ifornia >nal ty THE ] [BRARY THE UNIVERSITY OF CAL IFORNIA LOS ANGELES FROM THE LIBRARY OF JIM TULLY GIFT OF MRS. JIM TULLY 'She lingered at the door before she gathered courage to knock." PAGE 2^^. NOVELS OF GEORGE LELIOT VOL. IV. JSCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE AND SILAS MARNER. > WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. SHEPPERTON CHURCH, AS IT WAS. NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS FRANKLIN SQUARE. GEORGE ELIOT'S WORKS. LIBRARY EDITION. 'ADA?? BEDS. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, $1 25. DANIEL DERONDA. 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $2 50. TBLIX HOLT, THE RADICAL. Illus- trated. 12mo, Cloth, $1 25. MIDDLEMARCH. 2 vols. , 12mo, Cloth, $2 60. ROMOLA. Illustrated. 12rao, Cloth, $1 25. SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, ana SILAS ItARNER, the Weaver of Rav- eloe. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, $1 25. THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. Illus- trated. 12mo, Cloth, $1 25. THE IMPRESSIONS OF THEOPHRAS- TUS SUCH. 12mo, Cloth, $1 25. CHEAPER EDITION. DANISL DERONDA. 8vo, Paper, 50 cnts. BXOTHSR JACOB. THE LIFTED VJSIL. 32mo, Paper, 20 cents. MIDDLSMARCH. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents; Cloth, $1 25. THE HILL ON THE FLOSS. 8vo, Pa- per, 50 cants. ROMOLA. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. FELIJT HOLT. 8vo, Paper, 50 centa SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. Separately, in 32mo, Paper: The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton, 20 cents; Mr. GilfiVi Love Story, 20 cents; Janet' t Repent- ance, 20 cents. SILAS MARNER. 12mo, Cloth, 75 cts. THE IMPRESSIONS OF THEO- PHRASTUS SUCH. 4to, Paper, 10 cents. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. HARPBR & BROTHERS unll tend any of the above volumes by mail, pottage prepaidf to any part of tht United Slatet, on receipt of the prict. SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE BY GEORGE ELIOT. HARPER'S LIBRARY EDITION. NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE. CONTENTS. fAGH THE SAD FORTUNES OF THE REV. AMOS BARTON .... 7 MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY 75 JANET'S REPENTANCE 189 College Library PR ' THE SAD FORTUNES THE EEY. AMOS BARTON. CHAPTER I. SHEPPERTON CHURCH Avas a very different-looking building five-and-twenty years ago. To be sure, its substantial stone tower looks at you through its intelligent eye, the clock, with the friendly expression of former days ; but in every thing else what changes ! Now there is a wide span of slated roof flanking the old steeple ; the windows are tall and symmet- rical ; the outer doors are resplendent with oak-graining, the inner doors reverentially noiseless with a garment of red baize ; and the walls, you are convinced, no lichen Avill ever again effect a settlement on they are smooth and innutrient as the summit of the Rev. Amos Barton's head, after ten years of baldness and supererogatory soap. Pass through the baize doors, and you will see the nave filled with well-shaped bench- es, understood to be free seats ; while in certain eligible cor- ners, less directly under the fire of the clergyman's eye, there are pe\vs reserved for the Shepperton gentility. Ample gal- leries are supported on iron pillars, and in one of them stands the crowning glory, the very clasp or aigrette of Shepperton church-adornment namely, an organ, not very much out of repair, on which a collector of small rents, differentiated by the force of circumstances into an organist, will accompany the alacrity of your departure after the blessing, by a sacred minuet or an easy " Gloria." Immense improvement ! says the well-regulated mind, which unintermittingly rejoices in the New Police, the Tithe Commutation Act, the penny-post, and all guaranties of hu- man advancement, and has no moments when conservative-re- forming intellect takes a nap, while imagination does a little Toryism by the sly. revellin^ u^ regret that dear, old, brown, 8 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. crumbling, picturesque inefficiency is everywhere giving place to spick-and-span new-painted, new-varnished efficiency, which will yield endless diagrams, plans, elevations, and sections, but alas r no picture. Mine, I fear, is not a well-regulated mind : it has an occasional tenderness for old abuses ; it lin- gers with a certain fondness over the days of nasal clerks and top-booted parsons, and has a sigh for the departed shades of vulgar errors. So it is not surprising that I recall with a fond Badness Shepperton Church as it was in the old days, with its outer coat of rough stucco, its red-tiled roof, its heterogeneous windows patched with desultory bits of painted glass, and its little flight of steps with their wooden rail running up the outer wall, and leading to the school-children's gallery. Then inside, what dear old quaintnesses ! which I began to look at with delight even when I was so crude a member of the congregation that my nurse found it necessary to provide for the re-enforcement of my devotional patience by smuggling bread-and-butter into the sacred edifice. There was the chan- cel, guarded by two little cherubim looking uncomfortably squeezed between arch and wall, and adorned with the es- cutcheons of the Oldinport family, which showed me inex- haustible possibilities of meaning in their blood-red hands, their death's-heads and cross-bones, their leopards' paws, and Maltese crosses. There were inscriptions on the panels of the singing-gallery, telling of benefactions to the poor of Shepper- ton, with an involuted elegance of capitals and final flourish- es, which my alphabetic erudition traced with ever-new de- light. No benches in those days; but huge roomy pews, round which devout church-goers sat during " lessons," try- ing to look anywhere else than into each other's eyes. No low partitions allowing you, with a dreary absence of contract and mystery, to see every thing at all moments; but tall dark panels, under whose shadow I sank with a sense of re- tirement through.the Litany, only to feel with more intensity my burst into the conspicuousness of public life when I was made to stand up on the seat during the psalms or the sing- ing. And the singing was no mechanical affair of official rou- tine ; it had a drama. As the moment of psalmody approach- ed, by some process to me as mysterious and untraceable as the opening of the flowers or the breaking-out of the stars, a slate appeared in front of the gallery, advertising in bold characters the psalm about to be sung, lest the sonorous an- nouncement of the clerk should still leave the bucolic mind in doubt on that head. Then folloAved the migration of the clerk to the gallery, where, in company with a bassoon, two AMOS BARTON. 9 key-bugles, a carpenter understood to have an amazing pow- er of singing " counter," and two lesser musical stars, he form- ed a complement of a choir regarded in Shepperton as one of distinguished attraction, occasionally known to draw hearers from the next parish. The innovation of hymn-books was as yet undreamed of; even the New Version was regarded with a sort of melancholy tolerance, as part of the common degen- eracy in a time when prices had dwindled, and a cotton gown was no longer stout enough to last a lifetime ; for the lyrical taste of the best heads in Shepperton had been formed on Sternhold and Hopkins. But the greatest triumphs of the Shepperton choir were reserved for the Sundays when the slate announced an ANTHEM, with a dignified abstinence from particularization, both words and music lying far beyond the roach of the most ambitious amateur in the congregation : : an anthem in which the key-bugles always ran away at a great pace, while the bassoon every now and then boomed a flying shot after them. As for the clergyman, Mr. Gilfil, an excellent old gentle- man, who smoked very 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 little romance, as most lives have between the ages of teetotum and tobacco. And at present I am concerned with quite another sort of clergy- man the Rev. Amos Barton, who did not come to Shepper- ton until long after Mr. Gilfil had departed this life until after an interval in which Evangelicalism and the Catholic Question had begun to agitate the rustic mind with contro- versial debates. A Popish blacksmith had produced a strong Protestant reaction by declaring that, as soon as the Eman- cipation Bill was passed, he should do a great stroke of busi- ness in gridirons ; and the disinclination of the Shepperton parishioners generally to dim the unique glory of St. Law- rence, rendered the Church and Constitution an affair of their business and bosoms. A zealous Evangelical preacher had made the old sounding-board vibrate with quite a different sort of elocution from Mr. Gilfil's ; the hymn-book had almost superseded the Old and New Versions ; and the great square pews were crowded with new faces from distant corners of the parish perhaps from Dissenting chapels. You are not imagining, I hope, that Amos Barton was the incumbent of Shepperton. He was no such thing. Those were days when a man could hold three small livings, starve a curate apiece on two of them, and live badly himself on the third. It was so with the Vicar of Shepperton ; a vicar given to bricks and mortar, and thereby running into debt 1* 10 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. far away in a northern county who executed his vicarial functions towards Shepperton by pocketing the sum of thirty- five pounds ten per annum, the net surplus remaining to him from the proceeds of that living, after the disbursement of eighty pounds as the annual stipend of his curate. And now, pray, can you solve me the following problem ? Given a man with a wife and six children : let him be obliged always to exhibit himself when outside his own door in a suit of black broadcloth, such as will not undermine the foundations of the Establishment by a paltry plebeian glossiness or an un- seemly whiteness at the edges ; in a snowy cravat, which is a serious investment of labor in the hemming, starching, and ironing departments ; and in a hat which shows no symptom of taking to the hideous doctrine of expediency, and shaping itself according to circumstances; let him have a parish large enough to create an external necessity for abundant shoe-leather, and an internal necessity for abundant beef and mutton, as well as poor enough to require frequent priestly consolation in the shape of shillings and sixpences ; and, last" ly, let him be compelled, by his own pride and other people's, to dress his wife and children with gentility from bonnet- strings to shoe-strings. By what process of division can the sum of eighty pounds per annum be made to yield a quotient which will cover that man's weekly expenses ? This was the problem presented by the position of the Rev. Amos Barton, 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 more after Mr. Barton's arrival among them, you shall hear, if you will accompany me to Cross Farm, and to the fireside of Mrs. Patten, a childless old lady, who had got rich chiefly by the negative process of spending nothing. Mrs. Patten's passive accumulation of wealth, through all sorts of " bad times," on the farm of which she had been sole tenant since her husband's death, her epigrammatic neighbor, Mrs. Hackit, sarcastically ac- counted for by supposing that " sixpences grew on the bents of Cross Farm ;" while Mr. Hackit, expressing his views more literally, reminded his wife that " money breeds money." Mr. and Mrs. Hackit, from the neighboring farm, are Mrs. Patten's guests this evening ; so is Mr- Pilgrim, the doctor from the nearest market-town, who, though occasionally af- fecting aristocratic airs, and giving late dinners with enig- matic side-dishes and poisonous port, is never so comfortable as when he is relaxing his professional legs in one of those AMOS BAKTOX. 11 excellent farmhouses where the mice are sleek and the mis- tress sickly. And he is at this moment in clover. For the flickering of Mrs. Patten's bright fire is reflected in her bright copper tea-kettle, the home-made muffins glisten with an inviting succulence, and Mrs. Patten's niece, a single lady of fifty, who has refused the most ineligible offers out of devotion to her aged aunt, is pouring the rich cream into the fragrant tea with a discreet liberality. Reader ! did you ever taste such a cup of tea as Miss Gibba is this moment handing to Mr. Pilgrim ? Do you know the dulcet strength, the animating blandness of tea sufficiently blended with real farmhouse cream ? No most likely you are a miserable town-bred reader, who thinks of cream as a thinnish white fluid, delivered in infinitesimal pennyworths down area steps ; or perhaps, from a presentiment of calves' brains, you refrain from any lacteal addition, and rasp your tongue with unmitigated bohea. You have a vague idea of a milch 6ow as probably a white-plaster animal standing in a butterman's window, and you know nothing of the sweet his- tory of genuine cream, such as Miss Gibb's : how it was this morning in the udders of the large sleek beasts, as they stood lowing a patient entreaty under the milking-shed ; how it fell w T ith a pleasant rhythm 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, and lay in mellow- ed whiteness, ready for the skimming-dish which transferred it to Miss Gibbs's glass cream-jug. If I am right in my con- jecture, you are unacquainted with the highest possibilities of tea ; and Mr. Pilgrim, who is holding that cup in his hand, has an idea beyond you. Mrs. Hackit declines cream ; she has so long abstained from it with an eye to the weekly butter-money, that absti- nence, wedded to habit, has begotten aversion. She is a thin woman with a chronic liver-complaint, which would have se^ cured her Mr. Pilgrim's entire regard and unreserved good word, even if he had not been in awe of her tongue, which was as sharp as his own lancet. She has brought her knitting no frivolous fancy knitting, but a substantial woollen stocking ; the click-click of her knitting-needles is the running accom- paniment to all her conversation ; and in her utmost enjoy- ment of spoiling a friend's self-satisfaction, she was never known to spoil a stocking. Mrs. Patten does not admire this excessive click-clicking activity. Quiescence in an easy-chair, under the sense of compound interest perpetually accumulating, has long seem- 12 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. ed an ample function to her, and she does her malevolence gently. She is a pretty little old woman of eighty, with a close cap and tiny flat white curls round her face, as natty and unsoiled and invariable as the waxen image of a little old lady under a glass case ; once a lady's-maid, and married for her beauty. She used to adore her husband, and now she adores her money, cherishing a quiet blood-relation's hatred for her niece, Janet Gibbs, who, she knows, expects a large legacy, and whom she is determined to disappoint. Her money shall all go in a lump to a distant relation of her hus- band's, and Janet shall be saved the trouble of pretending to cry, by finding that she is left with a miserable pittance. Mrs. Patten has more respect for her neighbor Mr. Hackit than for most people. Mr. Hackit is a shrewd, substantial man, whose advice about crops is always worth listening to, and who is too well off to want to borrow money. And now that we are snug and warm with this little tea- party, while it is freezing with February bitterness outside, we will listen to what they are talking about. " So," said Mr. Pilgrim, with his mouth only half empty of muffin, " you had a row in Shepperton Church last Sunday. I was at Jim Hood's, the bassoon-man's, this morning, attend- ing his wife, and he swears he'll be revenged on the parson a confounded, methodistical, meddlesome chap, who must be putting his finger in every pie. What was it all about ?" " Oh, a passill o' nonsense," said Mr. Hackit, sticking one thumb between the buttons of his capacious waistcoat, and retaining a pinch of snuff with the other for he was but moderately given to " the cups that cheer but not inebriate," and had already finished his tea ; " they began to sing the wedding psalm for a new-married couple, as pretty a psalm an' as pretty a tune as any in the prayer-book. It's been sung for every new-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 into melody " Oh 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 the hymns, and a sort o' music as I can't join in at all." " And so," said Mr. Pilgrim, recalling Mr. Hacket from lyr- ical reminiscences to narrative, " he called out Silence ! did he ? when he got into the pulpit ; and gave a hymn out him- self to some meeting-house tune ?" AMOS BARTON. 13 " Yes," said Mrs. Hackit, stooping towards the candle to pick up a stitch, " and turned as red as a turkey-cock. I oft- en say, when he preaches about meekness, he gives himself a slap in the face. He's like ine he's got a temper of his own." " Rather a low-bred fellow, I think, Barton," said Mr. Pil- grim, who hated the Reverend Amos for two reasons be- cause he had called in a new doctor, recently settled in Shep- , perton ; and because, being himself a dabbler in drugs, 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 a Dissenter himself. Why, doesn't he preach extempore in that cottage up here, of a Sunday evening ?" " Tchuh !" this was Mr. Hackit's favorite interjection " that preaching without book's no good, only when a man has a gift, and has the Bible at his fingers' ends. It was all very well for Parry he'd a gift ; and in my youth I've heard the Ranters out o' doors in Yorkshire go on for an hour or two on end, without ever sticking fast a minute. There was one clever chap, I remember, as used to say, ' You're like the woodpigeon ; it says do, do, do all day, and never sets about any work itself.' That's bringing it home to people. But our parson's no gift at all that way ; he can preach as good a sermon as need be heard when he writes it down. But when he tries to preach wi'out book, he rambles about, and doesn't stick to his text ; and every now and then he floun- ders about like a sheep as has cast itself, and can't get on its 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 up her little withered hands, " what 'ud Mr. Gilfil say, if he was worthy to know the changes as have come about i' the Church these last ten years? I don't understand these new sort o' doctrines. When Mr. Barton comes to see me, he talks about nothing but my sins and my need o' mai*cy. Now, Mr. Hackit, I've never been a sinner. From the fust begin- ning, when I went into service, I al'ys did my duty by my emplyers. I was a good wife as any in the county never aggravated my husband. The cheese-factor used to say my cheese was al'ys to be depended on. I've known women, as their cheeses swelled a shame to be seen, when their hus- bands had counted on the cheese-money to make up their rent ; and yet they'd three gowns to my one. If I'm not to be saved,! know a many as are in a bad way. But it's well for me as I can't go to church any longer, for if th' old sing- ers are to be done away with, there'll be nothing left as it 14 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. was in Mr. Patten's time ; and what's more, I hear you've settled to pull the church down 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 twenty pounds, 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 by giving a heavy subscription towards the rebuilding of Shepperton Church a practical precept which was not likely to smooth the way to her acceptance of his theological doctrine. Mr. Hackit, who had more doctrinal enlightenment than Mrs. Patten, had been a little shocked by the heathenism of her speech, and was glad of the new turn given to the subject by this question, addressed to him as church-warden and an authority in all parochial matters. " Ah," he answered, " the parson's bothered us into it at last, and we're to begin pulling down this spring. But we have'nt got money enough yet. I was for waiting till we'd made up the sum ; and, for my part, I think the congrega- tion's fell off o' late, though Mr. Barton says that's because there's been no room for the people when they've come. You see, the congregation got so large in Parry's time, the people stood in the aisles ; but there's never any crowd now, as I can see." " Well," said Mrs. Hackit, whose good-nature began to act, now that it was a little in contradiction with the dominant tone of the conversation, "/ like Mr. Barton. I think he's a good sort o' man, for all he's not overburden'd i' th' upper story ; and his wife's as nice a lady-like woman as I'd wish to see. How nice she keeps her children ! and little enough money to do't with ; and a delicate creatur' six children, and another 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' potatoes last week ; that's some- thing towards filling the little mouths." " Ah !" said Mr. Hackit, " and my wife makes Mr. Barton a good stiff glass o' brandy-and-water,when he conies in to supper after his cottage preaching. The parson likes it ; it puts a bit o' color into his face, and makes him look a deal handsomer." This allusion to brandy-and-water suggested to Miss Gibbs the introduction of the liquor decanters, now that the tea was cleared away; for in bucolic society five -and -twenty years ago, the human animal of the male sex was understood to be perpetually athirst, and " something to drink " was as necessary a " condition of thought " as Time and Space. , that cottage preaching," said Mr. Pilgrim, mixing AMOS BARTON. 15 himself a strong glass of" cold without," " I was talking about it to our Parson Ely the other day, and he doesn't approve of it at all. He said it did as much harm as good to give a too familiar aspect to religious teaching. That was what Ely said it does as much harm as good to give a too familiar as- pect 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 clever man had a " 'pediment " in his speech. But when he came to what he conceived the pith of his argument or the point of his joke, he mouthed out his words with slow emphasis ; as a hen, when advertising her accouchement, passes at irregular intervals from pianissimo semiquavers to fortissimo crotchets. He thought this speech of Mr. Ely's particularly metaphysical and profound, and the more decisive of the question because it was a generality which represented no particulars to his mind. " Well, I don't know about that," said Mrs. Hackit, who had always the courage of her opinion, " but I know, some of our laborers and stockingers as used never to come to church, come to the cottage, and that's better than never hearing any thing good from week's end to week's end. And there's that Track Society as Mr. Barton has begun I've seen more o' the poor people with going 4rackinsr, than all the time I've lived in the parish before. And there'd need be something done among 'em ; for the drinking at them Bene- fit Clubs is shameful. There's hardly a steady man or steady woman either, but what's a Dissenter." During this speech of Mrs. Hackit's, Mr. Pilgrim had emit- ted a succession of little snorts, something like the treble grunts of a guinea-pig, which were always with him the sign of suppressed disapproval. But he never contradicted Mrs. Hackit a woman whose " pot-luck " was always t^ be relied on, and who on her side had unlimited reliance on bleeding, blistering, and draughts. Mrs. Patten, however, felt equal disapprobation- and had no reasons for suppressing it. " Well," she remarked, " I've heard of no good f'nm inter- fering with one's neighbors, poor or rich. And I hate the sight o' women going about trapesing from house to house in all weathers, wet or dry, and coming in with their petticoats dagged and their shoes all over mud. Janet wanted to 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 nev- er dagged my petticoats in my life, and I've no opinion o' that sort o' religion." 16 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. " No," said Mr. Hackit, who was fond of soothing the acer- bities of the feminine mind with a jocose compliment, " you held your petticoats so high, to show your tight ankles : it isn't every body as likes to show her ankles." This joke met with general acceptance, even from the snubbed Janet, whose ankles were only tight in the sense of looking extremely squeezed by her boots. But Janet seemed always to identify hei'self with her aunt's personality, holding her own under protest. Under cover of the general laughter the gentlemen replen- ished their glasses, Mr. Pilgrim attempting to give his the character of a stirrup-cup by observing that he " must be go- ing." Miss Gibbs seized this opportunity of telling Mrs. Hackit that she suspected Betty, the dairymaid, of frying the best bacon for the shepherd, when he sat up with her to " help brew ;" whereupon Mrs. Hackit replied that she had always thought Betty false ; and Mrs. Patten said there was no bacon stolen when she was able to manage. Mr. Hackit, who often complained that he " never saw the like to women with their maids he never had any trouble with his men," avoided listening to this discussion, by raising the question of vetches with Mr. Pilgrim. The stream of conversation had thus diverged ; and no more was said about the Rev. Amos Barton, who is the main object of interest to us just now. So we may leave Cross Farm without waiting till Mrs. Hackit, resolutely donning her clogs and wrappings, renders it incumbent on Mr. Pilgrim also to fulfill his fre- quent threat of going. CHAPTER IL IT was happy for the Rev. Amos Barton that he did not, like us, overhear the conversation recorded in the last chap- ter. Indeed, what mortal is there of us, who would find his satisfaction enhanced by an opportunity of comparing the picture he presents to himself of his own doings, with the pic- ture they make on the mental retina of his neighbors ? We are poor plants buoyed up by the air-vessels of our own con- ceit : alas for us, if we get a few pinches that empty us of that windy self-subsistence ! The very capacity for good would go out of us. For, tell the most impassioned orator, suddenly, that his wig is awry, or his shirt-lap hanging out, and that he is tickling people by the oddity of his person, AMOS BARTON. 17 instead of thrilling them by the energy of his periods, and you would infallibly dry up the spring of his eloquence. That is a deep and wide saying, that no miracle can be wrought without faith without the worker's faith in him- self, as well as the recipient's faith in him. And the greater part of the worker's faith in himself is made up of the faith that others believe in him. Let me be persuaded that my neighbor Jenkins considers me a blockhead, and I shall never shine in conversation with him any more. Let me discover that the lovely Phcebe thinks my squint intolerable, and I shall never be able to fix her blandly with my disengaged eye again. Thank heaven, then, that a little illusion is left to us, to enable us to be useful and agreeable that we don't know exactly what our friends think of us that the world is not made of looking-glass, to show us just the figure we are mak- ing, and just what is going on behind our backs ! By the help of dear friendly illusion, we are able to dream that we are charming and our faces wear a becoming air of self-posses- sion ; we are able to dream that other men admire our talents and our benignity is undisturbed ; we are able to dream that we are doing much good and we do a 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 been dining at Mr. Farquhar's, the secondary squire of the parish, and, stimulated by unwonted gravies and port-wine, had been delivering his opinion on af- fairs parochial and extra-parochial with considerable anima- tion. And he w r as now returning home in the moonlight a little chill, it is true, for he had just now no greatcoat com- patible with clerical dignity, and a fur boa round one's neck, with a waterproof cape over one's shoulders, doesn't frighten away the cold from one's legs ; but entirely unsuspicious, not only of Mr. Hackit's estimate of his oratorical powers, but also of the critical remarks passed on him by the Misses Farquhar as soon as the drawing-room door had closed be- hind him. Miss Julia had observed 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 a thing. He, excellent man ! was meditating fresh pastoral exertions on the morrow ; he would set on foot his lending library ; in which he had introduced some books that would be a pretty sharp blow to the Dissenters one especially, purporting to be written by a working man who, out of pure zeal for the welfare of his class, took the tvouble 18 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. to warn them in this way against those hypocritical thieves, the Dissenting preachers. The Rev. Amos Barton profound- ly believed in the existence of that working man, and had thoughts of writing to him. Dissent, he considered, would have its head bruised in Shepperton, for did he not attack it in two ways? He preached Low-Church doctrine as evangelical as any thing to be heard in the Independent Chapel ; and he made a High-Church assertion of ecclesiasti- cal powers and functions. Clearly, the Dissenters would feel that " the parson " was too many for them. Nothing like a man who 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 light that falls aslant on church and tomb, enables you to see his slim black figure, made all the slimmer by tight pantaloons, as it flits past the pale gravestones. He Avalks with a quick step, and is now rapping with sharp decision at the vicarage door. It is opened without delay by the nurse, cook, and housemaid, all at once that is to say, by the ro- bust maid-of-all-work, Nanny ; and as Mr. Barton hangs up his hat in the passage, you see that a narrow face of no par- ticular complexion even the small-pox that has attacked it seems to have been of a mongrel, indefinite kind with fea- tures of no particular shape, and an eye of no particular ex- pression, is surmounted by a slope of baldness gently rising from brow to crown. You judge him, rightly, to be about forty. The house is quiet, for it is half past ten, and the chil- dren have long been gone to 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 of one candle, he finds her dispensing with the light of a candle altogether. She is softly pacing up and down by the red firelight, hold- ing in her arms little Walter, the year-old baby, who looks over her shoulder with large wide-open eyes, while the pa- tient mother pats his back with her soft hand, and glances with a sigh at the heap of large and small 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, and with large, tender, short-sighted eyes. The flowing lines of her tall figure made the limpest dress look graceful, and her old frayed black silk seemed to repose on her bust and limbs with a placid elegance and sense of distinction, in strong contrast with the uneasy sense of being no fit, that seemed to express itself in the rustling AMOS BARTON. 19 of Mrs. Farquhar's gros de Naples. The caps she wove would have been pronounced, when off her head, utterly heavy and hideous for in those days even fashionable caps were large and floppy; but surmounting her long, arched neck, and mingling their borders of cheap lace and ribbon with her chestnut curls, they seemed miracles of successful millinery. Among strangers she was shy and tremulous as a girl of fif- teen ; she blushed crimson if any one appealed to her opin- ion ; yet that tall, graceful, substantial presence was so im- posing in its mildness, that men spoke to her with an agree- able sensation of timidity. Soothing, unspeakable charm of gentle womanhood ! which supersedes all acquisitions, all accomplishments. You would never have asked, at any period of Mrs. Amos Barton's life, if she sketched or played the piano. You would even perhaps have been rather scandalized if she had descended from 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 the pauses of his fireside reading whose hot aching forehead will be soothed by the contact of her cool, soft hand who will recover himself from dejection at his mistakes and fail- ures in the loving light of her unreproaching eyes! You would not, perhaps, have anticipated that this bliss would fall to the share of precisely such a man as Amos Barton, whom you have already surmised not to have the refined sensibilities for which you might have imagined Mrs. Barton's qualities to be destined by pre-established harmony. But I, for one, do not grudge Amos Barton his sweet 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 pat and a pleasant morsel, than meet the condescending advances of the loveliest Skye-terrier who has his cushion by my lady's chair. That, to be sure, is not the way of the world : if it happens to see a fellow of fine proportions and aristocratic mien, who makes no faux pas, and wins golden opinions from all sorts of men, it straightway picks out for him the loveliest of unmarried women, and says, There would be a proper match ! Not at all, say I : let that successful, well-shapen, discreet and able gentleman put up with something less than the best in the matrimonial department; and let the sweet woman go to make sunshine and a soft pillow for the poor devil whose legs are not models, whose efforts are often blun- ders, and who in general gets more kicks than halfpence. She the sweet woman will like it as well ; for her sublime capacity of loving will have all the more scope ; and I ven- ture to say, Mrs. Barton's nature would never have grown 20 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. half so angelic if she had married the man you would perhaps have had in your eye for her a man with sufficient income and abundant personal eclat. Besides, Amos was an affec- tionate husband 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 elo- quent 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 him to her now." And Sirs. Barton glided to- wards the kitchen, while her husband ran up stairs to put on his maize-colored dressing-gown, in which costume he was quietly filling his long pipe when his wife returned to the sit- ting-room. Maize is a color that decidedly did not suit his complexion, and it is one that soon soils ; why, then, did Mr. Barton select it for domestic wear ? Perhaps because he had a knack of hitting on the wrong thing in garb as well as in grammar. Mrs. Barton now lighted her candle, and seated herself be- fore her heap of stockings. She had something disagreeable to tell her husband, but she would 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't think he's much smitten. I've a notion Ely's engaged to some one at a distance, and will as- tonish all the ladies who are languishing for him here, by bringing home his bride one of these days. Ely's a sly dog : he'll like that." " Did the Farquhars say any thing about the singing last Sunday?" "Yes; Farquhar said he thought it was time there was some improvement in the choir. But he was rather scandal- ized -at my setting the tune of ' Lydia.' He says he's always hearing it as he passes the Independent meeting." Here Mr. Barton laughed he had a way of laughing at criticisms that other people thought damaging and thereby showed the re- mainder of a set of teeth which, like the remnants of the Old Guard, were few in number, and very much the worse for wear. " But," he continued, " Mrs. Farquhar talked the most about Mr. Bridmain and the Countess. She has taken up all the gossip about them, and wanted to convert me to her opinion, but I told her pretty strongly what I thought." AMOS BARTON. 21 " Dear me ! why will people take so much pains to find out evil about others ? I have had a note from the Countess since you went, asking us to dine with them on Friday." Here Mrs. Barton reached the note from the mantelpiece, and gave it to her husband. We will look over his shoulder while he reads it : " SWEETEST MILLY, Bring your lovely face with your hus- band to dine with us on Friday at seven do. If not, I will be Bulky with you till Sunday, when I shall be obliged to see you, and shall long to kiss you that very moment. 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 to-morrow, you know." " And, dear, Woods the butcher called, to say he must have some money next week. He has a payment to make up." This announcement made Mr. Barton thoughtful He puff- ed more rapidly, and looked at the fire. " I think I must ask Hackit to lend me twenty pounds, for it is nearly two months 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 been so very kind to us ; they have sent us so many things lately." " Then I must ask Oldinport. I'm going to write to him to-morrow morning, for to tell him the arrangement I've been thinking of about having service in the workhouse while the church is being enlarged. If he agrees to attend service there once or twice, the other people will come. Net the 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 we can. 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 I can't let him walk anywhere except in the garden. He must have a pair before Sunday. Really, boots and shoes are the greatest trouble of my life. Every thing else one can turn and turn about, and make old look like new ; but there's no coaxing boots and shoes to look better than they are." Mrs. Barton was playfully undervaluing her skill in meta- morphosing boots and shoes. She had at that moment on her feet a pair of slippers which had long ago lived through the prunella phase of their existence, and were now running 22 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. a respectable career as black silk slippers, having been neatly covered with that material by Mrs. Barton's own neat fingers. Wonderful fingers those ! they were never empty; for if she went to spend a few hours with a friendly parishioner, out came her thimble and a piece of calico or muslin, which, be- fore she left, had become a mysterious little garment with all sorts of hemmed ins and outs. She was even trying to per- suade her husband to leave off tight pantaloons, because if he would wear the ordinary gun-cases, she knew she could make them so well that no one would suspect the sex of the tailor. But by this time Mr. Barton has finished his pipe, the can- dle begins to burn low, and Mrs. Barton goes to see if Nan- ny has succeeded in lulling Walter to sleep. Nanny is that moment putting him in the little cot by his mother's bedside ; the head, with its thin wavelets of brown hair, indents the lit- tle pillow ; and a tiny, waxen, dimpled fist hides the rosy lips, for baby is given to the infantine peccadillo of thumb-suck- ing. So Nanny could now join in the short evening prayer, and all could go to bed. Mrs. Barton carried up stairs the remainder of her heap of stockings, and laid them on a table close to her bedside, where also she placed a warm shawl, removing her candle, before she put it out, to a tin socket fixed at the head of her bed. Her body was very weary, but her heart was not heavy, in spite of Mr. Woods the butcher, and the transitory 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 her hus- band and babes better than she could foresee ; so she was soon asleep. But about half past five o'clock in the morning, if there were any angels watching round her bed and angels might be glad of such an office they saw Mrs. Barton rise up quietly, careful not to disturb the slumbering Amos, who was snoring the snore of the just, light her candle, prop her- self upright with the pillows, throw the warm shawl round her shoulders, and renew her attack on the heap of undarned stockings. She darned away until she heard Nanny stirring, and then drowsiness came with the dawn ; the candle was put out, and she sank into a doze. But at nine o'clock she was at the breakfast-table busy cutting bread-and-butter for five hungry mouths, while Nanny, baby on one arm, in rosy cheeks, fat neck, and night-gown, brought in a jug of hot milk-and- water. Nearest her mother sits the nine-year-old Patty, the eldest child, whose sweet fair face is already rather grave sometimes, and who always wants to run up stairs to save mamma's legs, which get so tired of an evening. Then there AMOS BARTON. 23 arc four other blond heads two boys and two girls, gradual- ly decreasing in size down to Chubby, who is making a round O of her mouth to receive a bit of papa's "baton." Papa's attention was divided between petting Chubby, re- buking the noisy Fred, which he did with a somewhat exces- sive sharpness, and eating his own breakfast. He did not yet look at Mamma, and did not know that her cheek was paler than usual. But Patty whispered, " Mamma, have you the headache?" Happily coal was cheap in the neighborhood of Sheppei*- ton, and Mr. Hackit would any time let his horses draw a load for " the parson " without charge ; so there was a blaz- ing fire in the sitting-room, and not without need, for the vicar- age garden, as they looked out on it from the bow-window, was hard with black frost, and the sky had the white, woolly look that portends snow. Breakfast over, Mr. Barton mounted to his study, and oc- cupied himself in the first place with his letter to Mr. Oldin- port. It was very much the same sort of letter as most cler- gymen would have written under the same circumstances, except that instead of perambulate, the Rev. Amos wrote pre- ambulate, and instead of " if haply," " if happily," the contin- gency indicated being the reverse of happy. Mr. Barton had not the gift of perfect accuracy in English orthography and syntax, which was unfortunate, as he was known not to be a Hebrew scholar, and not in the least suspected of being an accomplished Grecian. These lapses, in a man who had gone through the Eleusinian Mysteries of a university educa- tion, surprised the young ladies of his parish extremely; es- pecially the Misses Farquhar, whom he had once addressed in a letter as Dear Mads, apparently an abbreviation for Madams. The persons least surprised at the Rev. Amos's deficiencies were his clerical brethren, who had gone through the mysteries themselves. At eleven o'clock, Mr. Barton walked forth in cape and boa, with the sleet driving in his face, to read prayers at the workhouse, euphuistically called the " College." The College was a huge square stone building, standing on the best apol- ogy for an elevation of ground that could be seen for about ten miles round Shepperton. A flat ugly district this; de- pressing enough to look at even on the brightest days. The roads are black with coal-dust, the brick houses dingy with smoke : and at that time the time of handloom weavers every other cottage had a loom at its windoAV, where you might sec a pale, sickly-looking man or woman pressing a narrow chest against a board, and doing a sort of treadmill 24 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. work with legs and arms. A troublesome district for a cler- gyman ; at least to one who, like Amos Barton, understood the "cure of souls " in something more than an official sense; for over and above the rustic stupidity furnished by the farm- laborers, the miners brought obstreperous animalism, and the weavers an acrid Radicalism and Dissent. Indeed, Mrs. Hackit often observed 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 remotely ana- logical sense) ; and in some of the ale-house corners the drink was flavored by a dingy kind of infidelity, something like rinsings of Tom Paine in ditch-water. A certain amount of religious excitement created by the popular preaching of Mr. Parry, Amos's predecessor, haci nearly died out, and the re- ligious life of Shepperton was falling back towards low-water mark. Here, you perceive, was a terrible stronghold of Sa- tan; and you may well pity the Rev. Amos Barton, who had to stand single-handed and summon it to surrender. We read, indeed, that the walls of Jericho fell down before the sound of trumpets ; but we nowhere hear that those trumpets were hoarse and feeble. Doubtless they were trumpets that gave forth clear ringing tones, and sent a mighty vibration through brick and mortar. But the oratory of the Rev. Amos resembled rather a Belgian railway-horn, which shows praise- worthy intentions inadequately fulfilled. He often missed the right note both in public and private exhortation, and got a little angry in consequence. For though Amos thought himself strong, he did not feel himself strong. Nature had given him the opinion, but not the sensation. Without that opinion he would probably never have worn cambric bands, but would have been an excellent cabinetmaker and deacon of an Independent church, as his father was before him (he was not a shoemaker, as Mr. Pilgrim had reported). He might then have sniffed long and loud in the corner of his pew in Gun Street Chapel ; he might have indulged in halt- ing rhetoric at prayer-meetings, and have spoken faulty Eng- lish in private life ; and these little infirmities would not have prevented him, honest, faithful man that he was, from being a shining light in the Dissenting circle of Bridgeport. A tallow dip, of the long-eight description, is an excellent thing in the kitchen candlestick, and Betty's nose and eye are not sensitive to the difference between it and the finest wax ; it is only when you stick it in the silver candlestick, and intro- duce it into the drawing-room, that it seems plebeian, dim, and ineffectual. Alas for the worthy man who, like that can- AMOS BARTON. 