurch members were among the least enlightened of the Lord's people, andthat Milby was a low place, where they would have found it a severe lotto have their lines fall for any long period; though to see the smart andcrowded congregation assembled on occasion of the annual charity sermon, any one might have supposed that the minister of Salem had rather abrilliant position in the ranks of Dissent. Several Church families usedto attend on that occasion, for Milby, in those uninstructed days, hadnot yet heard that the schismatic ministers of Salem were obviouslytypified by Korah, Dathan, and Abiram; and many Church people there wereof opinion that Dissent might be a weakness, but, after all, had no greatharm in it. These lax Episcopalians were, I believe, chieflytradespeople, who held that, inasmuch as Congregationalism consumedcandles, it ought to be supported, and accordingly made a point ofpresenting themselves at Salem for the afternoon charity sermon, with theexpectation of being asked to hold a plate. Mr. Pilgrim, too, was alwaysthere with his half-sovereign; for as there was no Dissenting doctor inMilby, Mr. Pilgrim looked with great tolerance on all shades of religiousopinion that did not include a belief in cures by miracle. 

On this point he had the concurrence of Mr. Pratt, the only other medicalman of the same standing in Milby. Otherwise, it was remarkable howstrongly these two clever men were contrasted. Pratt was middle-sized, insinuating, and silvery-voiced; Pilgrim was tall, heavy, rough-mannered, and spluttering. Both were considered to have great powers ofconversation, but Pratt's anecdotes were of the fine old crusted qualityto be procured only of Joe Miller; Pilgrim's had the full fruity flavourof the most recent scandal. Pratt elegantly referred all diseases todebility, and, with a proper contempt for symptomatic treatment, went tothe root of the matter with port wine and bark; Pilgrim was persuadedthat the evil principle in the human system was plethora, and he made waragainst it with cupping, blistering, and cathartics. They had both beenlong established in Milby, and as each had a sufficient practice, therewas no very malignant rivalry between them; on the contrary, they hadthat sort of friendly contempt for each other which is always conduciveto a good understanding between professional men; and when any newsurgeon attempted, in an ill-advised hour, to settle himself in the town, it was strikingly demonstrated how slight and trivial are theoreticdifferences compared with the broad basis of common human feeling. Therewas the most perfect unanimity between Pratt and Pilgrim in thedetermination to drive away the obnoxious and too probably unqualifiedintruder as soon as possible. Whether the first wonderful cure heeffected was on a patient of Pratt's or of Pilgrim's, one was as ready asthe other to pull the interloper by the nose, and both alike directedtheir remarkable powers of conversation towards making the town too hotfor him. But by their respective patients these two distinguished menwere pitted against each other with great virulence. Mrs. Lowme could notconceal her amazement that Mrs. Phipps should trust her life in the handsof Pratt, who let her feed herself up to that degree, it was reallyshocking to hear how short her breath was; and Mrs. Phipps had nopatience with Mrs. Lowme, living, as she did, on tea and broth, andlooking as yellow as any crow-flower, and yet letting Pilgrim bleed andblister her and give her lowering medicine till her clothes hung on herlike a scarecrow's. On the whole, perhaps, Mr. Pilgrim's reputation wasat the higher pitch, and when any lady under Mr. Pratt's care was doingill, she was half disposed to think that a little more active treatment'might suit her better. But without very definite provocation no one wouldtake so serious a step as to part with the family doctor, for in thoseremote days there were few varieties of human hatred more formidable thanthe medical. The doctor's estimate, even of a confiding patient, was aptto rise and fall with the entries in the day-book; and I have known Mr. Pilgrim discover the most unexpected virtues in a patient seized with apromising illness. At such times you might have been glad to perceivethat there were some of Mr. Pilgrim's fellow-creatures of whom heentertained a high opinion, and that he was liable to the amiableweakness of a too admiring estimate. A good inflammation fired hisenthusiasm, and a lingering dropsy dissolved him into charity. Doubtlessthis _crescendo_ of benevolence was partly due to feelings not at allrepresented by the entries in the day-book; for in Mr. Pilgrim's heart, too, there was a latent store of tenderness and pity which flowed forthat the sight of suffering. Gradually, however, as his patients becameconvalescent, his view of their characters became more dispassionate;when they could relish mutton-chops, he began to admit that they hadfoibles, and by the time they had swallowed their last dose of tonic, hewas alive to their most inexcusable faults. After this, the thermometerof his regard rested at the moderate point of friendly back-biting, whichsufficed to make him agreeable in his morning visits to the amiable andworthy persons who were yet far from convalescent. 

Pratt's patients were profoundly uninteresting to Pilgrim: their verydiseases were despicable, and he would hardly have thought their bodiesworth dissecting. But of all Pratt's patients, Mr. Jerome was the one onwhom Mr. Pilgrim heaped the most unmitigated contempt. In spite of thesurgeon's wise tolerance, Dissent became odious to him in the person ofMr. Jerome. Perhaps it was because that old gentleman, being rich, andhaving very large yearly bills for medical attendance on himself and hiswife, nevertheless employed Pratt--neglected all the advantages of'active treatment', and paid away his money without getting his systemlowered. On any other ground it is hard to explain a feeling of hostilityto Mr. Jerome, who was an excellent old gentleman, expressing a greatdeal of goodwill towards his neighbours, not only in imperfect English, but in loans of money to the ostensibly rich, and in sacks of potatoes tothe obviously poor. 

Assuredly Milby had that salt of goodness which keeps the world together, in greater abundance than was visible on the surface: innocent babes wereborn there, sweetening their parents' hearts with simple joys; men andwomen withering in disappointed worldliness, or bloated with sensualease, had better moments in which they pressed the hand of suffering withsympathy, and were moved to deeds of neighbourly kindness. In church andin chapel there were honest-hearted worshippers who strove to keep aconscience void of offence; and even up the dimmest alleys you might havefound here and there a Wesleyan to whom Methodism was the vehicle ofpeace on earth and goodwill to men. To a superficial glance, Milby wasnothing but dreary prose: a dingy town, surrounded by flat fields, loppedelms, and sprawling manufacturing villages, which crept on and on withtheir weaving-shops, till they threatened to graft themselves on thetown. But the sweet spring came to Milby notwithstanding: the elm-topswere red with buds; the churchyard was starred with daisies; the larkshowered his love-music on the flat fields; the rainbows hung over thedingy town, clothing the very roofs and chimneys in a strangetransfiguring beauty. And so it was with the human life there, which atfirst seemed a dismal mixture of griping worldliness, vanity, ostrichfeathers, and the fumes of brandy: looking closer, you found some purity, gentleness, and unselfishness, as you may have observed a scentedgeranium giving forth its wholesome odours amidst blasphemy and gin in anoisy pot-house. Little deaf Mrs. Crewe would often carry half her ownspare dinner to the sick and hungry; Miss Phipps, with her cockade of redfeathers, had a filial heart, and lighted her father's pipe with apleasant smile; and there were grey-haired men in drab gaiters, not atall noticeable as you passed them in the street, whose integrity had beenthe basis of their rich neighbour's wealth. 

Such as the place was, the people there were entirely contented with it. They fancied life must be but a dull affair for that large portion ofmankind who were necessarily shut out from an acquaintance with Milbyfamilies, and that it must be an advantage to London and Liverpool thatMilby gentlemen occasionally visited those places on business. But theinhabitants became more intensely conscious of the value they set uponall their advantages, when innovation made its appearance in the personof the Rev. Mr. Tryan, the new curate, at the chapel-of-ease on PaddifordCommon. It was soon notorious in Milby that Mr. Tryan held peculiaropinions; that he preached extempore; that he was founding a religiouslending library in his remote corner of the parish; that he expounded theScriptures in cottages; and that his preaching was attracting theDissenters, and filling the very aisles of his church. The rumour sprangup that Evangelicalism had invaded Milby parish--a murrain or blight allthe more terrible, because its nature was but dimly conjectured. PerhapsMilby was one of the last spots to be reached by the wave of a newmovement and it was only now, when the tide was just on the turn, thatthe limpets there got a sprinkling. Mr. Tryan was the first Evangelicalclergyman who had risen above the Milby horizon: hitherto that obnoxiousadjective had been unknown to the townspeople of any gentility; and therewere even many Dissenters who considered 'evangelical' simply a sort ofbaptismal name to the magazine which circulated among the congregation ofSalem Chapel. But now, at length, the disease had been imported, when theparishioners were expecting it as little as the innocent Red Indiansexpected smallpox. As long as Mr. Tryan's hearers were confined toPaddiford Common--which, by the by, was hardly recognizable as a commonat all, but was a dismal district where you heard the rattle of thehandloom, and breathed the smoke of coal-pits--the 'canting parson' couldbe treated as a joke. Not so when a number of single ladies in the townappeared to be infected, and even one or two men of substantial property, with old Mr. Landor, the banker, at their head, seemed to be 'giving in'to the new movement--when Mr. Tryan was known to be well received inseveral good houses, where he was in the habit of finishing the eveningwith exhortation and prayer. Evangelicalism was no longer a nuisanceexisting merely in by-corners, which any well-clad person could avoid; itwas invading the very drawing-rooms, mingling itself with the comfortablefumes of port-wine and brandy, threatening to deaden with its murkybreath all the splendour of the ostrich feathers, and to stifle Milbyingenuousness, not pretending to be better than its neighbours, with acloud of cant and lugubrious hypocrisy. The alarm reached its climax whenit was reported that Mr. Tryan was endeavouring to obtain authority fromMr. Prendergast, the non-resident rector, to establish a Sunday eveninglecture in the parish church, on the ground that old Mr. Crewe did notpreach the Gospel. 

It now first appeared how surprisingly high a value Milby in general seton the ministrations of Mr. Crewe; how convinced it was that Mr. Crewewas the model of a parish priest, and his sermons the soundest and mostedifying that had ever remained unheard by a church-going population. Allallusions to his brown wig were suppressed, and by a rhetorical figurehis name was associated with venerable grey hairs; the attemptedintrusion of Mr. Tryan was an insult to a man deep in years and learning;moreover, it was an insolent effort to thrust himself forward in a parishwhere he was clearly distasteful to the superior portion of itsinhabitants. The town was divided into two zealous parties, the Tryanitesand anti-Tryanites; and by the exertions of the eloquent Dempster, theanti-Tryanite virulence was soon developed into an organized opposition. A protest against the meditated evening lecture was framed by thatorthodox attorney, and, after being numerously signed, was to be carriedto Mr. Prendergast by three delegates representing the intellect, morality, and wealth of Milby. The intellect, you perceive, was to bepersonified in Mr. Dempster, the morality in Mr. Budd, and the wealth inMr. Tomlinson; and the distinguished triad was to set out on its greatmission, as we have seen, on the third day from that warm Saturdayevening when the conversation recorded in the previous chapter took placein the bar of the Red Lion. 

Chapter 3

It was quite as warm on the following Thursday evening, when Mr. Dempsterand his colleagues were to return from their mission to Elmstoke Rectory;but it was much pleasanter in Mrs. Linnet's parlour than in the bar ofthe Red Lion. Through the open window came the scent of mignonette andhoneysuckle; the grass-plot in front of the house was shaded by a littleplantation of Gueldres roses, syringas, and laburnums; the noise of loomsand carts and unmelodious voices reached the ear simply as an agreeablemurmur, for Mrs. Linnet's house was situated quite on the outskirts ofPaddiford Common; and the only sound likely to disturb the serenity ofthe feminine party assembled there, was the occasional buzz of intrusivewasps, apparently mistaking each lady's head for a sugar-basin. Nosugar-basin was visible in Mrs. Linnet's parlour, for the time of tea wasnot yet, and the round table was littered with books which the ladieswere covering with black canvass as a reinforcement of the new PaddifordLending Library. Miss Linnet, whose manuscript was the neatest type ofzigzag, was seated at a small table apart, writing on green papertickets, which were to be pasted on the covers. Miss Linnet had otheraccomplishments besides that of a neat manuscript, and an index to someof them might be found in the ornaments of the room. She had alwayscombined a love of serious and poetical reading with her skill infancy-work, and the neatly-bound copies of Dryden's 'Virgil, ' HannahMore's 'Sacred Dramas, ' Falconer's 'Shipwreck, ' Mason 'OnSelf-Knowledge, ' 'Rasselas, ' and Burke 'On the Sublime and Beautiful, 'which were the chief ornaments of the bookcase, were all inscribed withher name, and had been bought with her pocket-money when she was in herteens. It must have been at least fifteen years since the latest of thosepurchases, but Miss Linnet's skill in fancy-work appeared to have gonethrough more numerous phases than her literary taste; for the japannedboxes, the alum and sealing-wax baskets, the fan-dolls, the 'transferred'landscapes on the fire-screens, and the recent bouquets of wax-flowers, showed a disparity in freshness which made them referable to widelydifferent periods. Wax-flowers presuppose delicate fingers and robustpatience, but there are still many points of mind and person which theyleave vague and problematic; so I must tell you that Miss Linnet had darkringlets, a sallow complexion, and an amiable disposition. As to herfeatures, there was not much to criticize in them, for she had littlenose, less lip, and no eyebrow; and as to her intellect, her friend Mrs. Pettifer often said: 'She didn't know a more sensible person to talk tothan Mary Linnet. There was no one she liked better to come and take aquiet cup of tea with her, and read a little of Klopstock's 'Messiah. 'Mary Linnet had often told her a great deal of her mind when they weresitting together: she said there were many things to bear in everycondition of life, and nothing should induce her to marry without aprospect of happiness. Once, when Mrs. Pettifer admired her wax-flowers, she said, "Ah, Mrs. Pettifer, think of the beauties of nature!" Shealways spoke very prettily, did Mary Linnet; very different, indeed, fromRebecca. '

Miss Rebecca Linnet, indeed, was not a general favourite. While mostpeople thought it a pity that a sensible woman like Mary had not found agood husband--and even her female friends said nothing more ill-naturedof her, than that her face was like a piece of putty with two Scotchpebbles stuck in it--Rebecca was always spoken of sarcastically, and itwas a customary kind of banter with young ladies to recommend her as awife to any gentleman they happened to be flirting with--her fat, herfinery, and her thick ankles sufficing to give piquancy to the joke, notwithstanding the absence of novelty. Miss Rebecca, however, possessedthe accomplishment of music, and her singing of 'Oh no, we never mentionher', and 'The Soldier's Tear', was so desirable an accession to thepleasures of a tea-party that no one cared to offend her, especially asRebecca had a high spirit of her own, and in spite of her expansivelyrounded contour, had a particularly sharp tongue. Her reading had beenmore extensive than her sister's, embracing most of the fiction in Mr. Procter's circulating library, and nothing but an acquaintance with thecourse of her studies could afford a clue to the rapid transitions in herdress, which were suggested by the style of beauty, whether sentimental, sprightly, or severe, possessed by the heroine of the three volumesactually in perusal. A piece of lace, which drooped round the edge of herwhite bonnet one week, had been rejected by the next; and her cheeks, which, on Whitsunday, loomed through a Turnerian haze of network, were, on Trinity Sunday, seen reposing in distinct red outline on her shelvingbust, like the sun on a fog-bank. The black velvet, meeting with acrystal clasp, which one evening encircled her head, had on anotherdescended to her neck, and on a third to her waist, suggesting to anactive imagination either a magical contraction of the ornament, or afearful ratio of expansion in Miss Rebecca's person. With this constantapplication of art to dress, she could have had little time forfancy-work, even if she had not been destitute of her sister's taste forthat delightful and truly feminine occupation. And here, at least, youperceive the justice of the Milby opinion as to the relative suitabilityof the two Miss Linnets for matrimony. When a man is happy enough to winthe affections of a sweet girl, who can soothe his cares with _crochet_, and respond to all his most cherished ideas with beaded urn-rugs andchair-covers in German wool, he has, at least, a guarantee of domesticcomfort, whatever trials may await him out of doors. What a resource itis under fatigue and irritation to have your drawing-room well suppliedwith small mats, which would always be ready if you ever wanted to setanything on them! And what styptic for a bleeding heart can equal copioussquares of _crochet_, which are useful for slipping down the moment youtouch them? How our fathers managed without _crochet_ is the wonder; butI believe some small and feeble substitute existed in their time underthe name of 'tatting'. Rebecca Linnet, however, had neglected tatting aswell as other forms of fancy-work. At school, to be sure, she had spent agreat deal of time in acquiring flower-painting, according to theingenious method then fashionable, of applying the shapes of leaves andflowers cut out in cardboard, and scrubbing a brush over the surface thusconveniently marked out; but even the spill-cases and hand-screens whichwere her last half-year's performances in that way were not consideredeminently successful, and had long been consigned to the retirement ofthe best bedroom. Thus there was a good deal of family unlikeness betweenRebecca and her sister, and I am afraid there was also a little familydislike; but Mary's disapproval had usually been kept imprisoned behindher thin lips, for Rebecca was not only of a headstrong disposition, butwas her mother's pet; the old lady being herself stout, and preferring amore showy style of cap than she could prevail on her daughter Mary tomake up for her. 

But I have been describing Miss Rebecca as she was in former days only, for her appearance this evening, as she sits pasting on the greentickets, is in striking contrast with what it was three or four monthsago. Her plain grey gingham dress and plain white collar could never havebelonged to her ward-robe before that date; and though she is not reducedin size, and her brown hair will do nothing but hang in crisp ringletsdown her large cheeks, there is a change in her air and expression whichseems to shed a softened light over her person, and make her look like apeony in the shade, instead of the same flower flaunting in a parterre inthe hot sunlight. 

No one could deny that Evangelicalism had wrought a change for the betterin Rebecca Linnet's person--not even Miss Pratt, the thin stiff lady inspectacles, seated opposite to her, who always had a peculiar repulsionfor 'females with a gross habit of body'. Miss Pratt was an old maid; butthat is a no more definite description than if I had said she was in theautumn of life. Was it autumn when the orchards are fragrant with apples, or autumn when the oaks are brown, or autumn when the last yellow leavesare fluttering in the chill breeze? The young ladies in Milby would havetold you that the Miss Linnets were old maids; but the Miss Linnets wereto Miss Pratt what the apple-scented September is to the bare, nippingdays of late November. The Miss Linnets were in that temperate zone ofold-maidism, when a woman will not say but that if a man of suitableyears and character were to offer himself, she might be induced to treadthe remainder of life's vale in company with him; Miss Pratt was in thatarctic region where a woman is confident that at no time of life wouldshe have consented to give up her liberty, and that she has never seenthe man whom she would engage to honour and obey. If the Miss Linnetswere old maids, they were old maids with natural ringlets and embonpoint, not to say obesity; Miss Pratt was an old maid with a cap, a braided'front', a backbone and appendages. Miss Pratt was the one blue-stockingof Milby, possessing, she said, no less than five hundred volumes, competent, as her brother the doctor often observed, to conduct aconversation on any topic whatever, and occasionally dabbling a little inauthorship, though it was understood that she had never put forth thefull powers of her mind in print. Her 'Letters to a Young Man on hisEntrance into Life', and 'De Courcy, or the Rash Promise, a Tale forYouth', were mere trifles which she had been induced to publish becausethey were calculated for popular utility, but they were nothing to whatshe had for years had by her in manuscript. Her latest production hadbeen Six Stanzas, addressed to the Rev. Edgar Tryan, printed on glazedpaper with a neat border, and beginning, 'Forward, young wrestler for thetruth!'

Miss Pratt having kept her brother's house during his long widowhood, hisdaughter, Miss Eliza, had had the advantage of being educated by heraunt, and thus of imbibing a very strong antipathy to all that remarkablewoman's tastes and opinions. The silent handsome girl of two-and-twenty, who is covering the 'Memoirs of Felix Neff, ' is Miss Eliza Pratt; and thesmall elderly lady in dowdy clothing, who is also working diligently, isMrs. Pettifer, a superior-minded widow, much valued in Milby, being sucha very respectable person to have in the house in case of illness, and ofquite too good a family to receive any money-payment--you could alwayssend her garden-stuff that would make her ample amends. Miss Pratt hasenough to do in commenting on the heap of volumes before her, feeling ita responsibility entailed on her by her great powers of mind to leavenothing without the advantage of her opinion. Whatever was good must besprinkled with the chrism of her approval; whatever was evil must beblighted by her condemnation. 

'Upon my word, ' she said, in a deliberate high voice, as if she weredictating to an amanuensis, 'it is a most admirable selection of worksfor popular reading, this that our excellent Mr. Tryan has made. I do notknow whether, if the task had been confided to me, I could have made aselection, combining in a higher degree religious instruction andedification with a due admixture of the purer species of amusement. Thisstory of 'Father Clement' is a library in itself on the errors ofRomanism. I have ever considered fiction a suitable form for conveyingmoral and religious instruction, as I have shown in my little work 'DeCourcy, ' which, as a very clever writer in the Crompton 'Argus' said atthe time of its appearance, is the light vehicle of a weighty moral. '

'One 'ud think, ' said Mrs. Linnet, who also had her spectacles on, butchiefly for the purpose of seeing what the others were doing, 'theredidn't want much to drive people away from a religion as makes 'em walkbarefoot over stone floors, like that girl in Father Clement--sending theblood up to the head frightful. Anybody might see that was an unnat'ralcreed. '

'Yes, ' said Miss Pratt, 'but asceticism is not the root of the error, asMr. Tryan was telling us the other evening--it is the denial of the greatdoctrine of justification by faith. Much as I had reflected on allsubjects in the course of my life, I am indebted to Mr. Tryan for openingmy eyes to the full importance of that cardinal doctrine of theReformation. From a child I had a deep sense of religion, but in my earlydays the Gospel light was obscured in the English Church, notwithstandingthe possession of our incomparable Liturgy, than which I know no humancomposition more faultless and sublime. As I tell Eliza I was not blestas she is at the age of two-and-twenty, in knowing a clergyman who unitesall that is great and admirable in intellect with the highest spiritualgifts. I am no contemptible judge of a man's acquirements, and I assureyou I have tested Mr. Tryan's by questions which are a pretty severetouchstone. It is true, I sometimes carry him a little beyond the depthof the other listeners. Profound learning, ' continued Miss Pratt, shutting her spectacles, and tapping them on the book before her, 'hasnot many to estimate it in Milby. '

'Miss Pratt, ' said Rebecca, 'will you please give me Scott's "Force ofTruth?" There--that small book lying against the "Life of LeghRichmond. "'

'That's a book I'm very fond of--the "Life of Legh Richmond, "' said Mrs. Linnet. 'He found out all about that woman at Tutbury as pretended tolive without eating. Stuff and nonsense!'

Mrs. Linnet had become a reader of religious books since Mr. Tryan'sadvent, and as she was in the habit of confining her perusal to thepurely secular portions, which bore a very small proportion to the whole, she could make rapid progress through a large number of volumes. Ontaking up the biography of a celebrated preacher, she immediately turnedto the end to see what disease he died of; and if his legs swelled, asher own occasionally did, she felt a stronger interest in ascertainingany earlier facts in the history of the dropsical divine--whether he hadever fallen off a stage coach, whether he had married more than one wife, and, in general, any adventures or repartees recorded of him previous tothe epoch of his conversion. She then glanced over the letters and diary, and wherever there was a predominance of Zion, the River of Life, andnotes of exclamation, she turned over to the next page; but any passagein which she saw such promising nouns as 'small-pox', 'pony', or 'bootsand shoes', at once arrested her. 

'It is half-past six now, ' said Miss Linnet, looking at her watch as theservant appeared with the tea-tray. 'I suppose the delegates are comeback by this time. If Mr. Tryan had not so kindly promised to call andlet us know, I should hardly rest without walking to Milby myself to knowwhat answer they have brought back. It is a great privilege for us, Mr. Tryan living at Mrs. Wagstaff's, for he is often able to take us on hisway backwards and forwards into the town. '

'I wonder if there's another man in the world who has been brought up asMr. Tryan has, that would choose to live in those small close rooms onthe common, among heaps of dirty cottages, for the sake of being near thepoor people, ' said Mrs. Pettifer. 'I'm afraid he hurts his health by it;he looks to me far from strong. '

'Ah, ' said Miss Pratt, 'I understand he is of a highly respectable familyindeed, in Huntingdonshire. I heard him myself speak of his father'scarriage--quite incidentally, you know--and Eliza tells me what very finecambric handkerchiefs he uses. My eyes are not good enough to see suchthings, but I know what breeding is as well as most people, and it iseasy to see that Mr. Tryan is quite _comme il faw_, to use a Frenchexpression. '

'I should like to tell him better nor use fine cambric i' this place, where there's such washing, it's a shame to be seen, ' said Mrs. Linnet;'he'll get 'em tore to pieces. Good lawn 'ud be far better. I saw what acolour his linen looked at the sacrament last Sunday. Mary's making him ablack silk case to hold his bands, but I told her she'd more need wash'em for him. '

'O mother!' said Rebecca, with solemn severity, 'pray don't think ofpocket-handkerchiefs and linen, when we are talking of such a man. And atthis moment, too, when he is perhaps having to bear a heavy blow. We havemore need to help him by prayer, as Aaron and Hur held up the hands ofMoses. We don't know but wickedness may have triumphed, and Mr. Prendergast may have consented to forbid the lecture. There have beendispensations quite as mysterious, and Satan is evidently putting forthall his strength to resist the entrance of the Gospel into Milby Church. '

'You niver spoke a truer word than that, my dear, ' said Mrs. Linnet, whoaccepted all religious phrases, but was extremely rationalistic in herinterpretation; 'for if iver Old Harry appeared in a human form, it'sthat Dempster. It was all through him as we got cheated out o' Pye'sCroft, making out as the title wasn't good. Such lawyer's villany! As ifpaying good money wasn't title enough to anything. If your father as isdead and gone had been worthy to know it! But he'll have a fall some day, Dempster will. Mark my words. '

'Ah, out of his carriage, you mean, ' said Miss Pratt, who, in themovement occasioned by the clearing of the table, had lost the first partof Mrs. Linnet's speech. 'It certainly is alarming to see him drivinghome from Rotherby, flogging his galloping horse like a madman. Mybrother has often said he expected every Thursday evening to be called into set some of Dempster's bones; but I suppose he may drop thatexpectation now, for we are given to understand from good authority thathe has forbidden his wife to call my brother in again either to herselfor her mother. He swears no Tryanite doctor shall attend his family. Ihave reason to believe that Pilgrim was called in to Mrs. Dempster'smother the other day. '

'Poor Mrs. Raynor! she's glad to do anything for the sake of peace andquietness, ' said Mrs. Pettifer; 'but it's no trifle at her time of lifeto part with a doctor who knows her constitution. '

'What trouble that poor woman has to bear in her old age!' said MaryLinnet, 'to see her daughter leading such a life!--an only daughter, too, that she doats on. '

'Yes, indeed, ' said Miss Pratt. 'We, of course, know more about it thanmost people, my brother having attended the family so many years. For mypart, I never thought well of the marriage; and I endeavoured to dissuademy brother when Mrs. Raynor asked him to give Janet away at the wedding. 'If you will take my advice, Richard, ' I said, 'you will have nothing todo with that marriage. ' And he has seen the justice of my opinion since. Mrs. Raynor herself was against the connection at first; but she alwaysspoiled Janet, and I fear, too, she was won over by a foolish pride inhaving her daughter marry a professional man. I fear it was so. No onebut myself, I think, foresaw the extent of the evil. '

'Well, ' said Mrs. Pettifer, 'Janet had nothing to look forward to butbeing a governess; and it was hard for Mrs. Raynor to have to work atmillinering--a woman well brought up, and her husband a man who held hishead as high as any man in Thurston. And it isn't everybody that seeseverything fifteen years beforehand. Robert Dempster was the cleverestman in Milby; and there weren't many young men fit to talk to Janet. '

'It is a thousand pities, ' said Miss Pratt, choosing to ignore Mrs. Pettifer's slight sarcasm, 'for I certainly did consider Janet Raynor themost promising young woman of my acquaintance;--a little too much liftedup, perhaps, by her superior education, and too much given to satire, butable to express herself very well indeed about any book I recommended toher perusal. There is no young woman in Milby now who can be comparedwith what Janet was when she was married, either in mind or person. Iconsider Miss Landor far, far below her. Indeed, I cannot say much forthe mental superiority of the young ladies in our first families. Theyare superficial--very superficial. '

'She made the handsomest bride that ever came out of Milby church, too, 'said Mrs. Pettifer. 'Such a very fine figure! And it showed off her whitepoplin so well. And what a pretty smile Janet always had! Poor thing, shekeeps that now for all her old friends. I never see her but she hassomething pretty to say to me--living in the same street, you know, Ican't help seeing her often, though I've never been to the house sinceDempster broke out on me in one of his drunken fits. She comes to mesometimes, poor thing, looking so strange, anybody passing her in thestreet may see plain enough what's the matter; but she's always got somelittle good-natured plan in her head for all that. Only last night I mether, I saw five yards off she wasn't fit to be out; but she had a basinin her hand, full of something she was carrying to Sally Martin, thedeformed girl that's in a consumption. '

'But she is just as bitter against Mr. Tryan as her husband is, Iunderstand, ' said Rebecca. 'Her heart is very much set against the truth, for I understand she bought Mr. Tryan's sermons on purpose to ridiculethem to Mrs. Crewe. 

'Well, poor thing, ' said Mrs. Pettifer, 'you know she stands up foreverything her husband says and does. She never will admit to anybodythat he is not a good husband. '

'That is her pride, ' said Miss Pratt. 'She married him in opposition tothe advice of her best friends, and now she is not willing to admit thatshe was wrong. Why, even to my brother--and a medical attendant, youknow, can hardly fail to be acquainted with family secrets--she hasalways pretended to have the highest respect for her husband's qualities. Poor Mrs. Raynor, however, is very well aware that every one knows thereal state of things. Latterly, she has not even avoided the subject withme. The very last time I called on her she said, "Have you been to see mypoor daughter?" and burst into tears. '

'Pride or no pride, ' said Mrs. Pettifer, 'I shall always stand up forJanet Dempster. She sat up with me night after night when I had thatattack of rheumatic fever six years ago. There's great excuses for her. When a woman can't think of her husband coming home without trembling, it's enough to make her drink something to blunt her feelings--and nochildren either, to keep her from it. You and me might do the same, if wewere in her place. '

'Speak for yourself, Mrs. Pettifer, ' said Miss Pratt. 'Under nocircumstances can I imagine myself resorting to a practice so degrading. A woman should find support in her own strength of mind. '

'I think, ' said Rebecca, who considered Miss Pratt still very blind inspiritual things, notwithstanding her assumption of enlightenment, 'shewill find poor support if she trusts only to her own strength. She mustseek aid elsewhere than in herself. '

Happily the removal of the tea-things just then created a littleconfusion, which aided Miss Pratt to repress her resentment at Rebecca'spresumption in correcting her--a person like Rebecca Linnet! who sixmonths ago was as flighty and vain a woman as Miss Pratt had ever known--so very unconscious of her unfortunate person!

The ladies had scarcely been seated at their work another hour, when thesun was sinking, and the clouds that flecked the sky to the very zenithwere every moment taking on a brighter gold. The gate of the littlegarden opened, and Miss Linnet, seated at her small table near thewindow, saw Mr. Tryan enter. 

'There is Mr. Tryan, ' she said, and her pale cheek was lighted up with alittle blush that would have made her look more attractive to almost anyone except Miss Eliza Pratt, whose fine grey eyes allowed few things toescape her silent observation. 'Mary Linnet gets more and more in lovewith Mr. Tryan, ' thought Miss Eliza; 'it is really pitiable to see suchfeelings in a woman of her age, with those old-maidish little ringlets. Idaresay she flatters herself Mr. Tryan may fall in love with her, becausehe makes her useful among the poor. ' At the same time, Miss Eliza, as shebent her handsome head and large cannon curls with apparent calmness overher work, felt a considerable internal flutter when she heard the knockat the door. Rebecca had less self-command. She felt too much agitated togo on with her pasting, and clutched the leg of the table to counteractthe trembling in her hands. 

Poor women's hearts! Heaven forbid that I should laugh at you, and makecheap jests on your susceptibility towards the clerical sex, as if it hadnothing deeper or more lovely in it than the mere vulgar angling for ahusband. Even in these enlightened days, many a curate who, consideredabstractedly, is nothing more than a sleek bimanous animal in a whiteneck-cloth, with views more or less Anglican, and furtively addicted tothe flute, is adored by a girl who has coarse brothers, or by a solitarywoman who would like to be a helpmate in good works beyond her own means, simply because he seems to them the model of refinement and of publicusefulness. What wonder, then, that in Milby society, such as I have toldyou it was a very long while ago, a zealous evangelical clergyman, agedthirty-three, called forth all the little agitations that belong to thedivine necessity of loving, implanted in the Miss Linnets, with theirseven or eight lustrums and their unfashionable ringlets, no less than inMiss Eliza Pratt, with her youthful bloom and her ample cannon curls. 

But Mr. Tryan has entered the room, and the strange light from the goldensky falling on his light-brown hair, which is brushed high up round hishead, makes it look almost like an aureole. His grey eyes, too, shinewith unwonted brilliancy this evening. They were not remarkable eyes, butthey accorded completely in their changing light with the changingexpression of his person, which indicated the paradoxical character oftenobservable in a large-limbed sanguine blond; at once mild and irritable, gentle and overbearing, indolent and resolute, self-conscious and dreamy. Except that the well-filled lips had something of the artificiallycompressed look which is often the sign of a struggle to keep the dragonundermost, and that the complexion was rather pallid, giving the idea ofimperfect health, Mr. Tryan's face in repose was that of an ordinarywhiskerless blond, and it seemed difficult to refer a certain air ofdistinction about him to anything in particular, unless it were hisdelicate hands and well-shapen feet. 

It was a great anomaly to the Milby mind that a canting evangelicalparson, who would take tea with tradespeople, and make friends of vulgarwomen like the Linnets, should have so much the air of a gentleman, andbe so little like the splay-footed Mr. Stickney of Salem, to whom heapproximated so closely in doctrine. And this want of correspondencebetween the physique and the creed had excited no less surprise in thelarger town of Laxeter, where Mr. Tryan had formerly held a curacy; forof the two other Low Church clergymen in the neighbourhood, one was aWelshman of globose figure and unctuous complexion, and the other a manof atrabiliar aspect, with lank black hair, and a redundance of limpcravat--in fact, the sort of thing you might expect in men whodistributed the publications of the Religious Tract Society, andintroduced Dissenting hymns into the Church. 

Mr. Tryan shook hands with Mrs. Linnet, bowed with rather a preoccupiedair to the other ladies, and seated himself in the large horse-haireasy-chair which had been drawn forward for him, while the ladies ceasedfrom their work, and fixed their eyes on him, awaiting the news he hadto tell them. 

'It seems, ' he began, in a low and silvery tone, 'I need a lesson ofpatience; there has been something wrong in my thought or action aboutthis evening lecture. I have been too much bent on doing good to Milbyafter my own plan--too reliant on my own wisdom. '

Mr. Tryan paused. He was struggling against inward irritation. 

'The delegates are come back, then?' 'Has Mr. Prendergast given way?''Has Dempster succeeded?'--were the eager questions of three ladies atonce. 

'Yes; the town is in an uproar. As we were sitting in Mr. Landor'sdrawing-room we heard a loud cheering, and presently Mr. Thrupp, theclerk at the bank, who had been waiting at the Red Lion to hear theresult, came to let us know. He said Dempster had been making a speech tothe mob out the window. They were distributing drink to the people, andhoisting placards in great letters, --"Down with the Tryanites!" "Downwith cant!" They had a hideous caricature of me being tripped-up andpitched head-foremost out of the pulpit. Good old Mr. Landor would insiston sending me round in the carriage; he thought I should not be safe fromthe mob; but I got down at the Crossways. The row was evidentlypreconcerted by Dempster before he set out. He made sure of succeeding. '

Mr. Tryan's utterance had been getting rather louder and more rapid inthe course of this speech, and he now added, in the energeticchest-voice, which, both in and out of the pulpit, alternatedcontinually with his more silvery notes, --'But his triumph will be ashort one. If he thinks he can intimidate me by obloquy or threats, hehas mistaken the man he has to deal with. Mr. Dempster and hiscolleagues will find themselves checkmated after all. Mr. Prendergasthas been false to his own conscience in this business. He knows as wellas I do that he is throwing away the souls of the people by leavingthings as they are in the parish. But I shall appeal to the Bishop--I amconfident of his sympathy. '

'The Bishop will be coming shortly, I suppose, ' said Miss Pratt, 'to holda confirmation?'