25 die, gets himself into the wrong place ! It is only the very largest souls who will be able to appreciate and pity him who will discern and love sincerity of purpose amid all the bundling feebleness of achievement. But now Amos Barton has made his way through the sleet as far as the College, has thrown off his hat, cape, and boa, and is reading, in the dreary stone-floored dining-room, a por- tion of the moniing service to the inmates seated on the benches before him. Remember, the New Poor-law had not yet come into operation, and Mr. Barton was not acting as paid chaplain of the Union, but as the pastor who had the cure of all souls in his parish, pauper as well as other. After the prayers he always addressed to them a short discourse on some subject suggested by the lesson for the day, striving if by this means some edifying matter might find its way into the pauper mind and conscience perhaps a task as try- ing as you could well imagine to the faith and patience of any honest clergyman. For, on the very first bench, these were the faces on which his eye had to rest, watching wheth- er there was any stirring under the stagnant surface. Right in front of him probably because he was stone-deaf, and it was deemed more edifying to hear nothing at a short distance than at a long one sat " Old Maxura," as he was familiarly called, his real patronymic remaining a mystery to most persons. A fine philological sense discerns in this cog- nomen an indication that the pauper patriarch had once been considered pithy and sententious in his speech ; but now the weight of ninety-five years lay heavy on his tongue as well as in his ears, and he sat before the clergyman with protrud- od chin, and munching mouth, and eyes that seemed to look at emptiness. Next to him sat Poll Fodge known to the magistracy of lu-r county as Mary Higgins a one-eyed woman, with a scarred and seamy face, the most notorious rebel in the work- house, said to have once thrown her broth over the master's coat-tails, and who, in spite of nature's apparent safeguards :i-_::iinst that contingency, had contributed to the perpetua- tion of the Fodge characteristics in the person of a small boy, who was behaving naughtily on one of the back benches. Miss Fodge fixed her one sore eye on Mr. Barton with a sort of hardy defiance. Beyond this member of the softer sex, at the end of the bench, sat " Silly Jim," a young man afflicted with hydro- cephalus, who rolled his head from side to side, and gazed at the point of his nose. These were the supporters of Old Maxum on his 26 On his left sat Mr. Fitchett, a tall fellow, who had once been a footman in the Oldinport family, and in that giddy elevation had enunciated a contemptuous opinion of boiled beef, which had been traditionally handed down in Shepper- ton as the direct cause of his ultimate reduction to pauper commons. His calves were now shrunken, and his hair was gray without the aid of powder ; but he still carried his chin as if he were conscious of a stiff cravat ; he set his dilapida- ted hat on with a knowing inclination towards the left ear ; and when he was on field-work, he carted and uncarted the manure with a sort of flunkey grace, the ghost of that jaunty demeanor with which he used to usher in my lady's morning visitors. The flunkey nature was nowhere completely sub- dued but in his stomach, and he still divided society into gentry, gentry's flunkeys, and the people who provided for them. A clergyman without a flunkey was an anomaly, be- longing to neither ofthese classes. Mr. Fitchett had an irre- pressible tendency to drowsiness under spiritual instruction, and in the recurrent regularity with which he dozed oif until he nodded and awaked himself, he looked not unlike a piece of mechanism, ingeniously contrived for measuring the length of Mr. Barton's discourse. Perfectly wide-awake, on the contrary, was his left-hand neighbor, Mrs. Brick, one of those hard, undying old women, to whom age seems to have given a network of wrinkles, as a coat of magic armor against the attacks of winters, warm or cold. The point on which Mrs. Brick was still sensitive the theme on which you might possibly excite her hope and fear was snuff*. It seemed to be an embalming powder, helping her soul to do the office of salt. And now, eke out an audience of which this front bench- ful was a sample with a certain number of refractory chil- dren, over whom Mr. Spratt, the master of the workhouse, exercised an irate surveillance, and I think you will admit that the university-taught clergyman, whose office it is to bring home the gospel to a handful of such souls, has a suf- ficiently hard task. For, to have any chance of success, short of miraculous intervention, he must bring his geographical, chronological, exegetical mind pretty nearly to the pauper point of view, or of no view ; he must have some approxi- mate conception of the mode in which the doctrines that have so much vitality in the plenum of his own brain will comport themselves in vacuo that is to say, in a brain that is neither geographical, chronological, nor exegetical. It is a flexible imagination that can take such a leap as that, and an adroit tongue that can adapt its speech to so unfamiliar a AMOS BARTON. 27 position. The Rev. Amos Barton had neither that flexible imagination, nor that adroit tongue. He talked of Israel and its sins, of chosen vessels, of the Paschal lamb, of blood as a medium of reconciliation ; and he strove in this way to con- vey religious truth within reach of the Fodge and Fitchett mind. This very morning, the first lesson was the twelfth chapter of Exodus, and Mr. Barton's exposition turned on unleavened bread. Nothing in the world more suited to the 'simple understanding than instruction through familiar type* and symbols! But there is always this danger attending it, that the interest or comprehension of your hearers may stop short precisely at the point where your spiritual interpreta- tion begins. And Mr. Barton this morning succeeded in car- rying the pauper imagination to the dough-tub, but unfortu- nately was not able to carry it upward from that well-known object to the unknown truths which it was intended to shad- ow forth. Alas !' a natural incapacity for teaching, finished by keep- ing " terms " at Cambridge, where there are able mathemati- cians, and butter is sold by the yard, is not apparently the medium through which Christian doctrine will distill as wel- come dew on withered souls. And so, while the sleet outside was turning to unquestion- able snow, and the stony dining-roorn looked darker and drearier, and Mr. Fitchett was nodding his lowest, and Mr. Spratt was boxing the boys' ears with a constant ririforzando, as he felt more keenly the approach of dinner-time, Mr. Bar- ton Avound up his exhortation with something of the Febru- ary chill at his heart as well as his feet. Mr. Fitchett, thoroughly roused, now the insti'uction was at an end, obse- quiously and gracefully advanced to help Mr. Barton in putting on his cape, while Mrs. Brick rubbed her withered forefinger round and round her little shoe-shaped snuff-box, vainly seeking for the fraction of a pinch. I can't help think- ing that if Mr. Barton had shaken into that little box a small portion of Scotch high-dried, he might have produced some- thing more like an amiable emotion in Mrs. Brick's mind than any thing she had felt under his morning's exposition of the unleavened bread. But our good Amos labored under a deficiency of small tact as well as of small cash ; and when he observed the action of the old woman's forefinger, he said, in his brusque way, " So your snuff is all gone, eh ?" Mrs. Brick's eyes twinkled with the visionary hope that the parson might be intending to replenish her box, at least mediately, through the present of a small copper. " Ah, well ! you'll soou be going where there is no more 28 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. snuff. You'll be in need of mercy then. You must remem- ber that you may have to seek for mercy and not find it, just as you're seeking for snuff." At the first sentence of this admonition, the twinkle sub- Bided from Mrs. Brick's eyes. The lid of her box went " click !" and her heart was shut up at the same moment. But now Mr. Barton's attention was called for by Mr, Spratt, who was dragging a small and unwilling boy from the rear. Mr. Spratt was a small-featured, small-statured man, with a remarkable power of language, mitigated by hes- itation, who piqued himself on expressing unexceptionable sentiments in unexceptionable language on all occasions. "Mr. Barton, sir aw aw excuse my trespassing on your time aw to beg that you will administer a rebuke to this boy : he is aw aw most inveterate in ill-behavior during service-time." The inveterate culprit was a boy of seven, vainly contend- ing against " candles " at his nose by feeble sniffing. But no sooner had Mr. Spratt uttered his impeachment, than Miss Fodge rushed forward and placed herself between Mr. Bar- ton and the accused. " That's my child, Muster Barton," she exclaimed, further manifesting her 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'. Let him goo an' eat his roost goose as is a-smellin' up in our noses while we're a-swallering them greasy broth, and let my boy alooan." Mr. Spratt's small eyes flashed, and he was in danger of ut- tering sentiments not unexceptionable before the clergyman ; but Mr. Barton, foreseeing that a prolongation of this episode would not be to edification, said, " Silence !" in his severest tones. " Let me hear no abuse. Your boy is not likely to behave well, if you set him the example of being saucy." Then stooping down to Master Fodge, and taking 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, as well as Mr. Spratt ; and God can burn you forever. That will be worse than being beaten." Master Fodge's countenance was neither affirmative nor negative of this proposition. " But," continued Mr. Barton, " if you will be a good boy, God will love you, and you will grow up to be a good man. AMOS BARTON. 29 Now, let me hear next Thursday that you have been a good boy." Master Fodge had no distinct vision of the benefit that would accrue to him from this change of courses. But Mr. Barton, being aware that Miss Fodge had touched on a deli- cate subject in alluding to the roast goose, was determined to witness no more polemics between her and Mr. Spratt ; so,v saying good-morning to the latter, he hastily left the College. The snow was falling in thicker and thicker flakes, and al- ready the vicarage-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 meet him. " I'm afraid your feet are very wet, dear. What a terrible morning ! Let me take your hat. Your slippers are at the fire." Mr. Barton was feeling a little cold and cross. It is diffi- cult, when you have been doing disagreeable duties, without praise, on a snowy day, to attend to the very minor morals. So he showed no recognition of Milly's attentions, but simply said, " Fetch me my dressing-gown, will you ?" " It is down, dear. I thought you wouldn't go into the study, because you said you would letter and number the books for the Lending Library. Patty and I have been cov- ering them, and they are all ready in the sitting-room." *' Oh, I can't do those this morning," said Mr. Barton, as he took off his boots and put his feet into the slippers Milly had brought him ; " you must put them away into the par- lor." The sitting-room was also the day nursery and schoolroom ; and while Mamma's back was turned, Dickey, the second boy, had insisted on superseding Chubby in the guidance of a head- less horse, of the red-wafered species, which she was drawing round the room, so that when Papa 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 getting for our dinner. Now, Fred and Sophy and Dickey, help me to carry these books into the parlor. There are three for Dickey. Carry them steadily." Papa meanwhile settled himself in his easy-chair, and took up a work on Episcopacy, which he had from the Clerical Book Society ; thinking he would finish it, and return it this afternoon, as he was going to the Clerical Meeting at Milby Vicarage, where the Book Society had its headquarters. The Clerical Meetings and Book Society, which had been 30 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. founded some eight or ten months, had had a noticeable effect on the Rev. Amos Barton. When he first came to Shepper- ton he was simply an evangelical clergyman, whose Christian experiences had commenced under the teaching of the Rev. Mr. Johns, of Gun Street Chapel, and had been consolidated at Cambridge under the influence of Mr. Simeon. John New- ton and Thomas Scott were his doctrinal ideals ; he would have taken in the " Christian Observer " and the " Record," if he could have afforded it ; his anecdotes were chiefly of the pious-jocose kind, current in Dissenting circles ; and he thought an Episcopalian Establishment unobjectionable. But by this time the effect of the Tractarian agitation was beginning to be felt in backward provincial regions, and the Tractarian satire on the Low-Church party was beginning to tell even on those who disavowed or resisted Tractarian doc- trines. The vibration of an intellectual movement was felt from the golden head to the miry toes of the Establishment ; and so it came to pass that, in the district round Milby, the market-town close to Shepperton, the clergy had agreed to have a clerical meeting every month, wherein they would ex- ercise their intellects by discussing theological and ecclesiasti- cal questions, and cement their brotherly love by discussing a good dinner. A Book Society naturally suggested itself as an adjunct of this agreeable plan ; and thus, you perceive, there was provision made for ample friction of the clerical mind. Now, the Rev. Amos Barton was one of those men who have a decided will and opinion of their own ; he held him- self bolt upright, and had no self-distrust. He would march very determinedly along the road he thought best ; but then it was wonderfully easy to convince him which was the best road. And so a very little unwonted reading and unwonted discussion made him see that an Episcopalian Establishment was much more than unobjectionable, and on many other points he began to feel that he held opinions a little too far- sighted and profound to be crudely and suddenly communi- cated to ordinary minds. He was like an onion that has been rubbed with spices ; the strong original odor was blended with something new and foreign. The Low-Church onion still of- fended refined High-Church nostrils, and the new spice was unwelcome to the palate of the genuine onion-eater. We will not accompany him to the Clerical Meeting to- day, because we shall probably want to go thither some day when he will be absent. And just now I am bent on intro- ducing you to Mr. Bridmain and the Countess Czerlaski, with whom Mr. and Mrs. Barton are invited to dine to-morrow. AMOS BARTON. 31 CHAPTER HI. OUTSIDE, the moon is shedding its cold light on the cold snow, and the white-bearded fir-trees round Camp Villa are casting a blue shadow across the white ground, while the Rev. Amos Barton and his wife are audibly crushing the crisp snow beneath their feet, as, about seven o'clock on Fri- day evening, they approach the door of the above-named de- sirable country residence, containing dining, breakfast, and drawing rooms, etc., situated only half a mile from the mar- ket-town of Milby. Inside, there is a bright fire in the drawing-room, casting a pleasant but uncertain light on the delicate silk dress of a lady who is reclining behind a screen in the comer of the sofa, and allowing you to discern that the hair of the gentle- man who is seated in the arm-chair opposite, with a newspa- per over his knees, is becoming decidedly gray. A little " King Charles," with a crimson ribbon round his neck, who has been lying curled up in the very middle of the hearth- rug, has just discovered that that zone is too hot for him, and is jumping on the sofa, evidently with the intention of accom- modating his person on the silk gown. On the table there are two wax-candles, which will be lighted as soon as the ex- pected knock 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 tie and shining cranium ; Mrs. Barton graceful in a newly-turned black silk. "Now this is charming of you," said the Countess Czer laski, advancing, to meet them, and embracing Milly with careful elegance. " I am really ashamed of my selfishness in asking my friends to come and see me in this frightful weath- er." 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 away from your labors. I have a plot to pre- vent you from martyrizing yourself." 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 a labored cordiality. It was as- tonishing how very little he resembled his beautiful sister. For the Countess Czerlaski was undeniably beautiful. As 82 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. she seated herself by Mrs. Barton on the sofa, Milly's eyes, in- deed, rested must it be confessed ? chiefly on the detail? of the tasteful dress, the rich silk of a pinkish lilac hue (the Countess always wore delicate colors in an evening), the black lace pelerine, and the black lace veil falling at the back of the small, closely-braided head. For Milly had one weakness don't love her any the less for it, it was a pretty woman's weakness she was fond of dress ; and often, when she was making up her own economical millinery, she had romantic visions how nice it would be to put on really handsome stylish things to have very stiff balloon sleeves, for example, without which a woman's dress was naught in those days. You and I, too, reader, have our weakness, have we not ? which makes us think foolish things now and then. Perhaps it may lie in an excessive admiration for small hands and feet, a tall, lithe figure, large, dark eyes, and dark silken braided hair, All these the Countess possessed, and she had, moreover, a delicately-formed nose, the least bit curved, and a clear brunette complexion. Her mouth, it must be admit- ted, receded too much from her nose and chin, and to a pro- phetic eye threatened "nut-crackers " in advanced age. But by the light of fire and wax candles that age seemed very fai off indeed, and you would have said that the Countess was not more than thirty. Look at the two women on the sofa together ! The large, fair, mild-eyed Milly is timid even in friendship ; it is no* easy to her to speak of the affection of which her heart is fuK The lithe, dark, thin-lipped Countess is racking her small brain for caressing words and charming exaggerations. "And how are all the cherubs at home?" said the Coun- tess, stooping to pick up Jet, and without waiting for an an- swer. " I have been kept in-doors by a cold ever since San- day, or I should not have rested without seeing you. What have you done with those wretched singers, Mr. Barton ?" " Oh, we have got a new choir together, which will go on very well with a little practice. I was quite determined that the old set of singers should be dismissed. I had given or- ders that they should not sing the wedding psalm, as they call it, again, to make a new-married couple look ridiculous, and they sang it in defiance of me. I could put them iiito the Ecclesiastical Court, if I chose for to do so, for lifting up their voices 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 in that miserable Shepperton." AMOS BARTON. 33 If, as is probable, Mr. Barton felt at a loss what to say in reply to the insinuated compliment, it was a relief to him that dinner was announced just then, and that he had to of- fer 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 Jadies he spoke of the weather, and was accustomed to consider it under three points of view: as a question of climate in gen- eral, comparing England with other countries in this respect ; as a personal question, inquiring how it affected his lady in- terlocutor in particular; and as a question of probabilities, discussing whether there would be a change or a continuance of the present atmospheric conditions. To gentlemen he talked politics, and he read two daily papers expressly to qualify himself for this function. Mr. Barton thought him a man of considerable political information, but not of lively parts. "And so you are always to hold your Clerical Meetings at Mr. Ely's?" said the Countess, between her spoonfuls of soup. (The soup was a little over-spiced. Mrs. Short of Camp Villa, who was in the habit of letting her best apart- ments, gave only moderate wages to her cook.) " Yes," said Mr. Barton ; " Milby is a central place, and there are many conveniences in having only one point of meeting." " Well," continued the Countess, " every one seems to agree in giving the precedence to Mr. Ely. For my part, I can not admire him. His preaching is too cold for me. It has no fervor no heart. I often say to my brother, it is a great comfort to me that Shepperton Church is not too far off for us to go to ; don't I, Edmund ?" " Yes," answered Mr. Bridmain ; " they show us into such a bad pew at Milby just where there is a draught from that door. I caught a stiff neck the first time I went there." " Oh, it is the cold in the pulpit that affects me, not the cold in the pew. I was writing to my friend Lady Porter this morning, and telling her all about my feelings. She and I think alike on such matters. She is most anxious that when Sir William has an opportunity of giving away the living at their place, Dippley, they should have a thoroughly zealous, clever 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 pretty rectory, Milly ; shouldn't I like to pee you the mistress of it ?" 2 * 34 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. Milly smiled and blushed slightly. The Rev. Amos blush- ed very red, and gave a little embarrassed laugh he could rarely keep his muscles within the limits of a smile. At this moment John, the man-servant, approached Mrs. Barton with a gravy-tureen, and also with a slight odor of the stable, which usually adhered to him throughout his in- door functions. John was rather nervous ; and the Countess happening to speak to him at this inopportune moment, the tureen slipped and emptied itself on Mrs. Barton's newly turned black silk. " Oh, horror ! Tell Alice to come directly and rub Mrs. Barton's dress," said the countess to the trembling John, carefully abstaining from approaching the gravy-sprinkled spot on the floor with her own lilac silk. But Mr. Bridmain, who had a strictly private interest in silks, good-naturedly jumped up and applied his napkin at once to Mrs. Barton's gown. Milly felt a little inward anguish, but no ill-temper, and tried to make light of the matter for the sake of John as well as others. The Countess felt inwardly thankful that her own delicate silk had escaped, but threw out lavish interjections of distress and indignation. "Dear saint that you are," she said, when Milly laughed, and suggested that, as her silk was not very glossy to begin with, the dim patch would not be much seen ; " you don't mind about these things, I know. Just the same sort of tiling happened to me at the Princess Wengstein's one day, on a pink satin. I was in an agony. But you are so indifferent deniably free. Hence it came to pass that Milby respectability refused to recognize the Countess Czerlaski, in spite of her assiduous church-going, and the deep disgust she was known to have expressed at the extreme paucity of the congregations on Ash- Wednesdays. So she began to feel that she had miscalcu- lated the advantages of a neighborhood where people are well acquainted with each other's private affairs. Under these circumstances, you will imagine how welcome was the perfect credence and admiration she met with from Mr. and Mrs. Barton. She had been especially irritated by Mr. Ely's behavior to her; she felt sure that he was not in the least struck with her beauty, that he quizzed her conversation, AMOS BARTON. 41 and that he spoke of her with a sneer. A woman always knows where she is utterly powerless, and shuns a coldly satirical eye as she would shun a Gorgon. And she was es- pecially eager for clerical notice and friendship, not merely because that is quite the most respectable countenance to be obtained in society, but because she really cared about relig- ious matters, and had an uneasy sense that she was not alto- gether safe in that quarter. She had serious intentions of be- coming quite pious without any reserves when she had once got her carriage and settlement. Let us do this one sly trick, says Ulysses to Neoptolemus, and we will be perfectly honest ever after aA?.' (K> yap rot KTrjfia Tr/f viic Totya 6'maioi 6' avOtf i The Countess did not quote Sophocles, but she said to herself, " Only this little bit of pretense and vanity, and then I will be quite good, and make myself quite safe for another world. And as she had by no means such fine taste and insight in theological teaching as in costume, the Rev. Amos Barton seemed to her a man not only of learning that is always un- derstood with a clergyman but of much power as a spiritu- al director. As for Milly, the Countess really loved her as well as the preoccupied state of her affections would allow. For .you have already perceived that there was one being to whom the Countess was absorbingly devoted, and to whose desires she made everything else subservient namely, Car- oline Czerlaski, nee Bridmain. Thus there was really not much affectation in her sweet speeches and attentions to Mr. and Mrs. Barton. Still their friendship by no means adequately repi'esented 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 new change of residence to her brother. The thing we look forward to often comes to pass, but never precisely in the way we have imagined to ourselves. The Countess did actually leave Camp v ilia before many months were past, but under circumstances which had not at all entered into her contemplation. 42 STELES OF CLERICAL LIFE. CHAPTER V. THE Rev. Amos Barton, whose sad fortunes I have under- taken to relate, was, you perceive, in no respect an ideal or exceptional character ; and perhaps I am doing a bold thing to bespeak your sympathy on behalf of a man who was so very far from remarkable, a man whose virtues were not heroic, and who had no undetected crime within his breast; who had not the slightest mystery hanging about him, but was palpably and unmistakably commonplace ; who was not even in love, but had had that complaint favorably many years ago. " An utterly uninteresting character !" I think I hear a lady reader exclaim Mrs. Farthingale, for example, who prefers the ideal in fiction ; to whom tragedy means er- mine tippets, adultery, and murder ; and comedy, the adven- tures of some personage who is quite a " character." But, my dear madam, it is so very large a majority of your fellow-countrymen that are of this insignificant stamp. At least eighty out of a hundred of your adult male fellow-Brit- ons returned in the last census are neither extraordinarily silly, nor extraordinarily wicked, nor extraordinarily wise ; their eyes are neither deep and liquid with sentiment, nor spar- kling with suppressed witticisms; they have probably had no hairbreadth escapes or thrilling adventures ; their brains are certainly not pregnant with genius, and their passions have not manifested themselves at all after the fashion of a volcano. They are simply men of complexions more or less muddy, whose conversation is more or less bald and disjoint- ed. Yet these commonplace people many of them bear a conscience, and have felt the sublime prompting to do the painful right; they have their unspoken sorrows and their sacred joys; their hearts have perhaps gone out towards their first-born, and they have mourned over the irreclaima- ble dead. Nay, is there not a pathos in their very insignifi- cance in our comparison of their dim and narrow existence with the glorious possibilities of that human nature which they share. Depend upon it, you would gain unspeakably if you would learn with me to see some of the poetry and the pathos, the tragedy and the comedy, lying in the experience of a human soul that looks out through dull gray eyes, and that speaks in a voice of quite ordinary tones. In that case, I should have AMOS BARTON. 43 no fear of your not caring to know what further befell the Rev. Amos Barton, or of your thinking the homely details I have to tell at all beneath your attention. As it is, you can, if you please, decline to pursue my story further ; and you will easily find reading more to your taste, since I learn from the newspapers that many remarkable novels, full of striking situations, thrilling incidents, and eloquent writing, have ap- peared only within the last season. Meanwhile, readers who have begun to feel an interest in the Rev. Amos Barton and his wife, will be glad to learn that Mr. Oldinport lent the twenty pounds. But twenty pounds are soon exhausted when twelve are due as back payment to the butcher, and when the possession of eight extra sover- eigns in February weather is an irresistible temptation to order a new greatcoat. And though Mr. Bridmain so far de- parted from the necessary economy entailed on him by the Countess's elegant toilette and expensive maid, as to choose a handsom'e black silk, stiff, as his experienced eye discerned, with the genuine strength of its own texture, and not with the factitious strength of gum, and present it to Mrs. Barton, in retrieval of the accident that had occurred at his table, yet, dear me as every husband has heard what is the present of a gown when you are deficiently furnished with the et-ceteras of apparel, and when, moreover, there are six children whose wear and tear of clothes is something incred- ible to the non-maternal mind ? Indeed, the equation of income and expenditure was offer- ing new and constantly accumulating difficulties to Mr. and Mrs. Barton ; for shortly after the birth of little Walter, Mil- ly's aunt, who had lived with her ever since her marriage, had withdrawn herself, her furniture, and her yearly income, to the household of another niece ; prompted to that step, very probably, by a slight " tiff" with the Rev. Amos, which occurred while Milly was up stairs, and proved one too many for the elderly lady's patience and magnanimity. Mr. Bar- ton's temper was a little warm, but, on the other hand, elder- ly maiden ladies are known to be susceptible ; so we will not suppose that all the blame lay on his side the less so, as he had every motive for humoring an inmate whose presence kept the wolf from 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 melt- ed, when the purple and yellow crocuses were coming up in the garden, and the old church was already half pulled down, Milly had an illness which made her lips look pale, and ren- 44 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. dered it absolutely necessary that she should not exert her- self for some time. Mr. Brand, the Shepperton doctor so ob- noxious to Mr. Pilgrim, ordered her to drink port-wine, and it was quite necessary to have a charwoman very often to as- sist Nanny in all the extra work that fell upon her. Mrs. Hackit, who hardly ever paid a visit to any one but her oldest and nearest neighbor, Mrs. Patten, now took the unusual step of calling at the vicarage one morning ; and the tears came into her unsentimental eyes as she saw Milly seat- ed pale and feeble in the parlor, unable to persevere in sew- ing the pinafore that lay on the table beside her. Little Dickey, 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 mouse at her knee, holding her soft white hand between his little red, black-nailed fists. He was a boy whom Mrs. Hackit, in a severe mood, had pronounced " 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 her kindest smile, and, stooping down, suggested a kiss a favor which Dickey resolutely declined. " Now do you take nourishing things enough ?" was one of Mrs. Hackit's first questions, and Milly endeavored to make it appear that no woman was ever so much in danger of be- ing over-fed and led into self-indulgent habits 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 furtively stroking and kissing the soft white hand ; so that at last, when a pause came, his mother said, smilingly, " Why are you kissing my hand, Dickey ?" " It id to yovely," answered Dickey, who, you observe, was decidedly backward in his pronunciation. Mrs. Hackit remembered this little scene in after days, and thought with peculiar tenderness and pity of the " stocky boy." The next day there came a hamper with Mrs. Hackit's re- spects ; and on being opened it was found to contain half a dozen of port-wine and two couples of fowls. Mrs. Farquhar, too, was very kind ; insisted on Mrs. Barton's rejecting all arrow-root but hers, which was genuine Indian, and carried away Sophy and Fred to stay with her a fortnight. These and other good-natured attentions made the trouble of Milly *s illness more bearable; but they could not prevent it from swelling expenses, and Mr. Barton began to have serious thoughts of representing his case to a certain charity for the relief of needy curates. AMOS BARTON. 45 Altogether, as matters stood in Shepperton, the parishion- ers were more likely to have a strong sense that the clergy- man needed their material aid, than that they needed his spiritual aid, not the best state of things in this age and country, where faith in men solely on the ground of their spiritual gifts has considerably diminished, and especially un- favorable to the influence of the Rev. Amos, whose spiritual gills would not have had a very commanding power even in an age of faith. But, you ask, did not the Countess Czerlaski pay any atten- tion to her friends all this time? To be sure she did. She was indefatigable in visiting her " sweet Milly," and sitting with her for hours together. It may seem remarkable to you that she neither thought of taking away any of the children, nor of providing for any of Milly's probable wants ; but ladies of rank and of luxurious habits, you know, can not be expected to surmise the details of poverty. She put a great deal of eau-de-Coldgne on Mrs. Barton's pocket-handkerchief, re-ar- ranged her pillow and footstool, kissed her cheeks, wrapped her in a soft warm shawl from her own shoulders, and amused her with stones of the life she had seen abroad. When Mr. Barton joined them she talked of Tractarianism, of her deter- mination not to re-enter the vortex of fashionable life, and of her anxiety to see him in a sphere large enough for his talents. Milly thought her sprightliness and affectionate warmth quite charming, and was very fond of her ; while the Rev. Amos had a vague consciousness that he had risen into aristocratic life, and only associated with his middle-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 eyes might have seen that activity was not easy to her. Mrs. Hackit's eyes were of that kind, and one day, Avhen Mr. and. Mrs. Barton had been dining with her for the first time since Milly's illness, she observed to her husband "That poor thing's dreadful weak an' dilicate ; she won't stan' havin' many more children." Mr. Barton, meanwhile, had been indefatigable in his voca- tion. He had preached two extemporary sermons every Sun- day at the workhouse, where a room had been fitted up for divine service, pending the alterations in the church ; and had walked the same evening to a cottage at one or other extremi- ty of his parish to deliver another sermon, still more extem- porary, in an atmosphere impregnated with spring-flowers and perspiration. After all these labors you will easily con- ceive that he was considerablv exhausted by half past niuo 46 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. o'clock in the evening, and that a supper at a friendly pa- rishioner's with a glass, or even two glasses, of brandy-and- water after it, was a welcome re-enforcement. Mr. Barton was not at all an ascetic ; he thought the benefits of fasting were entirely confined to the Old Testament dispensation; he was fond of relaxing himself with a little gossip ; indeed, Miss Bond, and other ladies of enthusiastic views, sometimes regretted that Mr. Barton did not more uninterruptedly ex- hibit a superiority to the things of the flesh. Thin ladies, who take little exercise, and whose livers are not strong enough to bear stimulants, are so extremely critical about one's personal habits. And, after all, the Rev. Amos never came near the borders of a vice. His very faults were middling he was not very ungrammatical. It was not in his nature to be su- perlative in any thing ; unless, indeed, he was superlatively middling, the quintessential extract of mediocrity. If there was any one point on which he showed an inclination to be excessive, it was confidence in his own shrewdness and abili- ty in practical matters, so that he was very full of plans which were something like his moves in chess admirably well cal- culated, supposing the state of the case were otherwise. For example, that notable plan of introducing anti-Dissenting books into his Lending Library did not in the least appear to have bruised the head of Dissent, though it had certainly made Dissent strongly inclined to bite the Rev. Amos's heel. Again, he vexed the souls of his churchwardens and influen- tial parishioners by his fertile suggestiveness as to what it would be well for them to do in the matter of the church re- pairs, and other ecclesiastical secularities. " I never saw the like to parsons," Mr. Hackit said one day in conversation with his brother churchwarden, Mr. Bond ; " they're al'ys for meddling with business, an' they know no more about it than my black filly." " 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 throwing out an hypothesis which might be con- sidered bold, " I should say that's a bad sort of eddication as makes folks unreasonable." So that, you perceive, Mr. Barton's popularity was in that precarious condition, in that toppling and contingent state, in which a very slight push from a malignant destiny would utterly upset it. That push was not long in being given, as you shall hear. One fine May morning, when Amos was out on his paro- chial visits, and the sunlight was streaming through the AMOS BARTON. 47 bow-window of the sitting-room, where Milly was seated at her sewing, occasionally looking up to glance at the children playing in the garden, there came a loud rap at the door, which she at once recognized as the Countess's, and that well-dressed lady presently 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 Countess threw up her veil, and showed that her eyes were red and swollen, she was both surprised and sorry. " What can be the matter, dear Caroline ?" Caroline threw down Jet, who gave a little yelp ; then she threw her arms round 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 conjur- ing up calamities, she said, "Dear, how shall I tell you? I am the most wretched woman. To be deceived by a brother to whom I have been so devoted to see him degrading himself giving himself utterly to the dogs !" "What can it be?" said Milly, who began to picture to herself the sober Mr. Bridmain taking to brandy and bet- ting. " He is going to be married to marry my own maid, that deceitful Alice, to whom I have been the most indulgent mis- tress. Did you ever hear of any thing so disgraceful ? so mortifying ? so disreputable ?" "And has he only just told you of it?" said Milly, who, having really heard of worse conduct, even in her innocent life, avoided a direct answer. " Told me of it ! he had not even the grace to do that. I went into the dining-room suddenly and found him kissing her disgusting at his time of life, is it not ? and when I re- proved her for allowing such liberties, she turned round saucily, and said she was engaged to be married to my brother, and she saw no shame in allowing him to kiss her. Edmund is a miserable coward, you know, and looked fright- ened ; but when she asked him to 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 questioning Edmund, and find that he is bent on marrying this woman, and that he has been putting off telling me because he was ashamed of himself, I suppose. I couldn't possibly stay in the house after this, with my own maid turned mistress. And now, Milly, I am come to throw myself on your charity for a week or two. Will you take me in ?" 