'Yes; but I shall write to him at once, and lay the case before him. Indeed, I must hurry away now, for I have many matters to attend to. You, ladies, have been kindly helping me with your labours, I see, ' continuedMr. Tryan, politely, glancing at the canvass-covered books as he rosefrom his seat. Then, turning to Mary Linnet: 'Our library is reallygetting on, I think. You and your sister have quite a heavy task ofdistribution now. '

Poor Rebecca felt it very hard to bear that Mr. Tryan did not turntowards her too. If he knew how much she entered into his feelings aboutthe lecture, and the interest she took in the library. Well! perhaps itwas her lot to be overlooked--and it might be a token of mercy. Even agood man might not always know the heart that was most with him. But thenext moment poor Mary had a pang, when Mr. Tryan turned to Miss ElizaPratt, and the preoccupied expression of his face melted into thatbeaming timidity with which a man almost always addresses a pretty woman. 

'I have to thank you, too, Miss Eliza, for seconding me so well in yourvisits to Joseph Mercer. The old man tells me how precious he finds yourreading to him, now he is no longer able to go to church. '

Miss Eliza only answered by a blush, which made her look all thehandsomer, but her aunt said, --'Yes, Mr. Tryan, I have ever inculcated onmy dear Eliza the importance of spending her leisure in being useful toher fellow-creatures. Your example and instruction have been quite in thespirit of the system which I have always pursued, though we are indebtedto you for a clearer view of the motives that should actuate us in ourpursuit of good works. Not that I can accuse myself of having ever had aself-righteous spirit, but my humility was rather instinctive than basedon a firm ground of doctrinal knowledge, such as you so admirably impartto us. '

Mrs. Linnet's usual entreaty that Mr. Tryan would 'have something--somewine and water and a biscuit', was just here a welcome relief from thenecessity of answering Miss Pratt's oration. 

'Not anything, my dear Mrs. Linnet, thank you. You forget what aRechabite I am. By the by, when I went this morning to see a poor girl inButcher's Lane, whom I had heard of as being in a consumption, I foundMrs. Dempster there. I had often met her in the street, but did not knowit was Mrs. Dempster. It seems she goes among the poor a good deal. Sheis really an interesting-looking woman. I was quite surprised, for I haveheard the worst account of her habits--that she is almost as bad as herhusband. She went out hastily as soon as I entered. But' (apologetically)'I am keeping you all standing, and I must really hurry away. Mrs. Pettifer, I have not had the pleasure of calling on you for some time; Ishall take an early opportunity of going your way. Good evening, goodevening. '

Chapter 4

Mr. Tryan was right in saying that the 'row' in Milby had beenpreconcerted by Dempster. The placards and the caricature were preparedbefore the departure of the delegates; and it had been settled that MatPaine, Dempster's clerk, should ride out on Thursday morning to meet themat Whitlow, the last place where they would change horses, that he mightgallop back and prepare an ovation for the triumvirate in case of theirsuccess. Dempster had determined to dine at Whitlow: so that Mat Painewas in Milby again two hours before the entrance of the delegates, andhad time to send a whisper up the back streets that there was promise ofa 'spree' in the Bridge Way, as well as to assemble two knots of pickedmen--one to feed the flame of orthodox zeal with gin-and-water, at theGreen Man, near High Street; the other to solidify their churchprinciples with heady beer at the Bear and Ragged Staff in the BridgeWay. 

The Bridge Way was an irregular straggling street, where the town fringedoff raggedly into the Whitlow road: rows of new red-brick houses, inwhich ribbon-looms were rattling behind long lines of window, alternatingwith old, half-thatched, half-tiled cottages--one of those dismal widestreets where dirt and misery have no long shadows thrown on them tosoften their ugliness. Here, about half-past five o'clock, Silly Caleb, an idiot well known in Dog Lane, but more of a stranger in the BridgeWay, was seen slouching along with a string of boys hooting at his heels;presently another group, for the most part out at elbows, came briskly inthe same direction, looking round them with an air of expectation; and atno long interval, Deb Traunter, in a pink flounced gown and floatingribbons, was observed talking with great affability to two men inseal-skin caps and fustian, who formed her cortege. The Bridge Way beganto have a presentiment of something in the wind. Phib Cook left herevening wash-tub and appeared at her door in soap-suds, a bonnet-poke, and general dampness; three narrow-chested ribbon-weavers, in rusty blackstreaked with shreds of many-coloured silk, sauntered out with theirhands in their pockets; and Molly Beale, a brawny old virago, descryingwiry Dame Ricketts peeping out from her entry, seized the opportunity ofrenewing the morning's skirmish. In short, the Bridge Way was in thatstate of excitement which is understood to announce a 'demonstration' onthe part of the British public; and the afflux of remote townsmenincreasing, there was soon so large a crowd that it was time for BillPowers, a plethoric Goliath, who presided over the knot of beer-drinkersat the Bear and Ragged Staff, to issue forth with his companions, and, like the enunciator of the ancient myth, make the assemblage distinctlyconscious of the common sentiment that had drawn them together. Theexpectation of the delegates' chaise, added to the fight between MollyBeale and Dame Ricketts, and the ill-advised appearance of a leanbull-terrier, were a sufficient safety-valve to the popular excitementduring the remaining quarter of an hour; at the end of which the chaisewas seen approaching along the Whitlow road, with oak boughs ornamentingthe horses' heads; and, to quote the account of this interesting scenewhich was sent to the _Rotherby Guardian_, 'loud cheers immediatelytestified to the sympathy of the honest fellows collected there, with thepublic-spirited exertions of their fellow-townsmen. ' Bill Powers, whosebloodshot eyes, bent hat, and protuberant altitude, marked him out as thenatural leader of the assemblage, undertook to interpret the commonsentiment by stopping the chaise, advancing to the door with raised hat, and begging to know of Mr. Dempster, whether the Rector had forbidden the'canting lecture'. 

'Yes, yes, ' said Mr. Dempster. 'Keep up a jolly good hurray. '

No public duty could have been more easy and agreeable to Mr. Powers andhis associates, and the chorus swelled all the way to the High Street, where, by a mysterious coincidence often observable in these spontaneous'demonstrations', large placards on long poles were observed to shootupwards from among the crowd, principally in the direction of Tucker'sLane, where the Green Man was situated. One bore, 'Down with theTryanites!' another, 'No Cant!' another, 'Long live our venerableCurate!' and one in still larger letters, 'Sound Church Principles and noHypocrisy!' But a still more remarkable impromptu was a huge caricatureof Mr. Tryan in gown and band, with an enormous aureole of yellow hairand upturned eyes, standing on the pulpit stairs and trying to pull downold Mr. Crewe. Groans, yells, and hisses--hisses, yells, and groans--onlystemmed by the appearance of another caricature representing Mr. Tryanbeing pitched head-foremost from the pulpit stairs by a hand which theartist, either from subtilty of intention or want of space, had leftunindicated. In the midst of the tremendous cheering that saluted thispiece of symbolical art, the chaise had reached the door of the Red Lion, and loud cries of 'Dempster for ever!' with a feebler cheer now and thenfor Tomlinson and Budd, were presently responded to by the appearance ofthe public-spirited attorney at the large upper window, where also werevisible a little in the background the small sleek head of Mr. Budd, andthe blinking countenance of Mr. Tomlinson. 

Mr. Dempster held his hat in his hand, and poked his head forward with abutting motion by way of bow. A storm of cheers subsided at last intodropping sounds of 'Silence!' 'Hear him!' 'Go it, Dempster!' and thelawyer's rasping voice became distinctly audible. 

'Fellow-townsmen! It gives us the sincerest pleasure--I speak for myrespected colleagues as well as myself--to witness these strong proofs ofyour attachment to the principles of our excellent Church, and your zealfor the honour of our venerable pastor. But it is no more than I expectedof you. I know you well. I've known you for the last twenty years to beas honest and respectable a set of ratepayers as any in this county. Yourhearts are sound to the core! No man had better try to thrust his cantand hypocrisy down _your_ throats. You're used to wash them with liquorof a better flavour. This is the proudest moment in my own life, and Ithink I may say in that of my colleagues, in which I have to tell youthat our exertions in the cause of sound religion and manly morality havebeen crowned with success. Yes, my fellow-townsmen! I have thegratification of announcing to you thus formally what you have alreadylearned indirectly. The pulpit from which our venerable pastor has fed uswith sound doctrine for half a century is not to be invaded by afanatical, sectarian, double-faced, Jesuitical interloper! We are not tohave our young people demoralized and corrupted by the temptations tovice, notoriously connected with Sunday evening lectures! We are not tohave a preacher obtruding himself upon us, who decries good works, andsneaks into our homes perverting the faith of our wives and daughters! Weare not to be poisoned with doctrines which damp every innocentenjoyment, and pick a poor man's pocket of the sixpence with which hemight buy himself a cheerful glass after a hard day's work, underpretence of paying for bibles to send to the Chicktaws!

'But I'm not going to waste your valuable time with unnecessary words. Iam a man of deeds' ('Ay, damn you, that you are, and you charge well for'em too, ' said a voice from the crowd, probably that of a gentleman whowas immediately afterwards observed with his hat crushed over his head. )'I shall always be at the service of my fellow-townsmen, and whoeverdares to hector over you, or interfere with your innocent pleasures, shall have an account to settle with Robert Dempster. 

'Now, my boys! you can't do better than disperse and carry the good newsto all your fellow-townsmen, whose hearts are as sound as your own. Letsome of you go one way and some another, that every man, woman, and childin Milby may know what you know yourselves. But before we part, let ushave three cheers for True Religion, and down with Cant!'

When the last cheer was dying, Mr. Dempster closed the window, and thejudiciously-instructed placards and caricatures moved off in diversdirections, followed by larger or smaller divisions of the crowd. Thegreatest attraction apparently lay in the direction of Dog Lane, theoutlet towards Paddiford Common, whither the caricatures were moving; andyou foresee, of course, that those works of symbolical art were consumedwith a liberal expenditure of dry gorse-bushes and vague shouting. 

After these great public exertions, it was natural that Mr. Dempster andhis colleagues should feel more in need than usual of a little socialrelaxation; and a party of their friends was already beginning toassemble in the large parlour of the Red Lion, convened partly by theirown curiosity, and partly by the invaluable Mat Paine. The most capaciouspunch-bowl was put in requisition; and that born gentleman, Mr. Lowme, seated opposite Mr. Dempster as 'Vice', undertook to brew the punch, defying the criticisms of the envious men out of office, who with thereadiness of irresponsibility, ignorantly suggested more lemons. Thesocial festivities were continued till long past midnight, when severalfriends of sound religion were conveyed home with some difficulty, one ofthem showing a dogged determination to seat himself in the gutter. 

Mr. Dempster had done as much justice to the punch as any of the party;and his friend Boots, though aware that the lawyer could 'carry hisliquor like Old Nick'. With whose social demeanour Boots seemed to beparticularly well acquainted, nevertheless thought it might be as well tosee so good a customer in safety to his own door, and walked quietlybehind his elbow out of the inn-yard. Dempster, however, soon becameaware of him, stopped short, and, turning slowly round upon him, recognized the well-known drab waistcoat sleeves, conspicuous enough inthe starlight. 

'You twopenny scoundrel! What do you mean by dogging a professional man'sfootsteps in this way? I'll break every bone in your skin if you attemptto track me, like a beastly cur sniffing at one's pocket. Do you think agentleman will make his way home any the better for having the scent ofyour blacking-bottle thrust up his nostrils?'

Boots slunk back, in more amusement than ill-humour, thinking thelawyer's 'rum talk' was doubtless part and parcel of his professionalability; and Mr. Dempster pursued his slow way alone. 

His house lay in Orchard Street, which opened on the prettiest outskirtof the town--the church, the parsonage, and a long stretch of greenfields. It was an old-fashioned house, with an overhanging upper storey;outside, it had a face of rough stucco, and casement windows with greenframes and shutters; inside, it was full of long passages, and rooms withlow ceilings. There was a large heavy knocker on the green door, andthough Mr. Dempster carried a latch-key, he sometimes chose to use theknocker. He chose to do so now. The thunder resounded through OrchardStreet, and, after a single minute, there was a second clap louder thanthe first. Another minute, and still the door was not opened; whereuponMr. Dempster, muttering, took out his latch-key, and, with lessdifficulty than might have been expected, thrust it into the door. Whenhe opened the door the passage was dark. 

'Janet!' in the loudest rasping tone, was the next sound that rangthrough the house. 

'Janet!' again--before a slow step was heard on the stairs, and a distantlight began to flicker on the wall of the passage. 

'Curse you! you creeping idiot! Come faster, can't you?'

Yet a few seconds, and the figure of a tall woman, holding aslant aheavy-plated drawing-room candlestick, appeared at the turning of thepassage that led to the broader entrance. 

She had on a light dress which sat loosely about her figure, but did notdisguise its liberal, graceful outline. A heavy mass of straightjet-black hair had escaped from its fastening, and hung over hershoulders. Her grandly-cut features, pale with the natural paleness of abrunette, had premature lines about them, telling that the years had beenlengthened by sorrow, and the delicately-curved nostril, which seemedmade to quiver with the proud consciousness of power and beauty, musthave quivered to the heart-piercing griefs which had given that worn lookto the corners of the mouth. Her wide open black eyes had a strangelyfixed, sightless gaze, as she paused at the turning, and stood silentbefore her husband. 

'I'll teach you to keep me waiting in the dark, you pale staring fool!'he said, advancing with his slow drunken step. 'What, you've beendrinking again, have you? I'll beat you into your senses. '

He laid his hand with a firm grip on her shoulder, turned her round, andpushed her slowly before him along the passage and through thedining-room door, which stood open on their left hand. 

There was a portrait of Janet's mother, a grey-haired, dark-eyed oldwoman, in a neatly fluted cap, hanging over the mantelpiece. Surely theaged eyes take on a look of anguish as they see Janet--not trembling, no!it would be better if she trembled--standing stupidly unmoved in hergreat beauty while the heavy arm is lifted to strike her. The blow falls--another--and another. Surely the mother hears that cry--'O Robert!pity! pity!'

Poor grey-haired woman! Was it for this you suffered a mother's pangs inyour lone widowhood five-and-thirty years ago? Was it for this you keptthe little worn morocco shoes Janet had first run in, and kissed them dayby day when she was away from you, a tall girl at school? Was it for thisyou looked proudly at her when she came back to you in her rich palebeauty, like a tall white arum that has just unfolded its grand purecurves to the sun?

The mother lies sleepless and praying in her lonely house, weeping thedifficult tears of age, because she dreads this may be a cruel night forher child. 

She too has a picture over her mantelpiece, drawn in chalk by Janet longyears ago. She looked at it before she went to bed. It is a head bowedbeneath a cross, and wearing a crown of thorns. 

Chapter 5

It was half-past nine o'clock in the morning. The midsummer sun wasalready warm on the roofs and weathercocks of Milby. The church-bellswere ringing, and many families were conscious of Sunday sensations, chiefly referable to the fact that the daughters had come down tobreakfast in their best frocks, and with their hair particularly welldressed. For it was not Sunday, but Wednesday; and though the Bishop wasgoing to hold a Confirmation, and to decide whether or not there shouldbe a Sunday evening lecture in Milby, the sunbeams had the usualworking-day look to the haymakers already long out in the fields, and tolaggard weavers just 'setting up' their week's 'piece'. The notion of itsbeing Sunday was the strongest in young ladies like Miss Phipps, who wasgoing to accompany her younger sister to the confirmation, and to wear a'sweetly pretty' transparent bonnet with marabout feathers on theinteresting occasion, thus throwing into relief the suitable simplicityof her sister's attire, who was, of course, to appear in a new whitefrock; or in the pupils at Miss Townley's, who were absolved from alllessons, and were going to church to see the Bishop, and to hear theHonourable and Reverend Mr. Prendergast, the rector, read prayers--a highintellectual treat, as Miss Townley assured them. It seemed only naturalthat a rector, who was honourable, should read better than old Mr. Crewe, who was only a curate, and not honourable; and when little Clara Robinswondered why some clergymen were rectors and others not, Ellen Marriottassured her with great confidence that it was only the clever men whowere made rectors. Ellen Marriott was going to be confirmed. She was ashort, fair, plump girl, with blue eyes and sandy hair, which was thismorning arranged in taller cannon curls than usual, for the reception ofthe Episcopal benediction, and some of the young ladies thought her theprettiest girl in the school; but others gave the preference to herrival, Maria Gardner, who was much taller, and had a lovely 'crop' ofdark-brown ringlets, and who, being also about to take upon herself thevows made in her name at her baptism, had oiled and twisted her ringletswith especial care. As she seated herself at the breakfast-table beforeMiss Townley's entrance to dispense the weak coffee, her crop excited sostrong a sensation that Ellen Marriott was at length impelled to look atit, and to say with suppressed but bitter sarcasm, 'Is that MissGardner's head?' 'Yes, ' said Maria, amiable and stuttering, and no matchfor Ellen in retort; 'th--th--this is my head. ' 'Then I don't admire itat all!' was the crushing rejoinder of Ellen, followed by a murmur ofapproval among her friends. Young ladies, I suppose, exhaust their sac ofvenom in this way at school. That is the reason why they have such aharmless tooth for each other in after life. 

The only other candidate for confirmation at Miss Townley's was MaryDunn, a draper's daughter in Milby and a distant relation of the MissLinnets. Her pale lanky hair could never be coaxed into permanent curl, and this morning the heat had brought it down to its natural condition oflankiness earlier than usual. But that was not what made her sitmelancholy and apart at the lower end of the form. Her parents wereadmirers of Mr. Tryan, and had been persuaded, by the Miss Linnets'influence, to insist that their daughter should be prepared forconfirmation by him, over and above the preparation given to MissTownley's pupils by Mr. Crewe. Poor Mary Dunn! I am afraid she thought ittoo heavy a price to pay for these spiritual advantages, to be excludedfrom every game at ball to be obliged to walk with none but littlegirls--in fact, to be the object of an aversion that nothing short of anincessant supply of plumcakes would have neutralized. And Mrs. Dunn wasof opinion that plumcake was unwholesome. The anti-Tryanite spirit, youperceive, was very strong at Miss Townley's, imported probably by dayscholars, as well as encouraged by the fact that that clever woman washerself strongly opposed to innovation, and remarked every Sunday thatMr. Crewe had preached an 'excellent discourse'. Poor Mary Dunn dreadedthe moment when school-hours would be over, for then she was sure to bethe butt of those very explicit remarks which, in young ladies' as wellas young gentlemen's seminaries, constitute the most subtle and delicateform of the innuendo. 'I'd never be a Tryanite, would you?' 'O here comesthe lady that knows so much more about religion than we do!' 'Some peoplethink themselves so very pious!'

It is really surprising that young ladies should not be thought competentto the same curriculum as young gentlemen. I observe that their powers ofsarcasm are quite equal; and if there had been a genteel academy foryoung gentlemen at Milby, I am inclined to think that, notwithstandingEuclid and the classics, the party spirit there would not have exhibiteditself in more pungent irony, or more incisive satire, than was heard inMiss Townley's seminary. But there was no such academy, the existence ofthe grammar-school under Mr. Crewe's superintendence probablydiscouraging speculations of that kind; and the genteel youths of Milbywere chiefly come home for the midsummer holidays from distant schools. Several of us had just assumed coat-tails, and the assumption of newresponsibilities apparently following as a matter of course, we wereamong the candidates for confirmation. I wish I could say that thesolemnity of our feelings was on a level with the solemnity of theoccasion; but unimaginative boys find it difficult to recognizeapostolical institutions in their developed form, and I fear our chiefemotion concerning the ceremony was a sense of sheepishness, and ourchief opinion, the speculative and heretical position, that it ought tobe confined to the girls. It was a pity, you will say; but it is the waywith us men in other crises, that come a long while after confirmation. The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us, and we see nothingbut sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when theyare gone. 

But, as I said, the morning was sunny, the bells were ringing, the ladiesof Milby were dressed in their Sunday garments. 

And who is this bright-looking woman walking with hasty step alongOrchard Street so early, with a large nosegay in her hand? Can it beJanet Dempster, on whom we looked with such deep pity, one sad midnight, hardly a fortnight ago? Yes; no other woman in Milby has those searchingblack eyes, that tall graceful unconstrained figure, set off by hersimple muslin dress and black lace shawl, that massy black hair now soneatly braided in glossy contrast with the white satin ribbons of hermodest cap and bonnet. No other woman has that sweet speaking smile, withwhich she nods to Jonathan Lamb, the old parish clerk. And, ah!--now shecomes nearer--there are those sad lines about the mouth and eyes on whichthat sweet smile plays like sunbeams on the storm-beaten beauty of thefull and ripened corn. 

She is turning out of Orchard Street, and making her way as fast as shecan to her mother's house, a pleasant cottage facing a roadside meadow, from which the hay is being carried. Mrs. Raynor has had her breakfast, and is seated in her arm-chair reading, when Janet opens the door, saying, in her most playful voice, --'Please, mother, I'm come to showmyself to you before I go to the Parsonage. Have I put on my pretty capand bonnet to satisfy you?'

Mrs. Raynor looked over her spectacles, and met her daughter's glancewith eyes as dark and loving as her own. She was a much smaller womanthan Janet, both in figure and feature, the chief resemblance lying inthe eyes and the clear brunette complexion. The mother's hair had longbeen grey, and was gathered under the neatest of caps, made by her ownclever fingers, as all Janet's caps and bonnets were too. They werewell-practised fingers, for Mrs. Raynor had supported herself in herwidowhood by keeping a millinery establishment, and in this way hadearned money enough to give her daughter what was then thought afirst-rate education, as well as to save a sum which, eked out by herson-in-law, sufficed to support her in her solitary old age. Always thesame clean, neat old lady, dressed in black silk, was Mrs. Raynor: apatient, brave woman, who bowed with resignation under the burden ofremembered sorrow, and bore with meek fortitude the new load that the newdays brought with them. 

'Your bonnet wants pulling a trifle forwarder, my child, ' she said, smiling, and taking off her spectacles, while Janet at once knelt downbefore her, and waited to be 'set to rights', as she would have done whenshe was a child. 'You're going straight to Mrs. Crewe's, I suppose? Arethose flowers to garnish the dishes?'

'No, indeed, mother. This is a nosegay for the middle of the table. I'vesent up the dinner-service and the ham we had cooked at our houseyesterday, and Betty is coming directly with the garnish and the plate. We shall get our good Mrs. Crewe through her troubles famously. Dear tinywoman! You should have seen her lift up her hands yesterday, and prayheaven to take her before ever she should have another collation to getready for the Bishop. She said, "It's bad enough to have the Archdeacon, though he doesn't want half so many jelly-glasses. I wouldn't mind, Janet, if it was to feed all the old hungry cripples in Milby; but somuch trouble and expense for people who eat too much every day of theirlives!" We had such a cleaning and furbishing-up of the sitting-roomyesterday! Nothing will ever do away with the smell of Mr. Crewe's pipes, you know; but we have thrown it into the background, with yellow soap anddry lavender. And now I must run away. You will come to church, mother?'

'Yes, my dear, I wouldn't lose such a pretty sight. It does my old eyesgood to see so many fresh young faces. Is your husband going?'

'Yes, Robert will be there. I've made him as neat as a new pin thismorning, and he says the Bishop will think him too buckish by half. Itook him into Mammy Dempster's room to show himself. We hear Tryan ismaking sure of the Bishop's support; but we shall see. I would give mycrooked guinea, and all the luck it will ever bring me, to have himbeaten, for I can't endure the sight of the man coming to harass dear oldMr. And Mrs. Crewe in their last days. Preaching the Gospel indeed! Thatis the best Gospel that makes everybody happy and comfortable, isn't it, mother?'

'Ah, child, I'm afraid there's no Gospel will do that here below. '

'Well, I can do something to comfort Mrs. Crewe, at least; so give me akiss, and good-bye till church-time. '

The mother leaned back in her chair when Janet was gone, and sank into apainful reverie. When our life is a continuous trial, the moments ofrespite seem only to substitute the heaviness of dread for the heavinessof actual suffering: the curtain of cloud seems parted an instant onlythat we may measure all its horror as it hangs low, black, and imminent, in contrast with the transient brightness; the water drops that visit theparched lips in the desert bear with them only the keen imagination ofthirst. Janet looked glad and tender now--but what scene of misery wascoming next? She was too like the cistus flowers in the little gardenbefore the window, that, with the shades of evening, might lie with thedelicate white and glossy dark of their petals trampled in the roadsidedust. When the sun had sunk, and the twilight was deepening, Janet mightbe sitting there, heated, maddened, sobbing out her griefs with selfishpassion, and wildly wishing herself dead. 

Mrs. Raynor had been reading about the lost sheep, and the joy there isin heaven over the sinner that repenteth. Surely the eternal love shebelieved in through all the sadness of her lot, would not leave her childto wander farther and farther into the wilderness till here was noturning--the child so lovely, so pitiful to others, so good, till she wasgoaded into sin by woman's bitterest sorrows! Mrs. Raynor had her faithand her spiritual comforts, though she was not in the least evangelicaland knew nothing of doctrinal zeal. I fear most of Mr. Tryan's hearerswould have considered her destitute of saving knowledge, and I am quitesure she had no well-defined views on justification. Nevertheless, sheread her Bible a great deal, and thought she found divine lessonsthere--how to bear the cross meekly, and be merciful. Let us hope thatthere is a saving ignorance, and that Mrs. Raynor was justified withoutknowing exactly how. 

She tried to have hope and trust, though it was hard to believe that thefuture would be anything else than the harvest of the seed that was beingsown before her eyes. But always there is seed being sown silently andunseen, and everywhere there come sweet flowers without our foresight orlabour. We reap what we sow, but Nature has love over and above thatjustice, and gives us shadow and blossom and fruit that spring from noplanting of ours. 

Chapter 6

Most people must have agreed with Mrs. Raynor that the Confirmation thatday was a pretty sight, at least when those slight girlish forms and fairyoung faces moved in a white rivulet along the aisles, and flowed intokneeling semicircles under the light of the great chancel window, softened by patches of dark old painted glass; and one would think thatto look on while a pair of venerable hands pressed such young heads, anda venerable face looked upward for a blessing on them, would be verylikely to make the heart swell gently, and to moisten the eyes. Yet Iremember the eyes seemed very dry in Milby Church that day, notwithstanding that the Bishop was an old man, and probably venerable(for though he was not an eminent Grecian, he was the brother of a Whiglord); and I think the eyes must have remained dry, because he had smalldelicate womanish hands adorned with ruffles, and, instead of laying themon the girls' heads, just let them hover over each in quick succession, as if it were not etiquette to touch them, and as if the laying on ofhands were like the theatrical embrace--part of the play, and not to bereally believed in. To be sure there were a great many heads, and theBishop's time was limited. Moreover, a wig can, under no circumstances, be affecting, except in rare cases of illusion; and copious lawn-sleevescannot be expected to go directly to any heart except a washerwoman's. 

I know, Ned Phipps, who knelt against me, and I am sure made me behavemuch worse than I should have done without him, whispered that he thoughtthe Bishop was a 'guy', and I certainly remember thinking that Mr. Prendergast looked much more dignified with his plain white surplice andblack hair. He was a tall commanding man, and read the Liturgy in astrikingly sonorous and uniform voice, which I tried to imitate the nextSunday at home, until my little sister began to cry, and said I was'yoaring at her'. 

Mr. Tryan sat in a pew near the pulpit with several other clergymen. Helooked pale, and rubbed his hand over his face and pushed back his hairoftener than usual. Standing in the aisle close to him, and repeating theresponses with edifying loudness, was Mr. Budd, churchwarden anddelegate, with a white staff in his hand and a backward bend of his smallhead and person, such as, I suppose, he considered suitable to a friendof sound religion. Conspicuous in the gallery, too, was the tall figureof Mr. Dempster, whose professional avocations rarely allowed him tooccupy his place at church. 

'There's Dempster, ' said Mrs. Linnet to her daughter Mary, 'looking morerespectable than usual, I declare. He's got a fine speech by heart tomake to the Bishop, I'll answer for it. But he'll be pretty wellsprinkled with snuff before service is over, and the Bishop won't be ableto listen to him for sneezing, that's one comfort. '

At length the last stage in the long ceremony was over, the largeassembly streamed warm and weary into the open afternoon sunshine, andthe Bishop retired to the Parsonage, where, after honouring Mrs. Crewe'scollation, he was to give audience to the delegates and Mr. Tryan on thegreat question of the evening lecture. 

Between five and six o'clock the Parsonage was once more as quiet asusual under the shadow of its tall elms, and the only traces of theBishop's recent presence there were the wheel marks on the gravel, andthe long table with its garnished dishes awry, its damask sprinkled withcrumbs, and its decanters without their stoppers. Mr. Crewe was alreadycalmly smoking his pipe in the opposite sitting-room, and Janet wasagreeing with Mrs. Crewe that some of the blanc-mange would be a nicething to take to Sally Martin, while the little old lady herself had aspoon in her hand ready to gather the crumbs into a plate, that she mightscatter them on the gravel for the little birds. 

Before that time, the Bishop's carriage had been seen driving through theHigh Street on its way to Lord Trufford's, where he was to dine. Thequestion of the lecture was decided, then?

The nature of the decision may be gathered from the followingconversation which took place in the bar of the Red Lion that evening. 

'So you're done, eh, Dempster?' was Mr. Pilgrim's observation, utteredwith some gusto. He was not glad Mr. Tryan had gained his point, but hewas not sorry Dempster was disappointed. 

'Done, sir? Not at all. It is what I anticipated. I knew we had nothingelse to expect in these days, when the Church is infested by a set of menwho are only fit to give out hymns from an empty cask, to tunes set by ajourneyman cobbler. But I was not the less to exert myself in the causeof sound Churchmanship for the good of the town. Any coward can fight abattle when he's sure of winning; but give me the man who has pluck tofight when he's sure of losing. That's my way, sir; and there are manyvictories worse than a defeat, as Mr. Tryan shall learn to his cost. '

'He must be a poor shuperannyated sort of a bishop, that's my opinion, 'said Mr. Tomlinson, 'to go along with a sneaking Methodist like Tryan. And, for my part, I think we should be as well wi'out bishops, if they'reno wiser than that. Where's the use o' havin' thousands a-year an' livin'in a pallis, if they don't stick to the Church?'

'No. There you're going out of your depth, Tomlinson, ' said Mr. Dempster. 'No one shall hear me say a word against Episcopacy--it is a safeguard ofthe Church; we must have ranks and dignities there as well as everywhereelse. No, sir! Episcopacy is a good thing; but it may happen that abishop is not a good thing. Just as brandy is a good thing, though thisparticular brandy is British, and tastes like sugared rain-water caughtdown the chimney. Here, Ratcliffe, let me have something to drink, alittle less like a decoction of sugar and soot. '

'_I_ said nothing again' Episcopacy, ' returned Mr. Tomlinson. 'I onlysaid I thought we should do as well wi'out bishops; an' I'll say it againfor the matter o' that. Bishops never brought any grist to my mill. '

'Do you know when the lectures are to begin?' said Mr. Pilgrim. 

'They are to _begin_ on Sunday next, ' said Mr. Dempster, in a significanttone; 'but I think it will not take a long-sighted prophet to foresee theend of them. It strikes me Mr. Tryan will be looking out for anothercuracy shortly. '

'He'll not get many Milby people to go and hear his lectures after awhile, I'll bet a guinea, ' observed Mr. Budd. 'I know I'll not keep asingle workman on my ground who either goes to the lecture himself orlets anybody belonging to him go. '

'Nor me nayther, ' said Mr. Tomlinson. 'No Tryanite shall touch a sack ordrive a waggon o' mine, that you may depend on. An' I know more besidesme as are o' the same mind. '

'Tryan has a good many friends in the town, though, and friends that arelikely to stand by him too, ' said Mr. Pilgrim. 'I should say it would beas well to let him and his lectures alone. If he goes on preaching as hedoes, with such a constitution as his, he'll get a relaxed throatby-and-by, and you'll be rid of him without any trouble. '

'We'll not allow him to do himself that injury, ' said Mr. Dempster. 'Since his health is not good, we'll persuade him to try change of air. Depend upon it, he'll find the climate of Milby too hot for him. '

Chapter 7

Mr. Dempster did not stay long at the Red Lion that evening. He wassummoned home to meet Mr. Armstrong, a wealthy client, and as he was keptin consultation till a late hour, it happened that this was one of thenights on which Mr. Dempster went to bed tolerably sober. Thus the day, which had been one of Janets happiest, because it had been spent by herin helping her dear old friend Mrs. Crewe, ended for her with unusualquietude; and as a bright sunset promises a fair morning, so a calm lyingdown is a good augury for a calm waking. Mr. Dempster, on the Thursdaymorning, was in one of his best humours, and though perhaps some of thegood-humour might result from the prospect of a lucrative and excitingbit of business in Mr. Armstrong's probable lawsuit, the greater part ofit was doubtless due to those stirrings of the more kindly, healthy sapof human feeling, by which goodness tries to get the upper hand in uswhenever it seems to have the slightest chance--on Sunday mornings, perhaps, when we are set free from the grinding hurry of the week, andtake the little three-year old on our knee at breakfast to share our eggand muffin; in moments of trouble, when death visits our roof or illnessmakes us dependent on the tending hand of a slighted wife; in quiet talkswith an aged mother, of the days when we stood at her knee with our firstpicture-book, or wrote her loving letters from school. In the man whosechildhood has known caresses there is always a fibre of memory that canbe touched to gentle issues, and Mr. Dempster, whom you have hithertoseen only as the orator of the Red Lion, and the drunken tyrant of adreary midnight home, was the first-born darling son of a fair littlemother. That mother was living still, and her own large black easy-chair, where she sat knitting through the livelong day, was now set ready forher at the breakfast-table, by her son's side, a sleek tortoise-shell catacting as provisional incumbent. 

'Good morning, Mamsey! why, you're looking as fresh as a daisy thismorning. You're getting young again', said Mr. Dempster, looking up fromhis newspaper when the little old lady entered. A very little old ladyshe was, with a pale, scarcely wrinkled face, hair of that peculiar whitewhich tells that the locks have once been blond, a natty pure white capon her head, and a white shawl pinned over her shoulders. You saw at aglance that she had been a mignonne blonde, strangely unlike her tall, ugly, dingy-complexioned son; unlike her daughter-in-law, too, whoselarge-featured brunette beauty seemed always thrown into higher relief bythe white presence of little Mamsey. The unlikeness between Janet and hermother-in-law went deeper than outline and complexion, and indeed therewas little sympathy between them, for old Mrs. Dempster had not yetlearned to believe that her son, Robert, would have gone wrong if he hadmarried the right woman--a meek woman like herself, who would have bornehim children, and been a deft, orderly housekeeper. In spite of Janet'stenderness and attention to her, she had had little love for herdaughter-in-law from the first, and had witnessed the sad growth ofhome-misery through long years, always with a disposition to lay theblame on the wife rather than on the husband, and to reproach Mrs. Raynorfor encouraging her daughter's faults by a too exclusive sympathy. Butold Mrs. Dempster had that rare gift of silence and passivity which oftensupplies the absence of mental strength; and, whatever were her thoughts, she said no word to aggravate the domestic discord. Patient and mute shesat at her knitting through many a scene of quarrel and anguish;resolutely she appeared unconscious of the sounds that reached her ears, and the facts she divined after she had retired to her bed; mutely shewitnessed poor Janet's faults, only registering them as a balance ofexcuse on the side of her son. The hard, astute, domineering attorney wasstill that little old woman's pet, as he had been when she watched withtriumphant pride his first tumbling effort to march alone across thenursery floor. 'See what a good son he is to me!' she often thought. 'Never gave me a harsh word. And so he might have been a good husband. '

O it is piteous--that sorrow of aged women! In early youth, perhaps, theysaid to themselves, 'I shall be happy when I have a husband to love mebest of all'; then, when the husband was too careless, 'My child willcomfort me'; then, through the mother's watching and toil, 'My child willrepay me all when it grows up. ' And at last, after the long journey ofyears has been wearily travelled through, the mother's heart is weigheddown by a heavier burthen, and no hope remains but the grave. 

But this morning old Mrs. Dempster sat down in her easy-chair without anypainful, suppressed remembrance of the pre-ceding night. 

'I declare mammy looks younger than Mrs. Crewe, who is only sixty-five, 'said Janet. 'Mrs. Crewe will come to see you today, mammy, and tell youall about her troubles with the Bishop and the collation. She'll bringher knitting, and you'll have a regular gossip together. '

'The gossip will be all on one side, then, for Mrs. Crewe gets so verydeaf, I can't make her hear a word. And if I motion to her, she alwaysunderstands me wrong. '

'O, she will have so much to tell you today, you will not want to speakyourself. You, who have patience to knit those wonderful counterpanes, mammy, must not be impatient with dear Mrs. Crewe. Good old lady! I can'tbear her to think she's ever tiresome to people, and you know she's veryready to fancy herself in the way. I think she would like to shrink up tothe size of a mouse, that she might run about and do people good withouttheir noticing her. '

'It isn't patience I want, God knows; it's lungs to speak loud enough. But you'll be at home yourself, I suppose, this morning; and you can talkto her for me. '

'No, mammy; I promised poor Mrs. Lowme to go and sit with her. She'sconfined to her room, and both the Miss Lowmes are out; so I'm going toread the newspaper to her and amuse her. '

'Couldn't you go another morning? As Mr. Armstrong and that othergentleman are coming to dinner, I should think it would be better to stayat home. Can you trust Betty to see to everything? She's new to theplace. '

'O I couldn't disappoint Mrs. Lowme; I promised her. Betty will do verywell, no fear. '

Old Mrs. Dempster was silent after this, and began to sip her tea. Thebreakfast went on without further conversation for some time, Mr. Dempster being absorbed in the papers. At length, when he was runningover the advertisements, his eye seemed to be caught by something thatsuggested a new thought to him. He presently thumped the table with anair of exultation, and, said turning to Janet, --'I've a capital idea, Gypsy!' (that was his name for his dark-eyed wife when he was in anextraordinarily good humour), 'and you shall help me. It's just whatyou're up to. '

'What is it?' said Janet, her face beaming at the sound of the pet name, now heard so seldom. 'Anything to do with conveyancing?'

'It's a bit of fun worth a dozen fees--a plan for raising a laugh againstTryan and his gang of hypocrites. '

'What is it? Nothing that wants a needle and thread hope, else I must goand tease mother. '

'No, nothing sharper than your wit--except mine. I'll tell you what itis. We'll get up a programme of the Sunday evening lecture, like aplay-bill, you know--"Grand Performance of the celebrated Mountebank, "and so on. We'll bring in the Tryanites--old Landor and the rest--inappropriate characters. Proctor shall print it, and we'll circulate it inthe town. It will be a capital hit. '

'Bravo!' said Janet, clapping her hands. She would just then havepretended to like almost anything, in her pleasure at being appealed toby her husband, and she really did like to laugh at the Tryanites. 'We'llset about it directly, and sketch it out before you go to the office. I've got Tryan's sermons up-stairs, but I don't think there's anything inthem we can use. I've only just looked into them; they're not at all whatI expected--dull, stupid things--nothing of the roaringfire-and-brimstone sort that I expected. '

'Roaring? No; Tryan's as soft as a sucking dove--one of yourhoney-mouthed hypocrites. Plenty of devil and malice in him, though, Icould see that, while he was talking to the Bishop; but as smooth as asnake outside. He's beginning a single-handed fight with me, I cansee--persuading my clients away from me. We shall see who will be thefirst to cry _peccavi_. Milby will do better without Mr. Tryan thanwithout Robert Dempster, I fancy! and Milby shall never be flooded withcant as long as I can raise a breakwater against it. But now, get thebreakfast things cleared away, and let us set about the play-bill. Come, mamsey, come and have a walk with me round the garden, and let us see howthe cucumbers are getting on. I've never taken you round the garden foran age. Come, you don't want a bonnet. It's like walking in a greenhousethis morning. '

'But she will want a parasol, ' said Janet. 'There's one on the standagainst the garden-door, Robert. '

The little old lady took her son's arm with placid pleasure. She couldbarely reach it so as to rest upon it, but he inclined a little towardsher, and accommodated his heavy long-limbed steps to her feeble pace. Thecat chose to sun herself too, and walked close beside them, with tailerect, rubbing her sleek sides against their legs, --too well fed to beexcited by the twittering birds. The garden was of the grassy, shadykind, often seen attached to old houses in provincial towns; theapple-trees had had time to spread their branches very wide, the shrubsand hardy perennial plants had grown into a luxuriance that requiredconstant trimming to prevent them from intruding on the space forwalking. But the farther end, which united with green fields, was openand sunny. 

It was rather sad, and yet pretty, to see that little group passing outof the shadow into the sunshine, and out of the sunshine into the shadowagain: sad, because this tenderness of the son for the mother was hardlymore than a nucleus of healthy life in an organ hardening by disease, because the man who was linked in this way with an innocent past, hadbecome callous in worldliness, fevered by sensuality, enslaved by chanceimpulses; pretty, because it showed how hard it is to kill the deep-downfibrous roots of human love and goodness--how the man from whom we makeit our pride to shrink, has yet a close brotherhood with us through someof our most sacred feelings. 

As they were returning to the house, Janet met them, and said, 'Now, Robert, the writing things are ready. I shall be clerk, and Mat Paine cancopy it out after. '

Mammy once more deposited in her arm-chair, with her knitting in herhand, and the cat purring at her elbow, Janet seated herself at thetable, while Mr. Dempster placed himself near her, took out hissnuff-box, and plentifully suffusing himself with the inspiring powder, began to dictate. 

What he dictated, we shall see by-and-by. 

Chapter 8

The next day, Friday, at five o'clock by the sun-dial, the largebow-window of Mrs. Jerome's parlour was open; and that lady herself wasseated within its ample semicircle, having a table before her on whichher best tea-tray, her best china, and her best urn-rug had already beenstanding in readiness for half an hour. Mrs. Jerome's best tea-servicewas of delicate white fluted china, with gold sprigs upon it--as pretty atea-service as you need wish to see, and quite good enough for chimneyornaments; indeed, as the cups were without handles, most visitors whohad the distinction of taking tea out of them, wished that such charmingchina had already been promoted to that honorary position. Mrs. Jeromewas like her china, handsome and old-fashioned. She was a buxom lady ofsixty, in an elaborate lace cap fastened by a frill under her chin, adark, well-curled front concealing her forehead, a snowy neckerchiefexhibiting its ample folds as far as her waist, and a stiff grey silkgown. She had a clean damask napkin pinned before her to guard her dressduring the process of tea-making; her favourite geraniums in thebow-window were looking as healthy as she could desire; her own handsomeportrait, painted when she was twenty years younger, was smiling down onher with agreeable flattery; and altogether she seemed to be in aspeaceful and pleasant a position as a buxom, well-drest elderly lady needdesire. But, as in so many other cases, appearances were deceptive. Hermind was greatly perturbed and her temper ruffled by the fact that it wasmore than a quarter past five even by the losing timepiece, that it washalf-past by her large gold watch, which she held in her hand as if shewere counting the pulse of the afternoon, and that, by the kitchen clock, which she felt sure was not an hour too fast, it had already struck six. The lapse of time was rendered the more unendurable to Mrs. Jerome by herwonder that Mr. Jerome could stay out in the garden with Lizzie in thatthoughtless way, taking it so easily that tea-time was long past, andthat, after all the trouble of getting down the best tea-things, Mr. Tryan would not come. 

This honour had been shown to Mr. Tryan, not at all because Mrs. Jeromehad any high appreciation of his doctrine or of his exemplary activity asa pastor, but simply because he was a 'Church clergyman', and as such wasregarded by her with the same sort of exceptional respect that a whitewoman who had married a native of the Society Islands might be supposedto feel towards a white-skinned visitor from the land of her youth. ForMrs. Jerome had been reared a Churchwoman, and having attained the age ofthirty before she was married, had felt the greatest repugnance in thefirst instance to renouncing the religious forms in which she had beenbrought up. 'You know, ' she said in confidence to her Churchacquaintances, 'I wouldn't give no ear at all to Mr. Jerome at fust; butafter all, I begun to think as there was a maeny things worse nor goin'to chapel, an' you'd better do that nor not pay your way. Mr. Jerome hada very pleasant manner with him, an' there was niver another as kept agig, an' 'ud make a settlement on me like him, chapel or no chapel. Itseemed very odd to me for a long while, the preachin' without book, an'the stannin' up to one long prayer, istid o' changin' your postur. Butla! there's nothin' as you mayn't get used to i' time; you can al'ys sitdown, you know, before the prayer's done. The ministers say pretty nighthe same things as the Church parsons, by what I could iver make out, an'we're out o' chapel i' the mornin' a deal sooner nor they're out o'church. An' as for pews, ourn's is a deal comfortabler nor aeny i' MilbyChurch. '

Mrs. Jerome, you perceive, had not a keen susceptibility to shades ofdoctrine, and it is probable that, after listening to Dissentingeloquence for thirty years, she might safely have re-entered theEstablishment without performing any spiritual quarantine. Her mind, apparently, was of that non-porous flinty character which is not in theleast danger from surrounding damp. But on the question of getting startof the sun on the day's business, and clearing her conscience of thenecessary sum of meals and the consequent 'washing up' as soon aspossible, so that the family might be well in bed at nine, Mrs. Jerome_was_ susceptible; and the present lingering pace of things, united withMr. Jerome's unaccountable obliviousness, was not to be borne any longer. So she rang the bell for Sally. 

'Goodness me, Sally! go into the garden an' see after your master. Tellhim it's goin' on for six, an' Mr. Tryan 'ull niver think o' comin' now, an' it's time we got tea over. An' he's lettin' Lizzie stain her frock, Iexpect, among them strawberry beds. Mek her come in this minute. '

No wonder Mr. Jerome was tempted to linger in the garden, for though thehouse was pretty and well deserved its name--'the White House', the talldamask roses that clustered over the porch being thrown into relief byrough stucco of the most brilliant white, yet the garden and orchardswere Mr. Jerome's glory, as well they might be; and there was nothing inwhich he had a more innocent pride--peace to a good man's memory! all hispride was innocent--than in conducting a hitherto uninitiated visitorover his grounds, and making him in some degree aware of the incomparableadvantages possessed by the inhabitants of the White House in the matterof red-streaked apples, russets, northern greens (excellent for baking), swan-egg pears, and early vegetables, to say nothing of flowering'srubs, ' pink hawthorns, lavender bushes more than ever Mrs. Jerome coulduse, and, in short, a superabundance of everything that a person retiredfrom business could desire to possess himself or to share with hisfriends. The garden was one of those old-fashioned paradises which hardlyexist any longer except as memories of our childhood: no finicalseparation between flower and kitchen garden there; no monotony ofenjoyment for one sense to the exclusion of another; but a charmingparadisiacal mingling of all that was pleasant to the eyes and good forfood. The rich flower-border running along every walk, with its endlesssuccession of spring flowers, anemones, auriculas, wall-flowers, sweet-williams, campanulas, snapdragons, and tiger-lilies, had its tallerbeauties, such as moss and Provence roses, varied with espalierapple-trees; the crimson of a carnation was carried out in the lurkingcrimson of the neighbouring strawberry-beds; you gathered a moss-rose onemoment and a bunch of currants the next; you were in a deliciousfluctuation between the scent of jasmine and the juice of gooseberries. Then what a high wall at one end, flanked by a summer-house so lofty, that after ascending its long flight of steps you could see perfectlywell there was no view worth looking at; what alcoves and garden-seats inall directions; and along one side, what a hedge, tall, and firm, andunbroken, like a green wall!

It was near this hedge that Mr. Jerome was standing when Sally found him. He had set down the basket of strawberries on the gravel, and had liftedup little Lizzie in his arms to look at a bird's nest. Lizzie peeped, andthen looked at her grandpa with round blue eyes, and then peeped again. 

'D'ye see it, Lizzie?' he whispered. 

'Yes, ' she whispered in return, putting her lips very near grandpa'sface. At this moment Sally appeared. 

'Eh, eh, Sally, what's the matter? Is Mr. Tryan come?'

'No, sir, an' Missis says she's sure he won't come now, an' she wants youto come in an' hev tea. Dear heart, Miss Lizzie, you've stained yourpinafore, an' I shouldn't wonder if it's gone through to your frock. There'll be fine work! Come alonk wi' me, do. '

'Nay, nay, nay, we've done no harm, we've done no harm, hev we, Lizzie?The wash-tub'll make all right again. '

Sally, regarding the wash-tub from a different point of view, lookedsourly serious, and hurried away with Lizzie, who trotted submissivelyalong, her little head in eclipse under a large nankin bonnet, while Mr. Jerome followed leisurely with his full broad shoulders in rather astooping posture, and his large good-natured features and white locksshaded by a broad-brimmed hat. 

'Mr. Jerome, I wonder at you, ' said Mrs. Jerome, in a tone of indignantremonstrance, evidently sustained by a deep sense of injury, as herhusband opened the parlour door. 'When will you leave off invitin' peopleto meals an' not lettin' 'em know the time? I'll answer for't, you niversaid a word to Mr. Tryan as we should take tea at five o'clock. It's justlike you!'

'Nay, nay, Susan, ' answered the husband in a soothing tone, 'there'snothin' amiss. I told Mr. Tryan as we took tea at five punctial; mayhapsummat's a detainin' on him. He's a deal to do, an' to think on, remember. '

'Why, it's struck six i' the kitchen a'ready. It's nonsense to look forhim comin' now. So you may's well ring for th' urn. Now Sally's got th'heater in the fire, we may's well hev th' urn in, though he doesn't come. I niver see'd the like o' you, Mr. Jerome, for axin' people an' givin' methe trouble o' gettin' things down an' hevin' crumpets made, an' afterall they don't come. I shall hev to wash every one o' these tea-thingsmyself, for there's no trustin' Sally--she'd break a fortin i' crockeryi' no time!'

'But why will you give yourself sich trouble, Susan? Our everydaytea-things would ha' done as well for Mr. Tryan, an' they're a dealconvenenter to hold. '

'Yes, that's just your way, Mr. Jerome, you're al'ys a-findin' faut wi'my chany, because I bought it myself afore I was married. But let me tellyou, I knowed how to choose chany if I didn't know how to choose ahusband. An' where's Lizzie? You've niver left her i' the garden byherself, with her white frock on an' clean stockins?'

'Be easy, my dear Susan, be easy; Lizzie's come in wi' Sally. She'shevin' her pinafore took off, I'll be bound. Ah! there's Mr. Tryana-comin' through the gate. '

Mrs. Jerome began hastily to adjust her damask napkin and the expressionof her countenance for the reception of the clergyman, and Mr. Jeromewent out to meet his guest, whom he greeted outside the door. 

'Mr. Tryan, how do you do, Mr. Tryan? Welcome to the White House! I'mglad to see you, sir--I'm glad to see you. '

If you had heard the tone of mingled good-will, veneration, andcondolence in which this greeting was uttered, even without seeing theface that completely harmonized with it, you would have no difficulty ininferring the ground-notes of Mr. Jerome's character. To a fine ear thattone said as plainly as possible--'Whatever recommends itself to me, Thomas Jerome, as piety and goodness, shall have my love and honour. Ah, friends, this pleasant world is a sad one, too, isn't it? Let us help oneanother, let us help one another. ' And it was entirely owing to thisbasis of character, not at all from any clear and precise doctrinaldiscrimination, that Mr. Jerome had very early in life become aDissenter. In his boyish days he had been thrown where Dissent seemed tohave the balance of piety, purity, and good works on its side, and tobecome a Dissenter seemed to him identical with choosing God instead ofmammon. That race of Dissenters is extinct in these days, when opinionhas got far ahead of feeling, and every chapel-going youth can fill ourears with the advantages of the Voluntary system, the corruptions of aState Church, and the Scriptural evidence that the first Christians wereCongregationalists. Mr. Jerome knew nothing of this theoretic basis forDissent, and in the utmost extent of his polemical discussion he had notgone further than to question whether a Christian man was bound inconscience to distinguish Christmas and Easter by any peculiar observancebeyond the eating of mince-pies and cheese-cakes. It seemed to him thatall seasons were alike good for thanking God, departing from evil anddoing well, whereas it might be desirable to restrict the period forindulging in unwholesome forms of pastry. Mr. Jerome's dissent being ofthis simple, non-polemical kind, it is easy to understand that the reporthe heard of Mr. Tryan as a good man and a powerful preacher, who wasstirring the hearts of the people, had been enough to attract him to thePaddiford Church, and that having felt himself more edified there than hehad of late been under Mr. Stickney's discourses at Salem, he had driventhither repeatedly in the Sunday afternoons, and had sought anopportunity of making Mr. Tryan's acquaintance. The evening lecture was asubject of warm interest with him, and the opposition Mr. Tryan met withgave that interest a strong tinge of partisanship; for there was a storeof irascibility in Mr. Jerome's nature which must find a vent somewhere, and in so kindly and upright a man could only find it in indignationagainst those whom he held to be enemies of truth and goodness. Mr. Tryanhad not hitherto been to the White House, but yesterday, meeting Mr. Jerome in the street, he had at once accepted the invitation to tea, saying there was something he wished to talk about. He appeared worn andfatigued now, and after shaking hands with Mrs. Jerome, threw himselfinto a chair and looked out on the pretty garden with an air of relief. 

'What a nice place you have here, Mr. Jerome! I've not seen anything soquiet and pretty since I came to Milby. On Paddiford Common, where Ilive, you know, the bushes are all sprinkled with soot, and there's neverany quiet except in the dead of night. '

'Dear heart! dear heart! That's very bad--and for you, too, as hev tostudy. Wouldn't it be better for you to be somewhere more out i' thecountry like?'

'O no! I should lose so much time in going to and fro, and besides I liketo be _among_ the people. I've no face to go and preach resignation tothose poor things in their smoky air and comfortless homes, when I comestraight from every luxury myself. There are many things quite lawful forother men, which a clergyman must forego if he would do any good in amanufacturing population like this. '

Here the preparations for tea were crowned by the simultaneous appearanceof Lizzie and the crumpet. It is a pretty surprise, when one visits anelderly couple, to see a little figure enter in a white frock with ablond head as smooth as satin, round blue eyes, and a cheek like an appleblossom. A toddling little girl is a centre of common feeling which makesthe most dissimilar people understand each other; and Mr. Tryan looked atLizzie with that quiet pleasure which is always genuine. 

'Here we are, here we are!' said proud grandpapa. 'You didn't think we'dgot such a little gell as this, did you, Mr. Tryan? Why, it seems but th'other day since her mother was just such another. This is our littleLizzie, this is. Come an' shake hands wi' Mr. Tryan, Lizzie; come. '

Lizzie advanced without hesitation, and put out one hand, while shefingered her coral necklace with the other, and looked up into Mr. Tryan's face with a reconnoitring gaze. He stroked the satin head, andsaid in his gentlest voice, 'How do you do, Lizzie? will you give me akiss?' She put up her little bud of a mouth, and then retreating a littleand glancing down at her frock, said, --'Dit id my noo fock. I put it on'tod you wad toming. Tally taid you wouldn't 'ook at it. '

'Hush, hush, Lizzie, little gells must be seen and not heard, ' said Mrs. Jerome; while grandpapa, winking significantly, and looking radiant withdelight at Lizzie's extraordinary promise of cleverness, set her up onher high cane-chair by the side of grandma, who lost no time in shieldingthe beauties of the new frock with a napkin. 

'Well now, Mr. Tryan, ' said Mr. Jerome, in a very serious tone, when teahad been distributed, 'let me hear how you're a-goin' on about thelectur. When I was i' the town yisterday, I heared as there waspessecutin' schemes a-bein' laid again' you. I fear me those raskills 'llmek things very onpleasant to you. '

'I've no doubt they will attempt it; indeed, I quite expect there will bea regular mob got up on Sunday evening, as there was when the delegatesreturned, on purpose to annoy me and the congregation on our way tochurch. '

'Ah, they're capible o' anything, such men as Dempster an' Budd; an'Tomlinson backs 'em wi' money, though he can't wi' brains. Howiver, Dempster's lost one client by his wicked doins, an' I'm deceived if hewon't lose more nor one. I little thought, Mr. Tryan, when I put myaffairs into his hands twenty 'ear ago this Michaelmas, as he was to turnout a pessecutor o' religion. I niver lighted on a cliverer, promisineryoung man nor he was then. They talked of his bein' fond of a extry glassnow an' then, but niver nothin' like what he's come to since. An' it'shead-piece you must look for in a lawyer, Mr. Tryan, it's head-piece. Hiswife, too, was al'ys an uncommon favourite o' mine--poor thing! I hearsad stories about her now. But she's druv to it, she's druv to it, Mr. Tryan. A tender-hearted woman to the poor, she is, as iver lived; an' aspretty-spoken a woman as you need wish to talk to. Yes! I'd al'ys alikin' for Dempster an' his wife, spite o' iverything. But as soon asiver I heared o' that dilegate business, I says, says I, that man shallhev no more to do wi' my affairs. It may put me t' inconvenience, butI'll encourage no man as pessecutes religion. '

'He is evidently the brain and hand of the persecution, ' said Mr. Tryan. 'There may be a strong feeling against me in a large number of theinhabitants--it must be so from the great ignorance of spiritual thingsin this place. But I fancy there would have been no formal opposition tothe lecture, if Dempster had not planned it. I am not myself the leastalarmed at anything he can do; he will find I am not to be cowed ordriven away by insult or personal danger. God has sent me to this place, and, by His blessing, I'll not shrink from anything I may have toencounter in doing His work among the people. But I feel it right to callon all those who know the value of the Gospel, to stand by me publicly. Ithink--and Mr. Landor agrees with me--that it will be well for my friendsto proceed with me in a body to the church on Sunday evening. Dempster, you know, has pretended that almost all the respectable inhabitants areopposed to the lecture. Now, I wish that falsehood to be visiblycontradicted. What do you think of the plan? I have today been to seeseveral of my friends, who will make a point of being there to accompanyme, and will communicate with others on the subject. '

'I'll mek one, Mr. Tryan, I'll mek one. You shall not be wantin' in anysupport as I can give. Before you come to it, sir, Milby was a dead an'dark place; you are the fust man i' the Church to my knowledge as hasbrought the word o' God home to the people; an' I'll stan' by you, sir, I'll stan' by you. I'm a Dissenter, Mr. Tryan; I've been a Dissenter eversin' I was fifteen 'ear old; but show me good i' the Church, an' I'm aChurchman too. When I was a boy I lived at Tilston; you mayn't know theplace; the best part o' the land there belonged to Squire Sandeman; he'da club-foot, had Squire Sandeman--lost a deal o' money by canal shares. Well, sir, as I was sayin', I lived at Tilston, an' the rector there wasa terrible drinkin', fox-huntin' man; you niver see'd such a parish i'your time for wickedness; Milby's nothin' to it. Well, sir, my father wasa workin' man, an' couldn't afford to gi' me ony eddication, so I went toa night-school as was kep by a Dissenter, one Jacob Wright; an' it wasfrom that man, sir, as I got my little schoolin' an' my knowledge o'religion. I went to chapel wi' Jacob--he was a good man was Jacob--an' tochapel I've been iver since. But I'm no enemy o' the Church, sir, whenthe Church brings light to the ignorant and the sinful; an' that's whatyou're a-doin', Mr. Tryan. Yes, sir, I'll stan' by you. I'll go to churchwi' you o' Sunday evenin'. '

'You'd far better stay at home, Mr. Jerome, if I may give my opinion, 'interposed Mrs. Jerome. 'It's not as I hevn't ivery respect for you, Mr. Tryan, but Mr. Jerome 'ull do you no good by his interferin'. Dissentersare not at all looked on i' Milby, an' he's as nervous as iver he can be;he'll come back as ill as ill, an' niver let me hev a wink o' sleep allnight. '

Mrs. Jerome had been frightened at the mention of a mob, and herretrospective regard for the religious communion of her youth by no meansinspired her with the temper of a martyr. Her husband looked at her withan expression of tender and grieved remonstrance, which might have beenthat of the patient patriarch on the memorable occasion when he rebukedhis wife. 

'Susan, Susan, let me beg on you not to oppose me, and putstumblin'-blocks i' the way o' doing' what's right. I can't give up myconscience, let me give up what else I may. '

'Perhaps, ' said Mr. Tryan, feeling slightly uncomfortable, 'since you arenot very strong, my dear sir, it will be well, as Mrs. Jerome suggests, that you should not run the risk of any excitement. '

'Say no more, Mr. Tryan. I'll stan' by you, sir. It's my duty. It's thecause o' God, sir; it's the cause o' God. '

Mr. Tryan obeyed his impulse of admiration and gratitude, and put out hishand to the white-haired old man, saying, 'Thank you, Mr. Jerome, thankyou. '

Mr. Jerome grasped the proffered hand in silence, and then threw himselfback in his chair, casting a regretful look at his wife, which seemed tosay, 'Why don't you feel with me, Susan?'

The sympathy of this simple-minded old man was more precious to Mr. Tryanthan any mere onlooker could have imagined. To persons possessing a greatdeal of that facile psychology which prejudges individuals by means offormulae, and casts them, without further trouble, into duly letteredpigeon-holes, the Evangelical curate might seem to be doing simply whatall other men like to do--carrying out objects which were identified notonly with his theory, which is but a kind of secondary egoism, but alsowith the primary egoism of his feelings. Opposition may become sweet to aman when he has christened it persecution: a self-obtrusive, over-hastyreformer complacently disclaiming all merit, while his friends call him amartyr, has not in reality a career the most arduous to the fleshly mind. But Mr. Tryan was not cast in the mould of the gratuitous martyr. With apower of persistence which had been often blamed as obstinacy, he had anacute sensibility to the very hatred or ridicule he did not flinch fromprovoking. Every form of disapproval jarred him painfully; and, though hefronted his opponents manfully, and often with considerable warmth oftemper, he had no pugnacious pleasure in the contest. It was one of theweaknesses of his nature to be too keenly alive to every harsh wind ofopinion; to wince under the frowns of the foolish; to be irritated by theinjustice of those who could not possibly have the elements indispensablefor judging him rightly; and with all this acute sensibility to blame, this dependence on sympathy, he had for years been constrained into aposition of antagonism. No wonder, then, that good old Mr. Jerome'scordial words were balm to him. He had often been thankful to an oldwoman for saying 'God bless you'; to a little child for smiling at him;to a dog for submitting to be patted by him. 

Tea being over by this time, Mr. Tryan proposed a walk in the garden as ameans of dissipating all recollection of the recent conjugal dissidenceLittle Lizzie's appeal, 'Me go, gandpa!' could not be rejected, so shewas duly bonneted and pinafored, and then they turned out into theevening sunshine. Not Mrs. Jerome, however; she had a deeply-meditatedplan of retiring _ad interim_ to the kitchen and washing up the bestteathings, as a mode of getting forward with the sadly-retarded businessof the day. 

'This way, Mr. Tryan, this way, ' said the old gentleman; 'I must take youto my pastur fust, an' show you our cow--the best milker i' the county. An' see here at these backbuildins, how convenent the dairy is; I plannedit ivery bit myself. An' here I've got my little carpenter's shop an' myblacksmith's shop; I do no end o' jobs here myself. I niver could bear tobe idle, Mr. Tryan; I must al'ys be at somethin' or other. It was timefor me to lay by business an mek room for younger folks. I'd got moneyenough, wi' only one daughter to leave it to, an' I says to myself, saysI, it's time to leave off moitherin' myself wi' this world so much, an'give more time to thinkin' of another. But there's a many hours atweengetting up an' lyin' down, an' thoughts are no cumber; you can move aboutwi' a good many on 'em in your head. See, here's the pastur. '

A very pretty pasture it was, where the large-spotted short-horned cowquietly chewed the cud as she lay and looked sleepily at her admirers--adaintily-trimmed hedge all round, dotted here and there with amountain-ash or a cherry-tree. 

'I've a good bit more land besides this, worth your while to look at, butmayhap it's further nor you'd like to walk now. Bless you! I've welly an'acre o' potato-ground yonders; I've a good big family to supply, youknow. ' (Here Mr. Jerome winked and smiled significantly. ) 'An' that putsme i' mind, Mr. Tryan, o' summat I wanted to say to you. Clergymen likeyou, I know, see a deal more poverty an' that, than other folks, an' heva many claims on 'em more nor they can well meet; an' if you'll mek useo' my purse any time, or let me know where I can be o' any help, I'll tekit very kind on you. '

'Thank you, Mr. Jerome, I will do so, I promise you. I saw a sad caseyesterday; a collier--a fine broad-chested fellow about thirty--waskilled by the falling of a wall in the Paddiford colliery. I was in oneof the cottages near, when they brought him home on a door, and theshriek of the wife has been ringing in my ears ever since. There arethree little children. Happily the woman has her loom, so she will beable to keep out of the workhouse; but she looks very delicate. '

'Give me her name, Mr. Tryan, ' said Mr. Jerome, drawing out hispocket-book. 'I'll call an' see her. '

Deep was the fountain of pity in the good old man's heart! He often atehis dinner stintingly, oppressed by the thought that there were men, women, and children, with no dinner to sit down to, and would relieve hismind by going out in the afternoon to look for some need that he couldsupply, some honest struggle in which he could lend a helping hand. Thatany living being should want, was his chief sorrow; that any rationalbeing should waste, was the next. Sally, indeed, having been scolded bymaster for a too lavish use of sticks in lighting the kitchen fire, andvarious instances of recklessness with regard to candle ends, consideredhim 'as mean as aenythink;' but he had as kindly a warmth as the morningsunlight, and, like the sunlight, his goodness shone on all that came inhis way, from the saucy rosy-cheeked lad whom he delighted to make happywith a Christmas box, to the pallid sufferers up dim entries, languishingunder the tardy death of want and misery. 

It was very pleasant to Mr. Tryan to listen to the simple chat of the oldman--to walk in the shade of the incomparable orchard, and hear the storyof the crops yielded by the red-streaked apple-tree, and the quiteembarrassing plentifulness of the summer-pears--to drink-in the sweetevening breath of the garden, as they sat in the alcove--and so, for ashort interval, to feel the strain of his pastoral task relaxed. 

Perhaps he felt the return to that task through the dusty roads all themore painfully, perhaps something in that quiet shady home had remindedhim of the time before he had taken on him the yoke of self-denial. Thestrongest heart will faint sometimes under the feeling that enemies arebitter, and that friends only know half its sorrows. The most resolutesoul will now and then cast back a yearning look in treading the roughmountain-path, away from the greensward and laughing voices of thevalley. However it was, in the nine o'clock twilight that evening, whenMr. Tryan had entered his small study and turned the key in the door, hethrew himself into the chair before his writing-table, and, heedless ofthe papers there, leaned his face low on his hand, and moaned heavily. 

It is apt to be so in this life, I think. While we are coldly discussinga man's career, sneering at his mistakes, blaming his rashness, andlabelling his opinions--'he is Evangelical and narrow', or'Latitudinarian and Pantheistic' or 'Anglican and supercilious'--thatman, in his solitude, is perhaps shedding hot tears because his sacrificeis a hard one, because strength and patience are failing him to speak thedifficult word, and do the difficult deed. 

Chapter 9

Mr. Tryan showed no such symptoms of weakness on the critical Sunday. Heunhesitatingly rejected the suggestion that he should be taken to churchin Mr. Landor's carriage--a proposition which that gentleman made as anamendment on the original plan, when the rumours of meditated insultbecame alarming. Mr. Tryan declared he would have no precautions taken, but would simply trust in God and his good cause. Some of his more timidfriends thought this conduct rather defiant than wise, and reflectingthat a mob has great talents for impromptu, and that legal redress isimperfect satisfaction for having one's head broken with a brickbat, werebeginning to question their consciences very closely as to whether it wasnot a duty they owed to their families to stay at home on Sunday evening. These timorous persons, however, were in a small minority, and thegenerality of Mr. Tryan's friends and hearers rather exulted in anopportunity of braving insult for the sake of a preacher to whom theywere attached on personal as well as doctrinal grounds. Miss Pratt spokeof Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer, and observed that the present crisisafforded an occasion for emulating their heroism even in these degeneratetimes; while less highly instructed persons, whose memories were not wellstored with precedents, simply expressed their determination, as Mr. Jerome had done, to 'stan' by' the preacher and his cause, believing itto be the 'cause of God'. 

On Sunday evening, then, at a quarter past six, Mr. Tryan, setting outfrom Mr. Landor's with a party of his friends who had assembled there, was soon joined by two other groups from Mr. Pratt's and Mr. Dunn's; andstray persons on their way to church naturally falling into rank behindthis leading file, by the time they reached the entrance of OrchardStreet, Mr. Tryan's friends formed a considerable procession, walkingthree or four abreast. It was in Orchard Street, and towards the churchgates, that the chief crowd was collected; and at Mr. Dempster'sdrawing-room window, on the upper floor, a more select assembly ofAnti-Tryanites were gathered to witness the entertaining spectacle of theTryanites walking to church amidst the jeers and hootings of the crowd. 

To prompt the popular wit with appropriate sobriquets, numerous copies ofMr. Dempster's play-bill were posted on the walls, in suitably large andemphatic type. As it is possible that the most industrious collector ofmural literature may not have been fortunate enough to possess himself ofthis production, which ought by all means to be preserved amongst thematerials of our provincial religious history, I subjoin a faithful copy. 

 GRAND ENTERTAINMENT!!!

 To be given at Milby on Sunday evening next, by the

 FAMOUS COMEDIAN, TRY-IT-ON!

 And his first-rate company, including not only an

 UNPARALLELED CAST FOR COMEDY!

 But a Large Collection of _reclaimed and converted Animals_: Among the rest A Bear, who used to _dance!_

 A Parrot, once given to swearing!!

 _A Polygamous Pig!!!_ and A Monkey who used to _catch fleas on a Sunday!!!!_

 Together with a Pair of _regenerated_ LINNETS! With an entirely new song, and _plumage_. 

 MR. TRY-IT-ON

 Will first pass through the streets, in procession, with his unrivalled Company warranted to have their _eyes turned up higher_, and the _corners of their mouths turned down lower_, than any other company of Mountebanks in this circuit!

 AFTER WHICH

 The Theatre will be opened, and the entertainment will commence at HALF-PAST SIX

 When will be presented A piece, never before performed on any stage, entitled

 THE WOLF IN SHEEPS CLOTHING; _or_ THE METHODIST IN A MASK

 Mr. Boanerges Soft Sawder, . . . . MR. TRY-IT-ON. Old Ten-per-cent Godly, . . . . . MR. GANDER. Dr. Feedemup, . . . . . . . . MR. TONIC. Mr. Lime-Twig Lady-winner, . . . . MR. TRY-IT-ON. Miss Piety Bait-the-hook, . . . . MISS TONIC. Angelica, . . . . . . . . . MISS SERAPHINA TONIC. 

 After which A miscellaneous Musical Interlude, commencing with The _Lamentations of Jerom-iah!_ In nasal recitative. To be followed by The favourite Cackling Quartette, by Two Hen-birds who are _no chickens!_

 The well-known counter-tenor, Mr. Done, and a _Gander_, lineally descended from the Goose that laid golden eggs! To conclude with a GRAND CHORUS by the Entire Orchestra of Converted Animals!!