48 SCENES OF CLERICAL' LIFE. "That we will," said Milly, "if you will only put up with our poor rooms and 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 feel quite unable to go among my other friends just at present. What those two wretched people will do I don't know leave the neighborhood at once, I hope. I entreated my brother to do so, before he disgraced him- self." When Amos came home, he joined his cordial welcome and sympathy to Milly's. By-and-by the Countess's formid- able boxes, which she had carefully packed before her indig- nation drove her away from Camp Villa, arrived at the vicar- age, and were deposited in the spare bedroom, and in two closets, not spare, which Milly emptied for their reception. A week afterwards, the excellent apartments at Camp Villa, comprising dining and drawing-rooms, three bedrooms and a dressing-room, were again to let, and Mr. Bridmain's sudden departure, together with the Countess Czerlaski's installation as a visitor at Shepperton Vicarage, became a topic of gen- eral conversation in the neighborhood. The keen-sighted virtue of Milby and Shepperton saw in all this a confirmation of its worst suspicions, and pitied the Rev. Amos Barton's gullibility. But when week after week, and month after month, slipped by without witnessing the Countess's departure when sum- mer and harvest had fled, and still left her behind them oc- cupying the spare bedroom and the closets, and also a large proportion of Mrs. Barton's time and attention, new surmises of a very evil kind were added to the old rumors, and began to take the form of settled convictions in the minds even of Mr. Barton's most friendly parishioners. And now, here is an opportunity for an accomplished writer to apostrophize calumny, to quote Virgil, and to show that he is acquainted with the most ingenious things which have been said on that subject in polite literature. But what is opportunity to the man who can't use it? An unfecundated egg, which the waves of time wash away into nonentity. So, as my memory is ill-furnished, and my note-book still worse, I am unable to show myself either eru- dite or eloquent apropos of the calumny whereof the Rev. Amos Barton was the victim. I can only ask my reader, did you ever upset your inkbottle, and watch, in helpless ag- ony, the rapid spread of Stygian blackness over your fair manuscript or fairer table-cover? With a like inky swift- ness did gossip now blacken the reputation of the Rev. Amcc AMO6 BARTON 1 . 49 Barton, causing the unfriendly to scorn and even the friend- ly to stand aloof, at a time when difficulties of another kind were fast thickening around him. CHAPTER VI ONE November morning, at least six months after the Countess Czerlaski had taken up her residence at the vicar- age, Mrs. Hackit heard that her neighbor Mrs. Patten had an attack of her old complaint, vaguely called " the spasms." Accordingly, about eleven o'clock, she put on her velvet bon- net and cloth cloak, with a long boa and muff large enough to stow a prize baby in ; for Mrs. Hackit regulated her cos- tume by the calendar, and brought out her furs on the first of November, whatever might be the temperature. She was not a woman weakly to accommodate herself to shilly-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 did'nt like new fash- ions. And this morning the weather was very rationally in ac- cordance with her costume, for as she made her way through the fields to Cross Farm, the yellow leaves on the hedge-girt elms, which showed bright and golden against the low-hang- ing purple clouds, were being scattered across the grassy path by the coldest of November winds. " Ah," Mrs. Hackit thought to herself, "I daresay we shall have a sharp pinch this winter, and if we do, I shouldn't wonder if it takes the old lady off. They say a green Yule makes a fat church- yard ; but so does a white Yule too, for that matter. When the stool's rotten enough, no matter who sits on it." However, on her arrival at Cross Farm, the prospect of Mrs. Patten's decease was again thrown into the dim dis- tance in her imagination, for Miss Janet Gibbs met her with the news that Mrs. Patten was much better, and led her, without any preliminary announcement, to the old lady's bedroom. Janet had scarcely reached the end of her cir- cumstantial narrative, how the attack came on and what were her aunt's sensations a narrative to which Mrs. Patten, in her neatly - plaited nightcap, seemed to listen with a con- temptuous resignation to her niece's historical inaccuracy, contenting herself with occasionally confounding Janet by a shake of the head when the clatter of a horse's hoofs ou the 50 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. yard pavement announced the arrival of Mr. Pilgrim, whose large, top-booted person presently made its appearance up stairs. He found Mrs. Patten going on so well that there was no need to look solemn. He might glide from condo- lence into gossip without offense, and the temptation of hav- ing Mrs. Hackit's ear was irresistible. " What a disgraceful business this is turning out of your parson's," was the remark with which he made this agree- able transition, throwing himself back 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 countenance such goings on. It's hateful to see that woman coming with 'em to service of a Sunday, and if Mr. Hackit wasn't churchwarden and I didn't think it wrong to forsake one's own parish, I should go to Knebley Church. There's a many parish'ners as do." "I used to think Barton was only a fool," observed Mr. Pilgrim, in a tone which implied that he was conscious of having been weakly charitable. " I thought he was imposed upon and led away by those people when they first came. But that's impossible now." "Oh, it's as plain as the nose in your face," said Mrs. Hack- it, unreflectingly, not perceiving the equivoque in her com- parison "comin' to Milby, like a sparrow perchin' on a bough, as I may say, with her brother, as she called him ; and then all on a sudden the brother goes off with himself, and she throws herself on the Bartons. Though what could make >,er take up with a poor notomise of a parson, as hasn't got i nough to 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, who piqued 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 her boots, and so forth." " T'ilette be fiddled !" said Mrs. Hackit, with indignant boldness of metaphor ; " an' there's that poor thing a-sewing her fingers to the bone for them children an' another comin' on. What she must have to go through ! It goes to my heart to turn my back on her. But she's i' the wrong 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 gave this quotation with slow emphasis, as if he thought Mrs. Farquhar had uttered a remarkable sen- AMOS BARTOX. 51 timent.) " They find it impossible to invite her to their house while she has that equivocal person staying with her." " Well !" remarked Miss Gibbs, " if I was a wife, nothing should induce me to 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 as your betters, belike." " All my wonder is," observed Mrs. Hackit, " how the Bar- tons make both ends meet. You may depend on it, she's got nothing to give 'em ; for I understand as he's been having money from some clergy charity. They said at fust as she stuffed Mr. Barton wi' notions about her writing to the Chan- cellor an' her fine friends, to give him a living. Howiver, I don't know what's true an' what's false. Mr. Barton keeps away from our house now, for I gave him a bit o' my mind one day. Maybe he's ashamed of himself. He seems to me to look dreadful thin an' harassed of a Sunday." " Oh, he must be aware he's getting into bad odor every- where. The clergy are quite disgusted with his folly. They say Carpe would be glad to get Barton out of the curacy if he could ; but he can't do that without coming to Shepper- ton himself, as Barton's a licensed curate ; and he wouldn't like that, I suppose." At this moment Mrs. Patten showed signs of uneasiness, which recalled Mr. Pilgrim to professional attentions ; and Mrs. Hackit, observing that it was Thursday, and she must see after the butter, said good-bye, promising to look in again soon and bring her knitting. This Thursday, by-the-by, is the first in the month the c\ay on which the Clerical Meeting is held at Milby Vicarage ; and as the Rev. Amos Barton has reasons for not attending he will very likely be a subject of conversation amongst his clerical brethren. Suppose AVC go there, and hear whether Mr. Pilgrim has reported their opinion correctly. There is not a numerous party to-day, for it is a season of sore throats and catarrhs ; so that the exegetical and theolog- ical discussions, which are the preliminary of dining, have not been quite so spirited as usual ; and although a question rel- ative to the Epistle of Jude has not been quite cleared up, the striking of six by the church clock, and the simultaneous announcement of dinner, are sounds that no one feels to be importunate. Pleasant (when one is not in the least bilious) to enter a comfortable dining-room, where the closely-drawn red cur- tains glow with the double light of fire and candle, where glass and silver are glittering 011 the pure damask, and a soup- 52 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. tureen gives a hint of the fragrance that will presently rush out to inundate your hungry senses, and prepare them, by the delicate visitation of atoms, for the keen gusto of ample con- tact ! Especially if you have confidence in the dinner-giving capacity of your host if you know that he is not a man who entertains grovelling views of eating and drinking as a mere satisfaction of hunger and thirst, and, dead to all the finer in- fluences of the palate, expects his guest to be brilliant on ill- ' flavored gravies and the cheapest Marsala. Mr. Ely was par- ticularly worthy of such confidence, and his virtues as an Am- phitryon had probably contributed quite as much as the cen- tral situation of Milby to the selection of his house as a cler- ical rendezvous. He looks particularly graceful at the head of his table, and, indeed, on all occasions where he acts as pres- ident or moderator : he is a man who seems to listen well, and is an excellent amalgam of dissimilar ingredients. At the other end of the table, as " Vice," sits Mr. Fellowes, rector and magistrate, a man of imposing appearance, with a mellifluous voice and the readiest of tongues. Mr. Fellowes once obtained a living by the persuasive charms of his con- versation, and the fluency with which he interpreted the opinions of an obese and stammering baronet, so as to give that elderly gentleman a very pleasing perception of his own wisdom. Mr. Fellowes is a very successful man, and has the highest character every where except in his own parish, where, doubtless because his parishioners happen to be quarrelsome people, he is always at fierce feud with a farmer or two, a col- liery proprietor, a grocer who was once churchwarden, and a tailor who formerly officiated as clerk. At Mr. Ely's right hand you see a very small man with a sallow and somewhat puffy face, whose hair is brushed straight up, evidently with the intention of giving him a height some what less disproportionate to his sense of his own impor- tance than the measure of five feet three accorded him by an oversight of nature. This is the Rev. Archibald Duke, a very dyspeptic and evangelical man, who takes the gloomiest view of mankind and their prospects, and thinks the immense sale of the " Pickwick Papers," recently completed, one of the strongest proofs of original sin. Unfortunately, though Mr. Duke was not burdened with a family, his yearly expendi- ture was apt considerably to exceed his income ; and the un- pleasant circumstances resulting from this, together with heavy meat-breakfasts, may probably have contributed to his desponding views of the world generally. Next to him is seated Mr. Furness, a tall young man, with blond hair and whiskers, who was plucked at Cambridge, en- AMOS BARTON. 53 tirely owing to his genius ; at least I know that he soon af- terwards published a volume of poems, which were consider- ed remarkably beautiful by many young ladies of his ac- quaintance. Mr. Furness preached his own sermons, as any one of tolerable critical acumen might have certified by com- paring them with his poems ; in both, there was an exuber- ance of metaphor and simile entirely original, and not in the least borrowed from any resemblance in the things com- pared. On Mr. Furness's left you see Mr. Pugh, another young cu- rate, of much less marked characteristics. He had not pub- lished any poems ; he had not even been plucked ; he had neat black whiskers and a pale complexion; read prayers and a sermon twice every Sunday, and might be seen any day sallying forth on his parochial duties in a white tie, a well-brushed hat, a perfect suit of black, and well-polished boots an equipment which he probably supposed hieroglyph- ically to represent the spirit of Christianity to the parish- ioners of Whittlecombe. Mr. Pugh's vis-d-vis is the Rev. Martin Cleves, a man about forty middle-sized, broad-shouldered, with a negli- gently-tied cravat, large, irregular features, and a large head, thickly covered with lanky brown hair. To a superficial glance, Mr. Cleves is the plainest and least clerical-looking of the party ; yet, strange to say, there is the true parish priest, the pastor beloved, consulted, relied on by his flock ; a cler- gyman who is not associated with the undertaker, but thought of as the surest helper under a difficulty, as a monitor who is encouraging rather than severe. Mr. Cleves has the wonder- ful art of preaching sermons which the wheelwright and the blacksmith can understand ; not because he talks condescend- ing twaddle, but because he can call a spade a spade, and knows how to disencumber ideas of their wordy frippery. Look at him more attentively and you will see that his face is a very interesting one that there is a great deal of humor and feeling playing in his gray eyes, 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 middle class, and has hereditary sympathies with the check- ered life of the people. He gets together the working-men in his parish on a Monday evening, and gives them a sort of conversational lecture on useful practical matters, telling them stories, or reading some select passages from an agree- able book, and commenting on them ; and if you were to ask the first laborer or artisan in Tripplegate what sort of man the parson was, he would say, " a uncommon knowin', 54 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. sensable, free-spoken gentleman ; very kind an' good-natur'd too." Yet, for all this, he is perhaps the best Grecian of the party, if we except Mr. Baird, the young man on his left. Mr. Baird has since gained considerable celebrity as an original writer and metropolitan lecturer, but at that time he used to preach in a little church something like a barn, to a congregation consisting of three rich farmers and their ser- vants, about fifteen laborers, and the due proportion of wom- en and children. The rich farmers understood him to be " veiy high learnt ; " but if you had interrogated them for a more precise description, they would have said that he was " a thinnish-faced man, with a sort o' cast in his eye, like." Seven, altogether : a delightful number for a dinner-party, supposing the units to be delightful, but every thing depends on that. During dinner Mr. Fellowes took the lead in the con- versation, which set strongly in the direction of mangold- wurzel and the rotation of crops ; for Mr. Fellowes and Mr. Cleves cultivated their own glebes. Mr. Ely, too, had some agricultural notions, and even the Rev. Archibald Duke was made alive to that class of mundane subjects by the posses- sion of some potato-ground. The two young curates talked a little aside during these discussions, which had imperfect in- terest for their unbeneficed minds ; and the transcendental and near-sighted Mr. Baird seemed to listen somewhat ab- stractedly, knowing little more of potatoes and mangold- wurzel than that they were some form of the " Conditioned." " What a hobby farming is with Lord Watling !" said Mr. Fellowes, when the cloth was being drawn. "I went over his farm at Tetterley with him last summer. It is really a model farm ; first-rate dairy, grazing, and wheat land, and such splendid farm-buildings ! An expensive hob- by, though. He sinks a good deal of money there, I fancy. He has a great whim for black cattle, and he sends that drunk- en old Scotch bailiff of his to Scotland every 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 Lord Watling has given the Bramhill living ?" "A man named Sargent. I knew him at Oxford. His brother is a lawyer, and was very useful to Lord Watling in that ugly Brounsell affair. That's why Sargent got the liv- ing." " 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. AMOS BARTON. 55 He got into rather bad odor there, through some scandal about a flirtation, I think." " Talking of scandal," returned Mr. Fellowes, " have you heard the last story about Barton. ? Nisbett was telling me the other day that he dines alone with the Countess at six, while Mrs. Barton is in the kitchen acting as cook." " Rather an apocryphal authority, Nisbett," said Mr. Ely. "Ah," said Mr. Cleves, with good-natured humor twink- ling in his eyes, " depend upon it that is a corrupt version. The original text is, that they all dined together with six meaning six children and that Mrs. Barton is an excel- lent cook" " I wish dining alone together may be the worst of that sad business," said the Rev. Archibald Duke, in a tone im- plying that his wish was a strong figure of speech. " Well," said Mr. Fellowes, filling his glass and looking jocose, " Barton is certainly either the greatest gull in exist- ence, or he has some cunning secret, some philtre or other to make himself charming in the eyes of a fair lady. It isn't; all of us that can make conquests when our ugliness is past its bloom." " The lady seemed to have made a conquest of him at the very outset," said Mr. Ely. " I was immensely amused one night at Granby's when he was telling us her story about her husband's adventures. He said, ' When she told me the tale, I felt I don't know how, I felt it from the crown of my head to the sole of my feet.' " Mr. Ely gave these words dramatically, imitating the Rev. Amos's fervor and symbolic action, and every one laughed except Mr. Duke, whose after-dinner view of things was not apt to be jovial. He said, " I think some of us ought to remonstrate with Mr. Bar- ton on the scandal he is causing. He is not only imperilling his own soul, but the souls of his flock." "Depend upon it," said Mr. Cleves, "there is some simple explanation of the whole affair, if we only happened to know it. Barton has always impressed me as a right-minded man, who has the knack of doing himself injustice 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 died a little while ago ; a fel- low who soaked himself with spirits, and talked of the Gos- pel through an inflamed nose." " The Countess has given him more refined tastes, I dare say," said Mr. Ely. " Well," observed Mr. Cleves, " the poor fellow must have 56 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. a hard pull to get along, with his small income and large family. Let us hope the Countess does some thing towards making the pot boil." " Not she," said Mr. Duke ; " there are greater signs of poverty about them than ever." " Well, come," returned Mr. Cleves, who could be caustic sometimes, and who was not at all fond of his reverend broth- er, Mr. Duke, "that's something in Barton's favor at all events. He might be poor without showing signs of pover- ty." Mr. Duke turned rather yellow, which was his way of blushing, and Mr. Ely came to his relief by observing, " They're making a very good piece of work of Shepper- ton Church. Dolby, the architect, who has it in hand, is a very clever fellow." " It's he who has been doing Coppleton Church," said Mr. Furness. " They've got it in excellent order for the visita- tion." This mention of the visitation suggested the Bishop, and thus opened a wide duct, which entirely diverted the stream of animadversion from that small pipe that capillary vessel, the Rev. Amos Barton. The talk of the clergy about their Bishop belongs to the esoteric part of their profession ; so we will at once quit the dining-room at Milby Vicarage, lest we should happen to overhear remarks unsuited to the lay understanding, and perhaps dangerous to our repose of mind. CHAPTER VH. I DAEE say the long residence of the Countess Czerlaski at Shepperton Vicarage is very puzzling to you also, dear read- er, as well as to Mr. Barton's clerical brethren ; the more so, as I hope you are not in the least inclined to put that very evil interpretation on it which evidently found acceptance with the sallow and dyspeptic Mr. Duke, and with the florid and highly peptic 'Mr. Fellowes. You have seen enough, I trust, of the Rev. Amos Barton, to be convinced that he was more apt to fall into a blunder than into a sin more apt to be deceived than to incur a necessity for being deceitful ; and if you have a keen eye for physiognomy, you will have de- tected that the Countess Czerlaski loved herself far too well to get entangled in an unprofitable vice. AMOS BARTON. 57 How, then, you will say, could this fine lady choose to quarter herself on the establishment of a poor curate, where the carpets were probably falling into holes, where the at- tendance was limited to a maid-of-all-work, and where six children were running loose from eight o'clock in the morn- ing till eight o'clock in the evening ? Surely you must be straining probability. 3 . Heaven forbid ! For not having a lofty imagination, as you perceive, and being unable to invent thrilling incidents for your amusement, my only merit must lie in the truth with which I represent to you the humble experience of or- dinary fellow-mortals. I wish to stir your sympathy with commonplace troubles to win your tears for real sorrow: sorrow such as may live next door to you such as walks neither in rags nor in velvet, but in very ordinary decent ap- parel. Therefore, that you may dismiss your suspicions as to the truth of my picture, I will beg you to consider that at the time the Countess Czerlaski left Camp Villa in dudgeon, she had only twenty pounds in her pocket, being about one-third of the income she possessed independently of her brother. You will then perceive that she was in the extremely incon- venient predicament of having quarrelled, not indeed with her bread and cheese, but certainly with her chicken and tart a predicament all the more inconvenient to her, because the habit of idleness had quite unfitted her for earning those nec- essary superfluities, and because, with all her fascinations, she had not secured any enthusiastic friends whose houses were open to her, and who were dying to see her. Thus she had completely checkmated herself, unless she could resolve on one unpleasant move namely, to humble herself to her brother, and recognize his wife. This seemed quite impossi- ble to her as long as she entertained the hope that he would make the first advances ; and in this flattering hope she re- mained month after month at Shepperton Vicarage, graceful- ly overlooking the deficiencies of accommodation, and feeling that she was really behaving charmingly. " Who indeed," she thought to herself, " could do otherwise, with a lovely, gentle creature like Milly ? I shall really be sorry to leave the poor thing." So, though she lay in bed till ten, and came down to a separate breakfast at eleven, she kindly consented to dine aa early as five, when a hot joint was prepared, which coldly furnished forth the children's table the next day; she consid- erately prevented Milly from devoting herself too closely to the children, by insisting on reading, talking, and walking 3* 58 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. with her ; and she even began to embroider a cap for the next baby, which must certainly be a girl, and be named Caroline. After the first month or two of her residence at the Vicar- age, the Rev. Amos Barton became aware as, indeed, it was unavoidable that he should of the strong disapprobation it drew upon him, and the change of feeling towards him which it was producing in his kindest parishioners. But, in the first place, he still believed in the Countess as a charming and in- fluential woman, disposed to befriend him, and, in any case, he could hardly hint departure to a lady guest who had been kind to him and his, and who might any day spontaneously announce the termination of her visit ; in the second place, he was conscious of his own innocence, and felt some con- temptuous indignation towards people who were ready to im- agine evil of him; and, lastly, he had, as I have already inti- mated, a strong will of his own, so that a certain obstinacy and defiance mingled itself with his other feelings on the sub- ject. The one unpleasant consequence which was not to be evaded or counteracted by any mere mental state, was the increasing drain on his slender purse for household expenses, to meet which the remittance he had received from the cleri- cal charity threatened to be quite inadequate. Slander may be defeated by equanimity ; but courageous thoughts will not pay your baker's bill, and fortitude is nowhere considered legal tender for beef. Month after month the financial aspect of the Rev. Amos's affairs became more and more serious to him, and month after month, too, wore away more and more of that armor of indignation and defiance with which he had at first defended himself from the harsh looks of faces that were once the friendliest. But quite the heaviest pressure of the trouble fell on Milly on gentle, uncomplaining Milly whose delicate body was becoming daily less fit for all 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 she was quite glad to incur extra exertion for the sake of making her friend comfortable. I can hardly bear to think of all the rough work she did with those lovely hands all by the sly, without let- ting her husband know any thing about it, and husbands are not clairvoyant : how she salted bacon, ironed shirts and cra- vats, put patches on patches, and re-darned darns. Then there was the task of mending and eking out baby-linen in prospect, and the problem perpetually suggesting itself how she and Nanny should manage when there was another baby, as there would be before very many months were past. AMOS BARTON. 59 "When time glided on, and the Countess's visit did not end, Mill y was not blind to any phase of their position. She knew of the slander; she was aware of the keeping aloof of old friends ; but these she felt almost entirely on her husband's account. A loving woman's world lies within the four walls of her own home ; and it is only through her husband that she is in any electric communication with the world beyond. Mrs. Simpkins may have looked scornfully at her, but baby crows and holds out his little arms none the less blithely ; Mrs. Tomkins may have left off calling on her, but her husband comes home none the less to receive her care and caresses ; it has been wet and gloomy out of doors to-day, but she has looked well after the shirt-buttons, has cut out baby's pinafores, and half finished Willy's blouse. So it was with Milly. She was only vexed that her hus- band should be vexed only wounded because he was mis- conceived. But the difficulty about ways and means she felt in quite a different manner. Her rectitude Avas alarmed lest they should have to make tradesmen wait for their money ; her motherly love dreaded the diminution of comforts for the children ; and the sense of her own failing health gave exag- gerated force to these fears. Milly could no longer shut her eyes to the fact, that the Countess was inconsiderate, if she did not allow herself to entertain severer thoughts ; and she began to feel that it would soon be a duty to tell her frankly that they really could not afford to have her visit further prolonged. But a process was going forward in two other minds, which ulti- mately saved Milly from having to perform this painful task. In the first place, the Countess was getting weary of Shep- perton weary of waiting for her brother's overtures which never came ; so, one fine morning, she reflected that forgive- ness was a Christian duty, that a sister should be placable, that Mr. Bridmain must feel the need of her advice, to which he had been accustomed for three years, and that very likely "that woman" didn't make the poor man happy. In this amiable frame of 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 Xanny's, the maid-of-all-work, who had a warm heart and a still warmer temper. Nanny adored her mistress; she had been heard to say, that she was " ready to kiss 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 the first, very slight admiration for the Countess Czer laski. That lady, from Nanny's point of view, was a person- 60 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. age always " drawed out i' fine clothes," the chief result of whose existence was to cause additional bed-making, carry- ing of hot water, laying of table-cloths, and cooking of din- ners. It was a perpetually heightening "aggravation" to Nanny that she and her mistress had to " slave " mote than ever, because there was this fine lady in the house. "An' she pays nothin' ibr't neither," observed Nanny to Mr. Jacob Tomms, a young gentleman in the tailoring line, who occasionally simply out of a taste for dialogue looked into the vicarage kitchen of an evening. " I know the mas- ter's shorter o' money than iver, an' it meks no end o' differ- ence i' th' housekeepin' her bein' here, besides bein' obliged to have a charwoman constant." "There's fine stories i' the village about her," said Mr. Tomms. " They say 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 like the missis, 'ud go running arter a stuck- up piece o' goods like that Countess, 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, stingy thing, that Countess. She's niver giv me a sixpence nor an old rag neither, sin' here she's been. A lyin' abed an a-comin' down to breakfast when other folks wants their dinner !" If such was the state of Nanny's mind as early as the end i f August, when this dialogue with Mr. Tomms occurred, you may imagine what it must have been by the beginning of November, and that at that time a very slight spark might any day cause the long-smouldering anger to flame forth in open indignation. That spark happened to fall the very morning that Mrs. Hackit paid the visit to Mrs. Patten, recorded in the last chapter. Nanny's dislike to the Countess extended to the innocent dog Jet, whom she " couldn't a-bear to see made a fuss wi' like a Christian. An' the little ouzel must be wash- ed, 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 poorly to get up, and Mr. Barton observed to Nan- ny, on going out, that he would call and tell Mr. Brand to come. These circumstances were already enough to make Nanny anxious and susceptible. But the Countess, comfort- AMOS BARTON. 61 ably ignorant of them, came down as usual about eleven o'clock to her separate breakfast, which stood ready for her at that hour in the parlor ; the kettle singing on the hob that she might make her own tea. There was a little jug of cream, taken according to custom from last night's milk, and specially saved for the Countess's breakfast. Jet always awaited his mistress at her bedroom door, and it was her hab- it to carry him down stairs. " Now, my little Jet," she said, putting him down gently on the hearth-nig, " you shall have a nice, nice breakfast." Jet indicated that he thought that observation extremely pertinent and well-timed, by immediately raising himself on his hind legs, and the Countess emptied the cream-jug into the saucer. Now there was usually a small jug of milk standing on the tray by the side of the cream, and destined for Jet's breakfast, but this morning Nanny, being " moithered," had forgotten that part of the arrangements, so that when the Countess had made her tea, she perceived there was no second jug, and fang the bell. Nanny appeared, looking very red and heated the fact was, she had been " doing up " the kitchen fire, and that is a sort of work which by no means conduces to blandness of temper. " Nanny, you have forgotten Jet's milk ; will you bring me some more cream, please?" This was just a little too much for Nanny's forbearance. "Yes, I dare say. Here am I wi' my hands full o' the chil- dren an' the dinner, and missis ill a-bed, and Mr. Brand a-com- in' ; and I must run o'er the village to get more cream, 'cause you've give it to that nasty little blackamoor." " Is Mrs. Barton ill ?" "Ill yes I should think she is ill, an' much you care. She's likely to be ill, moithered as she is from mornin' to night, wi' folks as had better 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 di- gest this unexpected breakfast at her leisure. The Countess was stunned for a few minutes, but when she began to recall Nanny's words, there was no possibility 62 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. of avoiding very unpleasant conclusions from them, or of fail- ing to see her position at the Vicarage in 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 imagi- nation, and she saw the necessity of quitting Shepperton with- out delay. Still, she would like to wait for her brother's let- ter no she would ask Milly to forward it to her still bet- ter, she would go at once to London, inquire her brother's ad- dress at his banker's, and go to see him without preliminary. She went up to Milly's room, and, after kisses and inquiries, said " I find on consideration, dear Milly, from the letter I had yesterday, that I must bid you good-bye and go up to London at once. But you must not let me 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. You will want me to help you to pack. But you won't go for tAvo or three days ?" " Yes, I must go to-morrow. But I shall not let you help me to pack, so don't entertain any unreasonable projects, but lie still. Mr. Brand is coming, Nanny says." The news was not an unpleasant surprise to Mr. Barton when he came home, though he was able to express more re- gret at the idea of parting than Milly could summon to her lips. He retained more of his original feeling for the Count- ess than Milly did, for women never betray themselves to men as they do to each other; and the Rev. Amos had not a keen instinct for character. But he felt that he was being relieved from a difficulty, and in the way that was easiest for him. Neither he nor Milly suspected that it was Nanny who had cut the knot for them, for the Countess took care to give no sign on that subject. As for Nanny, she was per- fectly aware of the relation between cause and effect in the affair, and secretly chuckled over her outburst of " sauce " as the best morning's work she had ever done. So, on Friday morning, a fly was seen standing at the Vicarage gate with the Countess's boxes packed upon it; and presently that lady herself was seen getting into the ve- hicle. 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 a last glimpse of the handsome Countess leaning and waving kisses from the carriage window. Jet's little black phiz was also seen, and doubtless he had his thoughts and feelings on the occasion, but he kept them strictly within his own bosom. AMOS BARTON. 63 The schoolmistress opposite witnessed this departure, and lost no time in telling it to the schoolmaster, who again com- municated the news to the landlord of " The Jolly Colliers," at the close of the morning school-hours. Nanny poured the joyful tidings into the ear of Mr. Farquhar's footman, who happened to call with a letter, and Mr. Brand carried them to all the patients he visited that morning, after calling on Mrs. Barton. So that, before Sunday, it was very generally known in.Shepperton parish that the Countess Czerlaski had left the Vicarage. The Countess had left, but alas, the bills she had contrib- uted to swell still remained ; so did the exiguity of the chil- dren's clothing, which also was partly an indirect consequence of her presence ; and so, too, did the coolness and alienation in the parishioners, which could not at once vanish before the i'act of her departure. The Rev. Amos was not excul- pated the past was not expunged. But what was worse than all, Milly's health gave frequent cause for alarm, and the prospect of baby's birth was overshadowed by more than the usual fears. The birth came prematurely, about six weeks after the Countess's departure, but Mr. Brand gave favorable reports to all inquirers on the following day, which was Saturday. On Sunda} T , after morning service', Mrs. Hackit called at the Vicarage to inquire how Mrs. Bar- ton was, and was invited up stairs to see her. Milly lay placid and lovely in her feebleness, and held out her hand to Mrs. Hackit with a beaming smile. It was very pleasant to her to 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 " he was pronounced to be " doing Avell," and Mrs. Hackit went home gladdened at heart to think that the perilous hour was over. CHAPTER VHI. THE following Wednesday, when Mr. and Mrs. Hackit were seated comfortably by their bright hearth, enjoying the long afternoon afforded by an early dinner, Rachel, the housemaid, came in and said, " If you please, 'm, the shepherd says, have you heard as Mrs. Barton's WUPS, and not expected to live ?" Mrs. Hackit turned pale, and hurried out to question the shepherd, who, she found, had heai'd the sad news at an ale- 64 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. house in the village. Mr. Hackit followed her out and said, " You'd better have the pony-chaise, and go directly." " Yes," said Mrs. Hackit, too much overcome to utter any exclamations. " Rachel, come and help me on wi' my things." When her husband was wrapping her cloak round her feet in the pony-chaise, she said, " If I don't come home to-night, I shall send back the 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 the Vicarage, the sun was near its setting. There was a carriage and pair standing at the gate, which she recog- nized as Dr. Madeley's, the physician from Rotherby. She entered at the kitchen door that she might avoid knocking, and quietly questioned Nanny. No one was in the kitchen, but, passing on, she saw the sitting-room door open, and Nan- ny, with Walter in her arms, removing the knives and forks, which had been laid for dinner three hours ago. " Master says he can't eat no dinner," was Nanny's first word. " He's never tasted 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 mid- dle o' the day yisterday, 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 and took 'em away last night, but the master says they must be fetched soon. He's up stairs now, wi' Dr. Made- ley and Mr. Brand." At this moment Mrs. Hackit heard the sound of a heavy, slow foot, in the passage; and presently Amos Barton en- tered, with dry, despairing eyes, haggard and unshaven. He expected to find the sitting-room as he left it, with noth- ing to meet his eyes but Milly's work-basket in the corner of the sofa, and the children's toys overturned in the bow-win- dow. But when he 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, for the sake o' them dear children." " The children," said Amos, starting up. " They must be sent for. Some one must fetch them. Milly will want to . . ." He couldn't finish the sentence, but Mrs. Hackit understood him, and said, " I'll send the man with the pony-carriage for 'em." AMOS BARTON; 65 She went out to give the order, and encountered Dr. Made- ley and Mr. Brand, who were just going. Mr. Brand said : " I am very glad to see you are here, Mrs. Hackit. No time must be lost in sending for the chil- dren. 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 how long she had to live.; and then asked for the children." The pony-carnage was sent ; and Mrs. Hackit, returning to Mr. Barton, said she would like to go up stairs now. He went up stairs with her and opened 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 hand of death visibly upon her. The feather-bed had been removed, and she lay low on a mattress, with her head slightly raised by pillows. Her long fair neck seemed to be struggling with a painful efiprt ; her features were pallid and pinched, and her eyes were closed. There was no one in the room but the nurse, and the mistress of the free school, who had come to 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 which belongs to ebbing life. " Are the children coming ?" she said painfully. " Yes, they will be here directly." She closed her eyes again. Presently the pony-carnage was heard ; and Amos, mo- tioning to Mrs. Hackit to follow him, left the room. On their way down stairs, she suggested that the carriage should re- main to take them away again afterwards, and Amos assent- ed. There they stood in the melancholy sitting-room the five sweet children, from Patty to Chubby all, with their moth- er's eyes all, except Patty, looking up with a vague fear at their father as he entered. Patty understood the great sor- row that was come upon them, and tried to check her sobs as she heard her papa's footsteps. "My children," said Amos, taking Chubby in his arms, " God is going to take 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 with Walter, and then led the way up stairs, lead- 66 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. ing Dickey with the other hand. Mrs. Hackit followed with Sophy and Patty, and then came Nanny with Walter and Fred. It seemed as if Milly had heard the little footsteps on the stairs, for when Amos entered her eyes were wide open, ea- gerly looking towards the door. They all stood by the bed- side Amos nearest to her, holding Chubby and Dickey. But she motioned for Patty to come first, and clasping the poor pale child by the hand, said, "Patty, I'm going away from you. Love your papa. Comfort him; and take care of your little brothers and sis- ters. God will help you." Patty stood perfectly quiet, and said, " Yes, mamma." The mother motioned with her pallid lips for the dear child to lean towards 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 head gently to him, while Milly beckoned Fred and Sophy, and said to them more faintly, " 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 kissed their tear-stained cheeks. They cried because mamma was ill and papa looked so unhappy; but they thought, perhaps next week things would be as they 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 Chubby seemed gravely wondering ; but Dickey, who had been looking fixedly at her, with lip hanging down, ever since he came into the room, now seemed suddenly pierced with the idea that mamma was going away somewhere ; his little heart swelled and he cried aloud. Then Mrs. Hackit and Nanny took them all away. Patty at first begged to stay at home and not go to Mrs. Bond's again ; but when Nanny reminded her that she had better go to take care of the younger ones, she submitted at once, and they were all packed in the pony-carriage once more. Milly kept her eyes shut for some time after the children were gone. Amos had sunk on his knees, and was holding her hand while he watched her face. By-and-by she opened her eyes, and drawing him close to her, whispered slowly, " My dear dear husband you have been very good to me. You have made me very happy." She spoke no more for many hours. They watched her breathing becoming more and more difficult, until evening "My dear dear husband you have been very good to me." PAGE 66. 