But owing to the unavoidable absence (from illness) of the _Bulldog, whohas left off fighting_, Mr. Tonic has kindly undertaken, at a moment'snotice, to supply the '_bark!_'

 The whole to conclude with a _Screaming Farce of_ THE PULPIT SNATCHER

 Mr. Saintly Smooth-face, . . . . MR. TRY-IT-ON! Mr. Worming Sneaker, . . . . . MR. TRY-IT-ON!! Mr. All-grace No-works, . . . . MR. TRY-IT-ON!!! Mr. Elect-and-Chosen Apewell, . . MR. TRY-IT-ON!!!! Mr. Malevolent Prayerful, . . . . MR. TRY-IT-ON!!!!! Mr. Foist-himself Everywhere, . . MR. TRY-IT-ON!!!!!! Mr. Flout-the-aged Upstart, . . . MR. TRY-IT-ON!!!!!!!

Admission Free. _A Collection_ will be made at the Doors. _Vivat Rex!_

This satire, though it presents the keenest edge of Milby wit, does notstrike you as lacerating, I imagine. But hatred is like fire--it makeseven light rubbish deadly. And Mr. Dempster's sarcasms were not merelyvisible on the walls; they were reflected in the derisive glances, andaudible in the jeering voices of the crowd. Through this pelting showerof nicknames and bad puns, with an _ad libitum_ accompaniment of groans, howls, hisses, and hee-haws, but of no heavier missiles, Mr. Tryan walkedpale and composed, giving his arm to old Mr. Landor, whose step wasfeeble. On the other side of him was Mr. Jerome, who still walked firmly, though his shoulders were slightly bowed. 

Outwardly Mr. Tryan was composed, but inwardly he was suffering acutelyfrom these tones of hatred and scorn. However strong his consciousness ofright, he found it no stronger armour against such weapons as derisiveglances and virulent words, than against stones and clubs: his consciencewas in repose, but his sensibility was bruised. 

Once more only did the Evangelical curate pass up Orchard Street followedby a train of friends; once more only was there a crowd assembled towitness his entrance through the church gates. But that second time novoice was heard above a whisper, and the whispers were words of sorrowand blessing. That second time, Janet Dempster was not looking on inscorn and merriment; her eyes were worn with grief and watching, and shewas following her beloved friend and pastor to the grave. 

Chapter 10

History, we know, is apt to repeat herself, and to foist very oldincidents upon us with only a slight change of costume. From the time ofXerxes downwards, we have seen generals playing the braggadocio at theoutset of their campaigns, and conquering the enemy with the greatestease in after-dinner speeches. But events are apt to be in disgustingdiscrepancy with the anticipations of the most ingenious tacticians; thedifficulties of the expedition are ridiculously at variance with ablecalculations; the enemy has the impudence not to fall into confusion ashad been reasonably expected of him; the mind of the gallant generalbegins to be distracted by news of intrigues against him at home, and, notwithstanding the handsome compliments he paid to Providence as hisundoubted patron before setting out, there seems every probability thatthe _Te Deums_ will be all on the other side. 

So it fell out with Mr. Dempster in his memorable campaign against theTryanites. After all the premature triumph of the return from Elmstoke, the battle of the Evening Lecture had been lost; the enemy was inpossession of the field; and the utmost hope remaining was, that by aharassing guerilla warfare he might be driven to evacuate the country. 

For some time this sort of warfare was kept up with considerable spirit. The shafts of Milby ridicule were made more formidable by being poisonedwith calumny; and very ugly stories, narrated with circumstantialminuteness, were soon in circulation concerning Mr. Tryan and hishearers, from which stories it was plainly deducible that Evangelicalismled by a necessary consequence to hypocritical indulgence in vice. Someold friendships were broken asunder, and there were near relations whofelt that religious differences, unmitigated by any prospect of a legacy, were a sufficient ground for exhibiting their family antipathy. Mr. Buddharangued his workmen, and threatened them with dismissal if they ortheir families were known to attend the evening lecture; and Mr. Tomlinson, on discovering that his foreman was a rank Tryanite, blusteredto a great extent, and would have cashiered that valuable functionary onthe spot, if such a retributive procedure had not been inconvenient. 

On the whole, however, at the end of a few months, the balance ofsubstantial loss was on the side of the Anti-Tryanites. Mr. Pratt, indeed, had lost a patient or two besides Mr. Dempster's family; but asit was evident that Evangelicalism had not dried up the stream of hisanecdote, or in the least altered his view of any lady's constitution, itis probable that a change accompanied by so few outward and visiblesigns, was rather the pretext than the ground of his dismissal in thoseadditional cases. Mr. Dunn was threatened with the loss of several goodcustomers, Mrs. Phipps and Mrs. Lowme having set the example of orderinghim to send in his bill; and the draper began to look forward to his nextstock-taking with an anxiety which was but slightly mitigated by theparallel his wife suggested between his own case and that of Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego, who were thrust into a burning fiery furnace. For, as he observed to her the next morning, with that perspicacity whichbelongs to the period of shaving, whereas their deliverance consisted inthe fact that their linen and woollen goods were not consumed, his owndeliverance lay in precisely the opposite result. But convenience, thatadmirable branch system from the main line of self-interest, makes us allfellow-helpers in spite of adverse resolutions. It is probable that nospeculative or theological hatred would be ultimately strong enough toresist the persuasive power of convenience: that a latitudinarian baker, whose bread was honourably free from alum, would command the custom ofany dyspeptic Puseyite; that an Arminian with the toothache would prefera skilful Calvinistic dentist to a bungler stanch against the doctrinesof Election and Final Perseverance, who would be likely to break thetooth in his head; and that a Plymouth Brother, who had a well furnishedgrocery shop in a favourable vicinage, would occasionally have thepleasure of furnishing sugar or vinegar to orthodox families that foundthemselves unexpectedly 'out of' those indispensable commodities. In thispersuasive power of convenience lay Mr. Dunn's ultimate security frommartyrdom. His drapery was the best in Milby; the comfortable use andwont of procuring satisfactory articles at a moment's notice proved toostrong for Anti-Tryanite zeal; and the draper could soon look forward tohis next stock-taking without the support of a Scriptural parallel. 

On the other hand, Mr. Dempster had lost his excellent client, Mr. Jerome--a loss which galled him out of proportion to the mere monetarydeficit it represented. The attorney loved money, but he loved powerstill better. He had always been proud of having early won the confidenceof a conventicle-goer, and of being able to 'turn the prop of Salem roundhis thumb'. Like most other men, too, he had a certain kindness towardsthose who had employed him when he was only starting in life; and just aswe do not like to part with an old weather-glass from our study, or atwo-feet ruler that we have carried in our pocket ever since we beganbusiness, so Mr. Dempster did not like having to erase his old client'sname from the accustomed drawer in the bureau. Our habitual life is likea wall hung with pictures, which has been shone on by the suns of manyyears: take one of the pictures away, and it leaves a definite blankspace, to which our eyes can never turn without a sensation ofdiscomfort. Nay, the involuntary loss of any familiar object almostalways brings a chill as from an evil omen; it seems to be the firstfinger-shadow of advancing death. 

From all these causes combined, Mr. Dempster could never think of hislost client without strong irritation, and the very sight of Mr. Jeromepassing in the street was wormwood to him. 

One day, when the old gentleman was coming up Orchard Street on his roanmare, shaking the bridle, and tickling her flank with the whip as usual, though there was a perfect mutual understanding that she was not toquicken her pace, Janet happened to be on her own door-step, and he couldnot resist the temptation of stopping to speak to that 'nice littlewoman', as he always called her, though she was taller than all the restof his feminine acquaintances. Janet, in spite of her disposition to takeher husband's part in all public matters, could bear no malice againsther old friend; so they shook hands. 

'Well, Mrs. Dempster, I'm sorry to my heart not to see you sometimes, that I am, ' said Mr. Jerome, in a plaintive tone. 'But if you've got anypoor people as wants help, and you know's deservin', send 'em to me, send'em to me, just the same. '

'Thank you, Mr. Jerome, that I will. Good-bye. '

Janet made the interview as short as she could, but it was not shortenough to escape the observation of her husband, who, as she feared, wason his mid-day return from his office at the other end of the street, andthis offence of hers, in speaking to Mr. Jerome, was the frequentlyrecurring theme of Mr. Dempster's objurgatory domestic eloquence. 

Associating the loss of his old client with Mr. Tryan's influence, Dempster began to know more distinctly why he hated the obnoxious curate. But a passionate hate, as well as a passionate love, demands some leisureand mental freedom. Persecution and revenge, like courtship and toadyism, will not prosper without a considerable expenditure of time andingenuity, and these are not to spare with a man whose law-business andliver are both beginning to show unpleasant symptoms. Such was thedisagreeable turn affairs were taking with Mr. Dempster, and, like thegeneral distracted by home intrigues, he was too much harassed himself tolay ingenious plans for harassing the enemy. 

Meanwhile, the evening lecture drew larger and larger congregations; notperhaps attracting many from that select aristocratic circle in which theLowmes and Pittmans were predominant, but winning the larger proportionof Mr. Crewe's morning and afternoon hearers, and thinning Mr. Stickney'sevening audiences at Salem. Evangelicalism was making its way in Milby, and gradually diffusing its subtle odour into chambers that were boltedand barred against it. The movement, like all other religious 'revivals', had a mixed effect. Religious ideas have the fate of melodies, which, once set afloat in the world, are taken up by all sorts of instruments, some of them woefully coarse, feeble, or out of tune, until people are indanger of crying out that the melody itself is detestable. It may be thatsome of Mr. Tryan's hearers had gained a religious vocabulary rather thanreligious experience; that here and there a weaver's wife, who, a fewmonths before, had been simply a silly slattern, was converted into thatmore complex nuisance, a silly and sanctimonious slattern; that the oldAdam, with the pertinacity of middle age, continued to tell fibs behindthe counter, notwithstanding the new Adam's addiction to Bible-readingand family prayer: that the children in the Paddiford Sunday school hadtheir memories crammed with phrases about the blood of cleansing, imputedrighteousness, and justification by faith alone, which an experiencelying principally in chuck-farthing, hop-scotch, parental slappings, andlongings after unattainable lollypop, served rather to darken than toillustrate; and that at Milby, in those distant days, as in all othertimes and places where the mental atmosphere is changing, and men areinhaling the stimulus of new ideas, folly often mistook itself forwisdom, ignorance gave itself airs of knowledge, and selfishness, turningits eyes upward, called itself religion. 

Nevertheless, Evangelicalism had brought into palpable existence andoperation in Milby society that idea of duty, that recognition ofsomething to be lived for beyond the mere satisfaction of self, which isto the moral life what the addition of a great central ganglion is toanimal life. No man can begin to mould himself on a faith or an ideawithout rising to a higher order of experience: a principle ofsubordination, of self-mastery, has been introduced into his nature; heis no longer a mere bundle of impressions, desires, and impulses. Whatever might be the weaknesses of the ladies who pruned the luxurianceof their lace and ribbons, cut out garments for the poor, distributedtracts, quoted Scripture, and defined the true Gospel, they had learnedthis--that there was a divine work to be done in life, a rule of goodnesshigher than the opinion of their neighbours; and if the notion of aheaven in reserve for themselves was a little too prominent, yet thetheory of fitness for that heaven consisted in purity of heart, inChrist-like compassion, in the subduing of selfish desires. They mightgive the name of piety to much that was only puritanic egoism; they mightcall many things sin that were not sin; but they had at least the feelingthat sin was to be avoided and resisted, and colour-blindness, which maymistake drab for scarlet, is better than total blindness, which sees nodistinction of colour at all. Miss Rebecca Linnet, in quiet attire, witha somewhat excessive solemnity of countenance, teaching at the Sundayschool, visiting the poor, and striving after a standard of purity andgoodness, had surely more moral loveliness than in those flauntingpeony-days, when she had no other model than the costumes of the heroinesin the circulating library. Miss Eliza Pratt, listening in rapt attentionto Mr. Tryan's evening lecture, no doubt found evangelical channels forvanity and egoism; but she was clearly in moral advance of Miss Phippsgiggling under her feathers at old Mr. Crewe's peculiarities ofenunciation. And even elderly fathers and mothers, with minds, like Mrs. Linnet's, too tough to imbibe much doctrine, were the better for havingtheir hearts inclined towards the new preacher as a messenger from God. They became ashamed, perhaps, of their evil tempers, ashamed of theirworldliness, ashamed of their trivial, futile past. The first conditionof human goodness is something to love; the second, something toreverence. And this latter precious gift was brought to Milby by Mr. Tryan and Evangelicalism. 

Yes, the movement was good, though it had that mixture of folly and evilwhich often makes what is good an offence to feeble and fastidious minds, who want human actions and characters riddled through the sieve of theirown ideas, before they can accord their sympathy or admiration. Suchminds, I daresay, would have found Mr. Tryan's character very much inneed of that riddling process. The blessed work of helping the worldforward, happily does not wait to be done by perfect men; and I shouldimagine that neither Luther nor John Bunyan, for example, would havesatisfied the modern demand for an ideal hero, who believes nothing butwhat is true, feels nothing but what is exalted, and does nothing butwhat is graceful. The real heroes, of God's making, are quite different:they have their natural heritage of love and conscience which they drewin with their mother's milk; they know one or two of those deep spiritualtruths which are only to be won by long wrestling with their own sins andtheir own sorrows; they have earned faith and strength so far as theyhave done genuine work; but the rest is dry barren theory, blankprejudice, vague hearsay. Their insight is blended with mere opinion;their sympathy is perhaps confined in narrow conduits of doctrine, instead of flowing forth with the freedom of a stream that blesses everyweed in its course; obstinacy or self-assertion will often interfuseitself with their grandest impulses; and their very deeds ofself-sacrifice are sometimes only the rebound of a passionate egoism. Soit was with Mr. Tryan: and any one looking at him with the bird's-eyeglance of a critic might perhaps say that he made the mistake ofidentifying Christianity with a too narrow doctrinal system; that he sawGod's work too exclusively in antagonism to the world, the flesh, and thedevil; that his intellectual culture was too limited--and so on; makingMr. Tryan the text for a wise discourse on the characteristics of theEvangelical school in his day. 

But I am not poised at that lofty height. I am on the level and in thepress with him, as he struggles his way along the stony road, through thecrowd of unloving fellow-men. He is stumbling, perhaps; his heart nowbeats fast with dread, now heavily with anguish; his eyes are sometimesdim with tears, which he makes haste to dash away; he pushes manfully on, with fluctuating faith and courage, with a sensitive failing body; atlast he falls, the struggle is ended, and the crowd closes over the spacehe has left. 

'One of the Evangelical clergy, a disciple of Venn, ' says the critic fromhis bird's-eye station. 'Not a remarkable specimen; the anatomy andhabits of his species have been determined long ago. '

Yet surely, surely the only true knowledge of our fellow-man is thatwhich enables us to feel with him--which gives us a fine ear for theheart-pulses that are beating under the mere clothes of circumstance andopinion. Our subtlest analysis of schools and sects must miss theessential truth, unless it be lit up by the love that sees in all formsof human thought and work, the life and death struggles of separate humanbeings. 

Chapter 11

Mr. Tryan's most unfriendly observers were obliged to admit that he gavehimself no rest. Three sermons on Sunday, a night-school for young men onTuesday, a cottage-lecture on Thursday, addresses to school-teachers, andcatechizing of school-children, with pastoral visits, multiplying as hisinfluence extended beyond his own district of Paddiford Common, wouldhave been enough to tax severely the powers of a much stronger man. Mr. Pratt remonstrated with him on his imprudence, but could not prevail onhim so far to economize time and strength as to keep a horse. On someground or other, which his friends found difficult to explain tothemselves, Mr. Tryan seemed bent on wearing himself out. His enemieswere at no loss to account for such a course. The Evangelical curate'sselfishness was clearly of too bad a kind to exhibit itself after theordinary manner of a sound, respectable selfishness. 'He wants to get thereputation of a saint, ' said one; 'He's eaten up with spiritual pride, 'said another; 'He's got his eye on some fine living, and wants to creepup the Bishop's sleeve, ' said a third. 

Mr. Stickney, of Salem, who considered all voluntary discomfort as aremnant of the legal spirit, pronounced a severe condemnation on thisself-neglect, and expressed his fear that Mr. Tryan was still far fromhaving attained true Christian liberty. Good Mr. Jerome eagerly seizedthis doctrinal view of the subject as a means of enforcing thesuggestions of his own benevolence; and one cloudy afternoon, in the endof November, he mounted his roan mare with the determination of riding toPaddiford and 'arguying' the point with Mr. Tryan. 

The old gentleman's face looked very mournful as he rode along the dismalPaddiford lanes, between rows of grimy houses, darkened with hand-looms, while the black dust was whirled about him by the cold November wind. Hewas thinking of the object which had brought him on this afternoon ride, and his thoughts, according to his habit when alone, found vent every nowand then in audible speech. It seemed to him, as his eyes rested on thisscene of Mr. Tryan's labours, that he could understand the clergyman'sself-privation without resorting to Mr. Stickney's theory of defectivespiritual enlightenment. Do not philosophic doctors tell us that we areunable to discern so much as a tree, except by an unconscious cunningwhich combines many past and separate sensations; that no one sense isindependent of another, so that in the dark we can hardly taste africassee, or tell whether our pipe is alight or not, and the mostintelligent boy, if accommodated with claws or hoofs instead of fingers, would be likely to remain on the lowest form? If so, it is easy tounderstand that our discernment of men's motives must depend on thecompleteness of the elements we can bring from our own susceptibility andour own experience. See to it, friend, before you pronounce a too hastyjudgement, that your own moral sensibilities are not of a hoofed orclawed character. The keenest eye will not serve, unless you have thedelicate fingers, with their subtle nerve filaments, which eludescientific lenses, and lose themselves in the invisible world of humansensations. 

As for Mr. Jerome, he drew the elements of his moral vision from thedepths of his veneration and pity. If he himself felt so much for thesepoor things to whom life was so dim and meagre, what must the clergymanfeel who had undertaken before God to be their shepherd?

'Ah!' he whispered, interruptedly, 'it's too big a load for hisconscience, poor man! He wants to mek himself their brother, like; can'tabide to preach to the fastin' on a full stomach. Ah! he's better nor weare, that's it--he's a deal better nor we are. '

Here Mr. Jerome shook his bridle violently, and looked up with an air ofmoral courage, as if Mr. Stickney had been present, and liable to takeoffence at this conclusion. A few minutes more brought him in front ofMrs. Wagstaff's, where Mr. Tryan lodged. He had often been here before, so that the contrast between this ugly square brick house, with itsshabby bit of grass-plot, stared at all round by cottage windows, and hisown pretty white home, set in a paradise of orchard and garden andpasture was not new to him; but he felt it with fresh force today, as heslowly fastened his roan by the bridle to the wooden paling, and knockedat the door. Mr. Tryan was at home, and sent to request that Mr. Jeromewould walk up into his study, as the fire was out in the parlour below. 

At the mention of a clergyman's study, perhaps, your too activeimagination conjures up a perfect snuggery, where the general air ofcomfort is rescued from a secular character by strong ecclesiasticalsuggestions in the shape of the furniture, the pattern of the carpet, andthe prints on the wall; where, if a nap is taken, it is an easy-chairwith a Gothic back, and the very feet rest on a warm and velvetysimulation of church windows; where the pure art of rigorous EnglishProtestantism smiles above the mantelpiece in the portrait of an eminentbishop, or a refined Anglican taste is indicated by a German print fromOverbeck; where the walls are lined with choice divinity in sombrebinding, and the light is softened by a screen of boughs with a greychurch in the background. 

But I must beg you to dismiss all such scenic prettiness, suitable asthey may be to a clergyman's character and complexion; for I have toconfess that Mr. Tryan's study was a very ugly little room indeed, withan ugly slapdash pattern on the walls, an ugly carpet on the floor, andan ugly view of cottage roofs and cabbage-gardens from the window. Hisown person his writing-table, and his book-case, were the only objects inthe room that had the slightest air of refinement; and the sole provisionfor comfort was a clumsy straight-backed arm-chair covered with fadedchintz. The man who could live in such a room, unconstrained by poverty, must either have his vision fed from within by an intense passion, or hemust have chosen that least attractive form of self-mortification whichwears no haircloth and has no meagre days, but accepts the vulgar, thecommonplace, and the ugly, whenever the highest duty seems to lie amongthem. 

'Mr. Tryan, I hope you'll excuse me disturbin' on you, ' said Mr. Jerome. 'But I'd summat partickler to say. '

'You don't disturb me at all, Mr. Jerome; I'm very glad to have a visitfrom you, ' said Mr. Tryan, shaking him heartily by the hand, and offeringhim the chintz-covered 'easy' chair; 'it is some time since I've had anopportunity of seeing you, except on a Sunday. '

'Ah, sir! your time's so taken up, I'm well aware o' that; it's not onlywhat you hev to do, but it's goin' about from place to place; an' youdon't keep a hoss, Mr. Tryan. You don't take care enough o' yourself--youdon't indeed, an' that's what I come to talk to y' about. '

'That's very good of you, Mr. Jerome; but I assure you I think walkingdoes me no harm. It is rather a relief to me after speaking or writing. You know I have no great circuit to make. The farthest distance I have towalk is to Milby Church, and if ever I want a horse on a Sunday, I hireRadley's, who lives not many hundred yards from me. '

'Well, but now! the winter's comin' on, an' you'll get wet i' your feet, an' Pratt tells me as your constitution's dillicate, as anybody may see, for the matter o' that, wi'out bein' a doctor. An' this is the light Ilook at it in, Mr. Tryan: who's to fill up your place, if you was to bedisabled, as I may say? Consider what a valyable life yours is. You'vebegun a great work i' Milby, and so you might carry it on, if you'd yourhealth and strength. The more care you take o' yourself, the longeryou'll live, belike, God willing, to do good to your fellow-creaturs. '

'Why, my dear Mr. Jerome, I think I should not be a long-lived man in anycase; and if I were to take care of myself under the pretext of doingmore good, I should very likely die and leave nothing done after all. '

'Well! but keepin' a hoss wouldn't hinder you from workin'. It 'ud helpyou to do more, though Pratt says as it's usin' your voice so constant asdoes you the most harm. Now, isn't it--I'm no scholard, Mr. Tryan, an'I'm not a-goin' to dictate to you--but isn't it a'most a-killin' o'yourself, to go on a' that way beyond your strength? We mustn't flingower lives away. '

'No, not fling them away lightly, but we are permitted to lay down ourlives in a right cause. There are many duties, as you know, Mr. Jerome, which stand before taking care of our own lives. '

'Ah! I can't arguy wi' you, Mr. Tryan; but what I wanted to say'sthis--There's my little chacenut hoss; I should take it quite a kindnessif you'd hev him through the winter an' ride him. I've thought o' sellin'him a many times, for Mrs. Jerome can't abide him; and what do I want wi'two nags? But I'm fond o' the little chacenut, an' I shouldn't like tosell him. So if you'll only ride him for me, you'll do me a kindness--youwill, indeed, Mr. Tryan. '

'Thank you, Mr. Jerome. I promise you to ask for him, when I feel that Iwant a nag. There is no man I would more gladly be indebted to than you;but at present I would rather not have a horse. I should ride him verylittle, and it would be an inconvenience to me to keep him rather thanotherwise. '

Mr. Jerome looked troubled and hesitating, as if he had something on hismind that would not readily shape itself into words. At last he said, 'You'll excuse me, Mr. Tryan, I wouldn't be takin' a liberty, but I knowwhat great claims you hev on you as a clergyman. Is it th' expense, Mr. Tryan? is it the money?'

'No, my dear sir. I have much more than a single man needs. My way ofliving is quite of my own choosing, and I am doing nothing but what Ifeel bound to do, quite apart from money considerations. We cannot judgefor one another, you know; we have each our peculiar weaknesses andtemptations. I quite admit that it might be right for another man toallow himself more luxuries, and I assure you I think it no superiorityin myself to do without them. On the contrary, if my heart were lessrebellious, and if I were less liable to temptation, I should not needthat sort of self-denial. But, ' added Mr. Tryan, holding out his hand toMr. Jerome, 'I understand your kindness, and bless you for it. If I wanta horse, I shall ask for the chesnut. '

Mr. Jerome was obliged to rest contented with this promise, and rode homesorrowfully, reproaching himself with not having said one thing he meantto say when setting out, and with having 'clean forgot' the arguments hehad intended to quote from Mr. Stickney. 

Mr. Jerome's was not the only mind that was seriously disturbed by theidea that the curate was over-working himself. There were tender women'shearts in which anxiety about the state of his affections was beginningto be merged in anxiety about the state of his health. Miss Eliza Pratthad at one time passed through much sleepless cogitation on thepossibility of Mr. Tryan's being attached to some lady at a distance--atLaxeter, perhaps, where he had formerly held a curacy; and her fine eyeskept close watch lest any symptom of engaged affections on his partshould escape her. It seemed an alarming fact that his handkerchiefs werebeautifully marked with hair, until she reflected that he had anunmarried sister of whom he spoke with much affection as his father'scompanion and comforter. Besides, Mr. Tryan had never paid any distantvisit, except one for a few days to his father, and no hint escaped himof his intending to take a house, or change his mode of living. No! hecould not be engaged, though he might have been disappointed. But thislatter misfortune is one from which a devoted clergyman has been known torecover, by the aid of a fine pair of grey eyes that beam on him withaffectionate reverence. Before Christmas, however, her cogitations beganto take another turn. She heard her father say very confidently that'Tryan was consumptive, and if he didn't take more care of himself, hislife would not be worth a year's purchase;' and shame at havingspeculated on suppositions that were likely to prove so false, sent poorMiss Eliza's feelings with all the stronger impetus into the one channelof sorrowful alarm at the prospect of losing the pastor who had opened toher a new life of piety and self-subjection. It is a sad weakness in us, after all, that the thought of a man's death hallows him anew to us; asif life were not sacred too--as if it were comparatively a light thing tofail in love and reverence to the brother who has to climb the wholetoilsome steep with us, and all our tears and tenderness were due to theone who is spared that hard journey. 

The Miss Linnets, too, were beginning to take a new view of the future, entirely uncoloured by jealousy of Miss Eliza Pratt. 

'Did you notice, ' said Mary, one afternoon when Mrs. Pettifer was takingtea with them--'did you notice that short dry cough of Mr. Tryan'syesterday? I think he looks worse and worse every week, and I only wish Iknew his sister; I would write to her about him. I'm sure somethingshould be done to make him give up part of his work, and he will listento no one here. '

'Ah, ' said Mrs. Pettifer, 'it's a thousand pities his father and sistercan't come and live with him, if he isn't to marry. But I wish with allmy heart he could have taken to some nice woman as would have made acomfortable home for him. I used to think he might take to Eliza Pratt;she's a good girl, and very pretty; but I see no likelihood of it now. '

'No, indeed. ' said Rebecca, with some emphasis: 'Mr. Tryan's heart is notfor any woman to win; it is all given to his work; and I could never wishto see him with a young inexperienced wife who would be a drag on himinstead of a help-mate. '

'He'd need have somebody, young or old, ' observed Mrs. Linnet, 'to see ashe wears a flannel wescoat, an' changes his stockins when he comes in. It's my opinion he's got that cough wi' sittin i' wet shoes and stockins;an' that Mrs. Wagstaff's a poor addle-headed thing; she doesn't half tekcare on him. '

'O mother!' said Rebecca, 'she's a very pious woman. And I'm sure shethinks it too great a privilege to have Mr. Tryan with her, not to do thebest she can to make him comfortable. She can't help her rooms beingshabby. '

'I've nothing to say again' her piety, my dear; but I know very well Ishouldn't like her to cook my victual. When a man comes in hungry an'tired, piety won't feed him, I reckon. Hard carrots 'ull lie heavy on hisstomach, piety or no piety. I called in one day when she was dishin' upMr. Tryan's dinner, an' I could see the potatoes was as watery as watery. It's right enough to be speritial--I'm no enemy to that; but I like mypotatoes mealy. I don't see as anybody 'ull go to heaven the sooner fornot digestin' their dinner--providin' they don't die sooner, as mayhapMr. Tryan will, poor dear man!'

'It will be a heavy day for us all when that comes to pass, ' said Mrs. Pettifer. 'We shall never get anybody to fill up _that_ gap. There's thenew clergyman that's just come to Shepperton--Mr. Parry; I saw him theother day at Mrs. Bond's. He may be a very good man, and a fine preacher;they say he is; but I thought to myself, What a difference between himand Mr. Tryan! He's a sharp-sort-of-looking man, and hasn't that feelingway with him that Mr. Tryan has. What is so wonderful to me in Mr. Tryanis the way he puts himself on a level with one, and talks to one like abrother. I'm never afraid of telling him anything. He never seems to lookdown on anybody. He knows how to lift up those that are cast down, ifever man did. '

'Yes, ' said Mary. 'And when I see all the faces turned up to him inPaddiford Church. I often think how hard it would be for any clergymanwho had to come after him; he has made the people love him so. '

Chapter 12

In her occasional visits to her near neighbour Mrs. Pettifer, too old afriend to be shunned because she was a Tryanite, Janet was obligedsometimes to hear allusions to Mr. Tryan, and even to listen to hispraises, which she usually met with playful incredulity. 

'Ah, well, ' she answered one day, 'I like dear old Mr. Crewe and hispipes a great deal better than your Mr. Tryan and his Gospel. When I wasa little toddle, Mr. And Mrs. Crewe used to let me play about in theirgarden, and have a swing between the great elm-trees, because mother hadno garden. I like people who are kind; kindness is my religion; andthat's the reason I like you, dear Mrs. Pettifer, though you are aTryanite. '

'But that's Mr. Tryan's religion too--at least partly. There's nobody cangive himself up more to doing good amongst the poor; and he thinks oftheir bodies too, as well as their souls. '

'O yes, yes; but then he talks about faith, and grace, and all that, making people believe they are better than others, and that God lovesthem more than He does the rest of the world. I know he has put a greatdeal of that into Sally Martin's head, and it has done her no good atall. She was as nice, honest, patient a girl as need be before; and nowshe fancies she has new light and new wisdom. I don't like thosenotions. '

'You mistake him, indeed you do, my dear Mrs. Dempster; I wish you'd goand hear him preach. '

'Hear him preach! Why, you wicked woman, you would persuade me to disobeymy husband, would you? O, shocking! I shall run away from you. Good-bye. '

A few days after this conversation, however, Janet went to Sally Martin'sabout three o'clock in the afternoon. The pudding that had been sent infor herself and 'Mammy, ' struck her as just the sort of delicate morselthe poor consumptive girl would be likely to fancy, and in her usualimpulsive way she had started up from the dinner table at once, put onher bonnet, and set off with a covered plateful to the neighbouringstreet. When she entered the house there was no one to be seen; but inthe little sideroom where Sally lay, Janet heard a voice. It was one shehad not heard before, but she immediately guessed it to be Mr. Tryan's. Her first impulse was to set down her plate and go away, but Mrs. Martinmight not be in, and then there would be no one to give Sally thatdelicious bit of pudding. So she stood still, and was obliged to hearwhat Mr. Tryan was saying. He was interrupted by one of the invalid'sviolent fits of coughing. 

'It is very hard to bear, is it not?' he said when she was still again. 'Yet God seems to support you under it wonderfully. Pray for me, Sally, that I may have strength too when the hour of great suffering comes. Itis one of my worst weaknesses to shrink from bodily pain, and I think thetime is perhaps not far off when I shall have to bear what you arebearing. But now I have tired you. We have talked enough. Good-bye. '

Janet was surprised, and forgot her wish not to encounter Mr. Tryan: thetone and the words were so unlike what she had expected to hear. Therewas none of the self-satisfied unction of the teacher, quoting, orexhorting, or expounding, for the benefit of the hearer, but a simpleappeal for help, a confession of weakness. Mr. Tryan had his deeply-felttroubles, then? Mr. Tryan, too, like herself, knew what it was to trembleat a foreseen trial--to shudder at an impending burthen, heavier than hefelt able to bear?

The most brilliant deed of virtue could not have inclined Janet'sgood-will towards Mr. Tryan so much as this fellowship in suffering, andthe softening thought was in her eyes when he appeared in the doorway, pale, weary, and depressed. The sight of Janet standing there with theentire absence of self-consciousness which belongs to a new and vividimpression, made him start and pause a little. Their eyes met, and theylooked at each other gravely for a few moments. Then they bowed, and Mr. Tryan passed out. 

There is a power in the direct glance of a sincere and loving human soul, which will do more to dissipate prejudice and kindle charity than themost elaborate arguments. The fullest exposition of Mr. Tryan's doctrinemight not have sufficed to convince Janet that he had not an odiousself-complacency in believing himself a peculiar child of God; but onedirect, pathetic look of his had dissociated him with that conception forever. 

This happened late in the autumn, not long before Sally Martin died. Janet mentioned her new impression to no one, for she was afraid ofarriving at a still more complete contradiction of her former ideas. Wehave all of us considerable regard for our past self, and are not fond ofcasting reflections on that respected individual by a total negation ofhis opinions. Janet could no longer think of Mr. Tryan without sympathy. But she still shrank from the idea of becoming his hearer and admirer. That was a reversal of the past which was as little accordant with herinclination as her circumstances. 

And indeed this interview with Mr. Tryan was soon thrust into thebackground of poor Janet's memory by the daily thickening miseries of herlife. 

Chapter 13

The loss of Mr. Jerome as a client proved only the beginning ofannoyances to Dempster. That old gentleman had in him the vigorousremnant of an energy and perseverance which had created his own fortune;and being, as I have hinted, given to chewing the cud of a righteousindignation with considerable relish, he was determined to carry on hisretributive war against the persecuting attorney. Having some influencewith Mr. Pryme, who was one of the most substantial rate-payers in theneighbouring parish of Dingley, and who had himself a complex andlong-standing private account with Dempster, Mr. Jerome stirred up thisgentleman to an investigation of some suspicious points in the attorney'sconduct of the parish affairs. The natural consequence was a personalquarrel between Dempster and Mr. Pryme; the client demanded his account, and then followed the old story of an exorbitant lawyer's bill, with theunpleasant anti-climax of taxing. 

These disagreeables, extending over many months, ran along side by sidewith the pressing business of Mr. Armstrong's lawsuit, which wasthreatening to take a turn rather depreciatory of Dempster's professionalprevision; and it is not surprising that, being thus kept in a constantstate of irritated excitement about his own affairs, he had little timefor the further exhibition of his public spirit, or for rallying theforlorn hope of sound churchmanship against cant and hypocrisy. Not a fewpersons who had a grudge against him, began to remark, with satisfaction, that 'Dempster's luck was forsaking him'; particularly Mrs. Linnet, whothought she saw distinctly the gradual ripening of a providential scheme, whereby a just retribution would be wrought on the man who had deprivedher of Pye's Croft. On the other hand, Dempster's well-satisfied clients. Who were of opinion that the punishment of his wickedness mightconveniently be deferred to another world, noticed with some concern thathe was drinking more than ever, and that both his temper and his drivingwere becoming more furious. Unhappily those additional glasses of brandy, that exasperation of loud-tongued abuse, had other effects than any thatentered into the contemplation of anxious clients: they were the littlesuper-added symbols that were perpetually raising the sum of home misery. 

Poor Janet! how heavily the months rolled on for her, laden with freshsorrows as the summer passed into autumn, the autumn into winter, and thewinter into spring again. Every feverish morning, with its blanklistlessness and despair, seemed more hateful than the last; every comingnight more impossible to brave without arming herself in leaden stupor. The morning light brought no gladness to her: it seemed only to throw itsglare on what had happened in the dim candle-light--on the cruel manseated immovable in drunken obstinacy by the dead fire and dying lightsin the dining-room, rating her in harsh tones, reiterating oldreproaches--or on a hideous blank of something unremembered, somethingthat must have made that dark bruise on her shoulder, which aches as shedressed herself. 

Do you wonder how it was that things had come to this pass--what offenceJanet had committed in the early years of marriage to rouse the brutalhatred of this man? The seeds of things are very small: the hours thatlie between sunrise and the gloom of midnight are travelled through bytiniest markings of the clock: and Janet, looking back along the fifteenyears of her married life, hardly knew how or where this total miserybegan; hardly knew when the sweet wedded love and hope that had set forever had ceased to make a twilight of memory and relenting, before theon-coming of the utter dark. 

Old Mrs. Dempster thought she saw the true beginning of it all in Janet'swant of housekeeping skill and exactness. 'Janet, ' she said to herself, 'was always running about doing things for other people, and neglectingher own house. That provokes a man: what use is it for a woman to beloving, and making a fuss with her husband, if she doesn't take care andkeep his home just as he likes it; if she isn't at hand when he wantsanything done; if she doesn't attend to all his wishes, let them be assmall as they may? That was what I did when I was a wife, though I didn'tmake half so much fuss about loving my husband. Then, Janet had nochildren. ' . . . Ah! there Mammy Dempster had touched a true spring, notperhaps of her son's cruelty, but of half Janet's misery. If she had hadbabes to rock to sleep--little ones to kneel in their night-dress and saytheir prayers at her knees--sweet boys and girls to put their young armsround her neck and kiss away her tears, her poor hungry heart would havebeen fed with strong love, and might never have needed that fiery poisonto still its cravings. Mighty is the force of motherhood! says the greattragic poet to us across the ages, finding, as usual, the simplest wordsfor the sublimest fact--[Greek: deinon to tiktein estin. ] It transformsall things by its vital heat: it turns timidity into fierce courage, anddreadless defiance into tremulous submission; it turns thoughtlessnessinto foresight, and yet stills all anxiety into calm content; it makesselfishness become self-denial, and gives even to hard vanity the glanceof admiring love. Yes! if Janet had been a mother, she might have beensaved from much sin, and therefore from much of her sorrow. 

But do not believe that it was anything either present or wanting in poorJanet that formed the motive of her husband's cruelty. Cruelty, likeevery other vice, requires no motive outside itself--it only requiresopportunity. You do not suppose Dempster had any motive for drinkingbeyond the craving for drink; the presence of brandy was the onlynecessary condition. And an unloving, tyrannous, brutal man needs nomotive to prompt his cruelty; he needs only the perpetual presence of awoman he can call his own. A whole park full of tame or timid-eyedanimals to torment at his will would not serve him so well to glut hislust of torture; they could not feel as one woman does; they could notthrow out the keen retort which whets the edge of hatred. 

Janet's bitterness would overflow in ready words; she was not to be mademeek by cruelty; she would repent of nothing in the face of injustice, though she was subdued in a moment by a word or a look that recalled theold days of fondness; and in times of comparative calm would oftenrecover her sweet woman's habit of caressing playful affection. But suchdays were become rare, and poor Janet's soul was kept like a vexed sea, tossed by a new storm before the old waves have fallen. Proud, angryresistance and sullen endurance were now almost the only alternations sheknew. She would bear it all proudly to the world, but proudly towards himtoo; her woman's weakness might shriek a cry for pity under a heavy blow, but voluntarily she would do nothing to mollify him, unless he firstrelented. What had she ever done to him but love him too well--butbelieve in him too foolishly? He had no pity on her tender flesh; hecould strike the soft neck he had once asked to kiss. Yet she would notadmit her wretchedness; she had married him blindly, and she would bearit out to the terrible end, whatever that might be. Better this miserythan the blank that lay for her outside her married home. 

But there was one person who heard all the plaints and all the outburstsof bitterness and despair which Janet was never tempted to pour into anyother ear; and alas! in her worst moments, Janet would throw out wildreproaches against that patient listener. For the wrong that rouses ourangry passions finds only a medium in us; it passes through us like avibration, and we inflict what we have suffered. 

Mrs. Raynor saw too clearly all through the winter that things weregetting worse in Orchard Street. She had evidence enough of it in Janet'svisits to her; and, though her own visits to her daughter were so timedthat she saw little of Dempster personally, she noticed many indicationsnot only that he was drinking to greater excess, but that he wasbeginning to lose that physical power of supporting excess which had longbeen the admiration of such fine spirits as Mr. Tomlinson. It seemed asif Dempster had some consciousness of this--some new distrust of himself;for, before winter was over, it was observed that he had renounced hishabit of driving out alone, and was never seen in his gig without aservant by his side. 

Nemesis is lame, but she is of colossal stature, like the gods; andsometimes, while her sword is not yet unsheathed, she stretches out herhuge left arm and grasps her victim. The mighty hand is invisible, butthe victim totters under the dire clutch. 

The various symptoms that things were getting worse with the Dempstersafforded Milby gossip something new to say on an old subject. Mrs. Dempster, every one remarked, looked more miserable than ever, though shekept up the old pretence of being happy and satisfied. She was scarcelyever seen, as she used to be, going about on her good-natured errands;and even old Mrs. Crewe, who had always been wilfully blind to anythingwrong in her favourite Janet, was obliged to admit that she had notseemed like herself lately. 'The poor thing's out of health, ' said thekind little old lady, in answer to all gossip about Janet; 'her headachesalways were bad, and I know what headaches are; why, they make one quitedelirious sometimes. ' Mrs. Phipps, for her part, declared she would neveraccept an invitation to Dempster's again; it was getting so verydisagreeable to go there, Mrs. Dempster was often 'so strange'. To besure, there were dreadful stories about the way Dempster used his wife;but in Mrs. Phipps's opinion, it was six of one and half-a-dozen of theother. Mrs. Dempster had never been like other women; she had always aflighty way with her, carrying parcels of snuff to old Mrs. Tooke, andgoing to drink tea with Mrs. Brinley, the carpenter's wife; and thennever taking care of her clothes, always wearing the same things week-dayor Sunday. A man has a poor look-out with a wife of that sort. Mr. Phipps, amiable and laconic, wondered how it was women were so fond ofrunning each other down. 

Mr. Pratt having been called in provisionally to a patient of Mr. Pilgrim's in a case of compound fracture, observed in a friendly colloquywith his brother surgeon the next day, --'So Dempster has left off drivinghimself, I see; he won't end with a broken neck after all. You'll have acase of meningitis and delirium tremens instead. '

'Ah, ' said Mr. Pilgrim, 'he can hardly stand it much longer at the ratehe's going on, one would think. He's been confoundedly cut up about thatbusiness of Armstrong's, I fancy. It may do him some harm, perhaps, butDempster must have feathered his nest pretty well; he can afford to losea little business. '

'His business will outlast him, that's pretty clear, ' said Pratt; 'he'llrun down like a watch with a broken spring one of these days. '

Another prognostic of evil to Dempster came at the beginning of March. For then little 'Mamsey' died--died suddenly. The housemaid found herseated motionless in her arm-chair, her knitting fallen down, and thetortoise-shell cat reposing on it unreproved. The little white old womanhad ended her wintry age of patient sorrow, believing to the last that'Robert might have been a good husband as he had been a good son. '

When the earth was thrown on Mamsey's coffin, and the son, in crape scarfand hatband, turned away homeward, his good angel, lingering withoutstretched wing on the edge of the grave, cast one despairing lookafter him, and took flight for ever. 

Chapter 14

The last week in March--three weeks after old Mrs. Dempsterdied--occurred the unpleasant winding-up of affairs between Dempster andMr. Pryme, and under this additional source of irritation the attorney'sdiurnal drunkenness had taken on its most ill-tempered and brutal phase. On the Friday morning, before setting out for Rotherby, he told his wifethat he had invited 'four men' to dinner at half-past six that evening. The previous night had been a terrible one for Janet, and when herhusband broke his grim morning silence to say these few words, she waslooking so blank and listless that he added in a loud sharp key, 'Do youhear what I say? or must I tell the cook?' She started, and said, 'Yes, Ihear. '

'Then mind and have a dinner provided, and don't go mooning about likecrazy Jane. '

Half an hour afterwards Mrs. Raynor, quietly busy in her kitchen with herhousehold labours--for she had only a little twelve-year-old girl as aservant--heard with trembling the rattling of the garden gate and theopening of the outer door. She knew the step, and in one short moment shelived beforehand through the coming scene. She hurried out of thekitchen, and there in the passage, as she had felt, stood Janet, her eyesworn as if by night-long watching, her dress careless, her step languid. No cheerful morning greeting to her mother--no kiss. She turned into theparlour, and, seating herself on the sofa opposite her mother's chair, looked vacantly at the walls and furniture until the corners of her mouthbegan to tremble, and her dark eyes filled with tears that fell unwipeddown her cheeks. The mother sat silently opposite to her, afraid tospeak. She felt sure there was nothing new the matter--sure that thetorrent of words would come sooner or later. 

'Mother! why don't you speak to me?' Janet burst out at last; 'you don'tcare about my suffering; you are blaming me because I feel--because I ammiserable. '

'My child, I am not blaming you--my heart is bleeding for you. Your headis bad this morning--you have had a bad night. Let me make you a cup oftea now. Perhaps you didn't like your breakfast. '

'Yes, that is what you always think, mother. It is the old story, youthink. You don't ask me what it is I have had to bear. You are tired ofhearing me. You are cruel, like the rest; every one is cruel in thisworld. Nothing but blame--blame--blame; never any pity. God is cruel tohave sent me into the world to bear all this misery. '

'Janet, Janet, don't say so. It is not for us to judge; we must submit;we must be thankful for the gift of life. '

'Thankful for life! Why should I be thankful? God has made me with aheart to feel, and He has sent me nothing but misery. How could I helpit? How could I know what would come? Why didn't you tell me, mother?--why did you let me marry? You knew what brutes men could be; andthere's no help for me--no hope. I can't kill myself; I've tried; but Ican't leave this world and go to another. There may be no pity for methere, as there is none here. '

'Janet, my child, there _is_ pity. Have I ever done anything but loveyou? And there is pity in God. Hasn't He put pity into your heart formany a poor sufferer? Where did it come from, if not from Him?'

Janet's nervous irritation now broke out into sobs instead ofcomplainings; and her mother was thankful, for after that crisis therewould very likely come relenting, and tenderness, and comparative calm. She went out to make some tea, and when she returned with the tray in herhands, Janet had dried her eyes and now turned them towards her motherwith a faint attempt to smile; but the poor face, in its sad blurredbeauty, looked all the more piteous. 

'Mother will insist upon her tea, ' she said, 'and I really think I candrink a cup. But I must go home directly, for there are people coming todinner. Could you go with me and help me, mother?'

Mrs. Raynor was always ready to do that. She went to Orchard Street withJanet, and remained with her through the day--comforted, as eveningapproached, to see her become more cheerful and willing to attend to hertoilette. At half-past five everything was in order; Janet was dressed;and when the mother had kissed her and said good-bye, she could not helppausing a moment in sorrowful admiration at the tall rich figure, lookingall the grander for the plainness of the deep mourning dress, and thenoble face with its massy folds of black hair, made matronly by a simplewhite cap. Janet had that enduring beauty which belongs to pure majesticoutline and depth of tint. Sorrow and neglect leave their traces on suchbeauty, but it thrills us to the last, like a glorious Greek temple, which, for all the loss it has suffered from time and barbarous hands, has gained a solemn history, and fills our imagination the more becauseit is incomplete to the sense. 

It was six o'clock before Dempster returned from Rotherby. He hadevidently drunk a great deal, and was in an angry humour; but Janet, whohad gathered some little courage and forbearance from the consciousnessthat she had done her best to-day, was determined to speak pleasantly tohim. 

'Robert, ' she said gently, as she saw him seat himself in the dining-roomin his dusty snuffy clothes, and take some documents out of his pocket, 'will you not wash and change your dress? It will refresh you. '

'Leave me alone, will you?' said Dempster, in his most brutal tone. 

'Do change your coat and waistcoat, they are so dusty. I've laid all yourthings out ready. '

'O, you have, have you?' After a few minutes he rose very deliberatelyand walked upstairs into his bedroom. Janet had often been scolded beforefor not laying out his clothes, and she thought now, not without somewonder, that this attention of hers had brought him to compliance. 

Presently he called out, 'Janet!' and she went upstairs. 

'Here! Take that!' he said, as soon as she reached the door, flinging ather the coat she had laid out. 'Another time, leave me to do as I please, will you?'

The coat, flung with great force, only brushed her shoulder, and fellsome distance within the drawing-room, the door of which stood open justopposite. She hastily retreated as she saw the waistcoat coming, and oneby one the clothes she had laid out were all flung into the drawing-room. 

Janet's face flushed with anger, and for the first time in her life herresentment overcame the long cherished pride that made her hide hergriefs from the world. There are moments when by some strange impulse wecontradict our past selves--fatal moments, when a fit of passion, like alava stream, lays low the work of half our lives. Janet thought, 'I willnot pick up the clothes; they shall lie there until the visitors come, and he shall be ashamed of himself. '

There was a knock at the door, and she made haste to seat herself in thedrawing-room, lest the servant should enter and remove the clothes, whichwere lying half on the table and half on the ground. Mr. Lowme enteredwith a less familiar visitor, a client of Dempster's, and the next momentDempster himself came in. 

His eye fell at once on the clothes, and then turned for an instant witha devilish glance of concentrated hatred on Janet, who, still flushed andexcited, affected unconsciousness. After shaking hands with his visitorshe immediately rang the bell. 

'Take those clothes away, ' he said to the servant, not looking at Janetagain. 

During dinner, she kept up her assumed air of indifference, and tried toseem in high spirits, laughing and talking more than usual. In reality, she felt as if she had defied a wild beast within the four walls of hisden, and he was crouching backward in preparation for his deadly spring. Dempster affected to take no notice of her, talked obstreperously, anddrank steadily. 

About eleven the party dispersed, with the exception of Mr. Budd, who hadjoined them after dinner, and appeared disposed to stay drinking a littlelonger. Janet began to hope that he would stay long enough for Dempsterto become heavy and stupid, and so to fall asleep down-stairs, which wasa rare but occasional ending of his nights. She told the servants to situp no longer, and she herself undressed and went to bed, trying to cheather imagination into the belief that the day was ended for her. But whenshe lay down, she became more intensely awake than ever. Everything shehad taken this evening seemed only to stimulate her senses and herapprehensions to new vividness. Her heart beat violently, and she heardevery sound in the house. 

At last, when it was twelve, she heard Mr. Budd go out; she heard thedoor slam. Dempster had not moved. Was he asleep? Would he forget? Theminute seemed long, while, with a quickening pulse, she was on thestretch to catch every sound. 

'Janet!' The loud jarring voice seemed to strike her like a hurledweapon. 

'Janet!' he called again, moving out of the dining-room to the foot ofthe stairs. 

There was a pause of a minute. 

'If you don't come, I'll kill you. '

Another pause, and she heard him turn back into the dining-room. He wasgone for a light--perhaps for a weapon. Perhaps he _would_ kill her. Lethim. Life was as hideous as death. For years she had been rushing on tosome unknown but certain horror; and now she was close upon it. She wasalmost glad. She was in a state of flushed feverish defiance thatneutralized her woman's terrors. 

She heard his heavy step on the stairs; she saw the slowly advancinglight. Then she saw the tall massive figure, and the heavy face, nowfierce with drunken rage. He had nothing but the candle in his hand. Heset it down on the table, and advanced close to the bed. 

'So you think you'll defy me, do you? We'll see how long that will last. Get up, madam; out of bed this instant!'

In the close presence of the dreadful man--of this huge crushing force, armed with savage will--poor Janet's desperate defiance all forsook her, and her terrors came back. Trembling she got up, and stood helpless inher night-dress before her husband. 

He seized her with his heavy grasp by the shoulder, and pushed her beforehim. 

'I'll cool your hot spirit for you! I'll teach you to brave me!'

Slowly he pushed her along before him, down stairs and through thepassage, where a small oil-lamp was still flickering. What was he goingto do to her? She thought every moment he was going to dash her beforehim on the ground. But she gave no scream--she only trembled. 

He pushed her on to the entrance, and held her firmly in his grasp whilehe lifted the latch of the door. Then he opened the door a little way, thrust her out, and slammed it behind her. 

For a short space, it seemed like a deliverance to Janet. The harshnorth-east wind, that blew through her thin night-dress, and sent herlong heavy black hair streaming, seemed like the breath of pity after thegrasp of that threatening monster. But soon the sense of release from anoverpowering terror gave way before the sense of the fate that had reallycome upon her. 

This, then, was what she had been travelling towards through her longyears of misery! Not yet death. O! if she had been brave enough for it, death would have been better. The servants slept at the back of thehouse; it was impossible to make them hear, so that they might let her inagain quietly, without her husband's knowledge. And she would not havetried. He had thrust her out, and it should be for ever. 

There would have been dead silence in Orchard Street but for thewhistling of the wind and the swirling of the March dust on the pavement. Thick clouds covered the sky; every door was closed; every window wasdark. No ray of light fell on the tall white figure that stood in lonelymisery on the doorstep; no eye rested on Janet as she sank down on thecold stone, and looked into the dismal night. She seemed to be lookinginto her own blank future. 

Chapter 15

The stony street, the bitter north-east wind and darkness--and in themidst of them a tender woman thrust out from her husband's home in herthin night-dress, the harsh wind cutting her naked feet, and driving herlong hair away from her half-clad bosom, where the poor heart is crushedwith anguish and despair. 

The drowning man, urged by the supreme agony, lives in an instant throughall his happy and unhappy past: when the dark flood has fallen like acurtain, memory, in a single moment, sees the drama acted over again. Andeven in those earlier crises, which are but types of death--when we arecut off abruptly from the life we have known, when we can no longerexpect tomorrow to resemble yesterday, and find ourselves by some suddenshock on the confines of the unknown--there is often the same sort oflightning-flash through the dark and unfrequented chambers of memory. 

When Janet sat down shivering on the door-stone, with the door shut uponher past life, and the future black and unshapen before her as the night, the scenes of her childhood, her youth and her painful womanhood, rushedback upon her consciousness, and made one picture with her presentdesolation. The petted child taking her newest toy to bed with her--theyoung girl, proud in strength and beauty, dreaming that life was an easything, and that it was pitiful weakness to be unhappy--the bride, passingwith trembling joy from the outer court to the inner sanctuary of woman'slife--the wife, beginning her initiation into sorrow, wounded, resenting, yet still hoping and forgiving--the poor bruised woman, seeking throughweary years the one refuge of despair, oblivion:--Janet seemed to herselfall these in the same moment that she was conscious of being seated onthe cold stone under the shock of a new misery. All her early gladness, all her bright hopes and illusions, all her gifts of beauty andaffection, served only to darken the riddle of her life; they were thebetraying promises of a cruel destiny which had brought out those sweetblossoms only that the winds and storms might have a greater work ofdesolation, which had nursed her like a pet fawn into tenderness and fondexpectation, only that she might feel a keener terror in the clutch ofthe panther. Her mother had sometimes said that troubles were sent tomake us better and draw us nearer to God. What mockery that seemed toJanet! _Her_ troubles had been sinking her lower from year to year, pressing upon her like heavy fever-laden vapours, and perverting the veryplenitude of her nature into a deeper source of disease. Her wretchednesshad been a perpetually tightening instrument of torture, which hadgradually absorbed all the other sensibilities of her nature into thesense of pain and the maddened craving for relief. Oh, if some ray ofhope, of pity, of consolation, would pierce through the horrible gloom, she might believe _then_ in a Divine love--in a heavenly Father who caredfor His children! But now she had no faith, no trust. There was nothingshe could lean on in the wide world, for her mother was only afellow-sufferer in her own lot. The poor patient woman could do littlemore than mourn with her daughter: she had humble resignation enough tosustain her own soul, but she could no more give comfort and fortitude toJanet, than the withered ivy-covered trunk can bear up its strong, full-boughed offspring crashing down under an Alpine storm. Janet feltshe was alone: no human soul had measured her anguish, had understood herself-despair, had entered into her sorrows and her sins with thatdeep-sighted sympathy which is wiser than all blame, more potent than allreproof--such sympathy as had swelled her own heart for many a sufferer. And if there was any Divine Pity, she could not feel it; it kept alooffrom her, it poured no balm into her wounds, it stretched out no hand tobear up her weak resolve, to fortify her fainting courage. 

Now, in her utmost loneliness, she shed no tear: she sat staring fixedlyinto the darkness, while inwardly she gazed at her own past, almostlosing the sense that it was her own, or that she was anything more thana spectator at a strange and dreadful play. 

The loud sound of the church clock, striking one, startled her. She hadnot been there more than half an hour, then? And it seemed to her as ifshe had been there half the night. She was getting benumbed with cold. With that strong instinctive dread of pain and death which had made herrecoil from suicide, she started up, and the disagreeable sensation ofresting on her benumbed feet helped to recall her completely to the senseof the present. The wind was beginning to make rents in the clouds, andthere came every now and then a dim light of stars that frightened hermore than the darkness; it was like a cruel finger pointing her out inher wretchedness and humiliation; it made her shudder at the thought ofthe morning twilight. What could she do? Not go to her mother--not rouseher in the dead of night to tell her this. Her mother would think she wasa spectre; it would be enough to kill her with horror. And the way therewas so long . . . If she should meet some one . . . Yet she must seek someshelter, somewhere to hide herself. Five doors off there was Mrs. Pettifer's; that kind woman would take her in. It was of no use now to beproud and mind about the world's knowing: she had nothing to wish for, nothing to care about; only she could not help shuddering at the thoughtof braving the morning light, there in the street--she was frightened atthe thought of spending long hours in the cold. Life might mean anguish, might mean despair; but oh, she must clutch it, though with bleedingfingers; her feet must cling to the firm earth that the sunlight wouldrevisit, not slip into the untried abyss, where she might long even forfamiliar pains. 

Janet trod slowly with her naked feet on the rough pavement, trembling atthe fitful gleams of starlight, and supporting herself by the wall, asthe gusts of wind drove right against her. The very wind was cruel: ittried to push her back from the door where she wanted to go and knock andask for pity. 

Mrs. Pettifer's house did not look into Orchard Street: it stood a littleway up a wide passage which opened into the street through an archway. Janet turned up the archway, and saw a faint light coming from Mrs. Pettifer's bedroom window. The glimmer of a rushlight from a room where afriend was lying, was like a ray of mercy to Janet, after that long, longtime of darkness and loneliness; it would not be so dreadful to awakeMrs. Pettifer as she had thought. Yet she lingered some minutes at thedoor before she gathered courage to knock; she felt as if the sound mustbetray her to others besides Mrs. Pettifer, though there was no otherdwelling that opened into the passage--only warehouses and outbuildings. There was no gravel for her to throw up at the window, nothing but heavypavement; there was no door-bell; she must knock. Her first rap was verytimid--one feeble fall of the knocker; and then she stood still again formany minutes; but presently she rallied her courage and knocked severaltimes together, not loudly, but rapidly, so that Mrs. Pettifer, if sheonly heard the sound, could not mistake it. And she _had_ heard it, forby and by the casement of her window was opened, and Janet perceived thatshe was bending out to try and discern who it was at the door. 

'It is I, Mrs. Pettifer; it is Janet Dempster. Take me in, for pity'ssake. '

'Merciful God! what has happened?'

'Robert has turned me out. I have been in the cold a long while. '

Mrs. Pettifer said no more, but hurried away from the window, and wassoon at the door with a light in her hand. 

'Come in, my poor dear, come in, ' said the good woman in a tremulousvoice, drawing Janet within the door. 'Come into my warm bed, and may Godin heaven save and comfort you. '

The pitying eyes, the tender voice, the warm touch, caused a rush of newfeeling in Janet. Her heart swelled, and she burst out suddenly, like achild, into loud passionate sobs. Mrs. Pettifer could not help cryingwith her, but she said, 'Come upstairs, my dear, come. Don't linger inthe cold. '

She drew the poor sobbing thing gently up-stairs, and persuaded her toget into the warm bed. But it was long before Janet could lie down. Shesat leaning her head on her knees, convulsed by sobs, while the motherlywoman covered her with clothes and held her arms round her to comfort herwith warmth. At last the hysterical passion had exhausted itself, and shefell back on the pillow; but her throat was still agitated by piteousafter-sobs, such as shake a little child even when it has found a refugefrom its alarms on its mother's lap. 

Now Janet was getting quieter, Mrs. Pettifer determined to go down andmake a cup of tea, the first thing a kind old woman thinks of as a solaceand restorative under all calamities. Happily there was no danger ofawaking her servant, a heavy girl of sixteen, who was snoring blissfullyin the attic, and might be kept ignorant of the way in which Mrs. Dempster had come in. So Mrs. Pettifer busied herself with rousing thekitchen fire, which was kept in under a huge 'raker'--a possibility bywhich the coal of the midland counties atones for all its slowness andwhite ashes. 

When she carried up the tea, Janet was lying quite still; the spasmodicagitation had ceased, and she seemed lost in thought; her eyes were fixedvacantly on the rushlight shade, and all the lines of sorrow weredeepened in her face. 

'Now, my dear, ' said Mrs. Pettifer, 'let me persuade you to drink a cupof tea; you'll find it warm you and soothe you very much. Why, dearheart, your feet are like ice still. Now, do drink this tea, and I'llwrap 'em up in flannel, and then they'll get warm. '

Janet turned her dark eyes on her old friend and stretched out her arms. She was too much oppressed to say anything; her suffering lay like aheavy weight on her power of speech; but she wanted to kiss the good kindwoman. Mrs. Pettifer, setting down the cup, bent towards the sadbeautiful face, and Janet kissed her with earnest sacramentalkisses--such kisses as seal a new and closer bond between the helperand the helped. 

She drank the tea obediently. 'It _does_ warm me, ' she said. 'But now youwill get into bed. I shall lie still now. '

Mrs. Pettifer felt it was the best thing she could do to lie down quietlyand say no more. She hoped Janet might go to sleep. As for herself, withthat tendency to wakefulness common to advanced years, she found itimpossible to compose herself to sleep again after this agitatingsurprise. She lay listening to the clock, wondering what had led to thisnew outrage of Dempster's, praying for the poor thing at her side, andpitying the mother who would have to hear it all tomorrow. 

Chapter 16

Janet lay still, as she had promised; but the tea, which had warmed herand given her a sense of greater bodily ease, had only heightened theprevious excitement of her brain. Her ideas had a new vividness, whichmade her feel as if she had only seen life through a dim haze before; herthoughts, instead of springing from the action of her own mind, wereexternal existences, that thrust themselves imperiously upon her likehaunting visions. The future took shape after shape of misery before her, always ending in her being dragged back again to her old life of terror, and stupor, and fevered despair. Her husband had so long overshadowed herlife that her imagination could not keep hold of a condition in whichthat great dread was absent; and even his absence--what was it? only adreary vacant flat, where there was nothing to strive after, nothing tolong for. 

At last, the light of morning quenched the rushlight, and Janet'sthoughts became more and more fragmentary and confused. She was everymoment slipping off the level on which she lay thinking, down, down intosome depth from which she tried to rise again with a start. Slumber wasstealing over her weary brain: that uneasy slumber which is only betterthan wretched waking, because the life we seemed to live in it determinesno wretched future, because the things we do and suffer in it are buthateful shadows, and leave no impress that petrifies into an irrevocablepast. 

She had scarcely been asleep an hour when her movements became moreviolent, her mutterings more frequent and agitated, till at last shestarted up with a smothered cry, and looked wildly round her, shakingwith terror. 

'Don't be frightened, dear Mrs. Dempster, ' said Mrs. Pettifer, who was upand dressing, 'you are with me, your old friend, Mrs. Pettifer. Nothingwill harm you. '

Janet sank back again on her pillow, still trembling. After lying silenta little while, she said, 'It was a horrible dream. Dear Mrs. Pettifer, don't let any one know I am here. Keep it a secret. If he finds out, hewill come and drag me back again. '

'No, my dear, depend on me. I've just thought I shall send the servanthome on a holiday--I've promised her a good while. I'll send her away assoon as she's had her breakfast, and she'll have no occasion to knowyou're here. There's no holding servants' tongues, if you let 'em knowanything. What they don't know, they won't tell; you may trust 'em sofar. But shouldn't you like me to go and fetch your mother?'

'No, not yet, not yet. I can't bear to see her yet. '

'Well, it shall be just as you like. Now try and get to sleep again. Ishall leave you for an hour or two, and send off Phoebe, and then bringyou some breakfast. I'll lock the door behind me, so that the girl mayn'tcome in by chance. '

The daylight changes the aspect of misery to us, as of everything else. In the night it presses on our imagination--the forms it takes are false, fitful, exaggerated; in broad day it sickens our sense with the drearypersistence of definite measurable reality. The man who looks withghastly horror on all his property aflame in the dead of night, has nothalf the sense of destitution he will have in the morning, when he walksover the ruins lying blackened in the pitiless sunshine. That moment ofintensest depression was come to Janet, when the daylight which showedher the walls, and chairs, and tables, and all the commonplace realitythat surrounded her, seemed to lay bare the future too, and bring outinto oppressive distinctness all the details of a weary life to be livedfrom day to day, with no hope to strengthen her against that evil habit, which she loathed in retrospect and yet was powerless to resist. Herhusband would never consent to her living away from him: she was becomenecessary to his tyranny; he would never willingly loosen his grasp onher. She had a vague notion of some protection the law might give her, ifshe could prove her life in danger from him; but she shrank utterly, asshe had always done, from any active, public resistance or vengeance: shefelt too crushed, too faulty, too liable to reproach, to have thecourage, even if she had had the wish to put herself openly in theposition of a wronged woman seeking redress. She had no strength tosustain her in a course of self-defence and independence: there was adarker shadow over her life than the dread of her husband--it was theshadow of self-despair. The easiest thing would be to go away and hideherself from him. But then there was her mother: Robert had all herlittle property in his hands, and that little was scarcely enough to keepher in comfort without his aid. If Janet went away alone he would be sureto persecute her mother; and if she _did_ go away--what then? She mustwork to maintain herself; she must exert herself, weary and hopeless asshe was, to begin life afresh. How hard that seemed to her! Janet'snature did not belie her grand face and form: there was energy, there wasstrength in it; but it was the strength of the vine, which must have itsbroad leaves and rich clusters borne up by a firm stay. And now she hadnothing to rest on--no faith, no love. If her mother had been veryfeeble, aged, or sickly, Janet's deep pity and tenderness might have madea daughter's duties an interest and a solace; but Mrs. Raynor had neverneeded tendance; she had always been giving help to her daughter; she hadalways been a sort of humble ministering spirit; and it was one ofJanet's pangs of memory, that instead of being her mother's comfort, shehad been her mother's trial. Everywhere the same sadness! Her life was asun-dried, barren tract, where there was no shadow, and where all thewaters were bitter. 

No! She suddenly thought--and the thought was like an electricshock--there was one spot in her memory which seemed to promise her anuntried spring, where the waters might be sweet. That short interviewwith Mr. Tryan had come back upon her--his voice, his words, his look, which told her that he knew sorrow. His words have implied that hethought his death was near; yet he had a faith which enabled him tolabour--enabled him to give comfort to others. That look of his came backon her with a vividness greater than it had had for her in reality:surely he knew more of the secrets of sorrow than other men; perhaps hehad some message of comfort, different from the feeble words she had beenused to hear from others. She was tired, she was sick of that barrenexhortation--Do right, and keep a clear conscience, and God will rewardyou, and your troubles will be easier to bear. She wanted _strength_ todo right--she wanted something to rely on besides her own resolutions;for was not the path behind her all strewn with _broken_ resolutions? Howcould she trust in new ones? She had often heard Mr. Tryan laughed at forbeing fond of great sinners. She began to see a new meaning in thosewords; he would perhaps understand her helplessness, her wants. If shecould pour out her heart to him! if she could for the first time in herlife unlock all the chambers of her soul!

The impulse to confession almost always requires the presence of a freshear and a fresh heart; and in our moments of spiritual need, the man towhom we have no tie but our common nature, seems nearer to us thanmother, brother, or friend. Our daily familiar life is but a hiding ofourselves from each other behind a screen of trivial words and deeds, andthose who sit with us at the same hearth are often the farthest off fromthe deep human soul within us, full of unspoken evil and unacted good. 

When Mrs. Pettifer came back to her, turning the key and opening the doorvery gently, Janet, instead of being asleep, as her good friend hadhoped, was intensely occupied with her new thought. She longed to askMrs. Pettifer if she could see Mr. Tryan; but she was arrested by doubtsand timidity. He might not feel for her--he might be shocked at herconfession--he might talk to her of doctrines she could not understand orbelieve. She could not make up her mind yet; but she was too restlessunder this mental struggle to remain in bed. 

'Mrs. Pettifer, ' she said, 'I can't lie here any longer; I must get up. Will you lend me some clothes?'

Wrapt in such drapery as Mrs. Pettifer could find for her tall figure, Janet went down into the little parlour, and tried to take some of thebreakfast her friend had prepared for her. But her effort was not asuccessful one; her cup of tea and bit of toast were only half finished. The leaden weight of discouragement pressed upon her more and moreheavily. The wind had fallen, and a drizzling rain had come on; there wasno prospect from Mrs. Pettifer's parlour but a blank wall; and as Janetlooked out at the window, the rain and the smoke-blackened bricks seemedto blend themselves in sickening identity with her desolation of spiritand the headachy weariness of her body. 

Mrs. Pettifer got through her household work as soon as she could, andsat down with her sewing, hoping that Janet would perhaps be able to talka little of what had passed, and find some relief by unbosoming herselfin that way. But Janet could not speak to her; she was importuned withthe longing to see Mr. Tryan, and yet hesitating to express it. 

Two hours passed in this way. The rain went on drizzling, and Janet satstill, leaning her aching head on her hand, and looking alternately atthe fire and out of the window. She felt this could not last--thismotionless, vacant misery. She must determine on something, she must takesome step; and yet everything was so difficult. 

It was one o'clock, and Mrs. Pettifer rose from her seat, saying, 'I mustgo and see about dinner. '

The movement and the sound startled Janet from her reverie. It seemed asif an opportunity were escaping her, and she said hastily, 'Is Mr. Tryanin the town today, do you think?'

'No, I should think not, being Saturday, you know, ' said Mrs. Pettifer, her face lighting up with pleasure; 'but he _would_ come, if he was sentfor. I can send Jesson's boy with a note to him any time. Should you liketo see him?'

'Yes, I think I should. '

'Then I'll send for him this instant. '

Chapter 17

When Dempster awoke in the morning, he was at no loss to account tohimself for the fact that Janet was not by his side. His hours ofdrunkenness were not cut off from his other hours by any blank wall ofoblivion; he remembered what Janet had done to offend him the eveningbefore, he remembered what he had done to her at midnight, just as hewould have remembered if he had been consulted about a right of road. 

The remembrance gave him a definite ground for the extra ill-humour whichhad attended his waking every morning this week, but he would not admitto himself that it cost him any anxiety. 'Pooh, ' he said inwardly, 'shewould go straight to her mother's. She's as timid as a hare; and she'llnever let anybody know about it. She'll be back again before night. '

But it would be as well for the servants not to know anything of theaffair: so he collected the clothes she had taken off the night before, and threw them into a fire-proof closet of which he always kept the keyin his pocket. When he went down stairs he said to the housemaid, 'Mrs. Dempster is gone to her mother's; bring in the breakfast. '

The servants, accustomed to hear domestic broils, and to see theirmistress put on her bonnet hastily and go to her mother's, thought itonly something a little worse than usual that she should have gonethither in consequence of a violent quarrel, either at midnight, or inthe early morning before they were up. The housemaid told the cook whatshe supposed had happened; the cook shook her head and said, 'Eh, dear, dear!' but they both expected to see their mistress back again in an houror two. 