68 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. deepened into night, and until midnight was past. About half past twelve she seemed to be trying to speak, and they leaned to catch her words. " Music music didn't you hear it ?" Amos knelt by the bed and held her hand in his. He did not believe in his sorrow. 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 that Mr. Barton might probably need his help, now came up to him, and said, " She feels no more pain now. Come, my dear sir, come with me." "She isn't dead?" shrieked the poor desolate man, strug- gling to shake off Mr. Brand, who had taken him by the arm. But his weary, weakened frame was not equal to resistance, and he was dragged out of the room. CHAPTER IX. THEY laid her in the grave the sweet mother with her baby in her arms 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 had ridden over from Trip- plegate to beg that he might be made of some use, and his silent grasp of Amos's hand had penetrated like the painful thrill of life-recovering warmth to the poor benumbed heart of the stricken man. The snow lay thick upon the graves, and the day was cold and dreary; but there was many a sad eye watching that black procession as it passed from the Vicarage to the church, and from the church to the open grave. There were men and women standing in that churchyard who had bandied vulgar jests about their pastor, and who had lightly charged him with sin ; but now, when they saw him following the coffin, pale and haggard, he was consecrated anew by his great sor- row, and they looked at him with respectful pity. All the children were there, for Amos had willed it so, thinking that some dim memory of that sacred moment might remain even with little Walter, and link itself with what he would hear of his sweet mother in after 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 AMOS BARTON. 69 coffin was being lowered. Patty alone of all the children felt that mamma was in that coffin, and that a new and sadder life had begun for papa and herself. She was pale and trem- bling, but she clasped his hand more firmly as the coffin went down, and gave no sob. Fred and Sophy, though they were only two and three years younger, and though they had seen mamma in her coffin, seemed to themselves to be looking at some strange show. They had not learned to decipher that terrible handwriting of human destiny, illness and death. Dickey had rebelled against his black clothes, until he was told that it would 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 a vague notion that she would come home again to-morrow, und say he had been 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 cof- fin, and thinking he and Chubby would play at that when they got home. The burial was over, and Amos turned with his children to re-enter the house the house where, an hour ago, Milly's dear body lay, where the windows were half-darkened, and sorrow seemed to have a hallowed precinct for itself, shut out from the world. But now she was gone; the broad snow-reflected daylight was in all the rooms ; the Vicarage again seemed part of the common working-day world, and Amos, for the first time, felt that he was alone that day after day, month after month, year after year, would have to be lived through without Milly's love. Spring would come and she would not be there ; summer, and she would not be there ; and he would never have her again with him by the fireside in the long evenings. The seasons all seemed irk- some to his thoughts ; and how dreary the sunshiny days that would be sure to come! She was gone from him; and he could never show her his love any more, never make up for omissions in the past by filling future days with tender- ness. Oh the anguish of that thought that we can never atone to our dead for the stinted affection we gave them, for the light answers we returned to their plaints or their pleadings, for the little reverence we showed to that sacred human soul that lived so close to us, and was the divinest thing God had given us to know ! Amos Barton had been an affectionate husband, and while Milly was with him, he was never visited by the thought that perhaps his sympathy with her was not quick and 70 SCENES OP- CLERICAL LIFE. watchful enough ; but now he re-lived all their life together, with that terrible keenness of memory and imagination which bereavement gives, and he felt as if his very love needed a pardon for its poverty and selfishness. No outward solace could counteract the bitterness of this inward woe. But outward solace came. Cold faces looked kind again, and parishioners turned over in their minds what they could best do to help their pastor. Mr. Oldinport wrote to express his sympathy, and enclosed another twenty-pound note, begging that he might be permitted to contribute in this way to the relief of Mr. Barton's mind from pecuniary anxieties, under the pressure of a grief which all his parish' ioners must share ; and offering his interest towards placing the two eldest girls in a school expressly founded for clergy- men's daughters. Mr. Cloves succeeded in collecting thirty pounds among his richer clerical brethren, and, adding ten pounds himself, sent the sum to Amos, with the kindest and most delicate words of Christian fellowship and manly friendship. Miss Jackson forgot old grievances, and came to stay some months with Milly's children, bringing such ma- terial aid as she could spare from her small income. These were substantial helps, which relieved Amos from the pres- sure of his money difficulties ; and the friendly attentions, the kind pressure of the hand, the cordial looks he met with everywhere in his parish, made him feel that the fatal frost which had settled on his pastoral duties, during the Coun- tess's residence at the Vicarage, was completely thawed, and that the hearts of his parishioners were once more open to him. No one breathed the Countess's name now; for Milly's memory hallowed her husband, as of old the place was hal- lowed on which an angel from God had alighted. When the spring came, Mrs. Hackit begged that she might have Dickey to stay with her, and great was the enlarge- ment of Dickey's experience from that visit. Every morning he was allowed being well wrapt up as to his chest by Mrs. Hackit's own hands, but very bare and red as to his legs to run loose in the cow and poultry yard, to persecute the turkey-cock by satirical imitations of his gobble-gobble, and to put difficult questions to the groom as to the reasons why horses had four legs, and other transcendental matters. Then Mr. Hackit would take Dickey up on horseback when he rode round his farm, and Mrs. Hackit had a large plum- cake in cut, ready to meet incidental attacks of hunger. So that Dickey had considerably modified his views as to the desirability of Mrs. Hackit's kisses. AMOS BARTON. 71 The Misses Farquhar made particular pets of Fred and Sophy, to whom they undertook to give lessons twice a week in writing and geography ; and Mrs. Farquhar devised many treats for the little ones. Patty's treat was to stay at home, or walk about with her papa ; and when he sat by the fire in an evening, after the other children had gone to bed, she would bring a stool, and, placing it against his feet, would sit down upon it and lean her 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 quite finished and reopened in all its new splendor, and Mr. Barton was devoting himself with more vigor than ever to his parochial duties. But one morning it was a very bright morning, and evil tidings sometimes like to fly in the finest weather there came a letter for Mr. Barton, addressed in the Vicar's handwriting. Amos opened it with some anxiety somehow or other he had a presentiment of evil. The letter contained the announcement that Mr. Carpe had resolved on coming to reside at Shepperton, and that, conse- quently, in six months from that time Mr. Barton's duties as curate in that parish would be closed. Oh, it was hard ! Just when Shepperton had become the place where he most wished to stay where lie had friends who knew his sorrows where he lived close to Milly's grave. To part from that grave seemed like parting with Milly a second time; for Amos was one who clung to all the material links between his mind and the past. His imagi- nation was not vivid, and required the stimulus of actual per- ception. It roused some bitter feeling, too, to think that Mr. Carpe's wish to reside at Shepperton was merely a pretext for re- moving Mr. Barton, in order that he might ultimately give the curacy of Shepperton to his own brother-in-law, who was known to be wanting a new position. Still it must be borne ; and the painful business of seeking another curacy must be set about without loss of time. Af- ter the lapse of some months, Amos was obliged to renounce the hope of getting one at all near Shepperton, and he at length resigned himself to accepting one in a distant county. The parish was in a large manufacturing town, where his walks would lie among noisy streets and dingy alleys, and where the children would have no garden to play in, no pleas- ant farm-houses to visit. It was another blow inflicted on the bruised man. 72 SCENES OF CLEEICAL LIFE. CHAPTER X. AT length the dreaded week was come, when Amos and his children must leave Shepperton. There was general regret among the parishioners at his departure : not that any one of them thought his spiritual gifts pre-eminent, or was conscious of great edification from his ministry. But his recent troub- les had called out their better sympathies, and that is always a source of love. Amos failed to touch the spring of good- ness by his sermons, but he touched it effectually by his sor- rows ; and there was now a real bond between him and his flock. " My heart aches for them poor motherless children," said Mrs. Hackit to her husband, " a-going among strangers, and into a nasty town, where there's no good victuals to be had, and you must pay dear to get bad uns." Mrs. Hackit had a vague notion of a town life as a com- bination of dirty backyards, measly pork, and dingy linen. The same sort of sympathy was strong among the poorer class of parishioners. Old stiff-jointed Mr. Tozer, who was still able to earn a little by gardening "jobs," stopped Mrs. Cramp, the charwoman, on her way home from the Vicarage, where she had been helping Nanny to pack up the day be- fore 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 much here, but he'll be wuss off theer. Haifa loaf's better nor ne'er un." The sad good-byes had all been said before that last even- ing ; and after all the packing was done and all the arrange- ments were made, Amos felt the oppression of that blank In- terval in which one has nothing left to think of but the dreary future the separation from the loved and familiar, and the chilling entrance on the new and strange. In every parting there is an image of death. Soon after ten o'clock, when he had sent Nanny to bed, that she might have a good night's rest before the fatigues of the morrow, he stole softly 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 that the grass had grown long on the grave, and that there was a tombstone telling iu bright letters, on a dark ground, that beneath were AMOS BARTON. 73 deposited the remains of Amelia, the beloved \vifo of Amos Barton, who died in the thirty-fifth year of her age, leaving a husband and six children to lament her loss. The final words of the inscription were, " Thy will be done." The husband was now advancing towards the dear mound from which he was so soon to be parted, perhaps forever. Ho stood a few minutes reading over and over again the words on the tombstone, as if to assure himself that all the happy and unhappy past was a reality. For love is frightened at the intervals of insensibility and callousness that encroach by little and little on the dominion of grief, and it makes efforts to recall the keenness of the first anguish. Gradually, as his eye dwelt on the words, " Amelia, the beloved wife," the waves of feeling swelled within his soul, and he threw himself on the grave, clasping it with his arms, and kissing the cold turf. " Milly, Milly, dost thou hear me ? I didn't love thec enough I wasn't tender 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 was in the calm and softened light of an autumnal afternoon, and he was not alone. He held on his arm a young woman, with a sweet, grave face, which strongly recalled the expression of Mrs. Barton's, but was less lovely in form and color. She was about thirty, but there were some premature lines 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 up- right. But his glance was calm, and even cheerful, and his neat linen told of a woman's care. Milly did not take all her love from the earth when she died. She had left some of it in Patty's heart. All the other children were now grown up, and had gone their several ways. Dickey, you will be glad to hear, had shown remarkable talents as an engineer. His cheeks are still ruddy, in spite of mixed mathematics, and his eyes are still large and blue ; but in other respects his person would present no marks of identification for his friend Mrs. Hackit, if she were to sec him ; especially now that her eyes must be grown very dim, with the wear of more than twenty addition- 4 74 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. al years. He is nearly six feet high, and has a proportionately broad chest ; he wears spectacles, and rubs his large white hands through a mass of shaggy brown hair. But I am sure you have no doubt that Mr. Richard Barton is a thoroughly good fellow, as well as a man of talent, and you will be glad any day to shake hands with him, for his own sake as well as his mother's. Patty alone remains by her father's side, and makes tha evening sunshine of his life. MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. CHAPTER L WHEN old Mr. Gilfil died, thirty years ago, there was gen* eral sorrow in Shepperton ; and if black cloth had not been hung round the pulpit and reading-desk, by order of his neph- ew and principal legatee, the parishioners would certainly have subscribed the necessary sum out of their own pockets, rather than allow such a tribute of respect to be wanting. All the farmers' wives brought out their black bombazines ; and Mrs. Jennings, at the Wharf, by appearing the first Sun- day after Mr. Gilfil's death in her salmon-colored ribbons and freen shawl, excited the severest remark. To be sure, Mrs. ennings was a new-comer, and town-bred, so that she could hardly be expected to have very clear notions of what was proper ; but, as Mrs. Higgins observed in an undertone to Mrs. Parrot when they were coming out of church, " Her hus- band, who'd been born i' the parish, might ha' told her better." An unreadiness to put on black on all available occasions, or too great an alacrity in putting it off, argued, in Mrs. Higgins'fc opinion, a dangerous levity of character, and an unnatural in-' sensibility to the essential fitness of things. " Some folks can't a-bear to put off their colors," she remark* ed ; " but that was never the way i' my family. Why, Mrs. Parrot, from the time I was married, till Mr. Higgins died, nine year ago come Candlemas, I niver was out o' black two years 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," re- flected with complacency that Mrs. Parrot's observation was no more than just, and that Mrs. Jennings very likely belong- ed to a family which had had no funerals 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 on her little coal-scuttle bonnet, was 76 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. seen dropping her courtesy opposite the reading-desk. This manifestation of respect towards Mr. Gilfil's memory on the part of Dame Fripp had no theological bearing whatever. It was due to an event which had occurred some years back, and which, I am sorry to say, had left that grimy old lady as in- different to the means of grace as ever. Dame Fripp kept leeches, and was understood to have such remarkable influence over those willful animals in inducing them to bite under the most unpromising circumstances, that though her own leech- es were usually rejected, from a suspicion that they had lost their appetite, she herself was constantly called in to apply the more lively individuals furnished from Mr. Pilgrim's sur- gery, when, as was very often the case, one of that clever man's paying patients was attacked with inflammation. Thus Dame Fripp, in addition to " property " supposed to yield her no less than half a crown a week, was in the receipt of profession- al fees, the gross amount of which was vaguely estimated by her neighbors as "pouns an' pouns." Moreover, she drove a brisk trade in lollipop with epicurean urchins, who recklessly purchased that luxury at the rate of two hundred per cent. Nevertheless, with all these notorious sources of income, the shameless old woman constantly pleaded poverty, and begged for scraps at Mrs. Hackit's, who, though she always said Mrs. Fripp was " as false as two folks," and no better than a miser and a heathen, had yet a leaning towards her as an old neigh- bor. " There's that case-hardened old Judy a coming after the tea-leaves again," 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 and spurs from doing duty at Knebley one warm Sunday afternoon, observed sitting in the dry ditch near her cottage, and by her side a large pig, who, with that ease and confidence belonging to perfect friendship, was lying with his head in her lap, and making no effort to play the agree- able beyond an occasional grunt. " Why, Mrs. Fripp," said the Vicar, " I didn't know you had such a fine pig. You'll have some rare flitches at Christ- mas!" " Eh, God forbid ! My son gev him me two 'ear ago, an' he's been company to me iver sin'. I couldn't find i' my heart to part wi'm, if I niver knowed the taste o' bacon-fat agin." " Why, he'll eat his head off, and yours too. How can you go on keeping a pig, and making nothing by him ?" . MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 77 " Oh, he picks a bit hisself wi' rootin', and I dooant mind doing wi'out to gi' him summat. A bit o' coompany's meat an' drink too, an' he follers me about, 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 to Dame Fripp without asking her why she had not been to church, or making the slightest effort for her spirit- ual edification. But the next day he ordered 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 the taste of bacon-fat again. So, when Mr. Giltil died, Dame Fripp manifested her gratitude and reverence in the simple dingy fashion I have mentioned. You already suspect that the Vicar did not shine in the more spiritual functions of his office; and indeed, the utmost I can say for him in this respect is, that he performed those functions with undeviating attention to brevity and dispatch. He had a large heap of short sermons, rather yellow and worn at the edges, from which he took two every Sunday, se- curing perfect impartiality in the selection by taking them as they came, without reference to topics ; and having preached one of these sermons at Shepperton in the morning, he mount- ed his horse and rode hastily with the other in his pocket to Knebley, where he officiated in a wonderful little church with a checkered pavement which had once rung to the iron tread of military monks, with coats of arms in clusters on the lofty roof, marble warriors and their wives without noses occupy- ing a large proportion of the area, and the twelve apostles with their heads very much on one side, holding didactic ribbons, painted in fresco on the walls. Here, in an absence of mind to which he was prone, Mr. Gilfil would sometimes forget to take off his spurs before putting on his surplice, and only become aware of the omission by feeling something mysteriously tugging at the skirts of that garment as he stepped into the reading-desk. But the Knebley farmers would as soon have thought of criticising the moon as their pastor. He belonged to the course of nature, like markets and toll-gates and dirty bank-notes ; and being a vicar, his claim on their veneration had never been counteracted by an exasperating claim on their pockets. Some of them, who did not indulge in the superfluity of a covered cart without springs, had dined half an hour earlier than usual that is to say, at twelve o'clock in order to have time for their long walkthrough miry lanes, and present themselves duly in their places at two o'clock, when Mr, Oldinport and Lady Felicia, to whom Knebley Church was a sort of family temple, made 78 SCENES OP CLEKICAL LIFE. their way among the bows and courtesies of their dependents to a carved and canopied pew in the chancel, diffusing as they went a delicate odor of Indian roses on the unsusceptible nos- trils of the congregation. The farmers' wives and children sat on the dark oaken benches, but the husbands usually chose the distinctive dig- nity of a stall under one of the twelve apostles, where, when the alternation of prayers and responses had given place to the agreeable monotony of the sermon, Paterfamilias might be seen or heard sinking into a pleasant doze, from which he infallibly woke up at the sound of the concluding doxology. And then they made their way back again through the miry lanes, perhaps almost as much the better for this simple weekly tribute to what they knew of good and right, as many a more wakeful and critical congregation of the present day. Mr. Gilfil, too, used to make his way home in the later years of his life, for he had given up the habit of dining at Knebley Abbey on a Sunday, having, I am sorry to say, had a very bitter quarrel with Mr. Oldinport, the cousin and predecessor of the Mr. Oldinport who flourished in the Rev. Amos Bar- ton's time. That quarrel was a sad pity, for the two had had many a good day's hunting together when they were younger, and in those friendly times not a few members of the hunt envied Mr. Oldinport the excellent terms he was on with his vicar ; for, as Sir Jasper Sitwell observed, " next to a man's wife, there's nobody can be such an infernal plague to you as a parson, always under your nose on your own es- tate." I fancy the original difference which led to the rapture was very slight ; but Mr. Gilfil was of an extremely caustic turn, his satire having a flavor of originality which was quite want- ing in his sermons ; and as Mr. Oldinport's armor of conscious virtue presented some considerable and conspicuous gaps, the Vicar's keen-edged retorts probably made a few incisions too deep to be forgiven. Such at least was the view of the case presented by Mr. Hackit, who knew as much of the matter as any third person. For, the very week after the quarrel, when presiding at the annual dinner of the Association for the Prosecution of Felons, held at the Oldinport Arms, he contributed an additional zest to the conviviality on that oc- casion by informing the company that " the parson had given the squire a lick with the rough side of his tongue." The de- tection of the person or persons who had driven off Mr. Par- rot's heifer, could hardly have been more welcome news to the Shepperton tenantry, with whom Mr. Oldinport was in the worst odor as a landlord, having kept up his rents in spito MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 79 of falling prices, and not being in the least stung to emulation by paragraphs in the provincial newspapers, stating that the Honorable Augustus Purwell, or Viscount Blethers, had made a return of ten per cent, on their last rent day. The fact was, Mr. Oldiuport had not the slightest intention of standing for Parliament, whereas he had the strongest intention of adding to his unentailed estate. Hence, to the Shepperton farmers it was as good as lemon with their grog to know that the vicar had thrown out sarcasms against the Squire's char- ities, as little better than those of the man who stole a goose, and gave away the giblets in alms. For Shepperton, you observe, was in a state of Attic culture compared with Kneb- ley ; it had turnpike roads and a public opinion, whereas, in the Boeotian Knebley, men's minds and wagons alike moved in the deepest of ruts, and the landlord was only grumbled at as a necessary and unalterable evil, like the weather, the weevils, and the turnip-fly. Thus in Shepperton this breach with Mr. Oldinport tended only to heighten that good understanding which the Vicar had always enjoyed with the rest of his parishioners, from the generation whose children he had christened a quarter of a century before, down to that hopeful generation represented by little Tommy Bond, who had recently quitted frocks and trowsers for the severe simplicity of a tight suit of corduroys, relieved by numerous brass buttons. Tommy was a saucy boy, impervious to all impressions of reverence, and excessive- ly addicted to humming-tops and marbles, with which recrea- tive resources he was in the habit of immoderately distend- ing the pockets of his corduroys. One day, spinning his top on the garden-walk, and seeing the Vicar advance directly to- wards it, 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 been an especial favorite with Mr. Gilfil, who delighted to provoke his ready scorn and wonder by putting questions which gave Tommy the mean- est opinion of his intellect. " Well, little Corduroys, have they milked the geese to- day ?" " 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 in natural history, he feigned to understand this question in an exclamatory rather than an interrogatory sense, and became absorbed in winding up his top. BO SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. " Ah, I see you don't know how the goslings live ! But did you notice how it rained sugar-plums yesterday ?" (Here Tommy became attentive.) " Why, they fell into my pocket as I rode along. You look in my pocket and see if they didn't." Tommy, without waiting to discuss the alleged antecedent} lost no time in ascertaining the presence of the agreeable con- sequent, for he had a well-founded belief in the advantages of diving into the Vicar's pocket. Mr. Gilfil called it his won- derful pocket, because, as he delighted to tell the " young shavers " and " two-shoes " so he 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 and fat as to her neck, always had the admirable directness and sincerity to salute him with the question " What zoo dot in zoo pottet ?" You can imagine, then, that the christening dinners were none the less merry for the presence of the parson. The farm- ers relished his society particularly, for he could not only smoke his pipe, and season the details of parish affairs with abundance of caustic jokes and proverbs, but, as Mr. Bond often said, no man knew more than the Vicar about the breed of cows and horses. He had grazing-land of his own about five miles off, which a bailiff, ostensibly a tenant, farmed under his direction ; and to ride backward and forward, and look after the buying and selling of stcck, was the old gentleman's chief relaxation, now his hunting-days were over. To hear him discussing the respective merits of the Devonshire breed and the short-horns, or the last foolish decision of the magis- trates about a pauper, a superficial observer might have seen little difference, beyond his superior shrewdness, between the Vicar and his bucolic parishioners ; for it was his habit to approximate his accent and mode of speech to theirs, doubt- less because he thought it a mere frustration of the purposes of language to talk of" shear-hogs " and " ewes " to men who habitually said " sharrags" and " yowes." Nevertheless the farmers themselves were perfectly aware of the distinction between them and the parson, and had not at all the less belief in him as a gentleman and a clergyman for his easy speech and familiar manners. Mrs. Parrot smoothed her apron and set her cap right with the utmost solicitude when she saw the Vicar coming, made him her deepest courtesy, and every Christmas had a fat turkey ready to send him with her " duty." And in the most gossiping colloquies with Mr. Gil- fil, you might have observed that both men and women MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. "81 "minded their^words^and never became indifferent, to his approbation; The same respect attended him in his strictly clerical func- tions. The benefits of baptism were supposed to be somehow bound up with Mr. GilfiTs personality, so metaphysical a dis- tinction as that between a man and his office being, as yet, quite foreign to the mind of a good Shepperton Churchman, savoring, he would have thought, of Dissent on the very face of it. Miss Selina Parrot put off her marriage a whole month when Mr. Gilfil had an attack of rheumatism, rather than be married in a makeshift 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 more satisfaction because it had been heard for the twentieth time ; for to minds on the Shepperton level it is repetition, not novelty, that produces the strongest effect, and phrases, like tunes, arc a long time making themselves at home in' the brain. Mr. Gilfil's sermons, as you may imagine, Avcrc not of a highly doctrinal, still less of a polemical, cast They per- haps did not search the conscience very powerfully ; for you remember that to Mrs. Patten, who had listened to them thir- ty years, the announcement that she was a sinner appeared an uncivil heresy ; but, on the other hand, they made no un- reasonable demand on the Shepperton intellect amounting, indeed, to little more than an expansion of the concise thesis, that those who do wrong will find it the worse for them, and those who do well will find it the better for them ; the nature of wrong-doing being exposed in special sermons against lying, backbiting, anger, slothfulness, and the like; and well- doing being interpreted as honesty, truthfulness, charity, in- dustry, and other common virtues, lying quite on the surface of life, and having very little to do with deep spiritual doc- trine. Mrs. Patten understood that if she turned out ill- rrushed cheeses, a just retribution awaited her; though, I fear, she made no particular application of the sermon on backbiting. Mrs. Hackit expressed herself greatly edified by the sermon on honesty, the allusion to the unjust weight and deceitful balance having a peculiar lucidity for her, owing to a recent dispute with her grocer ; but I am not aware that she ever appeared to be much struck by the sermon on anger. As to any suspicion that Mr. Gilfil did not dispense the pure Gospel, or any strictures on his doctrine and mode of delivery, such thoughts never visited the minds of the Shep. perton parishioner of those very parishioners who, ten or fifteen years later, showed themselves extremely critical of 4* 82 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. Mr. Barton's discourses and demeanor. But in the interim they had tasted that dangerous fruit of the tree of knowledge innovation, which is well known to open the eyes, even in an uncomfortable manner. At present to find fault with the sermon was regarded as almost equivalent to finding fault with religion itself. One Sunday, Mr. Hackit's nephew, Mas- ter Tom Stokes, a flippant town youth, greatly scandalized his excellent relatives by declaring that he could write as good a sermon as Mr. Gilfil's ; whereupon Mr. Hackit sought to reduce the presumptuous youth to utter confusion, by of- fering him a sovereign if he would fulfill his vaunt. The ser- mon was written, however ; and though it was not admitted to be anywhere within reach of Mr. Gilfil's, it was yet so as- tonishingly like a sermon, having a text, three divisions, and a concluding exhortation beginning " And now, my breth- ren," that the sovereign, though denied formally, was be- stowed informally, and the sermon was pronounced, when Master Stokes's back was turned, to be " an uncommon cliv- er thing." The Rev. Mr. Pickard, indeed, of the Independent Meeting, had stated, in a sermon preached at Rotherby, for the reduc- tion of a debt on New Zion, built, with an exuberance of faith and a deficiency of funds, by seceders from the original Zion, that he lived in a parish where the vicar was very " dark ;" and in the prayers he addressed to his own congregation, he was in the habit of comprehensively alluding to the parish- ioners outside the chapel walls, as those who, Gallio-like, " cared for none of these things." But I need hardly say that no church-goer ever came within earshot of Mr. Pickard. It was not to the Shepperton farmers only that Mr. Gilfil's society was acceptable ; he w as a welcome guest at some of the best houses in that part of the country. Old Sir Jasper Sitwell would have been glad to see him every week; and if you had seen him conducting Lady Sitwell in to dinner, or had heard him talking to her with quaint yet graceful gal- lantry, you would have inferred that the earlier period of his life had been past in more stately society than could be found in Shepperton, and that his slipshod chat and homely man- ners were but like weather-stains on a fine old block of mar- ble, allowing you still to see here and there the fineness of the grain, and the delicacy of the original tint. But in his later years these visits became a little too troublesome to the old gentleman, and he was rarely to be found anywhere of an evening beyond the bounds of his own parish most frequently, indeed, by the side of his own sitting-room fire, smoking his pipe, and maintaining the pleasing antithesis of MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 83 dryuess and moisture by an occasional sip of gin-and-wa- ter. Here I am aware that I have run the risk of alienating all ray refined lady-readers, and utterly annihilating any curios- ity they may have felt to know the details of Mr. Giltil's love- story. " Gin-and-water ! foh ! you may as well ask us to in- terest ourselves in the romance of a tallow-chandler, who min- gles the image of his beloved with short dips and moulds." But in the first place, dear ladies, allow me to plead that gin-and-water, like obesity, or baldness, or the gout, does not exclude a vast amount of antecedent romance, any more than the neatly-executed " fronts " which you may some day wear, will exclude your present possession of less expensive braids. Alas, alas ! we poor mortals are often little better than wood-ashes there is small sign of the sap, and the leafy freshness, and the bursting buds that were once there ; but wherever we see wood-ashes, we know that all that early fullness of life must have been. I, at least, hardly ever look at a bent old man, or a wizened old woman, but I see also, with my mind's eye, that Past of which they are the shrunk- en remnant, and the unfinished romance of rosy cheeks and bright eyes seems sometimes of feeble interest and significance, compared with that drama of hope and love which has long ago reached its catastrophe, and left the poor soul, like a dim and dusty stage, with all its sweet garden-scenes and fair perspectives overturned and thrust out of sight. In the second place, let me assure you that Mr. Gilfil's po- tations of gin-and-water were quite moderate. His nose was not rubicund ; on the contrary, his white hair hung around a pale and venerable face. He drank it chiefly, I believe, be- cause it was cheap : and here I find myself alighting on an- other of the Vicar's weaknesses, which, if I had cared to paint a flattering portrait rather than a faithful one, I might have chosen 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 of his personal habits, chan in withholding help from the needy. lie was saving 10 he represented the matter to himself for a nephew, the only son of a sister who had been the dearest object, all but one, in his life. " The lad," he thought, " will have a nice little fortune to begin life with, and will bring his pretty young wife some day to see the spot where his old uncle lies. It will perhaps be all the better for his hearth that mine was lonely." Mr. Gilfil was a bachelor, then ? fc4 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. That is the conclusion to which you would probably have come if you had entered his sitting-room, where the bare tables, the large old-fashioned horse-hair chairs, and the threadbare Turkey carpet, perpetually fumigated with tobac- co, seemed to tell a story of wifeless existence that was con- tradicted by no portrait, no piece of embroidery, no faded bit of pretty triviality, hinting of taper-fingers and small femi- nine ambitions. And it was here that Mr. Gilfil passed his evenings, seldom with other society than that of Ponto, his old brown setter, who, stretched out at full length on the rug with his nose between his fore paws, would wrinkle his brows and lift up his eyelids every now and then, to exchange a glance of mutual understanding with his master. But there was a chamber in Shepperton Vicarage which told a differ- ent story from that bare and cheerless dining-room a cham- ber never entered by any one besides Mr. Gilfil and old Mar- tha the housekeeper, who, with David her husband as groom and gardener, formed the Vicar's entire establishment. The blinds of this chamber were always down, except once a quarter, when Martha entered that she might air and clean it. She always asked Mr. Gilfil for the key, which he kept locked up in his bureau, and returned it to him when she had finished her task. It was a touching sight that the daylight streamed in upon, as Martha drew aside the blinds and thick curtains, and opened the Gothic casement of the oriole window! On the little dressing-table there was a dainty looking-glass in a carved and gilt frame ; bits of wax-candle were still in the branched sockets at the sides, and on one of these branches hung a little black lace kerchief; a faded satin pin-cushion, with the pins rusted 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 an unfinished baby-cap, yellow with age, lying in it. Two gowns, of a fashion long forgotten, were hanging on nails against the door, and a pair of tiny red slippers, with a bit of tarnished silver embroidery on them, were standing at the foot of the bed. Two or three water-color drawings, views of Naples, hung upon the walls ; and over the mantel-piece, above some bits of rare old china, two miniatures in oval frames. One of these miniatures rep- resented a young man about seven-and-twenty, with a san- guine complexion, full lips, and clear, candid gray eyes. The other was the likeness of a girl probably not more than eight- een, with small features, thin cheeks, a pale, southern-looking complexion, and large dark eyes. The gentleman wore pow- der; the lady had her dark h^ir gathered away fron> her MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 85 face, and a little cap, with a cherry-colored bow, set on the top of her head a coquettish head-dress, but the eyes spoke of sadness rather than of coquetry. Such were the things that Martha had dusted and let the air upon four times a-year, ever since she was a blooming lass of twenty ; and she was now, in this last decade of Mr. GilhTs life, unquestionably on the wrong side of fifty. Such was the locked-up chamber in Mr. GilhTs house : a sort of visible $ symbol of the secret chamber in his heart, where he had long turned the key on early hopes and early sorrows, shutting up for ever all the passion and the poetry of his life. There were not many people in the parish, besides Martha, who had any very distinct remembrance of Mr. Gilfil's wife, or indeed who knew any thing of her, beyond the fact that there was a marble tablet, with a Latin inscription in mem- ory of her, over the vicarage pew. The parishioners who were old enough to remember her arrival were not generally gifted with descriptive powers, and the utmost you could gather from them was, that Mrs. Gilfil looked like a " furrin- er, wi' such eyes, you can't think, an' a voice as went through you when she sung at church." The one exception was Mrs. Fatten, whose strong memory and taste for personal narra- tive made her a great source of oral tradition in Shepperton. Mr, Hackit, who had not come into the parish until ten years after Mrs. Gilfil's death, would often put old questions to Mrs. Patten for the sake of getting the old answers, which pleased him in the same way as passages from a favorite book, or the scenes of a familiar play, please more accom- plished 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 at the beginnin' o' hay harvest. Mr. Tarbett preached that day, and Sir. Gilfil sat i' the pew with his wife. I think I see him now, a-leading her up the aisle, an' her head not reachin' much above his elber : a little pale woman, with eyes as black as sloes, an' yet lookin' blank-like, as if she see'd nothing with 'em." " I warrant she had her weddin' clothes on ?" said Mr. Hackit. " Nothin' partickler 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 those times. He was fine an' altered before you come into the parish. He'd a fresh color then, an' a bright look wi' his eyes, as did your heart good to see. He looked rare and happy that Sunday ; but 86 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. somehow, I'd a feelin' as it wouldn't last long. I've no opin- ion o' furriners, Mr. Hackit, for I've travelled i' their country with my lady in my time, an' seen enough o' their victuals an' their nasty ways." "Mrs. Gilfil come from It'ly, didn't she?" " I reckon she did, but I uiver could rightly hear about that. Mr. Giltil was niver to be spoke to about her, and no- body else hereabout knowed any thin'. Howiver, she must ha' come over pretty young, for she spoke English as well as you an' me. It's them Italians as has such fine voices, an' Mrs. Gilfil sung, you never beared the like. He brought her here to have tea with me one afternoon, and says he, in his jovial way, ' Now, Mrs. Patten, I want Mrs. Giltil to see the neatest house, and drink the best cup o' tea, in all Shepper- ton ; you must show her your dairy and your 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 beared her again, I reckon ?" " No ; she was sickly then, and she died in a few months after. She wasn't in the parish much more nor half a year altogether She didn't seem lively 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 never see'd a man so wrapt up in a woman. He looked at her as if he was wor- shippin' her, an' as if he wanted to lift her off the ground ivery minute to save her the trouble o' walkin'. Poor man, poor man ! It had like to ha' killed him when she died, though he niver gev way, but went on ridin' about and preachin'. But he was wore to a shadow, an' his eyes used to look as dead you wouldn't ha' knowed 'em." " She brought him no fortin ?" "Not she. All Mr. GilfiPs property come by his mother's side. There was blood an' money too, there. It's a thousand pities as he married i' that way a fine man like him, as might ha' had the pick o' the county, an' had his grandchil- dren about him now. An' him so fond o' children, too." In this manner Mrs. Patten usually wound up her reminis- cences of the Vicar's wife, of whom, you perceive, she knew but little. It was clear that the communicative old lady had nothing to tell of Mrs. Gilfil's history previous to her ar- rival in Shepperton, and that she was unacquainted with Mr. Gilfil's love-story. But I, dear reader, am quite as communicative as Mrs. Patten, and much better informed ; so that, if you care to know more about the Vicar's courtship and marriage, you MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 87 need only carry your imagination back to the latter end of the last century, and your attention forward into the next chapter. CHAPTER II. IT is the evening of the 21st of June, 1788. The day has been bright and sultry, 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 the park, no longer prevent two ladies from carrying out their cushions and embroidery, and seating themselves to work on the lawn in front of Cheverel Manor. The soft turf gives way even under the fairy tread of the younger lady, whose small stature and slim figure rest on the tiniest of full-grown feet. She trips along before the elder, carrying the cushions, which she places in the favorite spot, just on the slope by a clump of laurels, where they can see the sunbeams sparkling among the water-lilies, and can be themselves seen from the dining- room windows. She has deposited the cushions, and now turns round, so that you may have a full view of her as she stands waiting the slower advance of the elder lady. You are at once arrested by her large dark eyes, which, in their inex- pressive, unconscious beauty, resemble the eyes of a fawn, and it is only by an effort of attention that you notice the absence of bloom on her young cheek, and the southern yel- lowish tint of her small neck and face, rising above the little black lace kerchief which pi-events the too immediate com- parison of her skin with her white muslin gown. Her large eyes seem all the more striking because the dark hair is gathered away from her face, under a little cap set at the top of her head, with a cherry-colored bow on one side. The elder lady, who is advancing towards the cushions, is cast in a very different mould of womanhood. She is tall, and looks the taller because her powdered hair is turned backward over a toupee, and surmounted by lace and ribbons. She is nearly fifty, but her complexion is still fresh and beau- tiful, with the beauty of an auburn blonde; her proud pout- ing lips, and her head thrown a little backward as she walks, give an expression of hauteur which is not contradicted by the cold gray eye. The tucked-in kerchief, rising full over the low tight boddice of her blue dress, sets off the majestic form of her bust, and she treads the lawn as if she were one of Sir Joshua Reynolds's stately ladies, who had suddenly stepped from her frame to enjoy the evening cool. ' Just on the slope by a clump of laurels, where they can see the sunbeam..* sparkling among the water-lilies." PAGE 87. MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 89 " Put the cushions lower, Caterina, that we may not have so much sun upon us," 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 and white and blue on the green background of the laurels and the lawn, which would look none the less pretty in a picture because one of the women's hearts was T cather cold and the other rather sad. And a charming picture Cheverel Manor would have made that evening, if some English Watteau had been there to paint it: the castellated house of gray-tinted stone, with the flickering sunbeams sending dashes of golden light across the many-shaped panes in the mullioned windows, and a great beech leaning athwart one of the flanking towers, and break- ing, with its dark flattened boughs, the too formal symmetry of the front ; the broad gravel-walk winding on the right, by a row of tall pines, alongside the pool on the left branching out among swelling grassy mounds, surmounted by clumps of trees, where the red trunk of the Scotch fir glows in the descending sunlight against the bright green of limes and acacias ; the great pool, where a pair of swans are swimming lazily with one leg tucked under a wing, and where the open water-lilies lie calmly accepting the kisses of the fluttering light-sparkles; the lawn, with its smooth emerald greenness, sloping down to the rougher and browner herbage of the park, from which it is invisibly fenced by a little stream that winds away from the pool, and disappears under a wooden bridge in the distant pleasure-ground ; and on this lawn our two ladies, whose part in the landscape the painter, standing at a favorable point of view in the park, 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 more definiteness of outline, and were dis- tinctly visible to the three gentlemen sipping their claret there, as two fair women in whom all three had a personal interest. These gentlemen were a group worth considering attentively ; but any one entering that dining-room for the first time, would perhaps have had his attention even more strongly arrested by the room itself, which was so bare of furniture that it impressed one with its architectural beauty like a cathedral. A piece of matting stretched from door to door, a bit of worn carpet under the dining-table, and a side- board in a deep recess, did not detain the eye for a moment from the lofty groined ceiling, with its richly-carved pendants, all of creamy white, relieved here and there by touches of 90 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. gold. On one side, this lofty ceiling was supported by pil- lars and arches, beyond which a lower ceiling, a miniature copy of the higher one, covered the square projection which, with its three large pointed windows, formed the central fea- ture of the building. The room looked less like a place to dine in than a piece of space enclosed simply for the sake of beautiful outline ; and the small dining-table, with the party round it, seemed an odd and insignificant accident, rather than any thing connected with the original purpose of the apartment. But, examined closely, that group was far from insignifi- cant ; for the eldest, who was reading in the newspaper the last portentous proceedings of the French parliaments, and turning with occasional comments to his young companions, was as fine a specimen of the old English gentleman as could well have been found in those venei*able days of cocked-hats and pigtails. His dark eyes sparkled under projecting brows, made more prominent by bushy grizzled eyebrows ; but any apprehension of severity excited by these penetrating eyes, and by a somewhat aquiline nose, was allayed by the good- natured lines about the mouth, which retained all its teeth and its vigor of expression in spite of sixty winters. The forehead sloped a little from the projecting brows, and its peaked outline was made conspicuous by the arrangement of the profusely-powdered hair, drawn backward and gathered into a pigtail. He sat in a small hard chair, which did not admit the slightest approach to a lounge, and which showed to advantage the flatness of his back and the breadth of his chest. In fact, Sir Christopher Cheverel was a splendid old gentleman, as any one may see who enters the saloon at Chev- erel Manor, where his full-length portrait, taken when he was fifty, hangs side by side with that of his wife, the stately lady seated on the lawn. Looking at Sir Christopher, you would at once have been inclined to hope that he had a full-grown son and heir ; but perhaps you would have wished that it might not prove to be the young man on his right hand, in whom a certain re- semblance to the Baronet, in the contour of the nose and brow, seemed to indicate a family relationship. If this young man had been less elegant in his person, he would have been re- marked for the elegance of his dress. But the perfections of his slim, well-proportioned figure were so striking that no one but a tailor could notice the perfections of his velvet coat ; and his small white hands, with their blue veins and taper fingers, quite eclipsed the beauty of his lace ruffles. The face, however it was difficult to say why was certainly not MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 91 pleasing. Nothing could be more delicate than the blond complexion its bloom set off by the powdered hair than the veined over hanging eyelids, which gave an indolent ex- pression to the hazel eyes ; nothing more finely cut than the transparent nostril and the short upper-lip. Perhaps the chin and lower jaw were too small for an irreproachable profile, but the defect was on the side of that delicacy and finesse which was the distinctive characteristic of the whole person, and which was carried out in the clear brown arch of the eye- brows, and the marble smoothness of the sloping forehead. Impossible to say that this face was not eminently handsome ; yet, for the majority both of men and women, it was destitute of charm. Women disliked eyes that seemed to be indolent- ly accepting admiration instead of rendering it ; and men, es- pecially if they had a tendency to clumsiness in the nose and ankles, were inclined to think this Antinous in a pigtail a " confounded puppy." I fancy that was frequently the in- ward interjection of the Rev. Maynard Gilfil, who was seated on the opposite side of the dining-table, though Mr. GilfiPs legs and profile were not at all of a kind to make him peculiarly alive to the impertinence and frivolity of personal advantages. His healthy, open face and robust limbs were after an excel- lent pattern for everyday wear, and, in the opinion of Mr. Bates, the north-country gardener, would have become regi- mentals " a fain saight " better than the " peaky " features and slight form of Captain Wybrow, notwithstanding that this young gentleman, as Sir Christopher's nephew and destined heir, had the strongest hereditary claim on the gardener's respect, and was undeniably " clean-limbed." But alas ! hu- man longings are perversely obstinate ; and to the man whose mouth is watering for a peach, it is of no use to offer the largest vegetable marrow. Mr. Gilfil was not sensitive to Mr. Bates's opinion, whereas he was sensitive to the opinion of another person, who by no means shared Mr. Bates's pref- erence. Who the other person was it would not have required a very keen observer to guess, from a certain eagerness in Mr. GilfiTs glance as that little figure in white tripped along the lawn with the cushions. Captain Wybrow, too, was looking in the same direction, but his handsome face remained hand- some 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 monkey Tina shall give us a song." The coffee presently appeared, brought not as usual by the footman, in scarlet and drab, but by the old butler, in 92 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. threadbare but well-brushed black, who, as he was placing it on the table said " If you please, Sir Christopher, there's the widow Hartopp a-crying i' the still room, and begs leave to see your honor." " I have given Markham full orders about the widow Har- topp," said Sir Christopher, in a sharp decided tone. " I have nothing to say to her." " Your honor," pleaded the butler, rubbing his hands, and putting on an additional coating of humility, " the poor wom- an's dreadful overcome, and says she can't sleep a wink this blessed night without seeing your honor, and she begs you to pardon the great freedom she's took to come at this time. She cries fit to break her heart." " Ay, ay ; water pays no tax. Well, show her into the library." Coffee dispatched, the two young men walked out through the open window, and joined the ladies on the lawn, while Sir Christopher made his way to the library, solemnly followed by Rupert, his pet bloodhound, who, in his habitual place at the Baronet's right hand, behaved with great urbanity during dinner ; but when the cloth was drawn, invariably disappear- ed under the table, apparently regarding the claret-jug as ;i mere human weakness, which he winked at but refused to sanction. The library lay but three steps from the dining-room, on the other side of a cloistered and matted passage. The oriel window was overshadowed by the great beech, and this, with the flat, heavily-carved ceiling and the dark hue of the old books that lined the walls, made the room look sombre, es- pecially on entering it from the dining-room, with its aerial curves and cream-colored fretwork touched with gold. As Sir Christopher opened the door, a jet of brighter light fell on a woman in a widow's dress, w r ho stood in the middle of the room, and made the deepest of courtesies as he entered. She was a buxom woman approaching forty, her eyes red with the tears which had evidently been absorbed by the handker- chief gathered into a damp ball in her right hand. " Now, Mrs. Hartopp," said Sir Christopher, taking out his gold snuff-box and tapping the lid, "what have you to say to me ? Markham has delivered you a notice to quit, I sup- pose ?" " Oh yis, your honor, an' that's the reason why I've come. I hope your honor'll think better on it, an' not turn me an' my poor children out o' the farm, where my husband al'ys paid his rent as reglar as the day come." " Nonsense ! I should like to know what good it will do ME. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 93 you and your children to stay on a farm and lose every far- thing your husband has left you, instead of selling your stock and going into s:>me little place where you can keep your money together. It is very well known to every tenant of mine that I never allow widows to stay on their husbands' farms." " Oh, 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 out to 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 for day-laborers, an' their father a man wi' as good belongings as any on your honor's estate, an' niver threshed his wheat afore it was well i' the rick, nor sold the straw oft' his farm, nor nothin'. Ask all the farmers round if there was a stiddier, soberer man than my husband as attended Ripstone market. An' he says, 4 Bessie,' says he them was his last 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 having interrupted her pleadings, " now listen to me, and try to understand a little common-sense. You are about as able to manage the farm as your best milch cow. You'll be ob- liged to have some managing man, who will either cheat you out of your money or wheedle you into marrying him." ""Oh, your honor, I was never that sort o' woman, an' no- body has known it on me." " Very likely not, because you were never a wido\v before. A woman's always silly enough, but she's never quite as great a fool as she can be until she puts on a widow's cap. Now, just ask yourself how much the better you will be for stay- ing on your farm at the end of four years, when you've got through your money, and let your farm run down, and are in arrears for half your rent ; or, perhaps, have got some great hulky fellow for a husband, 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-aunt managed a farm for twenty year, an' left legacies to all her nephys an' nieces, an' even to my hus- band, as was then a babe unborn." " Psha ! a woman six feet high, with a squint and sharp el' bows, I dare say a man in petticoats. Not a rosy-cheeked widow like you, Mrs. Hartopp." " Indeed, your honor, I never heard of her squintin', an' they said as she might ha' been married o'er and o'er again, to peo* pie as had no call to hanker after her money." 94 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. " Ay, ay, that's what you all think. Every man that looks at you wants to marry you, and would like you the better the more children you have and the less money. But it is useless to talk and cry. I have good reasons for my plans, and never alter them. What you have to do is to make the best of your stock, and to look out for some little place to go to, when you leave the Hollows. Now, go back to Mrs. Bellamy's room, and ask her to give you a dish of tea." Mrs. Hartopp, understanding from Sir Christopher's tone 'that he was not to be shaken, courtesied low and left the li- brary, while the Baronet, seating himself at his desk in the oriel window, wrote the following letter : " MB. MARKHAM, Take no steps about letting Crowsfoot Cottage, as I intend to put in the widow Hartopp when she leaves her farm ; and if you will be here at eleven on Saturday morning, I will ride round with you, and settle about making some repairs, and see about adding a bit of laud to the take, as she will want to keep a cow and some pigs. " Yours faithfully, CHRISTOPHER CHEVEREL." After ringing the bell and ordering this letter to be Bent, Sir Christopher walked out to join the party on the lawn. But finding the cushions 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 the saloon, opening on to the gravel-sweep, and looking towards a long vista of undulating turf, bordered by tall trees, which, seeming to unite itself with the green of the meadows and a grassy road through a plantation, only terminated with the Gothic arch of a gateway in the far distance. The bow window was open, and Sir Chris- topher, stepping in, found the group he sought, examining the progress of the unfinished ceiling. It was in the same style of florid pointed Gothic as the dining-room, but more elabo- rate in its tracery, which was like petrified lace-work picked out with delicate and varied coloring. About a fourth of it still remained uncolored, 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 human figures standing in the centre. " Francesco has been getting on a little better the last day or two," said Sir Christopher, as he joined the party : " he's a sad lazy dog, and I fancy he has a knack of sleeping as he stands, with his brushes in his hands. But I must spur him on, or we may not have the scaffolding cleared away before the bride comes, if you show dexterous generalship ME. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 95 in your wooing, eh, Anthony ? and take your Magdeburg quickly." " Ah, sir, a siege is known to be one of the most tedious operations in war," said Captain Wybrow, with an easy smile. " Not when there's a traitor within the walls in the shape of a soft heart. And that there will be, if Beatrice has her mother's tenderness as well as her mother's beauty." " What do you think, Sir Christopher," said Lady Cheverel, who seemed to wince a little under her husband's reminis- cences, " of hanging Guercino'g ' Sibyl ' over that door when we put up the pictures ? It is rather lost in my sitting-room." " Very good, my love," answered Sir Christopher, in a tone of punctiliously polite affection ; " if you like to part with the ornament from your own room, it will show admirably here. Our portraits, by Sir Joshua, will hang opposite the window, and the ' Transfiguration ' at that end. You see, Anthony, I am leaving no good places on the walls for you and your wife. We 'shall turn you with your faces to the wall in the gallery, and you may take your revenge on us by-and-by." While this conversation was going on, Mr. Gilfil turned to Caterina and said, " I like the view from this window better than any other in the house." She made no answer, and he saw that her eyes were filling with tears ; so he added, " Suppose we walk out a little ; Sir Christopher and my lady seem to be occupied." Caterina complied silently, and they turned down one of the gravel walks that led, after many windings under tall trees a.nd among grassy openings, to a large enclosed flower-garden. Their walk was perfectly silent, for Maynard Gilfil knew that Caterina's thoughts were not with him, and she had been long used to make him endure the weight of those moods which she carefully hid from others. They reached the flower-garden, and turned mechanically in at the gate that opened, through a high thick hedge, on an expanse of brilliant color, which, after the green shades they had passed through, startled the eye like flames. The effect was assisted by an undulation of the ground, which gradually descended from the entrance-gate, and then rose again towards the opposite end, crowned by an orangery. The flowers were glowing with their evening splendors ; ver- benas and heliotropes were sending up their finest incense. It seemed a gala where all was happiness and brilliancy, and misery could find no sympathy. This was the effect it had on Caterina. As she wound among the beds of gold and blue and pink, where the flowers seemed to be looking at her 96 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. with wondering elf-like eyes, knowing nothing of sorrow, the feeling of isolation in her wretchedness overcame her, and the tears, which had been before trickling slowly down her pale cheeks, now gushed forth accompanied with sobs. And yet there was a loving human being close beside her, whose heart was aching for hers, who was possessed by the feeling 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 different from hers, that he rather regretted the folly of her hopes than the probability of their disappoint- ment, to take any comfort in his sympathy. Caterina, like the rest of us, turned away from sympathy which she sus- pected to be mingled with criticism, as the child turns away from the sweetmeat in which it suspects imperceptible med- icine. " Dear Caterina, I think I hear voices," said Mr. Gilfil ; " they may be coming this way." She checked herself like one accustomed to conceal her emotions, and ran rapidly to the other end of the garden, where she seemed occupied in selecting a rose. Presently Lady Cheverel entered, leaning on the ann of Captain Wy- brow, and followed by Sir Christopher. The party stopped to admire the tiers of geraniums near the gate ; and in the mean time Caterina tripped back with a moss rose-bud in her hand, and, going up to Sir Christopher, said, " There, Padron- cello there is a nice rose for your button-hole." " Ah, you black-eyed monkey," he said, fondly stroking her cheek ; " so you have been running off with Maynard, either to torment or coax him an inch or two deeper into love. Come, come, I want you to sing us ' Ho perduto ' before we sit down to picquet. Anthony goes to-morrow, you know; you must warble him into the right sentimental lover's mood, that he may acquit himself well at Bath." He put her little arm under his, and calling to Lady Cheverel, " Come, Henri- etta !" 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 flat ceiling heavy with carving and blazonry ; but the window being unshaded, and the walls hung with full- length portraits of knights and dames in scarlet, white, and gold, it had not the sombre effect of the library. Here hung the portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel, who in the reign of Charles IL was the renovator of the family splendor, which had suffered some declension from the early brilliancy of that Chevreuil, who came over with the Conqueror. A very im- posing personage was this Sir Anthony, standing with ony MK. GILFIL'S LOVE-STOBY. 97 ami akimbo, and one fine leg and foot advanced, evidently with a view to the gratification of his contemporaries and posterity. You might have taken off his splendid peruke, and his scarlet cloak, which was thrown backward from his shoulders, without annihilating the dignity of his appear- ance. And he had known how to choose a wife, too, for his lady, hanging opposite to him, with her sunny brown hair drawn away in bands from her mild grave face, and falling in two large rich curls on hqr snowy gently-sloping neck, which shamed the harsher hue and 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 the great clock in the court-yard with deliberate bass tones struck nine, Sir Christopher 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 the harpsichord and sing Sir Christopher's favorite airs, by Gluck and Paesiello, whose operas, for the happiness of that generation, were then to be heard on the London stage. It happened this evening that the sentiment of these airs, " Che faro senza Earydice . ? " and "Ho perduto il bel sembi- ante" in both of which the singer pours out his yearning af- ter his lost love, came very close to Caterina's own feeling. But. her emotion, instead of being a hindrance to her singing, gave her additional power. Her singing was what she could do best ; it was her one point of superiority, in which it was probable she would excel the high-born beauty whom An- thony was to woo ; and her love, her jealousy, her pride, her rebellion against her destiny, made one stream of passion which welled forth in the deep rich tones of her voice. She had a rare contralto, which Lady Cheverel, who had high musical taste, had been careful to preserve her from strain- ing. " Excellent, Caterina," said Lady Cheverel, as there was a pause after the wonderful linked sweetness of "Che faro" " I never heard you sing that so well. Once more !" It was repeated ; and then came "Ho perduto" which Sir Christopher encored, in spite of the clock, just striking nine. When the last note was dying out, he said " There's a clever black-eyed monkey. Now bring out the table for picquet." Caterina drew out the table and placed the cards ; then, with her rapid fairy suddenness of motion, threw herself on her knees, and clasped Sir Christopher's knee. He bent down, stroked her cheek, and smiled. 98 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. " Caterina, that is foolish," said Lady ChevereL " I wish you would leave off those stage-players' antics." She jumped up, arranged the music on the harpsichord, and then, seeing the Baronet and his lady seated at picquet, quietly glided out of the room. 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 the door, opened " Fanblas ;" and there was perfect silence in the room which, ten minutes before, was vibrating to the pas- sionate tones of Caterina. She had made her way along the cloistered passages, now lighted here and there by a small oil-lamp, to the grand stair- case, which led directly to a gallery running along the whole eastern side of the building, where it was her habit to walk when she wished to be alone. The bright moonlight was streaming through the windows, throwing into strange light and shadow the heterogeneous objects that lined the long walls : Greek statues and busts of Roman emperora ; low cabinets filled with curiosities, natural and antiquarian ; tropi- cal birds and huge horns of beasts ; Hindoo gods and strange shells ; swords and daggers, and bits of chain-armor ; Roman lamps and tiny models of Greek temples ; and, above all these, queer old family portraits of little boys and girls, once the hope of the Cheverels with close-shaven heads imprisoned in stiff ruffs of faded, pink-faced ladies, with rudimentary fea- tures and highly-developed head-dresses of gallant gentle- men, with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointed beards. Here, on rainy days, Sir Christopher and his lady took their promenade, and here billiards were played ; but, in the evening, it was forsaken by all except Caterina and, some- times, one other person. She paced up and down in the moonlight, her pale face and thin white-robed form making her look like the ghost of some former Lady Cheverel come to revisit the glimpses of the moon. By-and-by she paused opposite the broad window above the portico, and looked out on the long vista of turf and trees now stretching chill and saddened in the moonlight. Suddenly a breath of warmth and roses seemed to float towards her, and an arm stole gently round her waist, while a soft hand took .up her tiny fingers. Caterina felt an elec* trie thrill, and was motionless for one long moment ; then she pushed away the arm and hand, and, turning round, lift- MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORT. 99 ed up to the face that hung over her eyes full of tenderness and reproach. The fawn-like unconsciousness was gone, and in that one look were the ground tones of poor little Cateri- na's nature intense love and fierce jealousy. " Why do you push me away, Tina ?" said Captain Wy- brow in a half-whisper ; " are you angry with me for what a hard fate puts upon me ? Would you have me cross my un- cle 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 be sacrificed." " Yes, yes," said Caterina, stamping her foot, and turning away her head ; " don't tell what 1 know already." There was a voice speaking in Caterina's mind to which she had never yet given vent. That voice said continually, "Why did he make me love him why did he let me know he loved me, if he knew all the while that he couldn't brave every thing for my sake ?" Then love answered, " He was led on by the feeling of the moment, as you have been, Cate- rina ; and now you ought to help him to do what is right." Then the voice rejoined, " It was a slight matter to him. He doesn't much mind giving you up. He will soon love 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 gen- tler tones, " I shall not succeed. Miss Assher very likely pre- fers some one else ; and you know I have the best will in the world to fail. I shall come back a hapless bachelor perhaps to find you already married to the good-looking chaplain, who is over head and ears in love with you. Poor Sir Chris- topher has made up his mind that you're to have Gilfil." " Why will you speak so ? You speak from your own wan* of feeling. Go away from me." " Don't let us part in anger, Tina. All this may pas> away. It's as likely as not that I may never marry any one at all. These palpitations may carry me off, and you may have the satisfaction of knowing that I shall never be any body's bridegroom. Who knows what may happen ? I may be my own master before I get into the bonds of holy matri- mony, and be able to choose my little singing-bird. Why should we distress ourselves before the time ?" " It is easy to talk so when you are not feeling," said Cat' erina, the tears flowing fast. "It is bad to-bear now, what- ever may come after. But you don't care about my misery." " Don't I, Tina ?" said Anthony in his tenderest tones, again 100 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. stealing his arm around her waist, and drawing her towards him. Poor Tina was the slave of this voice and touch. Grief and resentment, retrospect and foreboding, vanished all life before and after melted away in the bliss of that mo- ment, as Anthony pressed his lips to hers. Captain Wybrow thought, " Poor little Tina ! it would make her very happy to have me. But she is a mad little thing." At that moment a loud bell startled Caterina from her trance of bliss. It was the summons to prayers in the chap- el, and she hastened away, leaving Captain Wybrow to fol- low slowly. It was a pretty sight, that family assembled to worship in the little chapel, where a couple of wax candles threw a mild faint light on the figures kneeling there. In the desk was Mr. Gilfil, with his face a shade graver than usual. On his right hand, kneeling on their red velvet cushions, were the master and mistress of the household, in their elderly digni- fied beauty. On his left, the youthful grace of Anthony and Caterina, in all the striking contrast of their coloring he, with his exquisite outline and rounded fairness, like an Olym- pian god ; she, dark and tiny, like a gypsy changeling. Then there were the domestics kneeling on red-covered forms, the women headed by Mrs. Bellamy, the natty little old house- keeper, in snowy cap and apron, and Mrs. Sharp, my lady's maid, of somewhat vinegar aspect and flaunting attire ; the men by Mr. Bellamy the butler, and Mr. Warren, Sir Christo- pher's venerable valet. A few collects from the Evening Service was what Mr. Gilfil habitually read, ending with the simple petition, " Light- en our darkness." And then they all rose, the servants turning to courtesy and bow as they went out. The family returned to' the drawing-room, said good-night to each other, and dispersed all to speedy slumber except two. Caterina only cried herself to sleep after the clock had struck twelve. Mr. Gilfil lay awake still longer, thinking that very likely Caterina was crying. Captain Wybrow, having dismissed his valet at eleven, was soon in a soft slumber, his face looking like a fine cameo in high relief on the slightly indented pillow. MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STOEY. 101 CHAPTER HI. THE last chapter has given the discerning reader sufficient ' insight into the state of things at Cheverel Manor in the sum- mer of 1788. In that summer, we know, the great nation of France was agitated by conflicting thoughts and passions, which were but the beginning of sorrows. And in our Cat- erina's little breast, too, there were terrible struggles. The poor bird was beginning to flutter and vainly dash its soft breast against the hard iron bars of the inevitable, and we see too plainly the danger, if that anguish should go on heightening instead of being allayed, that the palpitating heart may be fatally bruised. Meanwhile, if, as I hope, you feel some interest in Caterina and her friends at Cheverel Manor, you are perhaps asking, How came she to be there ? How was it that this tiny, dark- eyed child of the south, whose face was immediately suggest- ive of olive-covered hills and taper-lit shrines, came to have her home in that stately English manor-house, by the side of the blonde matron, Lady Chevei'el almost as if a hum- ming-bird were found perched on one of the elm-trees in the park, by the side of her ladyship's handsomest pouter-pigeon? Speaking good English, too, and joining in Protestant prayers ! Surely she must have been adopted and brought over to Eng- land at a very early age. She was. During Sir Christopher's last visit to Italy with his lady, fifteen years before, they resided for some time at Milan, where Sir Christopher, who was an enthusiast for Gothic architecture, and was then entertaining the project of meta- morphosing his plain brick family mansion into the model of a Gothic manor-house, was bent on studying the details of that marble miracle, the Cathedral. Here Lady Cheverel, as at other Italian cities where she made any protracted stay, engaged a maestro to give her lessons in singing, for she had then not only a fine musical taste, but a fine soprano voice. Those were days when very rich people used manuscript mu- sic, and many a man who resembled Jean Jacques in nothing else, resembled him in getting a livelihood " a copier la mu- sique a tant la page." Lady Cheverel having need of this service, Maestro Albani told her he would send her apoverav- cio of his acquaintance, whose manuscript was the neatest and most correct he knew of. Unhappily the poveraccio was not 102 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. always in his best wits, and was sometimes rather slow in consequence ; but it would be a work of Christian charity worthy of the beautiful Signora to employ poor Sarti. The next morning, Mrs. Sharp, then a blooming abigail of three-and-thirty, entered her lady's private room and said, " If you please, my lady, there's the f rowiest, shabbiest man you ever saw, outside, and he's told Mr. Warren as the sing- ing-master sent him to see your ladyship. But I think you'll hardly like him to come in here. Belike he's only a beggar." " Oh, yes, show him in immediately." Mrs. Sharp retired, muttering something about " fleas and worse." She had the smallest possible admiration for fair Ausonia and its natives, and even her profound deference for Sir Christopher and her lady could not prevent her from ex- pressing her amazement at the infatuation of gentlefolks in choosing to sojourn among v Papises, in countries where there was no getting to air a bit o 1 linen, and where the people smelt o' garlick fit to knock you down." However she presently reappeared, ushering in a small, meagre man, sallow and dingy, with a restless, wandering look in his dull eyes, and an excessive timidity about his deep rev- erences, which gave him the air of a man who had been long a solitary prisoner. Yet through all this squalor and wretch- edness there were some traces discernible of comparative youth and former good looks. Lady Cheverel, though not very tender-hearted, still less sentimental, was essentially kind and liked to dispense benefits like a goddess, who looks down benignly on the halt, the maimed, and the blind that approach her shrine. She was smitten with some compassion at the sight of poor Sarti, who struck her as the mere battered wreck of a vessel that might have once floated gayly enough on its outward voyage, to the sound of pipes and tabors. She spoke gently as she pointed out to him the operatic selections she wished him to copy, and he seemed to sun himself in her au- burn, radiant presence, so that when he made his exit with the music-books under his arm, his bow, though not less reverent, was less timid. It was ten years at least since Sarti had seen any thing so bright and stately and beautiful as Lady Cheverel. For the time was far off in which he had trod the stage in satin and feathers, the primo tenore of one short season. He had completely lost his voice in the following winter, and had ever since been little better than a cracked fiddle, which is good for nothing but firewood. For, like many Italian singers, he was too ignorant to teach, and if it had not been for his one talent of penmanship, he and his young helpless wife might ME. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 103 have starved. Then, just after their third child was born, fe- ver came, swept away the sickly mother and the two eldest children, and attacked Sarti himself, who rose from his sick-bed with enfeebled brain and muscle, and a tiny baby on his hands, scarcely four months old. He lodged over a fruit-shop kept by a stout virago, loud of tongue and irate in temper, but who had had children born to her, and so had taken care of the tiny yellow, black-eyed bambinetta, and tended Sarti him- self through his sickness. Here he continued to live, earning a meagre subsistence for himself and his little one by the work of copying music, put into his hands chiefly by Maestro Albani. He seemed to exist for nothing but the child : he tended it, he dandled it, he chatted to it, living with it alone in his one room above the fruit-shop, only asking his landlady to take care of the marmoset during his short absences in fetching and carrying home work. Customers frequenting that fruit-shop might often see the tiny Caterina seated on the floor, with her legs in a heap of pease, which it was her delight to kick about ; or perhaps deposited, like a kitten, in a large basket out of harm's way. Sometimes, however, Sarti left his little one with another kind of protectress. He was very regular in his devotions, which he paid thrice a week in the great cathedral, carrying Caterina with him. Here, when the high morning sun was warming the myriad glittering pinnacles without, and strug- gling against the massive gloom within, the shadow of a man with a child on his arm might be seen flitting across the more stationary shadows of pillar and mullion, and making its way towards a little tinsel Madonna hanging in a retired spot near the choir. Amid all the sublimities of the mighty cathedral, poor Sarti had fixed on this tinsel Madonna 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 wood and sky, but sets its heart on a floating feather or insect that happens to 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 the cathedral lay near some place where he had to call, and did not like to take her, he would leave her there in front of the tinsel Madonna, where she would sit, perfectly good, amusing herself with low crowing noises and see-sawings of her tiny body. And when Sarti came back, he always found that the Blessed Mother had taken good care of Caterina. That was briefly the history of Sarti, who fulfilled so well the orders Lady Cheverel gave him, that she sent him away again with a stock of new work. But this time, week after 104 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. week passed, and he neither reappeared nor sent home the music intrusted to him. Lady Cheverel began to be anxious, and was thinking of sending Warren to inquire at the ad- dress Sarti had given her, when one day, as she was equip- ped for driving out, the valet brought in a small piece of pa- per, which, he said, had been left for her ladyship by a man who was carrying fruit. The paper contained only three tremulous lines, in Italian : " Will the Eccelentissima, for the love of God, have pity on a dying man, and come to him ?" Lady Cheverel recognized the handwriting as Sarti's in spite of its tremulousness, and going down to her carriage, ordered the Milanese coachman to drive to Strada Quinqua- gesima, Numero 10. The coach stopped in a dirty, narrow street opposite La Pazzini's fruit-shop, and that large speci- men of womanhood immediately presented herself at the door, to the extreme disgust of Mrs. Sharp, who remarked privately to Mr. Warren that La Pazzini was a " hijeous por- pis." The fruit-woman, however, was all smiles and deep courtesies to the Eccelentissima, who, not very well under- standing her Milanese dialect, abbreviated the conversation by asking to be shown at once to Signer Sarti. La Pazzini preceded her up the dark narrow stairs, and opened a door through which she begged her ladyship to enter. Directly opposite the door lay Sarti, on a low miserable bed. His eyes were glazed, and no movement indicated that he was conscious of their entrance. On the foot of the bed was seated a tiny child, apparently not three years old, her head covered by a linen cap, her feet clothed with leather boots, 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 other garment. Her large dark eyes shone from out her queer little face, like two precious stones in a grotesque image carved in old ivory. She held an empty medicine-bottle in her hand, and was amusing herself by putting the cork in and drawing it out again, to hear how it would pop. La Pazzini went up to the bed and said, " Ecco la nobi- lissima donna !" but directly after screamed out, " Holy mother ! he is dead !" It was so. The entreaty had not been sent in time for Sarti to carry out his project of asking the great English lady to take care of his Caterina. That was the thought which haunted his feeble brain as soon as he began to fear that his illness would end in death. She had wealth she was kind she would surely do something for the poor or- MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 105 phan. And so, at last, he sent that scrap of paper which won the fulfillment of his prayer, though he did not live to utter it. Lady Cheverel gave La Pazzini money that the last decencies might be paid to the dead man, and carried away Caterina, meaning to consult Sir Christopher as to what should be done with her. Even Mrs. Sharp had been so smitten with pity by the scene she had witnessed when she was summoned up stairs to fetch Caterina, as to shed 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 turnod over various projects in her mind regarding Caterina, but at last one gained the preference over all the rest. Why should they not take the child to England, and bring her up there? They had been married twelve years, yet Cheverel Manor was cheered by no children's voices, aijd the old house would be all the better for a little of that music. Besides, it would be a Christian work to train this little Papist into a good Protestant, and graft as much English fruit as possible on the Italian stem. Sir Christopher listened to this plan with hearty acquies- cence. He loved children, and took at once to the little black-eyed monkey his name for Caterina all through her short life. But neither he nor Lady Cheverel had any idea of adopting her as their daughter, and giving her their own rank in life. They were much too English and aristocratic to think of any thing so romantic. No ! the child would be brought up at Cheverel Manor as a protegee, to be ultimate- ly useful, perhaps, in sorting worsteds, keeping accounts, read- ing aloud, and otherwise supplying the place of spectacles when her ladyship's eyes should wax dim. So Mrs. Sharp had to procure new clothes, to replace tho linen cap, flowered frock, and leathern boots; and now, strange to say, little Caterina, who had suffered many un- conscious evils in her existence of thirty moons, first began to know conscious troubles. "Ignorance," says Ajax, "is a painless evil;" so, I should think, is dirt, considering the merry faces that go along with it. At any rate, cleanliness is sometimes a painful good, as any one can vouch who has had his face washed the wrong way, by a pitiless hand with a gold ring on the third finger. If you, reader, have not known that initiatory anguish, it is idle to expect that you will form any approximate conception of what Caterina en- dured under Mrs. Sharp's new dispensation of soap-and-wa- 5* 106 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. ter. Happily, this purgatory came presently to be associated in her tiny brain with a passage straightway to a seat of bliss the sofa in Lady Cheverel's sitting-room, where there were toys to be broken, a ride was to be had on Sir Christo- pher's knee, and a spaniel of resigned temper was prepared to undergo small tortures without flinching. CHAPTER IV. IN three months from the time of Caterina's adoption namely, in the late autumn of 1773 the chimneys of Chev- erel Manor were sending up unwonted smoke, and the serv- ants were awaiting in excitement the return of their master and mistress after a two years' absence. Great was the as- tonishment of Mrs. Bellamy, the housekeeper, when Mr. War- ren lifted a little black-eyed child out of the carriage, and great was Mrs. Sharp's sense of superior information and ex- perience, as she detailed Caterina's history, interspersed with copious comments, to the rest of the upper servants that evening, as they were taking a comfortable glass of grog to- gether in the housekeeper's room. A pleasant room it was as any party need desire "to mus- ter in on a cold November evening. The fireplace alone was a picture : a wide and deep recess with a low brick altar in the middle, where great logs of dry wood sent myriad sparks up the dark chimney-throat ; .and over the front of this re- cess a large wooden entablature bearing this motto, finely carved in old English letters, "jTeur (B>ob anb honor tl)C King," And beyond the party, who formed a half-moon with their chairs and well-furnished table round this bright fireplace, what a space of chiaroscuro for the imagination to revel in ! Stretching across the far end of the room, what an oak table, high enough surely for Homer's gods, standing on four massive legs, bossed and bulging like sculptured urns ! and, lining the distant wall, what vast cupboards, suggestive of inexhaustible apricot jam and promiscuous butler's per- quisites ! A stray picture or two had found their way down there, and made agreeable patches of dark brown on the buff- colored walls. High over the loud-resounding double door hung one which, from some indications of a race looming out of blackness, might, by a great synthetic effort, be pro- nounced a Magdalen. Considerably lower down hung the similitude of a hat and feathers, with portions of a ruff, stated MB. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 107 by Mrs. Bellamy to represent Sir Francis Bacon, who invent- ed gunpowder, and, in her opinion, " might ha' been better emplyed." But this evening the mind is but slightly arrested by the great Verulam, and is in the humor to think a dead philoso- pher less interesting than a living gardener, who sits conspic- uous in the half-circle round the fireplace. Mr. Bates is hab- itually a guest in the housekeeper's room of an evening, preferring the social pleasures there the feast of gossip and the flow of grog to a bachelor's chair in his charming thatched cottage on a little island, where every sound is remote but the cawing of 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 pass- ed without special notice. He was a sturdy Yorkshireman, approaching forty, whose face Nature seemed to have colored when she ' was in a hurry, and had no time to attend to nuances, for every inch of him visible above his neckcloth was of one impartial redness ; so that when he was at some distance your imagination was at liberty to place his lips anywhere between his nose and chin. Seen closer, his lips were discerned to be of a pecaliar 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. Bates was further distinguished from the common herd by a perpetual blinking of the eyes ; and this, together with the red-i-ose tint of his complexion, and a way he had of hanging his head forward, and rolling it from side to side as he walk- ed, gave him the air of a Bacchus in a blue apron, who, in the present reduced circumstances of Olympus, had taken to the management of his own vines. Yet, as gluttons are often thin, so sober men are often rubicund ; and Mr. Bates was sober, with that manly, British, churchman-like sobriety which can carry a few glasses of grog without any percepti- ble clarification of ideas. " Dang my boottons !" observed Mr. Bates, who, at the con- clusion 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, to bring 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 sitiation iver I held it was a hold hancient habbey, wi' the biggest or- chard o' apples an' pears you ever see there was a French va- let, an' he stool silk stoockins, an' shirts, an' rings, an' ivery thin' he could ley his hands on, an' run awey at last wi' th' 108 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. missis's jewl-box. They're all alaike, them furriners. Itroons 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 the furriners, 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 any Christian's stomach. But for all that an' for all as the trouble in respect o' wash- in' and managin' has fell upo' me through the journey I can't say but what I think as my Lady an' Sir Cristifer's done a right thing 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 churches as Sir Cristifer is so unaccountable mad after, wi' pictures o' men an' wom- en a-showing themselves just for all the world as God made 'em, I think, for my part, as it's almost a sin to go into 'em." " You're likely to have more foreigners, however," said Mr. Warren, who liked to provoke the gardener, " for Sir Chris- topher has engaged some Italian workmen to help in the alter- ations in the house." " Olterations !" exclaimed Mrs. Bellamy, in alarm. " What olterations ?" " Why," answered Mr. Warren, " Sir Christopher, as I un- derstand, is going to make a new thing of the old Manor- house, both inside and out. And he's got portfolios full of plans and pictures coming. It is to be cased with stone, in the Gothic style pretty near like the churches, you know, as far as I can make out ; and the ceilings are to be beyond any thing that's been seen in the country. Sir Christopher's been giving a deal of study to it." " Dear heart alive !" said Mrs. Bellamy, " we shall be pisoned wi' lime an' plaster, an' hev the house full o' work- men 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's woonderful how near them stoon-carvers cuts oot the shapes o' the pineapples, an' shamrucks, an' rooses. I dare sey Sir Cristifer'll meek a naice 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- groons an' wall-fruit as King George maight be prdod on." " Well, I can't think as the house can be better nor it is, Gothic or no Gothic," said Mrs, Bellamy ; " an' I've done the MB. GILFIL'S LOVE-STOKY. 109 picklin' and preservin' in it fourteen year Michaelmas was a three weeks. But what does my lady say to't ?" " My lady knows better than cross Sir Cristifer in what he's set his mind on," said Mr. Bellamy, who objected to the critical tone of the conversation. " Sir Cristifer'll hev his own way, that you may tek your oath. An' i' the right on't too. He's a gentleman born, an's got the money. But come, Me$- ter Bates, fill your glass, an' we'll drink health an' happiness to his honor an' my lady, and then you shall give us a song. Sir Cristifer doesn't come hum from Italy ivery night." This demonstrable position was accepted without hesita- tion as ground for a toast ; but Mr. Bates, apparently think- ing that his song was not an equally reasonable sequence, ignored the second part of Mr. Bellamy's proposal. So Mrs. Sharp, who had been heard to say that she had no thoughts at all of marrying Mr. Bates, though he was " a sensable, fresh- colored man as many a woman 'ud snap at for a husband," enforced Mr. Bellamy's appeal. " Come, Mr. Bates, let us hear ' Roy's Wife.' I'd rether hear a good old song like that, nor all the fine Italian tood- lin." Mr. Bates, urged thus flatteringly, stuck his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, threw himself back in his chair with his head in that position in which he could look directly towards the zenith, and struck up a remarkably staccato rendering of " Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch." This melody may certainly be taxed with excessive iteration, but that was pre- cisely its highest recommendation to the present audience, who found it all the easier to swell the chorus. Nor did it at all diminish their pleasure 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 mat- ter of garden stuff or of some other commodity, or why her name should, in consequence, be repeatedly reiterated with exultation, remaining an agreeable mystery. Mr. Bates's song formed the climax of the evening's good- fellowship, and the party soon after dispersed Mrs. Bellamy perhaps to dream of quicklime flying among her preserving- pans, or of love-sick housemaids reckless of unswept corners and Mrs. Sharp to sink into pleasant visions of independent house-keeping in Mr. Bates's cottage, with no bells to answer, and with fruit and vegetables ad libitum. Caterina soon conquered all prejudices against her foreign blood ; for what prejudices will hold out against helplessness and broken prattle ? She became the pet of the household, thrusting Sir Christopher's favorite bloodhound of that day, 110 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. Mrs. Bellamy's two canaries, and Mr. Bates's largest Dorking nen, into a merely secondary position. The consequence was, that in the space of a summer's day she went through a great cycle of experiences, commencing with the somewhat acidu- lated good-will of Mrs. Sharp's nursery discipline. Then came the grave luxury of her ladyship's sitting-room, and, perhaps, the dignity of a ride on Sir Christopher's knee, sometimes followed by a visit with him to the stables, where Caterina soon learned to hear without crying the baying of the chain- ed bloodhounds, and say, with ostentatious bravery, clinging to Sir Christopher's leg all the while, " Dey not hurt Tina." Then Mrs. Bellamy would perhaps be going out to gather the rose-leaves and lavender, and Tina was made proud and hap- py by being allowed to carry a handful in her pinafore ; hap- pier still, when they were spread out on sheets to dry, so that she could sit down like a frog among them, and have them poured over her in fragrant showers. Another frequent pleas- ure was to take a journey with Mr. Bates through the kitchen- gardens and the hothouses, where the rich bunches of green and purple grapes hung from the roof, far out of reach of the tiny yellow hand that could not help stretching itself out to- wards them ; though the hand was sure at last to be satisfied with some delicate-flavored fruit or sweet-scented flower. In- deed, in the long, monotonous leisure of that great country- house, you may be sure there was always some one who had nothing better to do than to play with Tina. So that the little southern bird had its northern nest lined with tender- ness, and caresses, and pretty things. A loving sensitive na- ture was too likely, under such nurture, to have its suscepti- bility heightened into unfitness for an encounter with any harder experience ; all the more, because there were gleams of fierce resistance to any discipline that had a harsh or un- loving aspect. For the only thing in which Caterina showed any precocity was a certain ingemiity in vindictiveness. When she was five years old she had revenged herself for an unpleasant prohibition by pouring the ink into Mrs. Sharp's work-basket; and once, when Lady Cheverel took her doll from her, because she was affectionately licking the paint off its face, the little minx straightway climbed on a chair and threw down a flower-vase that stood on a bracket. This was almost the only instance in which her anger overcame her awe of Lady Cheverel, who had the ascendency always be- longing to kindness that never melts into caresses, and is se- verely but uniformly beneficent. By-and-by the happy monotony of Cheverel Manor was broken in upon in tb way Mr. Warren had announced. The MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. Ill roads through the park were cut up by wagons carrying loads of stone from a neighboring quarry, the green court- yard became dusty with lime, and the peaceful house rang with the sound of tools. For the next ten years Sir Christo- pher was occupied with the architectural metamorphosis of his old family mansion ; thus anticipating, through the prompting of his individual taste, that general reaction from the insipid imitation of the Palladian style, towards a restora- tion of the Gothic, which marked the close of the eighteenth century. This was the object he had set his heart on, with a singleness of determination which was regarded with not a little contempt by his fox-hunting neighbors, who wondered greatly that a man with some of the best blood in England in his veins, should be mean enough to economize in his cellar, and reduce his stud to two old coach-horses and a hack, for the sake of riding a hobby, and playing the architect. Their wives did not see so much to blame in the matter of the eel- lars and stables, but they were eloquent in pity for poor Lady Cheverel, who had to live in no more than three rooms at once, and who must be distracted with noises, and have her constitution undermined by unhealthy smells. It was as bad as having a husband with an asthma Why did not Sir Chris- topher take a house for her at Bath, or, at least, if he must spend his time in overlooking workmen, somewhere in the neighborhood of the Manor ? This pity was quite gratuitous, as the most plentiful pity always is ; for though Lady Chev- erel did not share her husband's architectural enthusiasm, she had too rigorous a view of a wife's duties, and too profound a deference for Sir Christopher, to regard submission as a grievance. As for Sir Christopher, he was perfectly indiffer- ent to criticism. "An obstinate, crotchety man," said his neighbors. But I, who have seen Cheverel Manor, as he be- queathed it to his heirs, rather attribute that unswerving architectural purpose of his, conceived and carried out through long years ot systematic personal exertion, to something of the fervor of genius, as well as inflexibility of will ; and in walking through those rooms, with their splendid ceilings and their meagre furniture, which tell how all the Spare mon- ey had been absorbed before personal comfort was thought of, I have felt that there dwelt in this old English baronet some of that sublime spirit which distinguishes art from lux- ury, and worships beauty apart from self-indulgence. While Cheverel Manor was growing from ugliness into beauty, Caterina too was growing from a little yellow bant- ling into a whiter maiden, with no positive beauty indeed, but with a certain light airy grace, which, with her large appeal- 112 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. ing dark eyes, and a voice that, in its low-toned tenderness, re- called the love-notes of the stock-dove, gave her a more than usual charm. Unlike the building, however, Caterina's devel- opment was the result of no systematic or careful appliances. She grew up very much like the primroses, which the garden- er is not sorry to see within his enclosure, but takes no pains to cultivate. Lady Cheverel taught her to read and write, and say her catechism ; Mr. Warren, being a good account- ant, gave her lessons in arithmetic, by her ladyship's desire ; and Mrs. Sharp initiated her in all the mysteries of the needle. But, for a long time, there was no thought of giving her any more elaborate education. It is very likely that to her dy- ing day Caterina thought the earth stood still, and that the sun and stara moved round it ; but so, for the 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 he- roine on that account. The truth is, that, with one exception, her only talent lay in loving ; and there, it is probable, the most astronomical of women could not have surpassed her. Orphan and protegee though she was, this supreme talent of hers found plenty of exercise at Cheverel Manor, and Cateri- na had more people to love than many a small lady and gen- tleman affluent in silver mugs and blood relations. I think the first place in her childish heart was given to Sir Christo- pher, for little girls are apt to attach themselves to the finest looking gentleman at hand, especially as he seldom has any thing to do with discipline. Next to the Baronet, came Dor- cas, the merry rosy-cheeked damsel who was Mrs. Sharp's lieutenant in the nursery, and thus played the part of the rai- sins in a dose of senna. It was a black day for Caterina when Dorcas married the coachman, and went, 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 the motto " Though lost to sight, to memory dear," which Dorcas sent her as a remembrance, was among Caterina's treasures ten years after. The one other exceptional talent, you already guess, was music. When the fact that Caterina had a remarkable ear for music, and a still more remarkable voice, attracted Lady Cheverel's notice, the discovery was very welcome both to her and Sir Christopher. Her musical education became at once an object of interest. Lady Cheverel devoted much time to it; and the rapidity of Tina's progress surpassing all hopes, an Italian singing-master was engaged for several years, to spend some months together at Cheverel Manor. This unexpected gift made a great alteration in Caterina's MF. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 113 position. After those first years in which little girls are pet' ted like puppies and kittens, there comes a time when it seems less obvious what they can be good for, especially when, like Caterina, they give no particular promise of clev- erness or beauty ; and it is not surprising that in that unin- teresting period there was no particular plan formed as to her future position. She could always help Mrs. Sharp, sup- posing she were fit for nothing else, as she grew up ; but now this rare gift of song endeared her to Lady Cheverel, who loved music above all things, and it associated her at once with the pleasures of the drawing-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 lady, after all. " And the raight on't too," said Mr. Bates, " for she hasn't the cut of a gell as must work for her bread ; she's as nesh an' dilicate as a paich-blossom welly laike a linnet, wi' on'y joost body anoof to hold her voice." But long before Tina had reached this stage of her history, a new era had begun for her, in the arrival of a younger com- panion than any she had hitherto known. When she was no more than seven, a ward of Sir Christopher's- a lad of fifteen, Maynard Gilfil by name began to spend his vacations at Cheverel Manor, and found there no playfellow so much to his mind as Caterina. Maynard was an affectionate lad, who retained a propensity to white rabbits, pet squirrels, and guin- ea-pigs, perhaps a little beyond the age at which young gen- tlemen usually look down on such pleasures as puerile. He was also much given to fishing, and to carpentry, considered as a fine art, without any base view to utility. And in all these pleasures it was his delight to have Caterina as his compan- ion, to call her little pet names, answer her wondering ques- tions, and have her toddling after him as you may have seen a Blenheim spaniel trotting after a large setter. Whenever Maynard went back to school, there was a little scene of part- ing. " You won't forget me, Tina, before I come back again ? I shall leave you all the whip-cord we've made; and don't you let Guinea die. Come, give me a kiss, and promise not to forget me." As the years wore on, and Maynard passed from school to college, and from a slim lad to a stalwart young man, their companionship in the vacations necessarily took a different foi-m, but it retained a brotherly and sisterly familiarity. With Maynard the boyish affection had insensibly grown into ardent love. Among all the many kinds of first love, that which begins in childish companionship is the strongest 114 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. and most enduring : when passion comes to unite its force to long affection, love is at its spring-tide. And Maynard Gil- fil'e love was of a kind to make him prefer being tormented by Caterina to any pleasure, apart from her, which the most benevolent magician could have devised for him. It is the way with those tall large-limbed men, from Samson down- ward. As for Tina, the little minx was perfectly well aware that Maynard was her slave ; he was the one person in the world whom she did as she pleased with ; and I need not tell you that this was a symptom of her being perfectly heart- whole so far as he was concerned : for a passionate woman's love is always overshadowed by fear. Maynard Gilfil did not deceive "himself in his interpreta- tion of Caterina's feelings, but he nursed the hope that some time or other she would at least care enough for him to ac- cept his love. So he waited patiently for the day when he might venture to say, " Caterina, I love you !" You see, he would have been content with very little, being one of those men who pass through life without making the least clamor about themselves ; thinking neither the cut of his coat, nor the flavor of his soup, nor the precise depth of a servant's bow, at all momentous. He thought foolishly enough, as lovers will think that it was a good augury for him when he came to be domesticated at Cheverel Manor in the quali- ty of chaplain there, and curate of a neighboring parish ; judging falsely, from his own case, that habit and affection were the likeliest avenues to love. Sir Christopher satisfied several feelings in installing Maynard as chaplain in his house. He liked the old-fashioned dignity of that domestic appendage ; he liked his ward's companionship ; and, as May- nard had some private fortune, he might take life easily in that agreeable home, keeping his hunter, and observing a mild regimen of clerical duty, until the Cumbermoor living should fall in, when he might be settled for life in the neigh- borhood of the manor. " With Caterina for a wife, too,'* Sir Christopher soon began to think ; for though the good Baronet was not at all quick to suspect what was unpleasant and opposed to his views of fitness, he was quick to see what would dovetail with his own plans ; and he had first guessed, and then ascertained by direct inquiry, the state of Maynard's feelings. He at once leaped to the conclusion that Caterina was of the same mind, or at least would be, when she was old enough. But these were too early days for any thing defi- nite to be said or done. Meanwhile, new circumstances were arising, which, though they made no change in Sir Christopher's plans and pros- MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 115 pects, converted Mr. Gilfil's hopes into anxieties, and made it clear to him not only that Caterina's heart was never likely to be his, but that it was given entirely to another. Once or twice in Caterina's childhood, there had been an- other boy-visitor at the manor, younger than Maynard Gilfil a beautiful boy with brown curls and splendid clothes, on whom Caterina had looked with shy admiration. This was Anthony Wybrow, the son of Sir Christopher's younger sister, and chosen heir of Cheverel Manor. The Baronet had gacrificed a large sum, arid even straitened the resources by which he was to carry out his architectural schemes, for the sake of removing the entail 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 a power of for- giveness was not among Sir Christopher's virtues. At length, on the death of Anthony's mother, when he was no longer a curly-headed boy, but a tall young man, with a captain's com- mission, Cheverel Manor became his home too, whenever he was absent from his regiment. Caterina was then a little woman, between sixteen and seventeen, and I need not spend many words in explaining what you perceive to be the most natural thing in the world. There was little company kept at the Manor, and Captain Wybrow would have been much duller if Caterina had not been there. It was pleasant to pay her attentions to speak to her in gentle tones, to see her little flutter of pleasure, the blush that just lit up her pale cheek, and the momentary tim- id glance of her dark eyes, when he praised her singing, lean- ing at her side over the piano. Pleasant, too, to cut out that chaplain with his large calves ! What idle man can withstand the temptation of a woman to fascinate, and an- other man to eclipse ? especially when it is quite clear to himself that he means no mischief, and shall leave every thing to come I'ight again by-and-by. At the end of eighteen months, however, during which Captain Wybrow had spent much of his time at the Manor, he found that matters had reached a point which he had not at all contemplated. Gen- tle tones had led to tender Avords, and tender words had called forth a response of looks which made it impossible not to carry on the crescendo of love-making. To find one's self adored by a little, graceful, dark-eyed, sweet-singing woman, whom no one need despise, is an agreeable sensation, compar- able to smoking the finest Latakia, and also imposes some re- turn of tenderness as a duty. Perhaps you think that Captain Wybrow, who knew that it would be ridiculous to dream of his marrying Caterina, must 116 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. have been a reckless libertine to win her affections in this man- ner ! Not at all. He was a young man of calm passions, who was rarely led into any conduct of which he could not give a plausible account to himself; and the tiny fragile Caterina was a woman who touched the imagination and the affections rather than the senses. He really felt very kindly towards her, and would very likely have loved her if he had been able to love any one. But nature had not endowed him with that capability. She had given him an admirable figure, the whitest of hands, the most delicate of nostrils, and a large amount of serene self-satisfaction ; but, as if to save such a delicate piece of work from any risk of being shattered, she had guarded him from the liability to a strong emotion. There was no list of youthful misdemeanors on record against him, and Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel thought him the best of nephews, the most satisfactory of heirs, full of grateful def- erence to themselves, and, above all things, guided by a sense of duty. Captain Wybrow always did the thing easiest and most agreeable to him from a sense of duty: he dressed ex- pensively, because it was a duty he owed to his position ; from a sense of duty he adapted himself to Sir Christopher's inflexible will, which it would have been troublesome as well as useless to resist ; and, being of a delicate constitution, he took care of his health from a sense of duty. His health was the only point on w'hich he gave anxiety to his friends ; and it was owing to this that Sir Christopher wished to see his nephew early married, the more so as a match after the Baron- et's own heart appeared immediately attainable. Ajathony had seen and admired Mise A&sher, the only child of a 1:uly who had been Sir Christopher's earliest love, but who, as things will happen in this world, had married another baronet instead of him. Miss Assher's father was now dead, and she was in possession of a pretty estate. If, as was probable, she should prove susceptible to the merits of Anthony's person and character, nothing could make Sir Christopher so happy as to see a marriage which might be expected to secure the inheritance of Cheverel Manor from getting into the wrong hands. Anthony had already been kindly received by Lady Assher as the nephew of her early friend ; why should he not go to Bath, where she and her daughter were then residing, follow up the acquaintance, and win a handsome, well-born, and sufficiently wealthy bride ? Sir Christopher's wishes were communicated to his nephew, who at once intimated his willingness to comply with them from a sense of duty. Caterina was tenderly informed by her lovep of the sacrifice demanded from them both j and three MB. GILFIL'S LOVE-STOKY, 117 days afterwards occurred the parting scene you have witness- ed in the gallery, on the eve of Captain Wy brow's departure for Bath. CHAPTER V. THE inexorable ticking of the clock is like the throb of pain to sensations made keen by a sickening fear. And so it is with the great clockwork of nature. Daisies and butter- cups give way to the brown waving grasses, tinged with the warm red sorrel ; the waving grasses are swept away, and the meadows lie like emeralds set in the bushy hedgerows ; the tawny-tipped corn begins to bow with the weight of the full ear; the reapers are bending amongst it, and it soon stands in sheaves ^ then, presently, the patches of yellow stubble lie side by side with streaks of dark-red earth, which the plough is turning up in preparation for the new-threshed seed. And this passage from beauty to beauty, which to the happy is like the flow of a melody, measures for many a human heart the approach of foreseen anguish seems hurrying on the moment when the shadow of dread will be followed up by the reality of despair. How cruelly hasty that summer of 1788 seemed to Cateri- na! Surely the roses vanished earlier, and the berries on the mountain-ash were more impatient to redden, and bring on the autumn, when she would be face to face with her mis- ery, 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 Assher and her daughter were about to fly from the heat and gayety of Bath to the shady quiet of their place at Farleigh, and that he was invited to join the party there. His letters implied that he was on an excellent footing with both the ladies, and gave no hint of a rival ; so that Sir Christopher was more than usually bright and cheer- ful after reading them. At length, towards the close of Au- gust, came the announcement that Captain Wybrow was an accepted lover, and after much complimentary and congrat- ulatory correspondence between the two families, it was un- derstood that in September Lady Assher and her daughter would pay a visit to Cheverel Manor, when Beatrice would make the acquaintance of her future relatives, and all need- ful arrangements could be discussed. Captain Wybrow 118 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. would remain at Farleigh till then, and accompany the ladies on their journey. In the interval, every one at Cheverel Manor had some- thing to do by way of preparing for the visitors. Sir Chris- topher was occupied in consultations with his steward and lawyer, and in giving orders to every one else, especially in spurring on Francesco to finish the saloon. Mr. Gilfil had the responsibility of procuring a lady's horse, Miss Assher being a great rider. Lady Cheverel had unwonted calls to make and invitations to deliver. Mr. Bates's turf, and grav- el, and flower-beds were always at such a point of neatness and finish that nothing extraordinary could be done in the garden, except a little extraordinary scolding of the under- gardener, and this addition Mr. Bates did not neglect. Happily for Caterina, she too had her task, to fill up the long dreary daytime: it was to finish a chair-cushion which would complete the set of embroidered covers for the draw- ing-room, Lady CheverePs year-long work, and the only note- worthy bit of furniture in the Manor. Over this embroidery she sat with cold lips and a palpitating heart, thankful that this miserable sensation throughout the daytime seemed to counteract the tendency to tears which returned with night and solitude. She was most frightened when Sir Christo- pher approached her. The Baronet's eye was brighter and his step more elastic than ever, and it seemed to him that only the most leaden or churlish souls could be otherwise than brisk and exulting in a world where every thing went so well. Dear old gentleman ! he had gone through life a lit- tle flushed with the power of his will, and now his latest plan was succeeding, and Cheverel Manor would be inherited by a grand-nephew, whom he might even yet Jive to see a fine young fellow with 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 minstrel of the Manor, you know, and be sure you have a pretty gown and a new ribbon. You must not be dressed in russet, though you are a singing bird." Or per- haps, " It is your turn to be courted next, Tina. But don't you learn any naughty proud airs. I must have Maynard let off easily." Caterina's affection for the old Baronet helped her to sum- mon up a smile as he stroked her cheek and looked at her kindly, but that was the moment at which she felt it most difficult not to burst out crying. Lady Cheverel's conversa- MB. GILFIL'S LOVE-STOBY. 119 tion and presence were less trying ; for her ladyship felt no more than calm satisfaction in this family event ; and besides, she was further sobered by a little jealousy at Sir Christopher's anticipation of pleasure in seeing Lady Assher, enshrined in his memory as a mild-eyed beauty of sixteen, with whom he had exchanged locks before he went on his first travels. Lady Cheverel would have died rather than confess it, but she couldn't help hoping that he would be disappointed in Lady Assher, and rather ashamed of having called her so charm- ing. Mr. Gilfil watched Caterina through these days with mixed feelings. Her suffering went to his heart ; but, even for her sake, he was glad that a love which could never come to good should be no longer fed by false hopes ; and how could he help saying to himself, " Perhaps, after a while, Caterina w r ill be tired of fretting about that cold-hearted puppy, and then " At length 1 the much-expected day arrived, and the bright- est of September suns was lighting up the yellowing lime- trees, as about five o'clock Lady Assher's carriage drove un- der the portico. Caterina, seated at work in her own room, heard the rolling of the wheels, followed presently by the opening and shutting of doors, and the sound of voices in the corridors. Remembering that the dinner hour was six, and that Lady Cheverel had desired her to be in the drawing- room early, she started up to dress, and was delighted to find herself feeling suddenly brave and strong. Curiosity to see Miss Assher the thought that Anthony was in the house the wish not to look unattractive, were feelings that brought some color to her lips, and made it easy to attend to her toi- lette. They would ask her to sing this evening, and she would sing well. Miss Assher should not think her utterly insignificant. So she put on her gray silk gown and her cherry-colored ribbon with as much care as if she had been herself the betrothed ; not forgetting the pair of round pearl ear-rings 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 the drawing-room chatting with Mr. Gilfil, and telling him how handsome Miss Assher was, but how entire- ly unlike her mother apparently resembling her father only. " Aha !" said Sir Christopher, as he turned to look at Cate- rina, " what do you think of this, Maynard ? Did you ever see Tina look so pretty before ? Why, that little gray gown has been made out of a bit of my lady's, hasn't it ? It doesn't 120 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. take any thing much larger than a pocket-handkerchief to dress the little monkey." Lady Cheverel, too, serenely radiant in the assurance a single glance had given her of Lady Assher's inferiority, smiled approval, and Caterma was in one of those moods of self-possession and indifference which come as the ebb-tide between the struggles of passion. She retired to the piano, and busied herself with arranging her music, not all insensi- ble to the pleasure of being looked at with admiration the while, and thinking that, the next time the door opened Cap- tain Wybrow would enter, and she would speak to him quite cheerfully. But when she heard him come in, and the scent of roses floated towards her, her heart gave one great leap. She knew nothing till he was pressing her hand, and saying, in the old easy way, " Well, Caterina, how do you do ? You look quite blooming." She felt her cheeks reddening with anger that he could speak and look with such perfect nonchalance. Ah ! he was too deeply in love with some one else to remember any thing he had felt for her. But the next moment she was conscious of her folly ; " as if he could show any feeling then!" This conflict of emotions stretched into a long interval the few moments that elapsed before the door opened again, and her own attention, as well as 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 to her mother, a round-shouldered, middle-sized woman, who had once had the transient pink-and-white beauty of a blonde, with ill-defined features and early embon- point. Miss Assher was tall, and gracefully though substan- tially formed, carrying herself with an air of mingled gra- ciousness and self-coutidence ; her dark-brown hair, untouclr ed by powder, hanging in bushy curls round her face, and fall ing behind in long thick ringlets nearly to her waist. The brilliant carmine tint of her well-rounded cheeks, and the finely-cut outline of her straight nose, produced an impression of splendid beauty, in spite of commonplace brown eyes, a narrow forehead, and thin lips. She was in mourning, and the dead black of her crape dress, relieved here and there by jet ornaments, gave the fullest effect to her complexion, and to the rounded whiteness of her arms, bare from the elbow. The first coup cFoeil was dazzling, and as she stood looking down with a gracious smile on Caterina, whom Lady Chev- erel was presenting to her, the poor little thing seemed to herself to feel, for the first time, all the folly of her former 1 1 ream. MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STOBY. 121 " "We are enchanted with your place, Sir Christopher,'* said Lady Assher, with a feeble kind of pompousness, which she seemed to be copying from some one else ; " I'm sure your nephew must have thought Farleigh wretchedly out of order. Poor Sir John was so very careless about keeping up the house and grounds. I often talked to him about it, but he said, ' Pooh, pooh ! as long as my friends find a good din- ner and a good bottle of wine, they won't care about my ceilings being rather smoky.' He was so very hospitable, was Sir John." "I think the view of the house from the park, just after we passed the bridge, particularly fine," said Miss Assher, interposing rather eagerly, as if she feared her mother might be making infelicitous speeches, " and the pleasure of the first glimpse was all the greater because Anthony would de- scribe nothing to us beforehand. He would not spoil our first imprqssions by raising false ideas. I long to go over the house, Sir Christopher, 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 tho past, my dear," said the Baronet ; " I hope we shall find something pleasanter for you to do than turning over my old plans and pictures. Our friend Mr. Gilfil here has found a beautiful mare for you, and you can scour the country to your heart's content. Anthony has sent us word what a horsewoman you are." Miss Assher turned to Mr. Gilfil with her most beaming smile, and expressed her thanks with the elaborate gracious- ness of a person who means 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 one lady's taste may not be like another's in horses, any more than in other matters." While this conversation was passing, Captain Wybrow was leaning against the mantel-piece, contenting himself with responding from under his indolent eyelids to the glances Miss Assher was constantly directing towards him as she spoke. " She is very much in love with him," thought Cat- erina. But she was relieved that Anthony remained passive in his attentions. She thought, too, that he was looking paler and more languid than usual. " If he didn't love her very much if he sometimes thought of the past with regret, I think I could bear it all, and be glad to see Sir Christopher made happy." fi 122 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. During dinner there was a little incident which confirmed these thoughts. When the sweets were on the table, there was a mould of jelly just opposite Captain Wybrow, and being inclined to take some himself, he first invitod Miss Assher, who colored, and said, in rather a sharper key than usual, "Have you not learned by this time that I never take jelly?" " Don't you ?" said Captain Wybrow, whose perceptions were not acute enough for him to notice the difference of a semitone. "I should have thought you were fond of it. There was always some on the table at Farleigh, I think" "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 qfficio reply, in silvery tones. This little episode was unnoticed by every one but Cate- rina. Sir Christopher was listening with polite attention to Lady Assher's history of her last man-cook, who was first-rate at gravies, and for that reason pleased Sir John he was so particular about his gravies, was Sir John : and so they kept the mun six years in spite of his bad pastry. Lady Chever- el and Mr. Gilfil were smiling at Rupert the bloodhound, who had pushed his great head under his master's arm, and was taking a survey of the dishes, after snuffing at the contents of the Baronet's plate. When the ladies were in the drawing-room again, Lady Assher was soon deep in a statement to Lady Cheverel of her views about burying people in woollen. " To be sure, you must have a woollen dress, because it's iihe law, you know ; but that need hinder no one from put- ting linen underneath. I always used to say, ' If Sir John died to-morrow, I would bury him in his shirt ;' and I did. And let me advise you to do so by Sir Christopher. You never saw Sir John, Lady Cheverel. He was a large tall man with a nose just like Beatrice, and so very particular about his shirts." Miss Assher, meanwhile, had seated herself by Caterina, and, with that smiling 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 so very beautifully. I hope we shall hear you this evening." " Oh yes," said Caterina quietly, without smiling ; " I al- ways sing when I'm wanted to sing." " I envy you such a charming talent. Do you know, I have no ear ; I can not hum the smallest tune, and I delight in mu- ME. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 123 sic so. Is it not unfortunate ? But I shall have quite a treat while I am here ; Captain Wybrow says you will 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. " Oh, I assure you I dote on it ; and Anthony is so fond of it ; it would be so delightful if I could play and sing to him ; though he says he likes me best not to sing, because it doesn't belong to his idea of me. What style of 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." " Oh no ! indeed you would not, after a little practice. I have never been in the least timid. I think Anthony is more afraid for me than I am for myself; and since I have been rid- ing with him, I have been obliged to be more careful, because he is so nervous about me." Caterina made no reply ; but she said to herself, " I wish she would go away and not talk to me. She only wants me to admire her good-nature, and to talk about Anthony." Miss Assher was thinking at the same time, " This Miss Sarti seems a stupid little thing. Those musical people often are. - But she is prettier than I expected ; Anthony said she was not pretty." Happily at this moment Lady Assher called her daughter's attention to the embroidered cushions, and Miss Assher, walk- ing to the opposite sofa, was soon in conversation with Lady Cheverel about tapestry and embroidery in general, while her mother, feeling herself superseded there, came and placed her- self beside Caterina. " I hear you are the most beautiful singer," was of course the opening remark. "All Italians sing so beautifully. I travelled in Italy with Sir John when we were first married, and we went to V enice, where they go about in gondolas, you know. You don't wear powder, I see. No more will Bea- trice ; though many people think her curls would look all the better for powder. She has so much hair, hasn't she ? Our last maid dressed it much better than this ; but, do you know, she wore Beatrice's stockings before they went to the wash, and we couldn't keep her after that, could we ?" Caterina, accepting the question as a mere bit of rhetorical effect, thought it superfluous to reply, till Lady Assher repeat- ed, " Could we, now ?" as if Tina's sanction were essential to her repose of mind. After a faint " No," she went on. 124 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. " Maids are so very troublesome, and Beatrice is so particu- lar, you can't imagine. I often say to her, ' My dear, you can't have perfection.' That very gown she has on to be sure, it fits her beautifully now but it has been unmade and made up again twice. But she is like poor Sir John he was so very particular about his own things, was Sir John. Is Lady Cheverel particular ?" " Rather. But Mrs. Sharp has been her maid twenty years." " I wish there was any chance of our keeping Griffin twen- ty years. But I am afraid we shall have to part with her because her health is so delicate ; and she is so obstinate, she will not take bitters as I want her. ybwlook delicate, now. Let me recommend you to take camomile tea in a morning, fasting. Beatrice is so strong and healthy, she never takes any medicine ; but if I had had twenty girls, and they had been delicate, I should have given them all camomile tea. It strengthens the constitution beyond any thing. Now, will you promise me to take camomile tea ?" " Thank you ; I'm not at all ill," said Caterina. " I've al- ways been pale and thin." Lady Assher was sure camomile tea would make all the difference in the world Caterina must see if it wouldn't and then went dribbling on like a leaky shower-bath, until the early entrance of the gentlemen created a diversion, and she fastened on Sir Christopher, who probably began to think that, for poetical purposes, it would be better not to meet one's first love again, after a lapse of forty years. Captain Wybrow, of course, joined his aunt and Miss As- sher, and Mr. Gilfil tried to relieve Caterina from the awkward- ness of sitting aloof and dumb, by telling her how a friend of his had broken his arm and staked his horse that morning, not at all appearing to heed that she hardly listened, and was looking towards the other side of the room. One of the tor- tures of jealousy is, that it can never turn away its eyes from the thing that pains it. By-and-by every one felt the need of a relief from chit-chat Sir Christopher perhaps the most of all and it was he who made the acceptable proposition " Come, Tina, are we to have no music to-night before we sit down to cards ? Your ladyship plays at cards, I think ?" lie added, recollecting himself, and turning to Lady Assher. " Oh yes ! Poor dear Sir John would have a whist-table every night." Caterina sat down to the harpischord at once, and had no Booner begun to sing than she perceived with delight that MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 125 Captain Wybrow was gliding towards the harpischord, and soon standing in the old place. This consciousness gave fresh strength to her voice ; and when she noticed that Miss Assher presently followed him with that air of ostentatious admira- tion which belongs to the absence of real enjoyment, her clos- ing bravura was none the worse for being animated by a lit- tle triumphant contempt. " Why, you are in better voice than ever, Caterina," said Captain \V ybrow, when she had ended. " This is rather dif- ferent from Miss Hibbert's small piping 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 call you Caterina? for I have heard An- thony speak of you so often, I seem to know you quite well. You will let me call you Caterina?" " Oh yes, every one calls me Caterina, only when they call me Tina.", " Come, come, more singing, more singing, little monkey," Sir Christopher called out from the other side of the room. " We have not had half enough yet." Caterina was ready enough to obey, for while she was sing- ing she was queen ot 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 so fondly un- der the wings that were outstretched for her, her heart beating only to the peaceful rhythm of Jove, or fluttering with some easily stifled fear, had begun to know the fierce palpitations of triumph and hatred. When the singing was over, Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel sat down to whist with Lady Assher and Mr. Gilfil, and Caterina placed herself at the Baronet's elbow, as if to watch the game, that she might not appear to thrust herself on the pair of lovers. At first she was glowing with her lit- tle triumph, and felt the strength of pride ; but her eye would steal to the opposite side of the fireplace, where Captain Wy- brow had seated himself close to Miss Assher, and was lean- ing with his arm over the back of the chair, in the most lover- like position. Caterina began to feel a choking sensation. She could see, almost without looking, that he was taking up her arm to examine her bracelet ; their heads were bending close together, her curls touching his cheek now he was put- ting his lips to her hand. Caterina felt her cheeks burn she could sit no longer. She got up, pretended to be gliding about in search of something, and at length slipped out of the room. 126 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. Outside, she took a candle, and, hurrying along the passages and up the stairs to her own room, locked the door. " Oh, I can not bear it, I can not 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 muslin kerchief lying on the table ; she took it up and tore it into shreds as she walked up and down, and then pressed it into hard balls in her hand. " And Anthony," she thought, " he can do this without car- ing for what I feel. Oh, he can forget every thing : how he used to say he loved me how he used to take my hand in his as we walked how he used to stand near me in the even- ings for the sake of looking into my eyes." " Oh, it is cruel, it is cruel !" she burst out again aloud, as all those love-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 by the prayer-bell ; when, thinking Lady Cheverel might perhaps send some one to inquire after her, she rose, and began hastily to undress, that there might be no possibili- ty of her going down again. She had hardly unfastened her hair, and thrown a loose gown about her, before there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Sharp's voice said " Miss Tina, my lady wants to know if you're ill." Caterina opened the door and said, " Thank you, dear Mrs. Sharp ; I have a bad headache ; please tell my lady I felt it come on after singing." " Then, goodness me ! why arn't you in bed, instead o' standing shivering there, fit to catch your death ? Come, let me fasten up your hair and tuck you up warm." " Oh no, thank you ; I shall really be in bed very soon. Good- night, dear Sharpy ; 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 see- ing her former charge in bed, taking away the candle which the poor child had wanted to keep as a companion. But it was impossible to lie there long with that beating heart ; and the little white figure was soon out of bed again, seeking relief in the very sense of chill and uncomfort. It was light enough for her to see about her room, for the moon, near- MR. GILFEL'S LOVE-STORY. 127 ly at full, was riding high in the heavens among scattered hurrying clouds. Caterina drew aside the window-curtain; and, sitting with her forehead pressed against the cold pane, looked out on the wide stretch of park and lawn. How dreary the moonlight is ! robbed of all its tenderness and repose by the hard driving wind. The trees are harassed by that tossing motion, when they would like to be at rest ; the shivering grass makes her quake with sympathetic cold ; and the willows by the pool, bent low and white under that invisible harshness, seem agitated and helpless like herself. But she loves the scene the better for its sadness : there is some pity in it. It is not like that hard unfeeling happiness of lovers, flaunting in the eyes of misery. She set her teeth tight against the window-frame, and the tears fell thick and fast. She was so thankful she could cry, for the mad passion she had felt when her eyes were dry fright- ened her. If that dreadful feeling were to come on when Lady Cheverel was present, she should never be able to contain her- self. Then there was Sir Christopher so good to her so happy about Anthony's marriage ; and all the while she had these wicked feelings. - * . "Oh, I can not help it, I can not help it!" she said in a loud whisper between her sobs. " O God, have pity upon me !" In this way Tina wore out the long hours of the windy moonlight, till at last, with weary aching limbs, she lay down in bed again, and slept from mere exhaustion. While this poor little heart was being bruised with a weight too heavy for it, Nature was holding on her calm inexorable way, in unmoved and terrible beauty. The stars were rush- ing in their eternal courses ; the tides swelled to the level of the last expectant weed ; the sun was making brilliant day to busy nations on the other side of the swift earth. The stream of human thought and deed was hurrying and broad- ening onward. The astronomer was at his telescope ; the great ships were laboring over the waves ; the toiling eager- ness of commerce, the fierce spirit of revolution, were only ebbing in brief rest ; and sleepless statesmen were dreading the possible crisis of the morrow. What were our little Tina and her trouble in this mighty torrent, rushing from one awful unknown to another? Lighter than the smallest cen- tre of quivering life in the water-drop, hidden and uncared for as the pulse of anguish in the breast of the tiniest bird that has fluttered down to its nest with the long-sought food, ind has found the nest torn and empty. 128 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. CHAPTER VI. THE next morning when Caterina was waked from her heavy sleep by Martha bringing in the warm water, the sun was shining, the wind had abated, and those hours of suffer- ing in the night seemed unreal and dreamlike, in spite of weary limbs and aching eyes. She got up and began to dress with a strange feeling of insensibility, as if nothing could make her cry again ; and she even felt a sort of long- ing to be down stairs in the midst of 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 follies as we look out on the blessed morning sun- light, which comes to us like a bright-winged angel beckon- ing us to quit the old path of vanity that stretches its dreary length behind us ; and Tina, little as she knew about doc- trines and theories, seemed to herself to have been both fool- ish and wicked yesterday. To-day she would try to be good ; and when she knelt down to say her short prayer the very form she had learned by heart when she was 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 her pale looks at breakfast, Caterina passed the morning quietly, Miss Assher and Captain Wybrow be- ing out on a riding excursion. In the evening there was a dinner-party, and after Caterina had sung a little, Lady Cheverel remembering that she was ailing, sent her to bed, where she soon sank into a deep sleep. Body and mind must renew their force to suffer as well as 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 Sir Christopher, to hear the story of the architectural alterations, the family portraits, and the family relics. All the party, except Mr. Gilfil, were in the drawing-room when the proposition was made ; and when Miss Assher rose to go, she looked towards Captain Wybrow, expecting to see him rise too ; but he kept his seat near the fire, turning his eyes towards the newspaper which he had been holding unread in his hand. " Are you not coming, Anthony ?" said Lady Cheverel, noticing Miss Assher' s look of expectation. "I think not, if you'll excuse me," he answered, rising and MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 129 opening the door ; " I feel a little chilled this morning, and, I am afraid of the cold rooms and draughts." Miss Assher reddened, but said nothing, and passed on, Lady Cheverel accompanying her. Caterina was seated at work in the oriel window. It was the first time she and Anthony had been alone together, and she had thought before that he wished to avoid her. But now, surely, he wanted to speak to her he wanted to say something kind. Presently he rose from his seat near the fire, and placed himself on the ottoman opposite to her. " Well, Tina, and how have you been all this long time ?" Both the tone and the words were an offense to her; the tone was so different from the old one, the words were so cold and unmeaning. She answered with a little bitterness, " I think you needn't ask. It doesn't make much differ- ence to you." " 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 the past or comments on the present. And yet he wished to be well with Caterina. He would have liked, to caress. hcr,-mjike_her presents, and have her think him very kind to her. But th^e^wpmeh are plaguy^pcr- verse ! There's no bringing them to look rationally at any thiiiLT. At last he said, "1 hoped you would think all the be'fEer of me, Tina, for doing as I have done, instead of bear- ing malice towards me. I hoped you would see that it is the best thing for every one the best for your happiness too." " Oh, 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 her reticule, which lay on the harpsichord. She gave a keen glance at Caterina, whose face was flushed, and say- ing to Captain Wybrow with a slight sneer, " Since you are so chill I wonder you like to sit in the window," 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 be friends. I shall al- ways be your friend." " Thank you," said Caterina, drawing away her hand. " You are very generous. But pray move away. Miss Assher may come >n again." 6* 130 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. " Miss Assher be hanged !" said Anthony, feeling the fas- cination of old habit returning on him in his proximity to Caterina. He put his arm round her waist, and leaned his cheek down to hers. The lips couldn't help meeting after that ; but the next moment, with heart swelling and tears rising, Caterina burst away from him, and rushed out of the rooP\- CHAPTER VH CATERINA tore herself from Anthony with the desperate effort of one who has just self-recollection enough left to be conscious that the fumes of charcoal will master his senses unless he bursts a way for himself to the fresh air; but when she reached her own room, she was still too intoxicated with that momentary revival of old emotions, too much agitated by the sudden return of tenderness in her lover, to know whether pain or pleasure predominated. It was as if a mira- cle had happened in her little world of feeling, and made the future all vague a dim morning haze of possibilities, instead of the sombre wintry daylight and clear rigid outline of pain- ful certainty. She felt the need of rapid movement. She must walk out in spite of the rain. Happily, there was a thin place in the curtain of clouds which seemed 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 not wonder so much at my going out." At the hall door she found Rupert, the old bloodhound, stationed on the mat, with the determination that the first person who was sensible enough to take a walk that morning should have the honor of his approbation and society. As he thrust his great black and tawny head under her hand, and wagged his tail with vigorous eloquence, and reached the climax of his welcome by jumping up to lick her face, which was at a convenient licking height for him, Caterina felt quite grateful to the old dog for his friendliness. Animals are such agree- able friends they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms. The " Mosslands " was a remote part of the grounds, en- circled by the little stream issuing from the pool ; and cer- tainly, for a wet day, Caterina could hardly have chosen a less suitable walk, for though the rain was abating, and pres- ently ceased altogether, thwe was still a smart shower falling MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 131 from the trees which arched over the greater part of the way. But she found just the desired relief from her feverish excite- ment in laboring 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 often was to Mr. Gilfil, who at times had his fits of jealousy and sadness to get rid of, and wisely had recourse to nature's innocent opium fatigue. When Caterina reached the pretty arched wooden bridge which formed the only entrance to the Mosslands for any but webbed feet, the sun had mastered the clouds, and was shin- ing through the boughs of the tall elms that made a deep nest for the gardener's cottage turning the rain-drops into diamonds, and inviting the nasturtium flowers creeping over the porch and low-thatched roof to lift up their flame-colored heads once more. The rooks were cawing with many-voiced monotony, apparently by a remarkable approximation to human intelligence finding great conversational resources in the chapge 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 of opinion that a little external moisture would hurt no man who was not perversely neglectful of that obvious and provi- dential antidote, rum-and-water. Caterina loved this nest. Every object in it, every sound that haunted it, had been familiar to her from the days when she had been carried thither on Mr. Bates's arm, making little cawing noises to imitate the rooks, clapping her hands at the green frogs leaping in the moist grass, and fixing grave eyes on the gardener's fowls cluck-clucking under their pens. And now the spot looked prettier to her than ever; it was so out of the way of Miss Assher, with her brilliant beauty, and personal claims, and small civil remarks. She thought Mr. Bates would not be come into his dinner yet, so she would sit down and wait for him. But she was mistaken. Mr. Bates was seated in his arm- chair, with his pocket-handkerchief thrown over his face, as the most eligible mode of passing away those superfluous hours between meals when the weather drives a man in-doors. Roused by the furious barking of his chained bulldog, he de- scried his little favorite approaching and forthwith presented himself at the doorway, looking disproportionately tall com- pared with the height of his cottage. The bulldog, mean- while, unbent from the severity of his official demeanor, and commenced a friendly interchange of ideas with Rupert. Mr. Bates's hair was now gray, but his frame was none the less stalwart, and his face looked all the redder, making an 132 SCENES OP CLEEICAL LIFE. artistic contrast with the deep blue of his cotton neckerchief, and of his linen apron twisted into a girdle round his waist. "Why, dang my boottons, Miss Tiny," he exclaimed, " hoo coom ye to coom out dabblin' your faet laike a little Muscovy duck, sich a day as this ? Not but what ai'm de- laighted to sae ye. Here, Hesther," he called to his old hump- backed housekeeper, "tek the young ledy's oombrella an' spread it out to dray. Coom, coom in, Miss Tiny, an' set ye doon by the faire an' dray yer faet an' hev summat warm to kape ye from ketchin' coold." Mr. Bates led the way, stooping under the doorplaces, into his small sitting-room, and, shaking the patchwork cushion in his arm-chair, moved it to within a good roasting distance of the blazing fire. " Thank you, uncle Bates " (Caterina kept up her childish epithets for her friends, and this was one of them) ; " not quite so close to the fire, for I am warm with walking." " Eh, but yer shoes are faine an' wet, an' ye must put up yer faet on the fender. Rare big faet, baint 'em ? aboot the saize of a good big spoon. I woonder ye can mek a shift to stan' on 'em. Now, what'll ye hev to warm yer insaide? a drop o' hot elder wain, now ?" " No, not any thing to drink, thank you ; it isn't very long since breakfast," said Caterina, drawing out the comforter from her deep pocket. 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 must wear it this winter, and give your red one to old Brooks." " Eh, Miss Tiny, this is a beauty. An' ye made it all AVI' yer little fingers for an old feller laike mae ! I tek it very kaind on ye, an' I belave ye I'll wear it, and be prood on't too. These sthraipes, blue an' whaite, now, they mek it un- common pritty." " Yes, that will suit your complexion, you know, better than the old scarlet one. I know Mrs. Sharp will be more in love with you than ever when 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 color the bride as is to be has on her cheeks ! Dang my boottons ! she looks faine and handsome o' hossback sits as upraight as a dart, wi' a figure like a statty ! Misthi'ess Sharp has promised to put me behaind one o' the doors when the ladies are coinin' doon to dinner, so as I may sae the young un i' full dress, wi' all her curls an' that. Misthress Sharp says she's almost bcau- tifuller nor my ledy was when she was yoong ; an' I think ye'll noot faind many i' the counthry as'll coom up to that." MB. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 133 " Yes, Miss Assher is very handsome," said Caterina, rath- er faintly, feeling the sense of her own insignificance return- ing at this picture of the impression Miss Assher made on others. " Well, an' I hope she's good too, an'll mek a good naice to Sir Cristhifer an' my ledy. Misthress Griffin, the maid, says as she's rether tatchy and find-fautin' aboot her cloothes, laike. But she's yoong she's yoong ; that'll wear off when she's got a hoosband, an' childi'en, 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 think of your young misthress as is to be ?' An' I says, ' Whay, yer honor, I think she's as fain a lass as iver I set eyes on ; an' I wish the Captain luck in a fain family, an' your honor laife an' health to see't.' Mr. Warren says as the masther's all for forrardin' the weddin', an' it'll very laike be afore the autumn's oot." As Mr. Bates ran on, Caterina felt something like a pain- ful contraction at her heart. " Yes," she said rising, " I dare say it will. Sir Christopher is very anxious for it. But I must go, uncle Bates ; Lady Cheverel 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 ledy wants ye. Though I hevn't thanked ye half anoof- for the comfiter the wrapraskil, as they call't. My feckins, it's a beauty. But ye look very whaite and sadly, Miss Tiny ; I doubt ye're poorly ; an' this walking i' th' wet isn't good for ye." " Oh, yes, it is indeed," said Caterina, hastening out, and taking up her umbrella from the kitchen floor. " I must real- ly go now ; so, good-bye." She tripped off, calling Rupert, while the good gardener, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, stood looking after her, and shaking his head with rather a melancholy air. " She gets moor nesh and dillicat than iver," he said, half to himself and half to Hester. " I shouldn't woonder if she fades away laike them cyclamens 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 hunger- ing for the cold moist air as a counteractive of inward excite- ment, but with a chill at her heart which made the outward chill only depressing. The golden sunlight beamed through the dripping boughs like a Shechinah, or visible divine pres- ence, and the birds were chirping and trilling their new au- tumnal songs so sweetly, it seemed as if their throats, as well 134 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. as the air, were all the clearer for the rain ; but Caterina moved through all this joy and beauty like a poor wounded lev- eret painfully dragging its little 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 the nearness of the wedding, had come upon her like the pressure of a cold hand, rousing her from confused dozing to a perception of hard, familiar realities. It is so with emotional natures, whose thoughts are no more than the fleeting shadows cast by feel- ing : to them words are facts, and even 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 former state of despondency and wretchedness than an ad- ditional sense of injury from Anthony. His behavior towards her in the morning was a new wrong. To snatch a caress when she justly claimed an expression of penitence, of regret, of sympathy, was to make more light of her than ever. CHAPTER VHI THAT evening Miss Assher seemed to carry herself with un- usual haughtiness, and was coldly observant of Caterina. There was unmistakably thunder in the air. Captain Wy- brow appeared to take the matter very easily, and was inclined to brave it out by paying more than ordinary attention to Caterina. Mr. Gilfil had induced her to play a game at draughts with him, Lady Assher being seated at picquet with Sir Christopher, and Miss Assher in determined conversation with Lady Cheverel. Anthony, thus left as an odd unit, sauntered up to Caterina's chair, and leaned behind her, watch- ing the game. Tina, with all the remembrances of the morn- ing thick upon her, felt her cheeks becoming more and more crimson, and at last said impatiently, " I wish you would go away." This happened directly under the view of Miss Assher, who saw Caterina's reddening cheeks, saw that she said something impatiently, and that Captain Wybrow moved away in con- sequence. There was another person, too, who had noticed this incident with strong interest, and who was moreover aware that Miss Assher not only saw, but keenly observed what was passing. That other person was Mr. Gilfil, and he drew some painful conclusions which heightened his anxiety for Caterina. MR. GILFII/S LOVE-STORY. 135 The next morning, in spite of the fine weather, Miss Assher declined riding, and Lady Cheverel, perceiving that there was something wrong between the lovers, took care that they should be left together in the drawing-room, i Miss Assher, seated on a sofa near the fire, was busy with some fancy-work, in which she seemed bent on making great progress this morning. Captain Wybrow sat opposite with a newspaper in his hand, from which he obligingly read extracts with an elaborately easy air, willfully unconscious of the contemptu- ous silence with which she pursued her filigree work. At length he put down the paper, which he could no longer pre- tend not to have exhausted, and Miss Assher then said, " You seem 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 color so very deeply when their brothers approach them." "Does she color? I never noticed it. But she's a timid little thing." " It would be much better if you would not be so hypo- critical, Captain Wybrow. I am confident there has been some flirtation between you. iBfisTSBOpiir-hcr position, would never speak to yon with the petulance she did last night, if you had not given her some kind of claim on you." " My dear Beatrice, now do be reasonable ; do ask your- self what earthly probability there is that I should think of flirting with poor little Tina. Is there any thing about her to attract that sort of attention? She is more child than woman. One thinks of her as a little girl to be petted and played with." "Pray, what were you playing at with her yesterday morning, when I came in unexpectedly, and her cheeks were flushed and her hands trembling ?" " Yesterday morning ? Oh, I remember. You know I al- ways tease her about Gilfil, who is over h^ad and ears in love with her ; and she is angry at that, perhaps, because she likes him. They were old play-fellows years before I came here, and Sir Christopher has set his heart on their marry- ing." " Captain Wybrow, you are very false. It had nothing to do with Mr. Gilfil that she colored last night when you lean- ed over her chair. You might just as well be candid. If your own mind is not made up, pray do no violence to yourself. I am quite ready to give way to Miss Sarti's superior attrac- tions. Understand that, so far as I am concerned, you are 136 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. perfectly at liberty. I decline any share in the affection of a man who forfeits my respect by duplicity." In saying this Miss Assher rose, and was sweeping haughti- ly out of the room, when Captain Wybrow placed himself be fore her, and took her hand. " Dear, dear Beatrice, be patient ; do not judge me so rash- ly. Sit down again, sweet," he added in a pleading voice, pressing both her hands between his, and leading her back to the sofa, where he sat down beside her. Miss Assher was not unwilling to be led back or to listen, but she retained her cold and haughty expression. " Can you not trust me, Beatrice ? Can you not believe me, although there may be things I am unable to explain ?" " Why should there be any thing you are unable to ex- plain? An honorable man will not be placed in circum- stances which he can not explain to the woman he seeks to make his wife. He will not ask her to believe that he acts 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 and detained her. " Now, Beatrice, dear," he said imploringly, " can you not understand that there are things a man doesn't like to talk about secrets that he must keep for the sake of others, and not for his own sake ? Every thing that relates to myself you may ask me, but do not ask me to tell other people's se- crets. Don't you understand me ?" " Oh, yes," said Miss Assher scornfully, " I understand. Whenever you make love 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 very plain that there is some relation more than friendship between you and Miss SartL Since you can not explain that relation, there is no more to be said between us." " Confound it, Beatrice ! you'll drive me mad. Can a fel- low help a girl's falling in love with him? Such things are always happening, but men don't talk of them. These fan- cies will spring- up without the slightest foundation, .especial- ly when a woman sees few people ; they die out again when there is no encouragement. If you could like me, you ought not to be surprised that other people caiT;~yoTro-nght to think the better of them for it." " You mean to say, then, that Miss Sarti is in love with you, without your ever having made love to her." " Do not press me to say such things, dearest. It is enough that you know I love you that I am devoted to you. You MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 137 naughty queen you, you know there is no chance for any one else where you are. V^njlTfi only But don't bejjoo cruel ; for you know they say I have another heart-disease Besides love, and these scenes bring on terrible palpitations." " But I must have an answer to this one question," said Miss Assher, a little softened : " Has there been, or is there, any love on your side towards Miss Sarti ? I have nothing to d.o with her feelings, but I have a right 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 different affair. One has a brother- ly affection for such a woman as Tina ; but it is another 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 Wy- brow held in his. Miss Assher was conquered. It was so far from probable that Anthony should love that pale insig- nificant little thing so highly probable that he should adore the beautiful Miss Assher. On the whole, it was rather grati- fying that other women should be languishing for her hand- some lover ; he really was an exquisite creature. Poor Miss Sarti ! Well, she would get over it. Captain Wyh'' mv SfLW his aflyaptaffe, " Come, sweet love," he continued, " let us talk no more about unpleasant things. You will keep Tina's secret, and be 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'm terribly in want of the air. Come, give me one forgiving kiss, and say you will go." Miss Assher complied with the double request, and, then went to equip herself for the ride, while her lover walked to the stables. CHAPTER IX. MEANWHILE Mr. Gilfil, who had a heavy weight on his mind, had watched for the moment when, the two elder ladies having driven out, Caterina would probably be alone in Lady Cheverel's sitting-room. He went up and knocked at the door. " Come in," said the sweet mellow voice, always thrilling to him as the sound of rippling water to the thirsty. He entered and found Caterina standing: in some confu- 138 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. sion, as if she had been startled from a reverie. She felt re- lieved when she saw it was Maynard, but, the next moment, felt a little pettish that he should have come 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 very particular to say to you. Will you let me sit down with you for half an hour ?" " Yes, dear old preacher," said Caterina, sitting down with an air of weariness ; " what is it ?" Mr. Gilfil placed himself opposite to her, and said, " I hope you will not be hurt, Caterina, by what I am going to say to you. I do not speak from any other feelings than real affec- tion and anxiety for you. I put every thing else out of the question. You know you are more to me than all the world ; but I will not thrust before you a feeling which you are un- able to return. I speak to you as a brother the old May- nard that used to scold you for getting your fishing-line tan- gled ten years ago. You will not believe that I have any mean, selfish motive in mentioning things that are painful to you ?" "No ; I know you are very good," said Caterina, abstract- edly. " From what I saw yesterday evening," Mr. Gilfil went on, hesitating and coloring slightly, " I am led to fear pray for- give me if I am wrong, Caterina that you that Captain Wybrow is base enough still to trifle with your feelings, that he still allows himself to behave to you as no man ought who is the declared lover of another woman." " What do you mean, Maynard ?" said Caterina, with an- ger flashing from her eyes. "Do you mean that I let him make love to me? What right have you to think 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 only suspect that heartless puppy of behaving so as to keep awake feelings in you that not only destroy your own peace of mind, but may lead to very bad consequences with regard to others. I want to warn you that Miss Assher 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. You must see by this time that he is not worth the feelings you have given him. 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 trifling." " You ought not to speak so of him, Maynard," said Caterina, MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. v>< 139 passionately. " lie is not what you think. He did care for me ; he did love me \ onljg he wanted to do what his uncle wished?** " Oh^to be sure ! I know it is only from the most virtu- ous motives that he does what is convenient to himself." Mr. Gilfil paused. He felt that he was getting irritated, and defeating his 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 he loved you or not, his position now with Miss Assher is such that any love you may cherish for him can bring nothing but misery. God knows, I don't expect you to leave off loving him at a moment's notice. Time- and ab- sence, and trying to do what is right, are the only cures. If it were not that Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel would be displeased and puzzled at your wishing to leave home just now, I would beg you to pay a visit to my sister. She and her husband are good creatures, and would make their house a home to you. But I could not urge the thing just now without giving a special reason ; and what is most of all to be dreaded is the raising of any suspicion in Sir Christopher's mind of what has happened 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 away from him, out of the window, and her eyes were filling with tears. He rose, and, advancing a little to- wards her, held out his hand, and said, " Forgive me, Caterina, for intruding on your feelings in this way. I was so afraid you might not be aware how Miss Assher watched you. Remember, I entreat you, that the peace of the whole family depends on your power of govern- ing yourself. Only say you forgive me before I go." " Dear, good Maynard," she said, stretching out her little hand, and taking two of his large fingers in her grasp, while her tears flowed fast ; " I am very cross to you. But my heart is breaking. I don't know what I do. Good-bye." He stooped down, kissed the little hand, and then left the room. " The cursed-scoundrelj" he muttered between his teeth, as he dosed the door behind him? " If it were not for Sir Christopher, I should like to pound him into paste to poison puppies like himself." 