Dempster, on his return home the evening before, had ordered his man, wholived away from the house, to bring up his horse and gig from the stablesat ten. After breakfast he said to the housemaid, 'No one need sit up forme to-night; I shall not be at home till tomorrow evening;' and then hewalked to the office to give some orders, expecting, as he returned, tosee the man waiting with his gig. But though the church clock had struckten, no gig was there. In Dempster's mood this was more than enough toexasperate him. He went in to take his accustomed glass of brandy beforesetting out, promising himself the satisfaction of presently thunderingat Dawes for being a few minutes behind his time. An outbreak of tempertowards his man was not common with him; for Dempster, like mosttyrannous people, had that dastardly kind of self-restraint which enabledhim to control his temper where it suited his own convenience to do so;and feeling the value of Dawes, a steady punctual fellow, he not onlygave him high wages, but usually treated him with exceptional civility. This morning, however, ill-humour got the better of prudence, andDempster was determined to rate him soundly; a resolution for which Dawesgave him much better ground than he expected. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, had passed, and Dempster was setting off to thestables in a back street to see what was the cause of the delay, whenDawes appeared with the gig. 

'What the devil do you keep me here for?' thundered Dempster, 'kicking myheels like a beggarly tailor waiting for a carrier's cart? I ordered youto be here at ten. We might have driven to Whitlow by this time. '

'Why, one o' the traces was welly i' two, an' I had to take it to Brady'sto be mended, an' he didn't get it done i' time. '

'Then why didn't you take it to him last night? Because of your damnedlaziness, I suppose. Do you think I give you wages for you to choose yourown hours, and come dawdling up a quarter of an hour after my time?'

'Come, give me good words, will yer?' said Dawes, sulkily. 'I'm not lazy, nor no man shall call me lazy. I know well anuff what you gi' me wagesfor; it's for doin' what yer won't find many men as 'ull do. '

'What, you impudent scoundrel, ' said Dempster, getting into the gig, 'youthink you're necessary to me, do you? As if a beastly bucket-carryingidiot like you wasn't to be got any day. Look out for a new master, then, who'll pay you for not doing as you're bid. '

Dawe's blood was now fairly up. 'I'll look out for a master as has got abetter charicter nor a lyin', bletherin' drunkard, an' I shouldn't hev togo fur. '

Dempster, furious, snatched the whip from the socket, and gave Dawes acut which he meant to fall across his shoulders saying, 'Take that, sir, and go to hell with you!'

Dawes was in the act of turning with the reins in his hand when the lashfell, and the cut went across his face. With white lips, he said, 'I'llhave the law on yer for that, lawyer as y'are, ' and threw the reins onthe horse's back. 

Dempster leaned forward, seized the reins, and drove off. 

'Why, there's your friend Dempster driving out without his man again, 'said Mr. Luke Byles, who was chatting with Mr. Budd in the Bridge Way. 'What a fool he is to drive that two-wheeled thing! he'll get pitched onhis head one of these days. '

'Not he, ' said Mr. Budd, nodding to Dempster as he passed 'he's got ninelives, Dempster has. '

Chapter 18

It was dusk, and the candles were lighted before Mr. Tryan knocked atMrs. Pettifer's door. Her messenger had brought back word that he was notat home, and all afternoon Janet had been agitated by the fear that hewould not come; but as soon as that anxiety was removed by the knock atthe door, she felt a sudden rush of doubt and timidity: she trembled andturned cold. 

Mrs. Pettifer went to open the door, and told Mr. Tryan, in as few wordsas possible, what had happened in the night. As he laid down his hat andprepared to enter the parlour, she said, 'I won't go in with you, for Ithink perhaps she would rather see you go in alone. '

Janet, wrapped up in a large white shawl which threw her dark face intostartling relief, was seated with her eyes turned anxiously towards thedoor when Mr. Tryan entered. He had not seen her since their interview atSally Martin's long months ago; and he felt a strong movement ofcompassion at the sight of the pain-stricken face which seemed to bearwritten on it the signs of all Janet's intervening misery. Her heart gavea great leap, as her eyes met his once more. No! she had not deceivedherself: there was all the sincerity, all the sadness, all the deep pityin them her memory had told her of; more than it had told her, for inproportion as his face had become thinner and more worn, his eyesappeared to have gathered intensity. 

He came forward, and, putting out his hand, said, 'I am so glad you sentfor me--I am so thankful you thought I could be any comfort to you. 'Janet took his hand in silence. She was unable to utter any words of merepoliteness, or even of gratitude; her heart was too full of other wordsthat had welled up the moment she met his pitying glance, and felt herdoubts fall away. 

They sat down opposite each other, and she said in a low voice, whileslow difficult tears gathered in her aching eyes, --'I want to tell youhow unhappy I am--how weak and wicked. I feel no strength to live or die. I thought you could tell me something that would help me. ' She paused. 

'Perhaps I can, ' Mr. Tryan said, 'for in speaking to me you are speakingto a fellow-sinner who has needed just the comfort and help you areneeding. '

'And you did find it?'

'Yes; and I trust you will find it. '

'O, I should like to be good and to do right, ' Janet burst forth; 'butindeed, indeed, my lot has been a very hard one. I loved my husband verydearly when we were married, and I meant to make him happy--I wantednothing else. But he began to be angry with me for little things and . . . I don't want to accuse him . . . But he drank and got more and more unkindto me, and then very cruel, and he beat me. And that cut me to the heart. It made me almost mad sometimes to think all our love had come to that. . . I couldn't bear up against it. I had never been used to drinkanything but water. I hated wine and spirits because Robert drank themso; but one day when I was very wretched, and the wine was standing onthe table, I suddenly . . . I can hardly remember how I came to do it . . . Ipoured some wine into a large glass and drank it. It blunted my feelings. And made me more indifferent. After that, the temptation was alwayscoming, and it got stronger and stronger. I was ashamed, and I hated whatI did; but almost while the thought was passing through my mind that Iwould never do it again, I did it. It seemed as if there was a demon inme always making me rush to do what I longed not to do. And I thought allthe more that God was cruel; for if He had not sent me that dreadfultrial, so much worse than other women have to bear, I should not havedone wrong in that way. I suppose it is wicked to think so . . . I feel asif there must be goodness and right above us, but I can't see it, I can'ttrust in it. And I have gone on in that way for years and years. At onetime it used to be better now and then, but everything has got worselately. I felt sure it must soon end somehow. And last night he turned meout of doors . . . I don't know what to do. I will never go back to thatlife again if I can help it; and yet everything else seems so miserable. I feel sure that demon will always be urging me to satisfy the cravingthat comes upon me, and the days will go on as they have done through allthose miserable years. I shall always be doing wrong, and hating myselfafter--sinking lower and lower, and knowing that I am sinking. O can youtell me any way of getting strength? Have you ever known any one like methat got peace of mind and power to do right? Can you give me anycomfort--any hope?'

While Janet was speaking, she had forgotten everything but her misery andher yearning for comfort. Her voice had risen from the low tone of timiddistress to an intense pitch of imploring anguish. She clasped her handstightly, and looked at Mr. Tryon with eager questioning eyes, withparted, trembling lips, with the deep horizontal lines of overmasteringpain on her brow. In this artificial life of ours, it is not often we seea human face with all a heart's agony in it, uncontrolled byself-consciousness; when we do see it, it startles us as if we hadsuddenly waked into the real world of which this everyday one is but apuppet-show copy. For some moments Mr. Tryan was too deeply moved tospeak. 

'Yes, dear Mrs. Dempster, ' he said at last, 'there _is_ comfort, there_is_ hope for you. Believe me there is, for I speak from my own deep andhard experience. ' He paused, as if he had not made up his mind to utterthe words that were urging themselves to his lips. Presently hecontinued, 'Ten years ago, I felt as wretched as you do. I think mywretchedness was even worse than yours, for I had a heavier sin on myconscience. I had suffered no wrong from others as you have, and I hadinjured another irreparably in body and soul. The image of the wrong Ihad done pursued me everywhere, and I seemed on the brink of madness. Ihated my life, for I thought, just as you do, that I should go on fallinginto temptation and doing more harm in the world; and I dreaded death, for with that sense of guilt on my soul, I felt that whatever state Ientered on must be one of misery. But a dear friend to whom I opened mymind showed me it was just such as I--the helpless who feel themselveshelpless--that God specially invites to come to Him, and offers all theriches of His salvation: not forgiveness only; forgiveness would be worthlittle if it left us under the powers of our evil passions; butstrength--that strength which enables us to conquer sin. '

'But, ' said Janet, 'I can feel no trust in God. He seems always to haveleft me to myself. I have sometimes prayed to Him to help me, and yeteverything has been just the same as before. If you felt like me, how didyou come to have hope and trust?'

'Do not believe that God has left you to yourself. How can you tell butthat the hardest trials you have known have been only the road by whichHe was leading you to that complete sense of your own sin andhelplessness, without which you would never have renounced all otherhopes, and trusted in His love alone? I know, dear Mrs. Dempster, I knowit is hard to bear. I would not speak lightly of your sorrows. I feelthat the mystery of our life is great, and at one time it seemed as darkto me as it does to you. ' Mr. Tryan hesitated again. He saw that thefirst thing Janet needed was to be assured of sympathy. She must be madeto feel that her anguish was not strange to him; that he entered into theonly half-expressed secrets of her spiritual weakness, before any othermessage of consolation could find its way to her heart. The tale of theDivine Pity was never yet believed from lips that were not felt to bemoved by human pity. And Janet's anguish was not strange to Mr. Tryan. Hehad never been in the presence of a sorrow and a self-despair that hadsent so strong a thrill through all the recesses of his saddestexperience; and it is because sympathy is but a living again through ourown past in a new form, that confession often prompts a response ofconfession. Mr. Tryan felt this prompting, and his judgement, too, toldhim that in obeying it he would be taking the best means of administeringcomfort to Janet. Yet he hesitated; as we tremble to let in the daylighton a chamber of relics which we have never visited except in curtainedsilence. But the first impulse triumphed, and he went on. 'I had livedall my life at a distance from God. My youth was spent in thoughtlessself-indulgence, and all my hopes were of a vain worldly kind. I had nothought of entering the Church; I looked forward to a political career, for my father was private secretary to a man high in the Whig Ministry, and had been promised strong interest in my behalf. At college I lived inintimacy with the gayest men, even adopting follies and vices for which Ihad no taste, out of mere pliancy and the love of standing well with mycompanions. You see, I was more guilty even then than you have been, forI threw away all the rich blessings of untroubled youth and health; I hadno excuse in my outward lot. But while I was at college that event in mylife occurred, which in the end brought on the state of mind I havementioned to you--the state of self-reproach and despair, which enablesme to understand to the full what you are suffering; and I tell you thefacts, because I want you to be assured that I am not uttering mere vaguewords when I say that I have been raised from as low a depth of sin andsorrow as that in which you feel yourself to be. At college I had anattachment to a lovely girl of seventeen; she was very much below my ownstation in life, and I never contemplated marrying her; but I induced herto leave her father's house. I did not mean to forsake her when I leftcollege, and I quieted all scruples of conscience by promising myselfthat I would always take care of poor Lucy. But on my return from avacation spent in travelling, I found that Lucy was gone--gone away witha gentleman, her neighbours said. I was a good deal distressed, but Itried to persuade myself that no harm would come to her. Soon afterwardsI had an illness which left my health delicate, and made all dissipationdistasteful to me. Life seemed very wearisome and empty, and I lookedwith envy on every one who had some great and absorbing object--even onmy cousin who was preparing to go out as a missionary, and whom I hadbeen used to think a dismal, tedious person, because he was constantlyurging religious subjects upon me. We were living in London then; it wasthree years since I had lost sight of Lucy; and one summer evening, aboutnine o'clock, as I was walking along Gower Street, I saw a knot of peopleon the causeway before me. As I came up to them, I heard one woman say, "I tell you, she is dead. " This awakened my interest, and I pushed my waywithin the circle. The body of a woman, dressed in fine clothes, waslying against a door-step. Her head was bent on one side, and the longcurls had fallen over her cheek. A tremor seized me when I saw the hair:it was light chestnut--the colour of Lucy's. I knelt down and turnedaside the hair; it was Lucy--dead--with paint on her cheeks. I found outafterwards that she had taken poison--that she was in the power of awicked woman--that the very clothes on her back were not her own. It wasthen that my past life burst upon me in all its hideousness. I wished Ihad never been born. I couldn't look into the future. Lucy's dead paintedface would follow me there, as it did when I looked back into thepast--as it did when I sat down to table with my friends, when I lay downin my bed, and when I rose up. There was only one thing that could makelife tolerable to me; that was, to spend all the rest of it in trying tosave others from the ruin I had brought on one. But how was that possiblefor me? I had no comfort, no strength, no wisdom in my own soul; howcould I give them to others? My mind was dark, rebellious, at war withitself and with God. '

Mr. Tryan had been looking away from Janet. His face was towards thefire, and he was absorbed in the images his memory was recalling. But nowhe turned his eyes on her, and they met hers, fixed on him with the lookof rapt expectation, with which one clinging to a slippery summit of arock, while the waves are rising higher and higher, watches the boat thathas put from shore to his rescue. 

'You see, Mrs. Dempster, how deep my need was. I went on in this way formonths. I was convinced that if I ever got health and comfort, it must befrom religion. I went to hear celebrated preachers, and I read religiousbooks. But I found nothing that fitted my own need. The faith which putsthe sinner in possession of salvation seemed, as I understood it, to bequite out of my reach. I had no faith; I only felt utterly wretched, under the power of habits and dispositions which had wrought hideousevil. At last, as I told you, I found a friend to whom I opened all myfeelings--to whom I confessed everything. He was a man who had gonethrough very deep experience, and could understand the different wants ofdifferent minds. He made it clear to me that the only preparation forcoming to Christ and partaking of his salvation, was that very sense ofguilt and helplessness which was weighing me down. He said, You are wearyand heavy-laden; well, it is you Christ invites to come to him and findrest. He asks you to cling to him, to lean on him; he does not commandyou to walk alone without stumbling. He does not tell you, as yourfellow-men do, that you must first merit his love; he neither condemnsnor reproaches you for the past, he only bids you come to him that youmay have life: he bids you stretch out your hands, and take of thefulness of his love. You have only to rest on him as a child rests on itsmother's arms, and you will be upborne by his divine strength. That iswhat is meant by faith. Your evil habits, you feel, are too strong foryou; you are unable to wrestle with them; you know beforehand you shallfall. But when once we feel our helplessness in that way, and go to theSaviour, desiring to be freed from the power as well as the punishment ofsin, we are no longer left to our own strength. As long as we live inrebellion against God, desiring to have our own will, seeking happinessin the things of this world, it is as if we shut ourselves up in acrowded stifling room, where we breathe only poisoned air; but we haveonly to walk out under the infinite heavens, and we breathe the pure freeair that gives us health, and strength, and gladness. It is just so withGod's spirit: as soon as we submit ourselves to his will, as soon as wedesire to be united to him, and made pure and holy, it is as if the wallshad fallen down that shut us out from God, and we are fed with hisspirit, which gives us new strength. '

'That is what I want, ' said Janet; 'I have left off minding aboutpleasure. I think I could be contented in the midst of hardship, if Ifelt that God cared for me, and would give me strength to lead a purelife. But tell me, did you soon find peace and strength?'

'Not perfect peace for a long while, but hope and trust, which isstrength. No sense of pardon for myself could do away with the pain I hadin thinking what I had helped to bring on another. My friend used to urgeupon me that my sin against God was greater than my sin against her;but--it may be from want of deeper spiritual feeling--that has remainedto this hour the sin which causes me the bitterest pang. I could neverrescue Lucy; but by God's blessing I might rescue other weak and fallingsouls; and that was why I entered the Church. I asked for nothing throughthe rest of my life but that I might be devoted to God's work, withoutswerving in search of pleasure either to the right hand or to the left. It has been often a hard struggle--but God has been with me--and perhapsit may not last much longer. '

Mr. Tryan paused. For a moment he had forgotten Janet, and for a momentshe had forgotten her own sorrows. When she recurred to herself, it waswith a new feeling. 

'Ah, what a difference between our lives! you have been choosing pain, and working, and denying yourself; and I have been thinking only ofmyself. I was only angry and discontented because I had pain to bear. Younever had that wicked feeling that I have had so often, did you? that Godwas cruel to send me trials and temptations worse than others have. '

'Yes, I had; I had very blasphemous thoughts, and I know that spirit ofrebellion must have made the worst part of your lot. You did not feel howimpossible it is for us to judge rightly of God's dealings, and youopposed yourself to his will. But what do we know? We cannot foretell theworking of the smallest event in our own lot; how can we presume to judgeof things that are so much too high for us? There is nothing that becomesus but entire submission, perfect resignation. As long as we set up ourown will and our own wisdom against God's, we make that wall between usand his love which I have spoken of just now. But as soon as we layourselves entirely at his feet, we have enough light given us to guideour own steps; as the foot-soldier who hears nothing of the councils thatdetermine the course of the great battle he is in, hears plainly enoughthe word of command which he must himself obey. I know, dear Mrs. Dempster, I know it is hard--the hardest thing of all, perhaps--to fleshand blood. But carry that difficulty to the Saviour along with all yourother sins and weaknesses, and ask him to pour into you a spirit ofsubmission. He enters into your struggles; he has drunk the cup of oursuffering to the dregs; he knows the hard wrestling it costs us to say, "Not my will, but Thine be done. "'

'Pray with me, ' said Janet--'pray now that I may have light andstrength. '

Chapter 19

Before leaving Janet, Mr. Tryan urged her strongly to send for hermother. 

'Do not wound her, ' he said, 'by shutting her out any longer from yourtroubles. It is right that you should be with her. '

'Yes, I will send for her, ' said Janet. 'But I would rather not go to mymother's yet, because my husband is sure to think I am there, and hemight come and fetch me. I can't go back to him . . . At least, not yet. Ought I to go back to him?'

'No, certainly not, at present. Something should be done to secure youfrom violence. Your mother, I think, should consult some confidentialfriend, some man of character and experience, who might mediate betweenyou and your husband. '

'Yes, I will send for my mother directly. But I will stay here, with Mrs. Pettifer, till something has been done. I want no one to know where I am, except you. You will come again, will you not? you will not leave me tomyself?'

'You will not be left to yourself. God is with you. If I have been ableto give you any comfort, it is because His power and love have beenpresent with us. But I am very thankful that He has chosen to workthrough me. I shall see you again tomorrow--not before evening, for itwill be Sunday, you know; but after the evening lecture I shall be atliberty. You will be in my prayers till then. In the meantime, dear Mrs. Dempster, open your heart as much as you can to your mother and Mrs. Pettifer. Cast away from you the pride that makes us shrink fromacknowledging our weakness to our friends. Ask them to help you inguarding yourself from the least approach of the sin you most dread. Deprive yourself as far as possible of the very means and opportunity ofcommitting it. Every effort of that kind made in humility and dependenceis a prayer. Promise me you will do this. '

'Yes, I promise you. I know I have always been too proud; I could neverbear to speak to any one about myself. I have been proud towards mymother, even; it has always made me angry when she has seemed to takenotice of my faults. '

'Ah, dear Mrs. Dempster, you will never say again that life is blank, andthat there is nothing to live for, will you? See what work there is to bedone in life, both in our own souls and for others. Surely it matterslittle whether we have more or less of this world's comfort in theseshort years, when God is training us for the eternal enjoyment of hislove. Keep that great end of life before you, and your troubles here willseem only the small hardships of a journey. Now I must go. '

Mr. Tryan rose and held out his hand. Janet took it and said, 'God hasbeen very good to me in sending you to me. I will trust in Him. I willtry to do everything you tell me. '

Blessed influence of one true loving human soul on another! Notcalculable by algebra, not deducible by logic, but mysterious, effectual, mighty as the hidden process by which the tiny seed is quickened, andbursts forth into tall stem and broad leaf, and glowing tasseled flower. Ideas are often poor ghosts; our sun-filled eyes cannot discern them;they pass athwart us in thin vapour, and cannot make themselves felt. Butsometimes they are made flesh; they breathe upon us with warm breath, they touch us with soft responsive hands, they look at us with sadsincere eyes, and speak to us in appealing tones; they are clothed in aliving human soul, with all its conflicts, its faith, and its love. Thentheir presence is a power, then they shake us like a passion, and we aredrawn after them with gentle compulsion, as flame is drawn to flame. 

Janet's dark grand face, still fatigued, had become quite calm, andlooked up, as she sat, with a humble childlike expression at the thinblond face and slightly sunken grey eyes which now shone with hecticbrightness. She might have been taken for an image of passionate strengthbeaten and worn with conflict; and he for an image of the self-renouncingfaith which has soothed that conflict into rest. As he looked at thesweet submissive face, he remembered its look of despairing anguish, andhis heart was very full as he turned away from her. 'Let me only live tosee this work confirmed, and then . . . '

It was nearly ten o'clock when Mr. Tryan left, but Janet was bent onsending for her mother; so Mrs. Pettifer, as the readiest plan, put onher bonnet and went herself to fetch Mrs. Raynor. The mother had been toolong used to expect that every fresh week would be more painful than thelast, for Mrs. Pettifer's news to come upon her with the shock of asurprise. Quietly, without any show of distress, she made up a bundle ofclothes, and, telling her little maid that she should not return homethat night, accompanied Mrs. Pettifer back in silence. 

When they entered the parlour, Janet, wearied out, had sunk to sleep inthe large chair, which stood with its back to the door. The noise of theopening door disturbed her, and she was looking round wonderingly whenMrs. Raynor came up to her chair, and said, 'It's your mother, Janet. '

'Mother, dear mother!' Janet cried, clasping her closely. 'I have notbeen a good tender child to you, but I will be--I will not grieve you anymore. '

The calmness which had withstood a new sorrow was overcome by a new joy, and the mother burst into tears. 

Chapter 20

On Sunday morning the rain had ceased, and Janet, looking out of thebedroom window, saw, above the house-tops, a shining mass of white cloudrolling under the far-away blue sky. It was going to be a lovely Aprilday. The fresh sky, left clear and calm after the long vexation of windand rain, mingled its mild influence with Janet's new thoughts andprospects. She felt a buoyant courage that surprised herself, after thecold crushing weight of despondency which had oppressed her the daybefore: she could think even of her husband's rage without the oldoverpowering dread. For a delicious hope--the hope of purification andinward peace--had entered into Janet's soul, and made it spring-timethere as well as in the outer world. 

While her mother was brushing and coiling up her thick black hair--afavourite task, because it seemed to renew the days of her daughter'sgirlhood--Janet told how she came to send for Mr. Tryan, how she hadremembered their meeting at Sally Martin's in the autumn, and had felt anirresistible desire to see him, and tell him her sins and her troubles. 

'I see God's goodness now, mother, in ordering it so that we should meetin that way, to overcome my prejudice against him, and make me feel thathe was good, and then bringing it back to my mind in the depth of mytrouble. You know what foolish things I used to say about him, knowingnothing of him all the while. And yet he was the man who was to give mecomfort and help when everything else failed me. It is wonderful how Ifeel able to speak to him as I never have done to any one before; and howevery word he says to me enters my heart and has a new meaning for me. Ithink it must be because he has felt life more deeply than others, andhas a deeper faith. I believe everything he says at once. His words cometo me like rain on the parched ground. It has always seemed to me beforeas if I could see behind people's words, as one sees behind a screen; butin Mr. Tryan it is his very soul that speaks. '

'Well, my dear child, I love and bless him for your sake, if he has givenyou any comfort. I never believed the harm people said of him, though Ihad no desire to go and hear him, for I am contented with old-fashionedways. I find more good teaching than I can practise in reading my Bibleat home, and hearing Mr. Crewe at church. But your wants are different, my dear, and we are not all led by the same road. That was certainly goodadvice of Mr. Tryan's you told me of last night--that we should consultsome one that may interfere for you with your husband; and I have beenturning it over in my mind while I've been lying awake in the night. Ithink nobody will do so well as Mr. Benjamin Landor, for we must have aman that knows the law, and that Robert is rather afraid of. And perhapshe could bring about an agreement for you to live apart. Your husband'sbound to maintain you, you know; and, if you liked, we could move awayfrom Milby and live somewhere else. '

'O, mother, we must do nothing yet; I must think about it a littlelonger. I have a different feeling this morning from what I hadyesterday. Something seems to tell me that I must go back to Robert sometime--after a little while. I loved him once better than all the world, and I have never had any children to love. There were things in me thatwere wrong, and I should like to make up for them if I can. '

'Well, my dear, I won't persuade you. Think of it a little longer. Butsomething must be done soon. '

'How I wish I had my bonnet, and shawl, and black gown here!' said Janet, after a few minutes' silence. 'I should like to go to Paddiford Churchand hear Mr. Tryan. There would be no fear of my meeting Robert, for henever goes out on a Sunday morning. '

'I'm afraid it would not do for me to go to the house and fetch yourclothes, ' said Mrs. Raynor. 

'O no, no! I must stay quietly here while you two go to church. I will beMrs. Pettifer's maid, and get the dinner ready for her by the time shecomes back. Dear good woman! She was so tender to me when she took me in, in the night, mother, and all the next day, when I couldn't speak a wordto her to thank her. '

Chapter 21

The servants at Dempster's felt some surprise when the morning, noon, andevening of Saturday had passed, and still their mistress did notreappear. 

'It's very odd, ' said Kitty, the housemaid, as she trimmed her nextweek's cap, while Betty, the middle-aged cook, looked on with foldedarms. 'Do you think as Mrs. Raynor was ill, and sent for the missis aforewe was up?'

'O, ' said Betty, 'if it had been that, she'd ha' been back'ards an'for'ards three or four times afore now; leastways, she'd ha' sent littleAnn to let us know. '

'There's summat up more nor usual between her an' the master, that youmay depend on, ' said Kitty. 'I know those clothes as was lying i' thedrawing-room yesterday, when the company was come, meant summat. Ishouldn't wonder if that was what they've had a fresh row about. She'sp'raps gone away, an's made up her mind not to come back again. '

'An' i' the right on't, too, ' said Betty. 'I'd ha' overrun him long aforenow, if it had been me. I wouldn't stan' bein' mauled as she is by nohusband, not if he was the biggest lord i' the land. It's poor work bein'a wife at that price: I'd sooner be a cook wi'out perkises, an' hevroast, an' boil, an' fry, an' bake, all to mind at once. She may well doas she does. I know I'm glad enough of a drop o' summat myself when I'mplagued. I feel very low, like, tonight; I think I shall put my beer i'the saucepan an' warm it. '

'What a one you are for warmin' your beer, Betty! I couldn't abideit--nasty bitter stuff!'

'It's fine talkin'; if you was a cook you'd know what belongs to bein' acook. It's none so nice to hev a sinkin' at your stomach, I can tell you. You wouldn't think so much o' fine ribbins i' your cap then. '

'Well, well, Betty, don't be grumpy. Liza Thomson, as is at Phipps's, said to me last Sunday, "I wonder you'll stay at Dempster's, " she says, "such goins-on as there is. " But I says, "There's things to put up wi' inivery place, an' you may change, an' change, an' not better yourself whenall's said an' done. " Lors! why, Liza told me herself as Mrs. Phipps wasas skinny as skinny i' the kitchen, for all they keep so much company;and as for follyers, she's as cross as a turkey-cock if she finds 'emout. There's nothin' o' that sort i' the missis. How pretty she come an'spoke to Job last Sunday! There isn't a good-natur'der woman i' theworld, that's my belief--an' hansome too. I al'ys think there's nobodylooks half so well as the missis when she's got her 'air done nice. Lors!I wish I'd got long 'air like her--my 'air's a-comin' off dreadful. '

'There'll be fine work to-morrow, I expect, ' said Betty, 'when the mastercomes home, an' Dawes a-swearin' as he'll niver do a stroke o' work forhim again. It'll be good fun if he sets the justice on him for cuttin'him wi' the whip; the master'll p'raps get his comb cut for once in hislife!'

'Why, he was in a temper like a fiend this morning, ' said Kitty. 'Idaresay it was along o' what had happened wi' the missis. We shall hev apretty house wi' him if she doesn't come back--he'll want to beleatherin' us, I shouldn't wonder. He must hev somethin' t' ill-use whenhe's in a passion. '

'I'd tek care he didn't leather me--no, not if he was my husban' tentimes o'er; I'd pour hot drippin' on him sooner. But the missis hasn't asperrit like me. He'll mek her come back, you'll see; he'll come roundher somehow. There's no likelihood of her coming hack to-night, though;so I should think we might fasten the doors and go to bed when we like. '

On Sunday morning, however, Kitty's mind became disturbed by moredefinite and alarming conjectures about her mistress. While Betty, encouraged by the prospect of unwonted leisure, was sitting down tocontinue a letter which had long lain unfinished between the leaves ofher Bible, Kitty came running into the kitchen and said, --'Lor! Betty, I'm all of a tremble; you might knock me down wi' a feather. I've justlooked into the missis's wardrobe, an' there's both her bonnets. She mustha' gone wi'out her bonnet. An' then I remember as her night-clotheswasn't on the bed yisterday mornin'; I thought she'd put 'em away to bewashed; but she hedn't, for I've been lookin'. It's my belief he'smurdered her, and shut her up i' that closet as he keeps locked al'ys. He's capible on't. '

'Lors-ha'-massy, why you'd better run to Mrs. Raynor's an' see if she'sthere, arter all. It was p'raps all a lie. '

Mrs. Raynor had returned home to give directions to her little maiden, when Kitty, with the elaborate manifestation of alarm which servantsdelight in, rushed in without knocking, and, holding her hands on herheart as if the consequences to that organ were likely to be veryserious, said, --'If you please 'm, is the missis here?'

'No, Kitty; why are you come to ask?'

'Because 'm, she's niver been at home since yesterday mornin', sinceafore we was up; an' we thought somethin' must ha' happened to her. '

'No, don't be frightened, Kitty. Your mistress is quite safe; I knowwhere she is. Is your master at home?'

'No 'm; he went out yesterday mornin', an' said he shouldn't be backafore to-night. '

'Well, Kitty, there's nothing the matter with your mistress. You needn'tsay anything to any one about her being away from home. I shall callpresently and fetch her gown and bonnet. She wants them to put on. '

Kitty, perceiving there was a mystery she was not to inquire into, returned to Orchard Street, really glad to know that her mistress wassafe, but disappointed nevertheless at being told that she was not to befrightened. She was soon followed by Mrs. Raynor in quest of the gown andbonnet. The good mother, on learning that Dempster was not at home, hadat once thought that she could gratify Janet's wish to go to PaddifordChurch. 

'See, my dear, ' she said, as she entered Mrs. Pettifer's parlour; 'I'vebrought you your black clothes. Robert's not at home, and is not comingtill this evening. I couldn't find your best black gown, but this willdo. I wouldn't bring anything else, you know; but there can't be anyobjection to my fetching clothes to cover you. You can go to PaddifordChurch, now, if you like; and I will go with you. '

'That's a dear mother! Then we'll all three go together. Come and help meto get ready. Good little Mrs. Crewe! It will vex her sadly that I shouldgo to hear Mr. Tryan. But I must kiss her, and make it up with her. '

Many eyes were turned on Janet with a look of surprise as she walked upthe aisle of Paddiford Church. She felt a little tremor at the notice sheknew she was exciting, but it was a strong satisfaction to her that shehad been able at once to take a step that would let her neighbours knowher change of feeling towards Mr. Tryan: she had left herself now no roomfor proud reluctance or weak hesitation. The walk through the sweetspring air had stimulated all her fresh hopes, all her yearning desiresafter purity, strength, and peace. She thought she should find a newmeaning in the prayers this morning; her full heart, like an overflowingriver, wanted those ready-made channels to pour itself into; and then sheshould hear Mr. Tryan again, and his words would fall on her likeprecious balm, as they had done last night. There was a liquid brightnessin her eyes as they rested on the mere walls, the pews, the weavers andcolliers in their Sunday clothes. The commonest things seemed to touchthe spring of love within her, just as, when we are suddenly releasedfrom an acute absorbing bodily pain, our heart and senses leap out in newfreedom; we think even the noise of streets harmonious, and are ready tohug the tradesman who is wrapping up our change. A door had been openedin Janet's cold dark prison of self-despair, and the golden light ofmorning was pouring in its slanting beams through the blessed opening. There was sunlight in the world; there was a divine love caring for her;it had given her an earnest of good things: it had been preparing comfortfor her in the very moment when she had thought herself most forsaken. 

Mr. Tryan might well rejoice when his eye rested on her as he entered hisdesk; but he rejoiced with trembling. He could not look at the sweethopeful face without remembering its yesterday's look of agony; and therewas the possibility that that look might return. 

Janet's appearance at church was greeted not only by wondering eyes, butby kind hearts, and after the service several of Mr. Tryan's hearers withwhom she had been on cold terms of late, contrived to come up to her andtake her by the hand. 

'Mother, ' said Miss Linnet, 'do let us go and speak to Mrs. Dempster I'msure there's a great change in her mind towards Mr. Tryan. I noticed howeagerly she listened to the sermon, and she's come with Mrs. Pettifer, you see. We ought to go and give her a welcome among us. '

'Why, my dear, we've never spoke friendly these five year. You know she'sbeen as haughty as anything since I quarrelled with her husband. However, let bygones be bygones: I've no grudge again' the poor thing, moreparticular as she must ha' flew in her husband's face to come an' hearMr. Tryan. Yes, let us go an' speak to her. '

The friendly words and looks touched Janet a little too keenly, and Mrs. Pettifer wisely hurried her home by the least-frequented road. When theyreached home, a violent fit of weeping, followed by continuous lassitude, showed that the emotions of the morning had overstrained her nerves. Shewas suffering, too, from the absence of the long-accustomed stimuluswhich she had promised Mr. Tryan not to touch again. The poor thing wasconscious of this, and dreaded her own weakness, as the victim ofintermittent insanity dreads the oncoming of the old illusion. 

'Mother, ' she whispered, when Mrs. Raynor urged her to lie down and restall the afternoon, that she might be the better prepared to see Mr. Tryanin the evening 'mother, don't let me have anything if I ask for it. '

In the mother's mind there was the same anxiety, and in her it wasmingled with another fear--the fear lest Janet, in her present excitedstate of mind, should take some premature step in relation to herhusband, which might lead back to all the former troubles. The hint shehad thrown out in the morning of her wish to return to him after a time, showed a new eagerness for difficult duties, that only made thelong-saddened sober mother tremble. But as evening approached, Janet'smorning heroism all forsook her: her imagination influenced by physicaldepression as well as by mental habits, was haunted by the vision of herhusband's return home, and she began to shudder with the yesterday'sdread. She heard him calling her, she saw him going to her mother's tolook for her, she felt sure he would find her out, and burst in upon her. 

'Pray, pray, don't leave me, don't go to church, ' she said to Mrs. Pettifer. 'You and mother both stay with me till Mr. Tryan comes. '

At twenty minutes past six the church bells were ringing for the eveningservice, and soon the congregation was streaming along Orchard Street inthe mellow sunset. The street opened toward the west. The red half-sunkensun shed a solemn splendour on the everyday houses, and crimsoned thewindows of Dempster's projecting upper storey. 

Suddenly a loud murmur arose and spread along the stream of church-goers, and one group after another paused and looked backward. At the far end ofthe street, men, accompanied by a miscellaneous group of onlookers, wereslowly carrying something--a body stretched on a door. Slowly they passedalong the middle of the street, lined all the way with awe-struck faces, till they turned aside and paused in the red sunlight before Dempster'sdoor. 

It was Dempster's body. No one knew whether he was alive or dead. 

Chapter 22

It was probably a hard saying to the Pharisees, that 'there is more joyin heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety and nine justpersons that need no repentance. ' And certain ingenious philosophers ofour own day must surely take offence at a joy so entirely out ofcorrespondence with arithmetical proportion. But a heart that has beentaught by its own sore struggles to bleed for the woes of another--thathas 'learned pity through suffering'--is likely to find very imperfectsatisfaction in the 'balance of happiness, ' 'doctrine of compensations, 'and other short and easy methods of obtaining thorough complacency in thepresence of pain; and for such a heart that saying will not be altogetherdark. The emotions, I have observed, are but slightly influenced byarithmetical considerations: the mother, when her sweet lisping littleones have all been taken from her one after another, and she is hangingover her last dead babe, finds small consolation in the fact that thetiny dimpled corpse is but one of a necessary average, and that athousand other babes brought into the world at the same time are doingwell, and are likely to live; and if you stood beside that mother--if youknew her pang and shared it--it is probable you would be equally unableto see a ground of complacency in statistics. 

Doubtless a complacency resting on that basis is highly rational; butemotion, I fear, is obstinately irrational: it insists on caring forindividuals; it absolutely refuses to adopt the quantitative view ofhuman anguish, and to admit that thirteen happy lives are a set-offagainst twelve miserable lives, which leaves a clear balance on the sideof satisfaction. This is the inherent imbecility of feeling, and one mustbe a great philosopher to have got quite clear of all that, and to haveemerged into the serene air of pure intellect, in which it is evidentthat individuals really exist for no other purpose than that abstractionsmay be drawn from them--abstractions that may rise from heaps of ruinedlives like the sweet savour of a sacrifice in the nostrils ofphilosophers, and of a philosophic Deity. And so it comes to pass thatfor the man who knows sympathy because he has known sorrow, that old, oldsaying about the joy of angels over the repentant sinner outweighingtheir joy over the ninety-nine just, has a meaning which does not jarwith the language of his own heart. It only tells him, that for angelstoo there is a transcendent value in human pain, which refuses to besettled by equations; that the eyes of angels too are turned away fromthe serene happiness of the righteous to bend with yearning pity on thepoor erring soul wandering in the desert where no water is: that forangels too the misery of one casts so tremendous a shadow as to eclipsethe bliss of ninety-nine. 

Mr. Tryan had gone through the initiation of suffering: it is no wonder, then, that Janet's restoration was the work that lay nearest his heart;and that, weary as he was in body when he entered the vestry after theevening service, he was impatient to fulfil the promise of seeing her. His experience enabled him to divine--what was the fact--that thehopefulness of the morning would be followed by a return of depressionand discouragement; and his sense of the inward and outward difficultiesin the way of her restoration was so keen, that he could only find relieffrom the foreboding it excited by lifting up his heart in prayer. Thereare unseen elements which often frustrate our wisest calculations--whichraise up the sufferer from the edge of the grave, contradicting theprophecies of the clear-sighted physician, and fulfilling the blindclinging hopes of affection; such unseen elements Mr. Tryan called theDivine Will, and filled up the margin of ignorance which surrounds allour knowledge with the feelings of trust and resignation. Perhaps theprofoundest philosophy could hardly fill it up better. 

His mind was occupied in this way as he was absently taking off his gown, when Mr. Landor startled him by entering the vestry and asking abruptly, 'Have you heard the news about Dempster?'

'No, ' said Mr. Tryan, anxiously; 'what is it?'

'He has been thrown out of his gig in the Bridge Way, and he was taken upfor dead. They were carrying him home as we were coming to church, and Istayed behind to see what I could do. I went in to speak to Mrs. Dempster, and prepare her a little, but she was not at home. Dempster isnot dead, however, he was stunned with the fall. Pilgrim came in a fewminutes, and he says the right leg is broken in two places. It's likelyto be a terrible case, with his state of body. It seems he was more drunkthan usual, and they say he came along the Bridge Way flogging his horselike a madman, till at last it gave a sudden wheel, and he was pitchedout. The servants said they didn't know where Mrs. Dempster was: she hadbeen away from home since yesterday morning; but Mrs. Raynor knew. '

'I know where she is, ' said Mr. Tryan; 'but I think it will be better forher not to be told of this just yet. '

'Ah, that was what Pilgrim said, and so I didn't go round to Mrs. Raynor's. He said it would be all the better if Mrs. Dempster could bekept out of the house for the present. Do you know if anything new hashappened between Dempster and his wife lately? I was surprised to hear ofher being at Paddiford Church this morning. '

'Yes, something has happened; but I believe she is anxious that theparticulars of his behaviour towards her should not be known. She is atMrs. Pettifer's--there is no reason for concealing that, since what hashappened to her husband; and yesterday, when she was in very deeptrouble, she sent for me. I was very thankful she did so: I believe agreat change of feeling has begun in her. But she is at present in thatexcitable state of mind--she has been shaken by so many painful emotionsduring the last two days, that I think it would be better, for thisevening at least, to guard her from a new shock, if possible. But I amgoing now to call upon her, and I shall see how she is. '

'Mr. Tryan, ' said Mr. Jerome, who had entered during the dialogue, andhad been standing by, listening with a distressed face, 'I shall take itas a favour if you'll let me know if iver there's anything I can do forMrs. Dempster. Eh, dear, what a world this is! I think I see 'em fifteenyear ago--as happy a young couple as iver was; and now, what it's allcome to! I was in a hurry, like, to punish Dempster for pessecutin', butthere was a stronger hand at work nor mine. '

'Yes, Mr. Jerome; but don't let us rejoice in punishment, even when thehand of God alone inflicts it. The best of us are but poor wretches justsaved from shipwreck: can we feel anything but awe and pity when we see afellow-passenger swallowed by the waves?'

'Right, right, Mr. Tryan. I'm over hot and hasty, that I am. But I beg onyou to tell Mrs. Dempster--I mean, in course, when you've anopportunity--tell her she's a friend at the White House as she may sendfor any hour o' the day. '

'Yes; I shall have an opportunity, I dare say, and I will remember yourwish. I think, ' continued Mr. Tryan, turning to Mr. Landor, 'I had bettersee Mr. Pilgrim on my way, and learn what is exactly the state of thingsby this time. What do you think?'

'By all means: if Mrs. Dempster is to know, there's no one can break thenews to her so well as you. I'll walk with you to Dempster's door. I daresay Pilgrim is there still. Come, Mr. Jerome, you've got to go our waytoo, to fetch your horse. '

Mr. Pilgrim was in the passage giving some directions to his assistant, when, to his surprise, he saw Mr. Tryan enter. They shook hands; for Mr. Pilgrim, never having joined the party of the Anti-Tryanites, had noground for resisting the growing conviction, that the Evangelical curatewas really a good fellow, though he was a fool for not taking better careof himself. 

'Why, I didn't expect to see you in your old enemy's quarters, ' he saidto Mr. Tryan. 'However, it will be a good while before poor Dempstershows any fight again. '

'I came on Mrs. Dempster's account, ' said Mr. Tryan. 'She is staying atMrs. Pettifer's; she has had a great shock from some severe domestictrouble lately, and I think it will be wiser to defer telling her of thisdreadful event for a short time. '

'Why, what has been up, eh?' said Mr. Pilgrim, whose curiosity was atonce awakened. 'She used to be no friend of yours. Has there been somesplit between them? It's a new thing for her to turn round on him. '

'O, merely an exaggeration of scenes that must often have happenedbefore. But the question now is, whether you think there is any immediatedanger of her husband's death; for in that case, I think, from what Ihave observed of her feelings, she would be pained afterwards to havebeen kept in ignorance. '

'Well, there's no telling in these cases, you know. I don't apprehendspeedy death, and it is not absolutely impossible that we may bring himround again. At present he's in a state of apoplectic stupor; but if thatsubsides, delirium is almost sure to supervene, and we shall have somepainful scenes. It's one of those complicated cases in which the deliriumis likely to be of the worst kind--meningitis and delirium tremenstogether--and we may have a good deal of trouble with him. If Mrs. Dempster were told, I should say it would be desirable to persuade her toremain out of the house at present. She could do no good, you know. I'vegot nurses. '

'Thank you, ' said Mr. Tryan. 'That is what I wanted to know. Good-bye. '

When Mrs. Pettifer opened the door for Mr. Tryan, he told her in a fewwords what had happened, and begged her to take an opportunity of lettingMrs. Raynor know, that they might, if possible, concur in preventing apremature or sudden disclosure of the event to Janet. 

'Poor thing!' said Mrs. Pettifer. 'She's not fit to hear any bad news;she's very low this evening--worn out with feeling; and she's not hadanything to keep her up, as she's been used to. She seems frightened atthe thought of being tempted to take it. '

'Thank God for it; that fear is her greatest security. '

When Mr. Tryan entered the parlour this time, Janet was again awaitinghim eagerly, and her pale sad face was lighted up with a smile as sherose to meet him. But the next moment she said, with a look ofanxiety, --'How very ill and tired you look! You have been working sohard all day, and yet you are come to talk to me. O, you are wearingyourself out. I must go and ask Mrs. Pettifer to come and make you havesome supper. But this is my mother; you have not seen her before, Ithink. '

While Mr. Tryan was speaking to Mrs. Raynor, Janet hurried out, and he, seeing that this good-natured thoughtfulness on his behalf would help tocounteract her depression, was not inclined to oppose her wish, butaccepted the supper Mrs. Pettifer offered him, quietly talking the whileabout a clothing club he was going to establish in Paddiford, and thewant of provident habits among the poor. 

Presently, however, Mrs. Raynor said she must go home for an hour, to seehow her little maiden was going on, and Mrs. Pettifer left the room withher to take the opportunity of telling her what had happened to Dempster. When Janet was left alone with Mr. Tryan, she said, --'I feel so uncertainwhat to do about my husband. I am so weak--my feelings change so fromhour to hour. This morning, when I felt so hopeful and happy, I thought Ishould like to go back to him, and try to make up for what has been wrongin me. I thought, now God would help me, and I should have you to teachand advise me, and I could bear the troubles that would come. But sincethen--all this afternoon and evening--I have had the same feelings I usedto have, the same dread of his anger and cruelty, and it seems to me asif I should never be able to bear it without falling into the same sins, and doing just what I did before. Yet, if it were settled that I shouldlive apart from him, I know it would always be a load on my mind that Ihad shut myself out from going back to him. It seems a dreadful thing inlife, when any one has been so near to one as a husband for fifteenyears, to part and be nothing to each other any more. Surely that is avery strong tie, and I feel as if my duty can never lie quite away fromit. It is very difficult to know what to do: what ought I to do?'

'I think it will be well not to take any decisive step yet. Wait untilyour mind is calmer. You might remain with your mother for a littlewhile; I think you have no real ground for fearing any annoyance fromyour husband at present; he has put himself too much in the wrong; hewill very likely leave you unmolested for some time. Dismiss thisdifficult question from your mind just now, if you can. Every new day maybring you new grounds for decision, and what is most needful for yourhealth of mind is repose from that haunting anxiety about the futurewhich has been preying on you. Cast yourself on God, and trust that Hewill direct you; he will make your duty clear to you, if you waitsubmissively on Him. '

'Yes; I will wait a little, as you tell me. I will go to my mother'stomorrow, and pray to be guided rightly. You will pray for me, too. '

Chapter 23

The next morning Janet was so much calmer, and at breakfast spoke sodecidedly of going to her mother's, that Mrs. Pettifer and Mrs. Raynoragreed it would be wise to let her know by degrees what had befallen herhusband, since as soon as she went out there would be danger of hermeeting some one who would betray the fact. But Mrs. Raynor thought itwould be well first to call at Dempster's, and ascertain how he was: soshe said to Janet, --'My dear, I'll go home first, and see to things, andget your room ready. You needn't come yet, you know. I shall be backagain in an hour or so, and we can go together. '

'O no, ' said Mrs. Pettifer. 'Stay with me till evening. I shall be lostwithout you. You needn't go till quite evening. '

Janet had dipped into the 'Life of Henry Martyn, ' which Mrs. Pettifer hadfrom the Paddiford Lending Library, and her interest was so arrested bythat pathetic missionary story, that she readily acquiesced in bothpropositions, and Mrs. Raynor set out. 

She had been gone more than an hour, and it was nearly twelve o'clock, when Janet put down her book; and after sitting meditatively for someminutes with her eyes unconsciously fixed on the opposite wall, she rose, went to her bedroom, and, hastily putting on her bonnet and shawl, camedown to Mrs. Pettifer, who was busy in the kitchen. 

'Mrs. Pettifer, ' she said, 'tell mother, when she comes back, I'm gone tosee what has become of those poor Lakins in Butchers Lane. I know they'rehalf starving, and I've neglected them so, lately. And then, I think, I'll go on to Mrs. Crewe. I want to see the dear little woman, and tellher myself about my going to hear Mr. Tryan. She won't feel it half somuch if I tell her myself. '

'Won't you wait till your mother comes, or put it off till tomorrow?'said Mrs. Pettifer, alarmed. 'You'll hardly be back in time for dinner, if you get talking to Mrs. Crewe. And you'll have to pass by yourhusband's, you know; and yesterday, you were so afraid of seeing him. '

'O, Robert will be shut up at the office now, if he's not gone out of thetown. I must go--I feel I must be doing something for some one--not be amere useless log any longer. I've been reading about that wonderful HenryMartyn; he's just like Mr. Tryan--wearing himself out for other people, and I sit thinking of nothing but myself. I _must_ go. Good-bye; I shallbe back soon. '

She ran off before Mrs. Pettifer could utter another word of dissuasion, leaving the good woman in considerable anxiety lest this new impulse ofJanet's should frustrate all precautions to save her from a sudden shock. 

Janet having paid her visit in Butcher Lane, turned again into OrchardStreet on her way to Mrs. Crewe's, and was thinking, rather sadly, thather mother's economical housekeeping would leave no abundant surplus tobe sent to the hungry Lakins, when she saw Mr. Pilgrim in advance of heron the other side of the street. He was walking at a rapid pace, and whenhe reached Dempster's door he turned and entered without knocking. 

Janet was startled. Mr. Pilgrim would never enter in that way unlessthere were some one very ill in the house. It was her husband; she feltcertain of it at once. Something had happened to him. Without a moment'spause, she ran across the street, opened the door, and entered. There wasno one in the passage. The dining-room door was wide open--no one wasthere. Mr. Pilgrim, then, was already up-stairs. She rushed up at once toDempster's room--her own room. The door was open, and she paused in palehorror at the sight before her, which seemed to stand out only with themore appalling distinctness because the noonday light was darkened totwilight in the chamber. 

Two strong nurses were using their utmost force to hold Dempster in bed, while the medical assistant was applying a sponge to his head, and Mr. Pilgrim was busy adjusting some apparatus in the background. Dempster'sface was purple and swollen, his eyes dilated, and fixed with a look ofdire terror on something he seemed to see approaching him from the ironcloset. He trembled violently, and struggled as if to jump out of bed. 

'Let me go, let me go, ' he said in a loud, hoarse whisper; 'she's coming. . . She's cold . . . She's dead . . . She'll strangle me with her black hair. Ah!' he shrieked aloud, 'her hair is all serpents . . . They're blackserpents . . . They hiss . . . They hiss . . . Let me go . . . Let me go . . . She wants to drag me with her cold arms . . . Her arms are serpents . . . They are great white serpents . . . They'll twine round me . . . She wants todrag me into the cold water . . . Her bosom is cold . . . It is black . . . Itis all serpents . . . '

'No, Robert, ' Janet cried, in tones of yearning pity, rushing to the sideof the bed, and stretching out her arms towards him, 'no, here is Janet. She is not dead--she forgives you. '

Dempster's maddened senses seemed to receive some new impression from herappearance. The terror gave way to rage. 

'Ha! you sneaking hypocrite!' he burst out in a grating voice, 'youthreaten me . . . You mean to have your revenge on me, do you? Do yourworst! I've got the law on my side . . . I know the law . . . I'll hunt youdown like a hare . . . Prove it . . . Prove that I was tampered with . . . Prove that I took the money . . . Prove it . . . You can prove nothing . . . You damned psalm-singing maggots! I'll make a fire under you, and smokeoff the whole pack of you . . . I'll sweep you up . . . I'll grind you topowder . . . Small powder . . . (here his voice dropt to a low tone ofshuddering disgust) . . . Powder on the bed-clothes . . . Running about . . . Black lice . . . They are coming in swarms . . . Janet! come and take themaway . . . Curse you! why don't you come? Janet!'

Poor Janet was kneeling by the bed with her face buried in her hands. Shealmost wished her worst moment back again rather than this. It seemed asif her husband was already imprisoned in misery, and she could not reachhim--his ear deaf for ever to the sounds of love and forgiveness. Hissins had made a hard crust round his soul; her pitying voice could notpierce it. 

'Not there, isn't she?' he went on in a defiant tone. 'Why do you ask mewhere she is? I'll have every drop of yellow blood out of your veins ifyou come questioning me. Your blood is yellow . . . In your purse . . . Running out of your purse . . . What! you're changing it into toads, areyou? They're crawling . . . They're flying . . . They're flying about my head. . . The toads are flying about. Ostler! ostler! bring out my gig . . . Bring it out, you lazy beast . . . Ha! you'll follow me, will you? . . . You'll fly about my head . . . You've got fiery tongues . . . Ostler! curseyou! why don't you come? Janet! come and take the toads away . . . Janet!'

This last time he uttered her name with such a shriek of terror, thatJanet involuntarily started up from her knees, and stood as if petrifiedby the horrible vibration. Dempster stared wildly in silence for somemonths; then he spoke again in a hoarse whisper:--'Dead . . . Is she dead?She did it, then. She buried herself in the iron chest . . . She left herclothes out, though . . . She isn't dead . . . Why do you pretend she's dead?. . . She's coming . . . She's coming out of the iron closet . . . There arethe black serpents . . . Stop her . . . Let me go . . . Stop her . . . She wantsto drag me away into the cold black water . . . Her bosom is black . . . Itis all serpents . . . They are getting longer . . . The great white serpentsare getting longer . . . '

Here Mr. Pilgrim came forward with the apparatus to bind him, butDempster's struggles became more and more violent. 'Ostler! ostler!' heshouted, 'bring out the gig . . . Give me the whip!'--and bursting loosefrom the strong hands that held him, he began to flog the bed-clothesfuriously with his right arm. 

'Get along, you lame brute!--sc--sc--sc! that's it! there you go! Theythink they've outwitted me, do they? The sneaking idiots! I'll be up withthem by-and-by. I'll make them say the Lord's Prayer backwards . . . I'llpepper them so that the devil shall eat them raw . . . Sc--sc--sc--we shallsee who'll be the winner yet . . . Get along, you damned limping beast . . . I'll lay your back open . . . I'll . . . '

He raised himself with a stronger effort than ever to flog thebed-clothes, and fell back in convulsions. Janet gave a scream, and sankon her knees again. She thought he was dead. 

As soon as Mr. Pilgrim was able to give her a moment's attention, he cameto her, and, taking her by the arm, attempted to draw her gently out ofthe room. 

'Now, my dear Mrs. Dempster, let me persuade you not to remain in theroom at present. We shall soon relieve these symptoms, I hope: it isnothing but the delirium that ordinarily attends such cases. '

'Oh, what is the matter? what brought it on?'

'He fell out of the gig; the right leg is broken. It is a terribleaccident, and I don't disguise that there is considerable dangerattending it, owing to the state of the brain. But Mr. Dempster has astrong constitution, you know; in a few days these symptoms may beallayed, and he may do well. Let me beg of you to keep out of the room atpresent: you can do no good until Mr. Dempster is better, and able toknow you. But you ought not to be alone; let me advise you to have Mrs. Raynor with you. '

'Yes, I will send for mother. But you must not object to my being in theroom. I shall be very quiet now, only just at first the shock was sogreat; I knew nothing about it. I can help the nurses a great deal; I canput the cold things to his head. He may be sensible for a moment and knowme. Pray do not say any more against it: my heart is set on being withhim. '

Mr. Pilgrim gave way, and Janet, having sent for her mother and put offher bonnet and shawl, returned to take her place by the side of herhusband's bed. 

Chapter 24

Day after day, with only short intervals of rest, Janet kept her place inthat sad chamber. No wonder the sick-room and the lazaretto have so oftenbeen a refuge from the tossings of intellectual doubt--a place of reposefor the worn and wounded spirit. Here is a duty about which all creedsand all philosophies are at one: here, at least, the conscience will notbe dogged by doubt, the benign impulse will not be checked by adversetheory: here you may begin to act without settling one preliminaryquestion. To moisten the sufferer's parched lips through the longnight-watches, to bear up the drooping head, to lift the helpless limbs, to divine the want that can find no utterance beyond the feeble motion ofthe hand or beseeching glance of the eye--these are offices that demandno self-questionings, no casuistry, no assent to propositions, noweighing of consequences. Within the four walls where the stir and glareof the world are shut out, and every voice is subdued--where a humanbeing lies prostrate, thrown on the tender mercies of his fellow, themoral relation of man to man is reduced to its utmost clearness andsimplicity: bigotry cannot confuse it, theory cannot pervert it, passion, awed into quiescence, can neither pollute nor perturb it. As we bend overthe sick-bed, all the forces of our nature rush towards the channels ofpity, of patience, and of love, and sweep down the miserable chokingdrift of our quarrels, our debates, our would-be wisdom, and ourclamorous selfish desires. This blessing of serene freedom from theimportunities of opinion lies in all simple direct acts of mercy, and isone source of that sweet calm which is often felt by the watcher in thesick-room, even when the duties there are of a hard and terrible kind. 

Something of that benign result was felt by Janet during her tendance inher husband's chamber. When the first heart-piercing hours wereover--when her horror at his delirium was no longer fresh, she began tobe conscious of her relief from the burden of decision as to her futurecourse. The question that agitated her, about returning to her husband, had been solved in a moment; and this illness, after all, might be theherald of another blessing, just as that dreadful midnight when she stoodan outcast in cold and darkness had been followed by the dawn of a newhope. Robert would get better; this illness might alter him; he would bea long time feeble, needing help, walking with a crutch, perhaps. Shewould wait on him with such tenderness, such all-forgiving love, that theold harshness and cruelty must melt away for ever under theheart-sunshine she would pour around him. Her bosom heaved at thethought, and delicious tears fell. Janet's was a nature in which hatredand revenge could find no place; the long bitter years drew half theirbitterness from her ever-living remembrance of the too short years oflove that went before; and the thought that her husband would ever puther hand to his lips again, and recall the days when they sat on thegrass together, and he laid scarlet poppies on her black hair, and calledher his gypsy queen, seemed to send a tide of loving oblivion over allthe harsh and stony space they had traversed since. The Divine Love thathad already shone upon her would be with her; she would lift up her soulcontinually for help; Mr. Tryan, she knew, would pray for her. If shefelt herself failing, she would confess it to him at once; if her feetbegan to slip, there was that stay for her to cling to. O she could neverbe drawn back into that cold damp vault of sin and despair again; she hadfelt the morning sun, she had tasted the sweet pure air of trust andpenitence and submission. 

These were the thoughts passing through Janet's mind as she hovered abouther husband's bed, and these were the hopes she poured out to Mr. Tryanwhen he called to see her. It was so evident that they were strengtheningher in her new struggle--they shed such a glow of calm enthusiasm overher face as she spoke of them, that Mr. Tryan could not bear to throw onthem the chill of premonitory doubts, though a previous conversation hehad had with Mr. Pilgrim had convinced him that there was not thefaintest probability of Dempster's recovery. Poor Janet did not know thesignificance of the changing symptoms, and when, after the lapse of aweek, the delirium began to lose some of its violence, and to beinterrupted by longer and longer intervals of stupor, she tried to thinkthat these might be steps on the way to recovery, and she shrank fromquestioning Mr. Pilgrim lest he should confirm the fears that began toget predominance in her mind. But before many days were past, he thoughtit right not to allow her to blind herself any longer. One day--it wasjust about noon, when bad news always seems most sickening--he led herfrom her husband's chamber into the opposite drawing-room, where Mrs. Raynor was sitting, and said to her, in that low tone of sympatheticfeeling which sometimes gave a sudden air of gentleness to this roughman--'My dear Mrs. Dempster, it is right in these cases, you know, to beprepared for the worst. I think I shall be saving you pain by preventingyou from entertaining any false hopes, and Mr. Dempster's state is nowsuch that I fear we must consider recovery impossible. The affection ofthe brain might not have been hopeless, but, you see, there is a terriblecomplication; and, I am grieved to say, the broken limb is mortifying. '

Janet listened with a sinking heart. That future of love and forgivenesswould never come then: he was going out of her sight for ever, where herpity could never reach him. She turned cold, and trembled. 

'But do you think he will die, ' she said, 'without ever coming tohimself? without ever knowing me?'

'One cannot say that with certainty. It is not impossible that thecerebral oppression may subside, and that he may become conscious. Ifthere is anything you would wish to be said or done in that case, itwould be well to be prepared. I should think, ' Mr. Pilgrim continued. Turning to Mrs. Raynor, 'Mr. Dempster's affairs are likely to be inorder--his will is . . . '

'O, I wouldn't have him troubled about those things, ' interrupted Janet, 'he has no relations but quite distant ones--no one but me. I wouldn'ttake up the time with that. I only want to . . . '

She was unable to finish; she felt her sobs rising, and left the room. 'OGod!' she said, inwardly, 'is not Thy love greater than mine? Have mercyon him! have mercy on him!'

This happened on Wednesday, ten days after the fatal accident. By thefollowing Sunday, Dempster was in a state of rapidly increasingprostration; and when Mr. Pilgrim, who, in turn with his assistant, hadslept in the house from the beginning, came in, about half-past ten, asusual, he scarcely believed that the feebly struggling life would lastout till morning. For the last few days he had been administeringstimulants to relieve the exhaustion which had succeeded the alternationsof delirium and stupor. This slight office was all that now remained tobe done for the patient; so at eleven o'clock Mr. Pilgrim went to bed, having given directions to the nurse, and desired her to call him if anychange took place, or if Mrs. Dempster desired his presence. 

Janet could not be persuaded to leave the room. She was yearning andwatching for a moment in which her husband's eyes would rest consciouslyupon her, and he would know that she had forgiven him. 

How changed he was since that terrible Monday, nearly a fortnight ago! Helay motionless, but for the irregular breathing that stirred his broadchest and thick muscular neck. His features were no longer purple andswollen; they were pale, sunken, and haggard. A cold perspiration stoodin beads on the protuberant forehead, and on the wasted hands stretchedmotionless on the bed-clothes. It was better to see the hands so, thanconvulsively picking the air, as they had been a week ago. 

Janet sat on the edge of the bed through the long hours of candle-light, watching the unconscious half-closed eyes, wiping the perspiration fromthe brow and cheeks, and keeping her left hand on the cold unansweringright hand that lay beside her on the bed-clothes. She was almost as paleas her dying husband, and there were dark lines under her eyes, for thiswas the third night since she had taken off her clothes; but the eagerstraining gaze of her dark eyes, and the acute sensibility that lay inevery line about her mouth, made a strange contrast with the blankunconsciousness and emaciated animalism of the face she was watching. 

There was profound stillness in the house. She heard no sound but herhusband's breathing and the ticking of the watch on the mantelpiece. Thecandle, placed high up, shed a soft light down on the one object shecared to see. There was a smell of brandy in the room; it was given toher husband from time to time; but this smell, which at first hadproduced in her a faint shuddering sensation, was now becomingindifferent to her: she did not even perceive it; she was too unconsciousof herself to feel either temptations or accusations. She only felt thatthe husband of her youth was dying; far, far out of her reach, as if shewere standing helpless on the shore, while he was sinking in the blackstorm-waves; she only yearned for one moment in which she might satisfythe deep forgiving pity of her soul by one look of love, one word oftenderness. 

Her sensations and thoughts were so persistent that she could not measurethe hours, and it was a surprise to her when the nurse put out thecandle, and let in the faint morning light. Mrs. Raynor, anxious aboutJanet, was already up, and now brought in some fresh coffee for her; andMr. Pilgrim having awaked, had hurried on his clothes, and was coming into see how Dempster was. 

This change from candle-light to morning, this recommencement of the sameround of things that had happened yesterday, was a discouragement ratherthan a relief to Janet. She was more conscious of her chill weariness:the new light thrown on her husband's face seemed to reveal the stillwork that death had been doing through the night; she felt her lastlingering hope that he would ever know her again forsake her. 

But now, Mr. Pilgrim, having felt the pulse, was putting some brandy in atea-spoon between Dempster's lips; the brandy went down, and hisbreathing became freer. Janet noticed the change, and her heart beatfaster as she leaned forward to watch him. Suddenly a slight movement, like the passing away of a shadow, was visible in his face, and he openedhis eyes full on Janet. It was almost like meeting him again on theresurrection morning, after the night of the grave. 

'Robert, do you know me?'

He kept his eyes fixed on her, and there was a faintly perceptible motionof the lips, as if he wanted to speak. 

But the moment of speech was for ever gone--the moment for asking pardonof her, if he wanted to ask it. Could he read the full forgiveness thatwas written in her eyes? She never knew; for, as she was bending to kisshim, the thick veil of death fell between them, and her lips touched acorpse. 

Chapter 25

The faces looked very hard and unmoved that surrounded Dempster's grave, while old Mr. Crewe read the burial-service in his low, broken voice. Thepall-bearers were such men as Mr. Pittman, Mr. Lowme, and Mr. Budd--menwhom Dempster had called his friends while he was in life; and worldlyfaces never look so worldly as at a funeral. They have the same effect ofgrating incongruity as the sound of a coarse voice breaking the solemnsilence of night. 

The one face that had sorrow in it was covered by a thick crape-veil, andthe sorrow was suppressed and silent. No one knew how deep it was; forthe thought in most of her neighbours' minds was, that Mrs. Dempstercould hardly have had better fortune than to lose a bad husband who hadleft her the compensation of a good income. They found it difficult toconceive that her husband's death could be felt by her otherwise than asa deliverance. The person who was most thoroughly convinced that Janet'sgrief was deep and real, was Mr. Pilgrim, who in general was not at allweakly given to a belief in disinterested feeling. 

'That woman has a tender heart, ' he was frequently heard to observe inhis morning rounds about this time. 'I used to think there was a greatdeal of palaver in her, but you may depend upon it there's no pretenceabout her. If he'd been the kindest husband in the world she couldn'thave felt more. There's a great deal of good in Mrs. Dempster--a greatdeal of good. '

'_I_ always said so, ' was Mrs. Lowme's reply, when he made theobservation to her; 'she was always so very full of pretty attentions tome when I was ill. But they tell me now she's turned Tryanite; if that'sit we shan't agree again. It's very inconsistent in her, I think, turninground in that way, after being the foremost to laugh at the Tryanitecant, and especially in a woman of her habits; she should cure herself ofthem before she pretends to be over-religious. '

'Well, I think she means to cure herself, do you know, ' said Mr. Pilgrim, whose goodwill towards Janet was just now quite above that temperatepoint at which he could indulge his feminine patients with a littlejudicious detraction. 'I feel sure she has not taken any stimulants allthrough her husband's illness; and she has been constantly in the way ofthem. I can see she sometimes suffers a good deal of depression for wantof them--it shows all the more resolution in her. Those cures are rare:but I've known them happen sometimes with people of strong will. '

Mrs. Lowme took an opportunity of retailing Mr. Pilgrim's conversation toMrs. Phipps, who, as a victim of Pratt and plethora, could rarely enjoythat pleasure at first-hand. Mrs. Phipps was a woman of decided opinions, though of wheezy utterance. 

'For my part, ' she remarked, 'I'm glad to hear there's any likelihood ofimprovement in Mrs. Dempster, but I think the way things have turned outseems to show that she was more to blame than people thought she was;else, why should she feel so much about her husband? And Dempster, Iunderstand, has left his wife pretty nearly all his property to do as shelikes with; _that_ isn't behaving like such a very bad husband. I don'tbelieve Mrs. Dempster can have had so much provocation as they pretended. I've known husbands who've laid plans for tormenting their wives whenthey're underground--tying up their money and hindering them frommarrying again. Not that _I_ should ever wish to marry again; I think onehusband in one's life is enough in all conscience';--here she threw afierce glance at the amiable Mr. Phipps, who was innocently delightinghimself with the _facetiae_ in the 'Rotherby Guardian, ' and thinking theeditor must be a droll fellow--'but it's aggravating to be tied up inthat way. Why, they say Mrs. Dempster will have as good as six hundreda-year at least. A fine thing for her, that was a poor girl without afarthing to her fortune. It's well if she doesn't make ducks and drakesof it somehow. '

Mrs. Phipps's view of Janet, however, was far from being the prevalentone in Milby. Even neighbours who had no strong personal interest in her, could hardly see the noble-looking woman in her widow's dress, with a sadsweet gravity in her face, and not be touched with fresh admiration forher--and not feel, at least vaguely, that she had entered on a new lifein which it was a sort of desecration to allude to the painful past. Andthe old friends who had a real regard for her, but whose cordiality hadbeen repelled or chilled of late years, now came round her with heartydemonstrations of affection. Mr. Jerome felt that his happiness had asubstantial addition now he could once more call on that 'nice littlewoman Mrs. Dempster', and think of her with rejoicing instead of sorrow. The Pratts lost no time in returning to the footing of old-establishedfriendship with Janet and her mother; and Miss Pratt felt it incumbent onher, on all suitable occasions, to deliver a very emphatic approval ofthe remarkable strength of mind she understood Mrs. Dempster to beexhibiting. The Miss Linnets were eager to meet Mr. Tryan's wishes bygreeting Janet as one who was likely to be a sister in religious feelingand good works; and Mrs. Linnet was so agreeably surprised by the factthat Dempster had left his wife the money 'in that handsome way, to dowhat she liked with it, ' that she even included Dempster himself, and hisvillanous discovery of the flaw in her title to Pye's Croft, in hermagnanimous oblivion of past offences. She and Mrs. Jerome agreed over afriendly cup of tea that there were 'a many husbands as was very finespoken an' all that, an' yet all the while kep' a will locked up fromyou, as tied you up as tight as anything. I assure _you_, ' Mrs. Jeromecontinued, dropping her voice in a confidential manner, 'I know no moreto this day about Mr. Jerome's will, nor the child as is unborn. I've nofears about a income--I'm well aware Mr. Jerome 'ud niver leave me stretfor that; but I should like to hev a thousand or two at my own disposial;it makes a widow a deal more looked on. '

Perhaps this ground of respect to widows might not be entirely withoutits influence on the Milby mind, and might do something towardsconciliating those more aristocratic acquaintances of Janet's, who wouldotherwise have been inclined to take the severest view of her apostasytowards Evangelicalism. Errors look so very ugly in persons of smallmeans--one feels they are taking quite a liberty in going astray; whereaspeople of fortune may naturally indulge in a few delinquencies. 'They'vegot the money for it, ' as the girl said of her mistress who had madeherself ill with pickled salmon. However it may have been, there was notan acquaintance of Janet's, in Milby, that did not offer her civilitiesin the early days of her widowhood. Even the severe Mrs. Phipps was notan exception; for heaven knows what would become of our sociality if wenever visited people we speak ill of: we should live, like Egyptianhermits, in crowded solitude. 

Perhaps the attentions most grateful to Janet were those of her oldfriend Mrs. Crewe, whose attachment to her favourite proved quite toostrong for any resentment she might be supposed to feel on the score ofMr. Tryan. The little deaf old lady couldn't do without her accustomedvisitor, whom she had seen grow up from child to woman, always so willingto chat with her and tell her all the news, though she _was_ deaf; whileother people thought it tiresome to shout in her ear, and irritated herby recommending ear-trumpets of various construction. 

All this friendliness was very precious to Janet. She was conscious ofthe aid it gave her in the self-conquest which was the blessing sheprayed for with every fresh morning. The chief strength of her nature layin her affection, which coloured all the rest of her mind: it gave apersonal sisterly tenderness to her acts of benevolence; it made hercling with tenacity to every object that had once stirred her kindlyemotions. Alas! it was unsatisfied, wounded affection that had made hertrouble greater than she could bear. And now there was no check to thefull flow of that plenteous current in her nature--no gnawing secretanguish--no overhanging terror--no inward shame. Friendly faces beamed onher; she felt that friendly hearts were approving her, and wishing herwell, and that mild sunshine of goodwill fell beneficently on her newhopes and efforts, as the clear shining after rain falls on the tenderleaf-buds of spring, and wins them from promise to fulfilment. 

And she needed these secondary helps, for her wrestling with her pastself was not always easy. The strong emotions from which the life of ahuman being receives a new bias, win their victory as the sea wins his:though their advance may be sure, they will often, after a mightier wavethan usual, seem to roll back so far as to lose all the ground they hadmade. Janet showed the strong bent of her will by taking every outwardprecaution against the occurrence of a temptation. Her mother was now herconstant companion, having shut up her little dwelling and come to residein Orchard Street; and Janet gave all dangerous keys into her keeping, entreating her to lock them away in some secret place. Whenever the toowell-known depression and craving threatened her, she would seek a refugein what had always been her purest enjoyment--in visiting one of her poorneighbours, in carrying some food or comfort to a sick-bed, in cheeringwith her smile some of the familiar dwellings up the dingy back-lanes. But the great source of courage, the great help to perseverance, was thesense that she had a friend and teacher in Mr. Tryan: she could confessher difficulties to him; she knew he prayed for her; she had alwaysbefore her the prospect of soon seeing him, and hearing words ofadmonition and comfort, that came to her charged with a divine power suchas she had never found in human words before. 

So the time passed, till it was far on in May, nearly a month after herhusband's death, when, as she and her mother were seated peacefully atbreakfast in the dining-room, looking through the open window at theold-fashioned garden, where the grass-plot was now whitened withapple-blossoms, a letter was brought in for Mrs. Raynor. 

'Why, there's the Thurston post-mark on it, ' she said. 'It must be aboutyour aunt Anna. Ah, so it is, poor thing! she's been taken worse thislast day or two, and has asked them to send for me. That dropsy iscarrying her off at last, I daresay. Poor thing! it will be a happyrelease. I must go, my dear--she's your father's last sister--though I amsorry to leave you. However, perhaps I shall not have to stay more than anight or two. '

Janet looked distressed as she said, 'Yes, you must go, mother. But Idon't know what I shall do without you. I think I shall run in to Mrs. Pettifer, and ask her to come and stay with me while you're away. I'msure she will. '

At twelve o'clock, Janet, having seen her mother in the coach that was tocarry her to Thurston, called, on her way back, at Mrs. Pettifer's, butfound, to her great disappointment, that her old friend was gone out forthe day. So she wrote on a leaf of her pocket-book an urgent request thatMrs. Pettifer would come and stay with her while her mother was away;and, desiring the servant-girl to give it to her mistress as soon as shecame home, walked on to the Vicarage to sit with Mrs. Crewe, thinking torelieve in this way the feeling of desolateness and undefined fear thatwas taking possession of her on being left alone for the first time sincethat great crisis in her life. And Mrs. Crewe, too, was not at home!

Janet, with a sense of discouragement for which she rebuked herself aschildish, walked sadly home again; and when she entered the vacantdining-room, she could not help bursting into tears. It is such vagueundefinable states of susceptibility as this--states of excitement ordepression, half mental, half physical--that determine many a tragedy inwomen's lives. Janet could scarcely eat anything at her solitary dinner:she tried to fix her attention on a book in vain; she walked about thegarden, and felt the very sunshine melancholy. 

Between four and five o'clock, old Mr. Pittman called, and joined her inthe garden, where she had been sitting for some time under one of thegreat apple-trees, thinking how Robert, in his best moods, used to takelittle Mamsey to look at the cucumbers, or to see the Alderney cow withits calf in the paddock. The tears and sobs had come again at thesethoughts; and when Mr. Pittman approached her, she was feeling languidand exhausted. But the old gentleman's sight and sensibility were obtuse, and, to Janet's satisfaction, he showed no consciousness that she was ingrief. 

'I have a task to impose upon you, Mrs. Dempster, ' he said, with acertain toothless pomposity habitual to him: 'I want you to look overthose letters again in Dempster's bureau, and see if you can find onefrom Poole about the mortgage on those houses at Dingley. It will beworth twenty pounds, if you can find it; and I don't know where it canbe, if it isn't among those letters in the bureau. I've looked everywhereat the office for it. I'm going home now, but I'll call again tomorrow, if you'll be good enough to look in the meantime. '

Janet said she would look directly, and turned with Mr. Pittman into thehouse. But the search would take her some time, so he bade her good-bye, and she went at once to a bureau which stood in a small back-room, whereDempster used sometimes to write letters and receive people who came onbusiness out of office hours. She had looked through the contents of thebureau more than once; but today, on removing the last bundle of lettersfrom one of the compartments, she saw what she had never seen before, asmall nick in the wood, made in the shape of a thumb-nail, evidentlyintended as a means of pushing aside the movable back of the compartment. In her examination hitherto she had not found such a letter as Mr. Pittman had described--perhaps there might be more letters behind thisslide. She pushed it back at once, and saw--no letters, but a smallspirit-decanter, half full of pale brandy, Dempster's habitual drink. 

An impetuous desire shook Janet through all her members; it seemed tomaster her with the inevitable force of strong fumes that flood oursenses before we are aware. Her hand was on the decanter: pale andexcited, she was lifting it out of its niche, when, with a start and ashudder, she dashed it to the ground, and the room was filled with theodour of the spirit. Without staying to shut up the bureau, she rushedout of the room, snatched up her bonnet and mantle which lay in thedining-room, and hurried out of the house. 

Where should she go? In what place would this demon that had re-enteredher be scared back again? She walks rapidly along the street in thedirection of the church. She is soon at the gate of the churchyard; shepasses through it, and makes her way across the graves to a spot sheknows--a spot where the turf was stirred not long ago, where a tomb is tobe erected soon. It is very near the church wall, on the side which nowlies in deep shadow, quite shut out from the rays of the westering sun bya projecting buttress. 

Janet sat down on the ground. It was a sombre spot. A thick hedge, surmounted by elm-trees, was in front of her; a projecting buttress oneach side. But she wanted to shut out even these objects. Her thick crapeveil was down; but she closed her eyes behind it, and pressed her handsupon them. She wanted to summon up the vision of the past; she wanted tolash the demon out of her soul with the stinging memories of the bygonemisery; she wanted to renew the old horror and the old anguish, that shemight throw herself with the more desperate clinging energy at the footof the cross, where the Divine Sufferer would impart divine strength. Shetried to recall those first bitter moments of shame, which were like theshuddering discovery of the leper that the dire taint is upon him; thedeeper and deeper lapse; the on-coming of settled despair; the awfulmoments by the bedside of her self-maddened husband. And then she triedto live through, with a remembrance made more vivid by that contrast, theblessed hours of hope and joy and peace that had come to her of late, since her whole soul had been bent towards the attainment of purity andholiness. 

But now, when the paroxysm of temptation was past, dread and despondencybegan to thrust themselves, like cold heavy mists, between her and theheaven to which she wanted to look for light and guidance. The temptationwould come again--that rush of desire might overmaster her the nexttime--she would slip back again into that deep slimy pit from which shehad been once rescued, and there might be no deliverance for her more. Her prayers did not help her, for fear predominated over trust; she hadno confidence that the aid she sought would be given; the idea of herfuture fall had grasped her mind too strongly. Alone, in this way, shewas powerless. If she could see Mr. Tryan, if she could confess all tohim, she might gather hope again. She _must_ see him; she must go to him. 

Janet rose from the ground, and walked away with a quick resolved step. She had been seated there a long while, and the sun had already sunk. Itwas late for her to walk to Paddiford and go to Mr. Tryan's, where shehad never called before; but there was no other way of seeing him thatevening, and she could not hesitate about it. She walked towards afootpath through the fields, which would take her to Paddiford withoutobliging her to go through the town. The way was rather long, but shepreferred it, because it left less probability of her meetingacquaintances, and she shrank from having to speak to any one. 

The evening red had nearly faded by the time Janet knocked at Mrs. Wagstaff's door. The good woman looked surprised to see her at that hour;but Janet's mourning weeds and the painful agitation of her face quicklybrought the second thought, that some urgent trouble had sent her there. 

'Mr. Tryan's just come in, ' she said. 'If you'll step into the parlour, I'll go up and tell him you're here. He seemed very tired and poorly. '

At another time Janet would have felt distress at the idea that she wasdisturbing Mr. Tryan when he required rest; but now her need was toogreat for that: she could feel nothing but a sense of coming relief, whenshe heard his step on the stair and saw him enter the room. 

He went towards her with a look of anxiety, and said, 'I fear somethingis the matter. I fear you are in trouble. '

Then poor Janet poured forth her sad tale of temptation and despondency;and even while she was confessing she felt half her burden removed. Theact of confiding in human sympathy, the consciousness that a fellow-beingwas listening to her with patient pity, prepared her soul for thatstronger leap by which faith grasps the idea of the Divine sympathy. WhenMr. Tryan spoke words of consolation and encouragement, she could nowbelieve the message of mercy; the water-floods that had threatened tooverwhelm her rolled back again, and life once more spread itsheaven-covered space before her. She had been unable to pray alone; butnow his prayer bore her own soul along with it, as the broad tongue offlame carries upwards in its vigorous leap the little flickering firethat could hardly keep alight by itself. 

But Mr. Tryan was anxious that Janet should not linger out at this latehour. When he saw that she was calmed, he said, 'I will walk home withyou now; we can talk on the way. ' But Janet's mind was now sufficientlyat liberty for her to notice the signs of feverish weariness in hisappearance, and she would not hear of causing him any further fatigue. 

'No, no, ' she said, earnestly, 'you will pain me very much--indeed youwill, by going out again to-night on my account. There is no real reasonwhy I should not go alone. ' And when he persisted, fearing that for herto be seen out so late alone might excite remark, she said imploringly, with a half sob in her voice, 'What should I--what would others like medo, if you went from us? _Why_ will you not think more of that, and takecare of yourself?'

He had often had that appeal made to him before, but tonight--fromJanet's lips--it seemed to have a new force for him, and he gave way. Atfirst, indeed, he only did so on condition that she would let Mrs. Wagstaff go with her; but Janet had determined to walk home alone. Shepreferred solitude; she wished not to have her present feelingsdistracted by any conversation. 

So she went out into the dewy starlight; and as Mr. Tryan turned awayfrom her, he felt a stronger wish than ever that his fragile life mightlast out for him to see Janet's restoration thoroughly established--tosee her no longer fleeing, struggling, clinging up the steep sides of aprecipice whence she might be any moment hurled back into the depths ofdespair, but walking firmly on the level ground of habit. He inwardlyresolved that nothing but a peremptory duty should ever take him fromMilby--that he would not cease to watch over her until life forsook him. 

Janet walked on quickly till she turned into the fields; then sheslackened her pace a little, enjoying the sense of solitude which a fewhours before had been intolerable to her. The Divine Presence did not nowseem far off, where she had not wings to reach it; prayer itself seemedsuperfluous in those moments of calm trust. The temptation which had solately made her shudder before the possibilities of the future, was now asource of confidence; for had she not been delivered from it? Had notrescue come in the extremity of danger? Yes; Infinite Love was caring forher. She felt like a little child whose hand is firmly grasped by itsfather, as its frail limbs make their way over the rough ground; if itshould stumble, the father will not let it go. 

That walk in the dewy starlight remained for ever in Janet's memory asone of those baptismal epochs, when the soul, dipped in the sacred watersof joy and peace, rises from them with new energies, with moreunalterable longings. 

When she reached home she found Mrs. Pettifer there, anxious for herreturn. After thanking her for coming, Janet only said, 'I have been toMr. Tryan's; I wanted to speak to him;' and then remembering how she hadleft the bureau and papers, she went into the back-room, where, apparently, no one had been since she quitted it; for there lay thefragments of glass, and the room was still full of the hateful odour. Howfeeble and miserable the temptation seemed to her at this moment! Sherang for Kitty to come and pick up the fragments and rub the floor, whileshe herself replaced the papers and locked up the bureau. 

The next morning, when seated at breakfast with Mrs. Pettifer, Janetsaid, --'What a dreary unhealthy-looking place that is where Mr. Tryanlives! I'm sure it must be very bad for him to live there. Do you know, all this morning, since I've been awake, I've been turning over a littleplan in my mind. I think it a charming one--all the more, because you areconcerned in it. '

'Why, what can that be?'

'You know that house on the Redhill road they call Holly Mount; it isshut up now. That is Robert's house; at least, it is mine now, and itstands on one of the healthiest spots about here. Now, I've been settlingin my own mind, that if a dear good woman of my acquaintance, who knowshow to make a home as comfortable and cosy as a bird's nest, were to takeup her abode there, and have Mr. Tryan as a lodger, she would be doingone of the most useful deeds in all her useful life. '

'You've such a way of wrapping up things in pretty words. You must speakplainer. '

'In plain words, then, I should like to settle you at Holly Mount. Youwould not have to pay any more rent than where you are, and it would betwenty times pleasanter for you than living up that passage where you seenothing but a brick wall. And then, as it is not far from Paddiford, Ithink Mr. Tryan might be persuaded to lodge with you, instead of in thatmusty house, among dead cabbages and smoky cottages. I know you wouldlike to have him live with you, and you would be such a mother to him. '

'To be sure I should like it; it would be the finest thing in the worldfor me. But there'll be furniture wanted. My little bit of furniturewon't fill that house. '

'O, I can put some in out of this house; it is too full; and we can buythe rest. They tell me I'm to have more money than I shall know what todo with. '

'I'm almost afraid, ' said Mrs. Pettifer, doubtfully, 'Mr. Tryan willhardly be persuaded. He's been talked to so much about leaving thatplace; and he always said he must stay there--he must be among thepeople, and there was no other place for him in Paddiford. It cuts me tothe heart to see him getting thinner and thinner, and I've noticed himquite short o' breath sometimes. Mrs. Linnet will have it, Mrs. Wagstaffhalf poisons him with bad cooking. I don't know about that, but he can'thave many comforts. I expect he'll break down all of a sudden some day, and never be able to preach any more. '

'Well, I shall try my skill with him by and by. I shall be very cunning, and say nothing to him till all is ready. You and I and mother, when shecomes home, will set to work directly and get the house in order, andthen we'll get you snugly settled in it. I shall see Mr. Pittman today, and I will tell him what I mean to do. I shall say I wish to have you fora tenant. Everybody knows I'm very fond of that naughty person, Mrs. Pettifer; so it will seem the most natural thing in the world. And then Ishall by and by point out to Mr. Tryan that he will be doing you aservice as well as himself by taking up his abode with you. I think I canprevail upon him; for last night, when he was quite bent on coming outinto the night air, I persuaded him to give it up. '

'Well, I only hope you may, my dear. I don't desire anything better thanto do something towards prolonging Mr. Tryan's life, for I've sad fearsabout him. '

'Don't speak of them--I can't bear to think of them. We will only thinkabout getting the house ready. We shall be as busy as bees. How we shallwant mother's clever fingers! I know the room upstairs that will just dofor Mr. Tryan's study. There shall be no seats in it except a very easychair and a very easy sofa, so that he shall be obliged to rest himselfwhen he comes home. '

Chapter 26

That was the last terrible crisis of temptation Janet had to passthrough. The goodwill of her neighbours, the helpful sympathy of thefriends who shared her religious feelings, the occupations suggested toher by Mr. Tryan, concurred, with her strong spontaneous impulses towardsworks of love and mercy, to fill up her days with quiet socialintercourse and charitable exertion. Besides, her constitution, naturallyhealthy and strong, was every week tending, with the gathering force ofhabit, to recover its equipoise, and set her free from those physicalsolicitations which the smallest habitual vice always leaves behind it. The prisoner feels where the iron has galled him, long after his fettershave been loosed. 

There were always neighbourly visits to be paid and received; and as themonths wore on, increasing familiarity with Janet's present self began toefface, even from minds as rigid as Mrs. Phipps's, the unpleasantimpressions that had been left by recent years. Janet was recovering thepopularity which her beauty and sweetness of nature had won for her whenshe was a girl; and popularity, as every one knows, is the most complexand self-multiplying of echoes. Even anti-Tryanite prejudice could notresist the fact that Janet Dempster was a changed woman--changed as thedusty, bruised, and sun-withered plant is changed when the soft rains ofheaven have fallen on it--and that this change was due to Mr. Tryan'sinfluence. The last lingering sneers against the Evangelical curate beganto die out; and though much of the feeling that had prompted themremained behind, there was an intimidating consciousness that theexpression of such feeling would not be effective--jokes of that sort hadceased to tickle the Milby mind. Even Mr. Budd and Mr. Tomlinson, whenthey saw Mr. Tryan passing pale and worn along the street, had a secretsense that this man was somehow not that very natural and comprehensiblething, a humbug--that, in fact, it was impossible to explain him from thestomach and pocket point of view. Twist and stretch their theory as theymight, it would not fit Mr. Tryan; and so, with that remarkableresemblance as to mental processes which may frequently be observed toexist between plain men and philosophers, they concluded that the lessthey said about him the better. 

Among all Janet's neighbourly pleasures, there was nothing she likedbetter than to take an early tea at the White House, and to stroll withMr. Jerome round the old-fashioned garden and orchard. There was endlessmatter for talk between her and the good old man, for Janet had thatgenuine delight in human fellowship which gives an interest to allpersonal details that come warm from truthful lips; and, besides, theyhad a common interest in good-natured plans for helping their poorerneighbours. One great object of Mr. Jerome's charities was, as he oftensaid, 'to keep industrious men an' women off the parish. I'd rether giventen shillin' an' help a man to stand on his own legs, nor payhalf-a-crown to buy him a parish crutch; it's the ruination on him if heonce goes to the parish. I've see'd many a time, if you help a man wi' apresent in a neeborly way, it sweetens his blood--he thinks it kind onyou; but the parish shillins turn it sour--he niver thinks 'em enough. 'In illustration of this opinion Mr. Jerome had a large store of detailsabout such persons as Jim Hardy, the coal-carrier, 'as lost his hoss'. And Sally Butts, 'as hed to sell her mangle, though she was as decent awoman as need to be'; to the hearing of which details Janet seriouslyinclined; and you would hardly desire to see a prettier picture than thekind-faced white-haired old man telling these fragments of his simpleexperience as he walked, with shoulders slightly bent, among themoss-roses and espalier apple-trees, while Janet in her widow's cap, herdark eyes bright with interest, went listening by his side, and littleLizzie, with her nankeen bonnet hanging down her back, toddled on beforethem. Mrs. Jerome usually declined these lingering strolls, and oftenobserved, 'I niver see the like to Mr. Jerome when he's got Mrs. Dempsterto talk to; it sinnifies nothin' to him whether we've tea at four or atfive o'clock; he'd go on till six, if you'd let him alone--he's like offhis head. ' However, Mrs. Jerome herself could not deny that Janet was avery pretty-spoken woman: 'She aly's says, she niver gets sich pikelets'as mine nowhere; I know that very well--other folks buy 'em atshops--thick, unwholesome things, you might as well eat a sponge. '

The sight of little Lizzie often stirred in Janet's mind a sense of thechildlessness which had made a fatal blank in her life. She had fleetingthoughts that perhaps among her husband's distant relatives there mightbe some children whom she could help to bring up, some little girl whomshe might adopt; and she promised herself one day or other to hunt out asecond cousin of his--a married woman, of whom he had lost sight for manyyears. 

But at present her hands and heart were too full for her to carry outthat scheme. To her great disappointment, her project of settling Mrs. Pettifer at Holly Mount had been delayed by the discovery that somerepairs were necessary in order to make the house habitable, and it wasnot till September had set in that she had the satisfaction of seeing herold friend comfortably installed, and the rooms destined for Mr. Tryanlooking pretty and cosy to her heart's content. She had taken several ofhis chief friends into her confidence, and they were warmly wishingsuccess to her plan for inducing him to quit poor Mrs. Wagstaff's dingyhouse and dubious cookery. That he should consent to some such change wasbecoming more and more a matter of anxiety to his hearers; for though nomore decided symptoms were yet observable in him than increasingemaciation, a dry hacking cough, and an occasional shortness of breath, it was felt that the fulfilment of Mr. Pratt's prediction could not longbe deferred, and that this obstinate persistence in labour andself-disregard must soon be peremptorily cut short by a total failure ofstrength. Any hopes that the influence of Mr. Tryan's father and sisterwould prevail on him to change his mode of life--that they would perhapscome to live with him, or that his sister at least might come to see him, and that the arguments which had failed from other lips might be morepersuasive from hers--were now quite dissipated. His father had latelyhad an attack of paralysis, and could not spare his only daughter'stendance. On Mr. Tryan's return from a visit to his father, Miss Linnetwas very anxious to know whether his sister had not urged him to trychange of air. From his answers she gathered that Miss Tryan wished himto give up his curacy and travel, or at least go to the south Devonshirecoast. 

'And why will you not do so?' Miss Linnet said; 'you might come back tous well and strong, and have many years of usefulness before you. '

'No, ' he answered quietly, 'I think people attach more importance to suchmeasures than is warranted. I don't see any good end that is to be servedby going to die at Nice, instead of dying amongst one's friends and one'swork. I cannot leave Milby--at least I will not leave it voluntarily. '

But though he remained immovable on this point, he had been compelled togive up his afternoon service on the Sunday, and to accept Mr. Parry'soffer of aid in the evening service, as well as to curtail his weekdaylabours; and he had even written to Mr. Prendergast to request that hewould appoint another curate to the Paddiford district, on theunderstanding that the new curate should receive the salary, but that Mr. Tryan should co-operate with him as long as he was able. The hopefulnesswhich is an almost constant attendant on consumption, had not the effectof deceiving him as to the nature of his malady, or of making him lookforward to ultimate recovery. He believed himself to be consumptive, andhe had not yet felt any desire to escape the early death which he had forsome time contemplated as probable. Even diseased hopes will take theirdirection from the strong habitual bias of the mind, and to Mr. Tryandeath had for years seemed nothing else than the laying down of a burden, under which he sometimes felt himself fainting. He was only sanguineabout his powers of work: he flattered himself that what he was unable todo one week he should be equal to the next, and he would not admit thatin desisting from any part of his labour he was renouncing itpermanently. He had lately delighted Mr. Jerome by accepting hislong-proffered loan of the 'little chacenut hoss;' and he found so muchbenefit from substituting constant riding exercise for walking, that hebegan to think he should soon be able to resume some of the work he haddropped. 

That was a happy afternoon for Janet, when, after exerting herself busilyfor a week with her mother and Mrs. Pettifer, she saw Holly Mount lookingorderly and comfortable from attic to cellar. It was an old red-brickhouse, with two gables in front, and two clipped holly-trees flanking thegarden-gate; a simple, homely-looking place, that quiet people mighteasily get fond of; and now it was scoured and polished and carpeted andfurnished so as to look really snug within. When there was nothing moreto be done, Janet delighted herself with contemplating Mr. Tryan's study, first sitting down in the easy-chair, and then lying for a moment on thesofa, that she might have a keener sense of the repose he would get fromthose well-stuffed articles of furniture, which she had gone to Rotherbyon purpose to choose. 

'Now, mother, ' she said, when she had finished her survey, 'you have doneyour work as well as any fairy-mother or god-mother that ever turned apumpkin into a coach and horses. You stay and have tea cosily with Mrs. Pettifer while I go to Mrs. Linnet's. I want to tell Mary and Rebecca thegood news, that I've got the exciseman to promise that he will take Mrs. Wagstaff's lodgings when Mr. Tryan leaves. They'll be so pleased to hearit, because they thought he would make her poverty an objection to hisleaving her. '

'But, my dear child. ' said Mrs. Raynor, whose face, always calm, was nowa happy one, 'have a cup of tea with us first. You'll perhaps miss Mrs. Linnet's tea-time. '

'No, I feel too excited to take tea yet. I'm like a child with a newbaby-house. Walking in the air will do me good. '

So she set out. Holly Mount was about a mile from that outskirt ofPaddiford Common where Mrs. Linnet's house stood nestled among itslaburnums, lilacs, and syringas. Janet's way thither lay for a littlewhile along the high-road, and then led her into a deep-rutted lane, which wound through a flat tract of meadow and pasture, while in frontlay smoky Paddiford, and away to the left the mother-town of Milby. Therewas no line of silvery willows marking the course of a stream--no groupof Scotch firs with their trunks reddening in the level sunbeams--nothingto break the flowerless monotony of grass and hedgerow but an occasionaloak or elm, and a few cows sprinkled here and there. A very commonplacescene, indeed. But what scene was ever commonplace in the descendingsunlight, when colour has awakened from its noonday sleep, and the longshadows awe us like a disclosed presence? Above all, what scene iscommonplace to the eye that is filled with serene gladness, and brightensall things with its own joy?

And Janet just now was very happy. As she walked along the rough lanewith a buoyant step, a half smile of innocent, kindly triumph playedabout her mouth. She was delighting beforehand in the anticipated successof her persuasive power, and for the time her painful anxiety about Mr. Tryan's health was thrown into abeyance. But she had not gone far alongthe lane before she heard the sound of a horse advancing at a walkingpace behind her. Without looking back, she turned aside to make way forit between the ruts, and did not notice that for a moment it had stopped, and had then come on with a slightly quickened pace. In less than aminute she heard a well-known voice say, 'Mrs. Dempster'; and, turning, saw Mr. Tryan close to her, holding his horse by the bridle. It seemedvery natural to her that he should be there. Her mind was so full of hispresence at that moment, that the actual sight of him was only like amore vivid thought, and she behaved, as we are apt to do when feelingobliges us to be genuine, with a total forgetfulness of polite forms. Sheonly looked at him with a slight deepening of the smile that was alreadyon her face. He said gently, 'Take my arm'; and they walked on a littleway in silence. 

It was he who broke it. 'You are going to Paddiford, I suppose?'

The question recalled Janet to the consciousness that this was anunexpected opportunity for beginning her work of persuasion, and that shewas stupidly neglecting it. 

'Yes, ' she said, 'I was going to Mrs. Linnet's. I knew Miss Linnet wouldlike to hear that our friend Mrs. Pettifer is quite settled now in hernew house. She is as fond of Mrs. Pettifer as I am--almost; I won't admitthat any one loves her _quite_ as well, for no one else has such goodreason as I have. But now the dear woman wants a lodger, for you know shecan't afford to live in so large a house by herself. But I knew when Ipersuaded her to go there that she would be sure to get one--she's such acomfortable creature to live with; and I didn't like her to spend all therest of her days up that dull passage, being at every one's beck and callwho wanted to make use of her. '

'Yes, ' said Mr. Tryan, 'I quite understand your feeling; I don't wonderat your strong regard for her. '

'Well, but now I want her other friends to second me. There she is, withthree rooms to let, ready furnished, everything in order; and I know someone, who thinks as well of her as I do, and who would be doing good allround--to every one that knows him, as well as to Mrs. Pettifer, if hewould go to live with her. He would leave some uncomfortable lodgings, which another person is already coveting and would take immediately; andhe would go to breathe pure air at Holly Mount, and gladden Mrs. Pettifer's heart by letting her wait on him; and comfort all his friends, who are quite miserable about him. '

Mr. Tryan saw it all in a moment--he saw that it had all been done forhis sake. He could not be sorry; he could not say no; he could not resistthe sense that life had a new sweetness for him, and that he should likeit to be prolonged a little--only a little, for the sake of feeling astronger security about Janet. When she had finished speaking, she lookedat him with a doubtful, inquiring glance. He was not looking at her; hiseyes were cast downwards; but the expression of his face encouraged her, and she said, in a half-playful tone of entreaty, --'You _will_ go andlive with her? I know you will. You will come back with me now and seethe house. '

He looked at her then, and smiled. There is an unspeakable blending ofsadness and sweetness in the smile of a face sharpened and paled by slowconsumption. That smile of Mr. Tryan's pierced poor Janet's heart: shefelt in it at once the assurance of grateful affection and the prophecyof coming death. Her tears rose; they turned round without speaking, andwent back again along the lane. 

Chapter 27

In less than a week Mr. Tryan was settled at Holly Mount, and there wasnot one of his many attached hearers who did not sincerely rejoice at theevent. 

The autumn that year was bright and warm, and at the beginning ofOctober, Mr. Walsh, the new curate, came. The mild weather, therelaxation from excessive work, and perhaps another benignant influence, had for a few weeks a visibly favourable effect on Mr. Tryan. At least hebegan to feel new hopes, which sometimes took the guise of new strength. He thought of the cases in which consumption patients remain nearlystationary for years, without suffering so as to make their lifeburdensome to themselves or to others; and he began to struggle with alonging that it might be so with him. He struggled with it, because hefelt it to be an indication that earthly affection was beginning to havetoo strong a hold on him, and he prayed earnestly for more perfectsubmission, and for a more absorbing delight in the Divine Presence asthe chief good. He was conscious that he did not wish for prolonged lifesolely that he might reclaim the wanderers and sustain the feeble: he wasconscious of a new yearning for those pure human joys which he hadvoluntarily and determinedly banished from his life--for a draught ofthat deep affection from which he had been cut off by a dark chasm ofremorse. For now, that affection was within his reach; he saw it there, like a palm-shadowed well in the desert; he _could_ not desire to die insight of it. 

And so the autumn rolled gently by in its 'calm decay'. Until November. Mr. Tryan continued to preach occasionally, to ride about visiting hisflock, and to look in at his schools: but his growing satisfaction in Mr. Walsh as his successor saved him from too eager exertion and fromworrying anxieties. Janet was with him a great deal now, for she saw thathe liked her to read to him in the lengthening evenings, and it becamethe rule for her and her mother to have tea at Holly Mount, where, withMrs. Pettifer, and sometimes another friend or two, they brought Mr. Tryan the unaccustomed enjoyment of companionship by his own fireside. 

Janet did not share his new hopes, for she was not only in the habit ofhearing Mr. Pratt's opinion that Mr. Tryan could hardly stand out throughthe winter, but she also knew that it was shared by Dr Madely ofRotherby, whom, at her request, he had consented to call in. It was notnecessary or desirable to tell Mr. Tryan what was revealed by thestethoscope, but Janet knew the worst. 

She felt no rebellion under this prospect of bereavement, but rather aquiet submissive sorrow. Gratitude that his influence and guidance hadbeen given her, even if only for a little while--gratitude that she waspermitted to be with him, to take a deeper and deeper impress from dailycommunion with him, to be something to him in these last months of hislife, was so strong in her that it almost silenced regret. Janet hadlived through the great tragedy of woman's life. Her keenest personalemotions had been poured forth in her early love--her wounded affectionwith its years of anguish--her agony of unavailing pity over thatdeathbed seven months ago. The thought of Mr. Tryan was associated forher with repose from that conflict of emotion, with trust in theunchangeable, with the influx of a power to subdue self. To have beenassured of his sympathy, his teaching, his help, all through her life, would have been to her like a heaven already begun--a deliverance fromfear and danger; but the time was not yet come for her to be consciousthat the hold he had on her heart was any other than that of theheaven-sent friend who had come to her like the angel in the prison, andloosed her bonds, and led her by the hand till she could look back on thedreadful doors that had once closed her in. 

Before November was over Mr. Tryan had ceased to go out. A new crisis hadcome on: the cough had changed its character, and the worst symptomsdeveloped themselves so rapidly that Mr. Pratt began to think the endwould arrive sooner than he had expected. Janet became a constantattendant on him now, and no one could feel that she was performinganything but a sacred office. She made Holly Mount her home, and, withher mother and Mrs. Pettifer to help her, she filled the painful days andnights with every soothing influence that care and tenderness coulddevise. There were many visitors to the sick-room, led thither byvenerating affection; and there could hardly be one who did not retain inafter years a vivid remembrance of the scene there--of the pale wastedform in the easy-chair (for he sat up to the last), of the grey eyes sofull even yet of inquiring kindness, as the thin, almost transparent handwas held out to give the pressure of welcome; and of the sweet woman, too, whose dark watchful eyes detected every want, and who supplied thewant with a ready hand. 

There were others who would have had the heart and the skill to fill thisplace by Mr. Tryan's side, and who would have accepted it as an honour;but they could not help feeling that God had given it to Janet by a trainof events which were too impressive not to shame all jealousies intosilence. 

That sad history which most of us know too well, lasted more than threemonths. He was too feeble and suffering for the last few weeks to see anyvisitors, but he still sat up through the day. The strange hallucinationsof the disease which had seemed to take a more decided hold on him justat the fatal crisis, and had made him think he was perhaps getting betterat the very time when death had begun to hurry on with more rapidmovement, had now given way, and left him calmly conscious of thereality. One afternoon, near the end of February, Janet was moving gentlyabout the room, in the fire-lit dusk, arranging some things that would bewanted in the night. There was no one else in the room, and his eyesfollowed her as she moved with the firm grace natural to her, while thebright fire every now and then lit up her face, and gave an unusual glowto its dark beauty. Even to follow her in this way with his eyes was anexertion that gave a painful tension to his face; while she looked likean image of life and strength. 

'Janet, ' he said presently, in his faint voice--he always called herJanet now. In a moment she was close to him, bending over him. He openedhis hand as he looked up at her, and she placed hers within it. 

'Janet, ' he said again, 'you will have a long while to live after I amgone. '

A sudden pang of fear shot through her. She thought he felt himselfdying, and she sank on her knees at his feet, holding his hand, while shelooked up at him, almost breathless. 

'But you will not feel the need of me as you have done . . . You have asure trust in God . . . I shall not look for you in vain at the last. '

'No . . . No . . . I shall be there . . . God will not forsake me. '

She could hardly utter the words, though she was not weeping. She waswaiting with trembling eagerness for anything else he might have to say. 

'Let us kiss each other before we part. '

She lifted up her face to his, and the full life-breathing lips met thewasted dying ones in a sacred kiss of promise. 

Chapter 28

It soon came--the blessed day of deliverance, the sad day of bereavement;and in the second week of March they carried him to the grave. He wasburied as he had desired: there was no hearse, no mourning-coach; hiscoffin was borne by twelve of his humbler hearers, who relieved eachother by turns. But he was followed by a long procession of mourningfriends, women as well as men. 

Slowly, amid deep silence, the dark stream passed along Orchard Street, where eighteen months before the Evangelical curate had been saluted withhooting and hisses. Mr. Jerome and Mr. Landor were the eldestpall-bearers; and behind the coffin, led by Mr. Tryan's cousin, walkedJanet, in quiet submissive sorrow. She could not feel that he was quitegone from her; the unseen world lay so very near her--it held all thathad ever stirred the depths of anguish and joy within her. 

It was a cloudy morning, and had been raining when they left Holly Mount;but as they walked, the sun broke out, and the clouds were rolling off inlarge masses when they entered the churchyard, and Mr. Walsh's voice washeard saying, 'I am the Resurrection and the Life'. The faces were nothard at this funeral; the burial-service was not a hollow form. Everyheart there was filled with the memory of a man who, through aself-sacrificing life and in a painful death, had been sustained by thefaith which fills that form with breath and substance. 

When Janet left the grave, she did not return to Holly Mount; she went toher home in Orchard Street, where her mother was waiting to receive her. She said quite calmly, 'Let us walk round the garden, mother. ' And theywalked round in silence, with their hands clasped together, looking atthe golden crocuses bright in the spring sunshine. Janet felt a deepstillness within. She thirsted for no pleasure; she craved no worldlygood. She saw the years to come stretch before her like an autumnafternoon, filled with resigned memory. Life to her could never more haveany eagerness; it was a solemn service of gratitude and patient effort. She walked in the presence of unseen witnesses--of the Divine love thathad rescued her, of the human love that waited for its eternal reposeuntil it had seen her endure to the end. 

Janet is living still. Her black hair is grey, and her step is no longerbuoyant; but the sweetness of her smile remains, the love is not gonefrom her eyes; and strangers sometimes ask, Who is that noble-lookingelderly woman, that walks about holding a little boy by the hand? Thelittle boy is the son of Janet's adopted daughter, and Janet in her oldage has children about her knees, and loving young arms round her neck. 

There is a simple gravestone in Milby Churchyard, telling that in thisspot lie the remains of Edgar Tryan, for two years officiating curate atthe Paddiford Chapel-of-Ease, in this parish. It is a meagre memorial, and tells you simply that the man who lies there took upon him, faithfully or unfaithfully, the office of guide and instructor to hisfellowmen. 

But there is another memorial of Edgar Tryan, which bears a fullerrecord: it is Janet Dempster, rescued from self-despair, strengthenedwith divine hopes, and now looking back on years of purity and helpfullabour. The man who has left such a memorial behind him, must have beenone whose heart beat with true compassion, and whose lips were moved byfervent faith. 

THE END