140 SCENES OP CLEEICAL LIFE. CHAPTER X. THAT evening Captain Wybrow, returning from a long ride with Miss Assher, went up to his dressing-room, and seated himself with an air of considerable lassitude before his mir- ror. The reflection there presented of his exquisite self was certainly paler and more worn than usual, and might excuse the anxiety with which he first felt his pulse and then laid his hand on his heart. " It's a devil of fc position this for a man tu l>i in," was the train of hisHtnought, as he kept his eyes fixed on the glass, while he leaned back in his chair, and crossed his hands behind his head ; " between two jealous women, and both of them as ready to take fire as tinder. And in my state of health, too! I should be glad enough to run away from the whole affair, and go off to some lotos-eating place or other where there are no women, or only women who are too sleepy to be jeal- ous. Here am I, doing nothing to please myself, trying to do the best thing for every body 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 an- other jealous fit into her head and it's likely enough, Tina is so unmanageable I don't know what storm she may raise. And any hitch in this marriage, especially of that sort, might be a fatal business for the old gentleman. I wouldn't have such a blow fall upon him for a great deal. Besides, a man must be married some time in his life, and I could hardly do better than marry Beatrice. She's an uncommonly fine wom- an, and I'm really very fond of her ; and as I shall let her have her own way her temper won't signify much. I wish the wedding was over and done with, for this 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 ! What a little simpleton it was to set her heart on me in that way ! But she ought to see how impossible it is that things should be different. If she would but understand how kind- ly I feel towards her, and make up her mind to look on me as a friend ; but that is what one never can get a woman to do. Beatrice is very good-natured ; I'm sure she would be kind to the little 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, and I should like to see the lit- MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 141 tie grasshopper happy. If I had been in a different position I would certainly have married her myself; but that was out of the question with my responsibilities to Sir Christopher. I think 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 they were once married, she's such a loving little thing, she would soon be billing and cooing with him as if she had never known me. It would certainly be the best thing for her happiness if that marriage were hasten- ed. Heigho ! Those arc lucky fellows that have no women falling in love with them! it's a confounded responsibility." At this point in his meditations he turned his head a little, so as to get a three-quarter view of his face. Clearly it was the " dono infelice delta bellezza " that laid these onerous duties upon him an idea which naturally suggested that he should ring for his valet. For the next few days, however, there was such a cessation of threatening symptoms as to allay the anxiety both of Cap- tain Wybrow and Mr. Gilfil. All earthly things have their lull : even on nights when the most unappeasable wind is raging, there will be a moment of stillness before it crashes among the boughs again, and storms against the windows, and howls like a thousand lost demons through the key-holes. Miss Assher appeared to be in the highest good-humor; Captain Wybrow was more assiduous than usual, and was very circumspect in his behavior to Caterina, on whom Miss Assher bestowed unwonted attentions. The weather was bril- liant ; there were riding excursions in the mornings and din- ner-parties in the evenings. Consultations in the library be- tween Sir Christopher and Lady Assher seemed to be leading to a satisfactory result ; and it was understood that this visit at Cheverel Manor would terminate in another fortnight, when the preparations for the wedding would be carried for- ward with all dispatch at Farleigji. The Baronet seemed every day more radiant. Accustomed to view people who entered into his plans by the pleasant light which his own strong will and bright hopefulness were always casting on the future, he saw nothing but personal charms and promising domestic qualities in Miss Assher, whose quickness of eye and taste in externals formed a real ground of sympathy between her and Sir Christopher. Lady Cheverel's enthusiasm never rose above the temperate mark of calm satisfaction, and, hav- ing quite her share of the critical acumen which characterizes the mutual estimates of the 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 142 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. herself, on principle and by habitual self-command, the most deferential of wives, she noticed with disapproval Miss As- sher's occasional air of authority towards Captain Wybrow. A proud woman who has learned to submit, carries all her pride to the reinforcement of her submission, and looks down with severe superiority on all feminine assumption as " unbe- coming." Lady Cheverel, however, confined her criticisms to the privacy of her own thoughts, and, with a reticence which I fear may seem incredible, did not use them as a means of disturbing her husband's complacency. And Oaterina ? How did she pass these sunny autumn days, in which the skies seemed to be smiling on the family gladness? To her the change in Miss Assher's manner was un- accountable. Those compassionate attentions, those smiling condescensions, were torture to Caterina, who was constantly tempted to repulse them with anger. She thought, " Perhaps Anthony has told her to be kind to poor Tina." This was an in- sult, lie ought to have known that the mere presence of Miss Assher was painful to her, that Miss Assher's smiles scorched her, that Miss Assher's kind words were like poison-stings in- flaming her to madness. And he Anthony he was evident- ly repenting of the tenderness he had been betrayed into that morning in the drawing-room. He was cold and distant and civil to her, to ward otf Beatrice's suspicions, and Beatrice could be so gracious now, because she was sure of Anthony's entire devotion. Well ! and so it ought 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 her love him so to speak such tender words to give her such ca- resses, and then to behave as if such things had never been. He had given her the poison that seemed so sweet while she was drinking it, and now it was in her blood, and she was helpless. With this tempest pent up in her bosom, the poor child went up to her room every night, and there it all burst forth. There, with loud whispers and sobs, restlessly pacing up and down, lying on the hard floor, courting cold and weariness, she told to the pitiful listening night the anguish which she could pour into no mortal ear. But always sleep came at last, and always in the morning the reactive calm that enabled her to live through the day. It is amazing how long a young frame will go on battling with this sort of secret wretchedness, and yet show no traces of the conflict for any but sympathetic eyes. The very del- icacy of Caterina' s usual appearance, her natural paleness and habitually quiet mouse-like ways, made any symptoms of fa- ME. GLLFIL'S LOVE-STOKY. 143 tigue and suffering less noticeable. And her singing the one thing in which she ceased to be passive, and became prom- inent lost none of its energy. She herself sometimes won- dered how it was that, whether she felt sad or angry, crush- ed with the sense of Anthony's indifference, or burning with impatience under Miss Assher's attentions, it was always a re- lief to her to sing. Those full deep notes she sent forth seem- ed to be lifting the pain from her heart seemed to be carry- ing away 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 rose on her cheek, the deepening violet tint under her eyes, and the strange absent glance, the un- healthy glitter of the beautiful eyes themselves. But those agitated nights were producing a more fatal ef- fect thau was represented by these slight outward changes. CHAPTER XL THE following Sunday, the morning being rainy, it was de- termined that the family should not go to Cumbermoor Church as usual, but that Mr. Gilfil, who had only an after- noon service at his curacy, should conduct the morning ser- vice in the chapel. Just before the appointed hour of eleven, Caterina came down into the drawing-room, looking so unusually ill as to call forth an anxious inquiry from Lady Cheverel, who, on learning that she had a severe headache, insisted that she should not attend service, and at once packed her up com- fortably on a sofa near the fire, putting a volume of Tillot- son's Sermons into her hands as appropriate reading, if Cat- erina should feel equal to that means of edification. Excellent medicine for the mind are the good Archbish- op's sermons, but a medicine, unhappily, not suited to Tina's case. She sat with the book open on her knees, her dark eyes fixed vacantly on the portrait of that handsome Lady Cheverel, wife of the notable Sir Anthony. She gazed at the picture without thinking of it, and the fair blonde dame seemed to look down on her with that benignant unconcern, that mild wonder, with which happy self-possessed women are apt to look down on their agitated and weaker sisters. Caterina was thinking of the near future of the wedding that was soon to come of all she would have to live through in the next months. 144 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. "I wish I could be very ill, and die before then," she thought. " When people get very ill, they don't mind about things. Poor Patty Richards looked so happy when she was in a decline. She didn't seem to care any more about her loveV that she was engaged to be married to, and she liked the smell of the flowers so, that I used to take her. Oh, if I could but like any thing if I could but think about any thing else ! If these dreadful feelings would go away, I wouldn't mind about not being happy. I wouldn't want any thing and I could do what would please Sir Christo- pher and Lady Cheverel. But when that rage and anger comes into me, I don't know what to do. I don't feel the ground under me ; I only feel my head and heart beating, and it seems as if I must do something dreadful. Oh! I wonder if any one ever felt like me before. I must be very wicked. But God 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 along the passage, and became conscious that the vol- ume of Tillotson had slipped on the floor. She had only just picked it up, and seen with alarm that the pages were bent, when Lady Assher, Beatrice, and Captain Wybrow entered, all with that brisk and cheerful air which a sermon is often observed to produce when it is quite finished. Lady Assher at once came and seated herself by Caterina. Her ladyship had been considerably refreshed by a doze, and was in great force for monologue. " Well, my dear Miss Sarti, and how do you feel now ? a little better, I see. I thought you would be, sitting quietly here. These headaches, now, are all from weakness. You must not over exert yourself, and you must take bitters. I used to have just the same sort of headaches when I was your age, and old Dr. Samson used to say to my mother, ' Madam, what your daughter suffers from is weakness.' He was such a curious old man, was Dr. Samson. But I wish you could have heard the sermon this morning. Such an excellent ser- mon ! It was about the ten virgins : five of them were fool- ish, and five were clever, you know ; and Mr. Gilfil explained all that. 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 John would have liked him be- yond any thing ; he is so good-tempered at cards, and he was such a man for cards, was Sir John. And our rector is a very irritable man ; he can't bear to lose his money at cards. I don't think a clergyman ought to mind about losing his money ; do you ? do you, now ?" MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 145 " Oh pray, Lady Assher," interposed Beatrice, in her usual tone of superiority, " do not weary poor Caterina with such uninteresting questions. Your head seems very bad, still, dear," she continued in a condoling tone, to Caterina ; " do take my vinaigrette, and keep it in your pocket. It will per- haps 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 As- sher persisted, holding it close to Tina's hand. Tina colored deeply, pushed the vinaigrette away with some impatience, and said, " Thank you, I never use those things. I don't like vinaigrettes." Miss Assher returned the vinaigrette to her pocket in sur- prise and haughty silence, and Captain Wybrow, who had looked on in some alarm, said hastily, " See ! it is quite bright out of doors now. There is time for 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 Sir Christopher 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 toward Caterina, and said in a tone of earnest remonstrance, " My dear Ca.terijia^Jetjnc beg of you to exercise more con- trol over your 1^eTings;~yQu_are~i'eally rude to Miss Assher, and I can see that she is quite hurt. Consider how strange your behavior must appear tq her. She will wonder what can be the cause of it. Come, dear Tina," he added, approach- ing her, and attempting to take her hand ; " for your own sake let me entreat you to receive her attentions politely. She really feels very kindly towards you, and I should be so happy to see you friends." Caterina was already in such a state of diseased suscepti- bility that the most innocent words from Captain Wybrow would have been irritating to her, as the whirr of the most delicate wing will afflict a nervous patient. But this tone of benevolent remonstrance was intolerable. He had inflicted a great and unrepented injury on her, and now he assumed an air of benevolence towards her. This was a new outrage. His profession of good-will was insolence. Caterina snatched away her hand and said indignantly, " Leave me to myself, Captain Wybrow ! I do not disturb you." " Caterina, why will you be so violent so unjust to me ? It is for you that I feel anxious. Miss Assher has already 146 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. noticed how strange your behavior is both to her and me, and it puts me into a very difficult position. What can I say to her?" " Say ?" Caterina burst forth with intense bitterness, ris- ing, and moving towards the door ; " say that I am a poor silly girl, and have fallen in love with you, and am jealous of her ; but that you have never had any feeling but pity for me you _h*Yje "<>vf>r hfiftaved with any thing more than friendliness to me. Tell iier~tKaT,"ahd she will think all the better of you." Tina uttered this as the bitterest sarcasm her ideas would furnish her with, not having the faintest suspicion that the sarcasm derived any of its bitterness from truth. Under- neath all her sense of wrong, which was rather instinctive than reflective underneath all the madness of her jealousy, and her ungovernable impulses of resentment and vindictive- ness underneath all this scorching passion there were still left some hidden crystal dews of trust, of self-reproof, of be- lief that Anthony was trying to do the right. Love had not all gone to feed the fires of hatred. Tina still trusted that Anthony felt more for her than lie seemed to feel; she was still far from suspecting him of a wrong which a .\\ioman re- sents even more than inconstancy. And she threw out this taunt simply as the most intense expression she could find for the anger of the moment. As she stood nearly in the middle of the room, her little body trembling under the shock of passions too strong for it, her very lips pale, and her eyes gleaming, the door opened, and Miss Assher appeared, tall, blooming, and splendid, in her walking costume. As she entered, her face wore the smile appropriate to the exits and entrances of a young lady who feels that her presence is an interesting fact ; but the next moment she looked at Caterina with grave surprise, and then threw a glance of angry suspicion at Captain Wybrow, who wore an air of weariness and vexation. " Perhaps you are too much engaged to walk out, Cap- tain Wybrow ? I will go alone." " No, no, I am coming," he answered, hurrying towards her, and leading her out of the room ; leaving poor Caterina to feel all the reaction of shame and self-reproach after her outburst of passion. MB. GILFIL'S LOVE-STOBY. 147 CHAPTER XII. " PEAY, what is likely to be the next scene in the drama 'between you and Miss Sarti?" said Miss Assher to Captain Wybrow as soon as they were out on the gravel. " It would be agreeable to have some idea of what is coming." Captain Wybrow was silent. He felt out of humor, wea- ried, annoyed. There come moments when one almost deter- mines never again to oppose any thing but dead silence to an angry woman. "Now then, confound it," he said to him- self, " I'm going to be battered on the other flank." He looked resolutely at the horizon, with something more like a fro wit on his face than Beatrice had ever seen there. After a pause of two or three mmutes, she continued in a haughtier tone, " I suppose you are aware, Captain Wy- orow, that 1 expect an explanation of what I have just seen." " I have no explanation, my dear Beatrice," he answered at last, making a strong eifort over himself, "except what I have already given you. I hoped you would never recur to the subject." " Your explanation, however, is very far from satisfactory. I can only say that the airs Miss Sarti thinks herself entitled to put on towards you, are quite incompatible with your po- sition as regards me. And her behavior to me is most insult- ing. I shall certainly not stay in the house under such cir- cumstances, and mamma must state the reasons to Sir Chris- topher." " Beatrice," said Captain Wybrow, his irritation giving way to alarm, " I beseech you to be patient, and exercise your good feelings in this affair. It is very painful, I know, but I am sure you would be grieved to injure poor Caterina to bring down my uncle's anger upon her. Consider what a poor little dependent thing she is." " It is very adroit of you to make these evasions, but do not suppose that they deceive me. Miss Sarti would never dare to behave to you as she does, if you had not flirted with her, or made love to her. I suppose she considers your en- gagement to me a breach of faith to her. I am much obliged to you, certainly, for making me Miss Sard's rival. You have told me a falsehood, Captain Wybrow." " Beatrice, I solemnly declare to you that Caterina is noth- ing more to me than a girl I naturally feel kindly to as a fac 148 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. vorite of my uncle's and a nice little thing enough. I should be glad to see her married to Gilfil to-morrow ; that's a good proof that I'm not in love with her, I should think. As to the past, I may have shown her little attentions, which she has exaggerated and misinterpreted. What man is not liable to that sort o7~thingiL' "But~wfiat can she found her behavior on? What had she been saying to you this'morning to make her tremble and turn pale in that way ?" " Oh, I don't know. I just said something about her be- having peevishly. With that Italian blood of hers, there's no knowing how she may take what one says. She's a fierce lit- tle thing, though she seems so quiet generally." " But she ought to be made to know how unbecoming and indelicate her conduct is. For my part, I wonder Lady Chev- erel has not noticed her short answers and the airs she puts on." " Let me beg of you, Beatrice, not to hint any thing of the kind to Lady Cheverel. You must have observed how strict my aunt is. It never enters her head that a girl can be in love with a man who has not made her an offer." " Well, I shall let Miss Sarti know myself that I have ob- served her conduct, It will be only a charity to her." "Nay, dear, that will be doing nothing but harm. Cate- rina's temper is peculiar. The best thing you can do will be to leave her to herself as much as possible. It Avill all wear off. I've no doubt she'll be married to Gilfil before long. Girls' fancies are easily diverted from one object to another. By < f ove, what a rate my heart is galloping at ! These confound- ed palpitations get worse instead of better." Thus ended the conversation, so far as it concerned Cate- rina, not without leaving a distinct resolution in Captain Wy- brow's mind a resolution carried into effect the next day when he was in the library with Sir Christopher for the pur- pose of discussing some arrangements about the approaching marriage. " By-the-by," he said carelessly, when the business came to a pause, and he was sauntering round the room with his hands in his coat-pockets, surveying the backs of the books that lined the walls, " when is the wedding between Gilfil and Caterina to come off, sir ? I've a fellow-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 has come to an understanding with Tina ?" " Why," said Sir Christopher, " I did think of letting the thing be until old Crichley died ; he can't hold out very long, MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 149 poor fellow ; and then Maynard might have entered into mat- rimony and the rectory both at once. But, after all, that really is no good reason for waiting. There is no need for them to I save the INIanor when they are married. The little monkey is quite old enough. It would be pretty to see her a matron, with a baby about the size of a kitten in her arms." " I think that system of waiting is always bad. And if I can further any settlement you would like to make on Cate- rina, I shall be delighted to carry out your wishes." "My dear boy, that's very good of you; but Maynard will have enough ; and from what I know of him and I know him well I think he would rather provide for Caterina him- self. However, now you have put this matter into my 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 really forgotten poor Maynard. And he's older than you it's high time he was settled in life as a family man." Sir Christopher paused, took snuff in a meditative manner, and presently said, more to himself than to Anthony, who was humming a tune at the far end of the room, " Yes, yes. It will be a capital plan to finish off all our family business at once." Hiding out with Miss Assher the same morning, Captain Wybrow mentioned to her, incidentally, that Sir Christopher was anxious to bring about the wedding between Gilfil and Caterina as soon as possible, and that he, for his part, should do all he could to further the affair. It would be the best thing in the world for Tina, in whose welfare he was really interested. With Sir Christopher there was never any long interval between purpose and execution. He made up his mind promptly, and he acted promptly. On rising from luncheon, he said to Mr. Gilfil, " Come with me into the library, May- nard. I want to have a word with you." " Maynard, my boy," he began, as soon as they were seat- ed, tapping his snuff-box, and looking radiant at the idea of the unexpected pleasure he was about^to give, " why shouldn't we have two happy couples instead of one, before the au- tumn is over, eh ? " Eh ?" he repeated, after a moment's pause, lengthening out the monosyllable, taking a slow pinch, and looking up at Maynard with a sly smile. " I'm not quite sure that I understand you, sir," answered Mr. Gilfil, who felt annoyed at the consciousness that he was turning pale. 150 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. " Not understand me, you rogue ? You know very well whose happiness lies nearest to my heart after Anthony's. You know you let me into your secrets long ago, so there's no confession to make. Tina's quite old enough to be a grave little wife now ; and though the Rectory's not ready for you, that's no matter. My lady and I shall feel all the more comfortable for having you with us. We should miss our little singing-bird if we lost her all at once." Mr. Gilfil felt himself in a painfully difficult position. He dreaded that Sir Christopher should surmise or discover the true state of Caterina's feelings, and yet he was obliged to make those feelings the ground of his reply. " My dear sir," he at last said with some effort, " you will not suppose that I am not alive to your goodness that I am not grateful for your fatherly interest in my happiness ; but I fear that Caterina's feelings towards me are not such as to warrant the hope that she would accept a proposal of mar- riage from me." " Have you ever asked her ?" " No, sir. But we often know these things too well with- out asking." " Pooh, pooh ! the little monkey must love you. Why, you were her first playfellow ; and I remember she used to cry if you cut your finger. Besides, she has always silently admitted that you were her lover. You know I have always spoken of you to her in that light. I took it for granted you had settled the business between yourselves ; so did Antho- ny. Anthony thinks she's in love with you, and he has young eyes, which are apt enough to see clearly in these matters. He was talking to me about it this morning, and pleased me very much by the friendly interest he showed in you and Tina." The blood more than was wanted rushed back to Mr. Gilfil's face; he set his teeth and clenched his hands in the effort to repress a burst of indignation. Sir Christopher no- ticed the flush', but thought it indicated the fluctuation of hope and fear about Caterina. He went on : " You're too modest by half, Maynard. A fellow who can take a five-barred gate as you can, ought not to be so faint- hearted. If you can't speak to her yourself, leave me to talk to her." " Sir Christopher," said poor Maynard earnestly, " I shall really feel it the greatest kindness you can possibly show me not to mention this subject to Caterina at present. I think such a proposal, made prematurely, might only alienate her from me." MB. GILFIL'S LOVE-STOKY. 151 Sir Christopher was getting a little displeased at this con- tradiction. His tone became a little sharper as he said, " Have you any grounds to state for this opinion, beyond your general notion that Tina is not enough in love with you ?" " I can state none beyond my own very strong impression that she does not love me well enough to marry me." " Then I think that ground is worth nothing at all. I am tolerably correct in my judgment 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 me to manage the matter as I think best. You may rely on me that I shall do no harm to your cause, Maynard." Mr. Gilh'l, afraid to say more, yet wretched in the pros- pect of what might result from Sir Christopher's determina- tion, quitted the library in a state of mingled indignation against Captain Wybrow, and distress for himself and Cate- rina. What would she think of him ? She might suppose that he had instigated or sanctioned Sir Christopher's pro- ceeding. He should perhaps not have an opportunity of speaking to her on the subject in time ; he would write her a note, and carry it up to her room after the dressing-bell had rung. No ; that would agitate her, and unfit her for appear- ing at dinner, and passing the evening calmly. He would defer it till bed-time. After prayers, he contrived to lead her back to the drawing-room, and to put a letter in her hand. She carried it up to her own room, wondering, and there read "DEAR CATERING, Do not suspect for a moment that any thing Sir Christopher may say to you about our marriage has been prompted by me. I have done all I dare do to dissuade him from urging the subject, and have only been prevented from speaking more strongly by the dread of provoking ques- tions which I could not answer without causing you fresh misery. I write this, both to prepare you for any thing Sir Christopher may say, and to assure you but I hope you al- ready believe it that your feelings are sacred to me. I would rather part with the dearest hope of my life than be the means of adding to your trouble. "It is Captain Wybrow whohasprompted Sir Christopher to take up the subject at this moment. I tell you this, to save you from hearing it suddenly when your are with Sir Christopher. You see now what sort of stuff that dastard's heart is made of. Trust in me always, dearest Caterina, as whatever may come your faithful friend and brother, MAYNARD GILFIL." 152 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. Caterina was at first too terribly stung by the words about Captain Wybrow to think of the difficulty which threatened her to think either of what Sir Christopher would say to her, or of what she could say in reply. Bitter sense of injury, fierce resentment, left no room for fear. With the poisoned garment upon him, the victim writhes under the torture he has no thought of the coming death. Anthony could do this ! Of this there could be no explana- tion but the coolest contempt for her feelings, the basest sacri- fice of all the consideration and tenderness he owed her to the ease of his position with Miss Assher. No. It was worse than that : it was deliberate, gratuitous cruelty. He wanted to show her how he despised her ; he wanted to make her feel her folly in having ever believed that he loved her. The last crystal drops of trust and tenderness, she thought, were dried up ; all was parched, fiery hatred. Now she need no longer check her resentment by the fear of doing him an injustice : he had trifled with her, as Maynard had said ; he had been reckless of her; and now he was base and cruel. She had cause enough for her bitterness and anger ; they were not so wicked as they had seemed to her. As these thoughts were hurrying after each other like so many sharp throbs of fevered pain, she shed no tear. She paced restlessly to and fro, as her habit was her hands clenched, her eyes gleaming fiercely and wandering uneasily, as if in search of something on which she might throw herself like a tigress. " If I could speak to him," she whispered, " and tell him I hate him, I despise him, I loathe him !" Suddenly, as if a new thought had struck her, she drew a key from her pocket, 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, Avith a ring to it, as if intend- ed to be Avorn on a chain ; and under the glass at the back were two locks of hair, one dark and the other auburn, ar- ranged in a fantastic knot. It was Anthony's secret present to her a year ago a copy he had had made specially for her. For the last month she had not taken it from its hiding-place : there was no need to heighten the vividness of the past. But now she clutched it fiercely, and dashed it across the room against the bare hearthstone. Will she crush it under her feet, and grind it under her high-heeled shoe, till every trace of those false, cruel features is gone ? Ah, no ! She rushed across the room ; but when she saw the little treasure she had cherished so fondly, so often smoth- MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STOKY. 153 ered with kisses, so often laid under her pillow, and remember- ed with the first return of consciousness in the morning when she saw this one visible relic of the too happy past lying with the glass shivered, the hair fallen out, the thin ivory cracked, there was a revulsion of the overstrained feeling : relenting came, and she burst into tears. Look at her stooping down to gather up her treasure, searching for the hair and replacing it, and then mournfully examining the crack that disfigures the once-loved image. There is no glass now to guard either the hair or the por- trait; but see how carefully she wraps delicate paper round it, and locks it up again in its old place. Poor child! God *.end the relenting may always come before the worst irrev- ocable deed ! This action had quieted her, and she sat down to read May- nard's letter again. She read it two or three times without seeming to take in the sense ; her apprehension was dulled by the passion of the last hour, and she found it difficult to call up the ideas'suggested by the words. At last she began to have a distinct conception of the impending interview with Sir Chris- topher. The idea of displeasing the Baronet, of whom every one at the Manor stood in awe, frightened her so much that she thought it would be impossible to resist his wish. He be- lieved that she loved Maynard ; he had always spoken as if he were quite sure of it. How could she tell him he was de- ceived and what if he were to ask her whether she loved any body else ? To have Sir Christopher looking angrily at her, was more than she could bear, even in imagination. He had always been so good to her ! Then she began to think of the pain she might give him, and the more selfish distress of fear gave way to the distress of affection. Unselfish tears began to flow, and sorrowful gratitude to Sir Christopher helped to awaken her sensibility to Mr. Gilfil's tenderness and generosity. " Dear, good Maynard ! what a poor return I make him ! If I could but have loved him instead but I can never love or care for any thing again. My heart is broken." CHAPTER XHI. THE next morning the dreaded moment came. Caterina, stupefied by the suffering of the previous night, with that dull mental aching which follows on acute anguish, was in 154 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. Lady Cheverel's sitting-room, copying out some charity-lists, when her ladyship came in, and said, " Tina, Sir Christopher wants you ; go down into the li- brary." She went down trembling. As soon as she entered, Sir Christopher, who was seated near his writing-table, said, " Now, little monkey, come and sit down by me; I have something to tell you." Caterina took a footstool, and seated herself on it at the Baronet's feet. It was her habit to sit on these low stools, and in this way she could hide her face better. She put her little arm round his leg, and leaned 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 to promise you a good husband, and smart little wedding-gowns, and by-and-by a house of your own, where you would be a little mistress, and Padroncello would come and see you sometimes ?" " Oh no, no ! I shouldn't like ever to be married. Let me always stay with you !" " Pooh, pooh, little simpleton. I shall get old and tire- some, and there will be Anthony's children putting your nose out of joint. You will want some one to love you best of all, and you must have children of your own to love. I can't have you withering away into an old maid. I hate old maids; they make me dismal to look at them. I never see Bharp without shuddering. My little black-eyed monkey was never meant for any thing so ugly. And there's May- nard Gilfil, the best man in the county, worth his weight in gold, heavy as he is ; he loves you better than his eyes. And you love him too, you silly monkey, whatever you may say about not being married." " 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 is plain to every body that you love him. My lady has all along said she was sure you loved him she has seen what little princess airs you put on to him ; and Antho- ny too, he thinks you are in love with Gilfil. Come, what has 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 Christopher joatted her on the buck and said, " Come, MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 155 come ; why, Tina, you are not well this morning. Go and rest, little one. You will see things in quite another light when you are well. Think over what I have said, and re- member there is nothing, after Anthony's marriage, that I have set my heart on so much as seeing you and Maynard settled for life. I must have no whims and follies no non- sense." This was said with a slight severity; but he pres- ently 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's hand, 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 of the interview with Caterina. He thought, " If I could have a long quiet talk with her, I could perhaps persuade her to look more reasonably at things. But there's no speaking to her in the house without being interrupted, and I can hardly see her anywhere else without Beatrice's finding it out." At last he determined to make it a matter of confidence with Miss Assher to tell her that he wished to talk to Caterina quietly for the sake of bringing her to a calmer state of mind, and persuade her to listen to Gilfil's af- fections. He was very much pleased with this judicious and candid plan, and in the course of the evening he had arranged with himself the time and place of meeting, and had com- municated his purpose to Miss Assher, who gave her entire approval. Anthony, she thought, would do well to speak plainly and seriously to Miss Sard. He was really very pa- tient and kind to her, considering how she behaved. Tina had kept her room all that day, and had been care- fully tended as an invalid, Sir Christopher having told her ladyship how matters stood. This tendance was so irksome to Caterina, she felt so uneasy under attentions and kindness that were based on a misconception, that she exerted herself to appear at breakfast the next morning, and declared her- self well, though head and heai*t were throbbing. To be con- fined in her own room was intolerable ; it was wretched enough to be looked at and spoken to, but it was more wretched to be left alone. She was frightened at her own sensations; she was frightened at the imperious vividness with which pictures of the past and future thrust themselves on her imagination. And there was another feeling, too, which made her want to be down stairs and moving about. Perhaps she might have an opportunity of speaking to Cap- tain Wybrow alone of speaking those words of hatred and ]56 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. scorn that burned on her tongue. That opportunity offered itself in a very unexpected manner. Lady Cheverel having sent Caterina out of the drawing- room to fetch some patterns of embroidery from her sitting- room, Captain Wybrow presently walked 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 on without looking at him, " will you meet me in the Rookery at twelve o'clock ? I must speak to you, and we shall be in privacy there. I can not speak to you in the house." To his surprise, there was a flash of pleasure across her face; she answered shortly and decidedly, "Yes," then snatched her arm away from him, and passed" down stairs. Miss Assher was this morning busy winding silks, being bent on emulating Lady Cheverel's embroidery, and Lady Assher chose the passive amusement of holding the skeins. Lady Cheverel had now all her working apparatus about her, and Caterina, thinking she was not wanted, went away and sat down to the harpischord in the sitting-room. It seemed as if playing massive chords bringing out volumes of sound, would be the easiest way of passing the long feverish mo- ments before twelve o'clock. Handel's " Messiah " stood open on the desk, at the chorus *' All we, like sheep," and Caterina threw herself at once into the impetuous intricacies of that magnificent fugue. In her happiest moments she could nev- er have played it so well ; for now all the passion that made her misery was hurled by a convulsive effort into her music, just as pain gives new force to the clutch of the sinking wrestler, and as terror gives far-sounding intensity to the shriek of the feeble. But at half past eleven she was interrupted by Lady Chev- erel, who said, " Tina, go down, will you, and hold Miss As- sher's silks for her. Lady Assher and I have decided on hav- ing our drive before luncheon." Caterina went down, wondering how she should escape from the drawing-room in time to be in the Rookery at twelve. Nothing should prevent her from going; nothing should rob her of this one precious moment perhaps the last when she could speak out the thoughts that were in her. After that, she would be passive ; she would bear any thing. But she had scarcely sat down with a skein of yellow Bilk on her hands, when Miss Assher said graciously, " I know you have an engagement with Captain Wybrow this morning. You must not let me detain you beyond the time." MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 157 " So he has been talking to her about me," thought Cate- rina. Her hands began to tremble as she held the skein. Miss Assher continued, in the same gracious tone : " It is tedious work holding these skeins. 1 am sure I am very much obliged to you." "No, you are not obliged to me," said Caterina, complete- ly mastered by her irritation ; " I have only done it because Lady Cheverel told me." The moment was come when Miss Assher could no longer 'suppress her long latent 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 KOITV tor ron that you are not able to contra ] y^irfliftM* bf UP" This giving way to un war- ran tablefeelrngsislowering you it is indeed." "What unwarrantable feelings?" said Caterina, letting her hands fall, and fixing her great dark eyes steadily on Miss Assher. "It is quite unnecessary for me to say more. You must be conscious what I mean. Only summon a sense of duty to your aid. You are paining Captain Wybrow extremely 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 me as if you had a sort of enmity towards me. He would like you to make a friend of me. I assure you we both feel very kindly towards you, and are sorry you should cherish such feelings." " He is very good," said Caterina, bitterly. " What feel- ings did he say I cherished ?" This bitter tone increased Miss Assher's irritation. There was still a lurking suspicio'n in her mind, though she would not admit it to herself, that Captain Wybrow had told her a false- hood about his conduct and feelings towards Caterina. It was this suspicion, more even than the anger of the moment, which urged her to say something that would test the truth of his statement. That she would be humiliating Caterina at the same time, was only an additional temptation. " These are things I do not like to talk of, Miss Sarti. I can not even understand how a woman can indulge a passion for a man who has never given her the least ground for it, as Captain Wybrow assures me is the case." "He told you that, did he?*' said Caterina, in clear low tones, her lips turning white as she rose from her chair. " Yes, indeed, he did. He was bound to tell it me after your strange behavior." 158 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. Caterina said nothing, but turned round suddenly and left the room. See how she rushes noiselessly, like a pale meteor, along the passages and up the gallery stairs ! Those gleaming eyes, those bloodless lips, that swift silent ti % ead, make her look like the incarnation of a fierce purpose, rather than a woman. The midday sun is shining on the armor in the gallery, mak- ing mimic suns on bossed sword-hilts and the angles of pol- ished breastplates. Yes, there are sharp weapons in the gal- lery. There is a dagger in that cabinet ; she knows it Avell. And as a dragon-fly wheels in its flight to alight for an in- stant on a leaf, she darts to the cabinet, takes out the dagger, and thrusts it into her pocket. In three minutes more she is out, in hat and cloak, on the gravel-walk, hurrying along to- wards the thick shades of the distant Rookery. She threads the windings of the plantations, not feeling the golden leaves that rain upon her, not feeling the earth beneath her feet. Her hand is in her pocket, clenching the handle of the dag- ger, which she holds half out of its sheath. She has reached the Rookery, and is under the gloom of the interlacing boughs. Her heart throbs as if it would burst her bosom as if every next beat must be its last. Wait, wait, O heart ! till she has done this one deed. He will be there he will be before her in a moment. He will come to- wards her with that false smile, thinking she does not know his baseness she will plunge that dagger into his heart. Poor child ! poor child ! she who used to cry to have the fish put back into the water who never willingly killed the smallest living thing dreams now, in the madness of her passion, that she can kill the man whose very voice unnerves her. But what is that lying among the dank leaves on the path three yards before her. Good God ! it is he lying motionless his hat fallen olf. He is ill, then he has fainted. Her hand lets go the dagger, and she rushes to wards him. His eyes are fixed ; he does not see her. She sinks down on her knees, 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 is dead !" " She sinks down on her knees, takes the dear head in her arms, and kisses the cold fonJuad."- -PAGE 158. 160 SCENES Oi' CLEBICAL LIFE. CHAPTER XIV. " YES, Maynard," said Sir Christopher, chatting with Mr. Gilfil in the library, " it really is a remarkable thing that I never in my life laid a plan, and failed to carry it out. I lay my plans well, and I never swerve from them that's it. A strong will is the only magic. And next to striking out one's plans, the pleasantest thing in the world is to see them 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, and married Henrietta. The last touch is given to the old house ; Anthony's marriage the thing I had nearest my heart is settled to my entire satisfaction ; and by-and- by you will be buying a little wedding-ring .for Tina's finger. Don't shake your head in that forlorn way ; when I make prophecies they generally come to pass. But there's a quar- ter after twelve striking. I must be riding to the High Ash to meet Markham about felling some timber. My old oaks will have to groan for this wedding, but " The door burst open, and Caterina, ghastly and panting, her eyes distended with terror, rushed in, threw her arms round Sir Christopher's neck, and gasping out " Antho- ny ... the Rookery . . . dead ... in the Rookery," fell fainting on the floor. In a moment Sir Christopher was out of the room, and Mr. Gilfil was bending to raise Caterina in his arms. As he lift- ed her from the ground he felt something hard and heavy in her pocket. What could it be ? The weight of it would be enough to hurt her as she lay. He carried her to the sofa, put his hand in her pocket, and drew forth the dagger. Maynard shuddered. Did she mean to kill herself, then, or ... or ... a horrible suspicion forced itself upon him. " Dead in the Rookery." He hated himself for the thought that prompted him to draw the dagger from its sheath. No ! there was no trace of blood, and he was ready to kiss the good 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 the gallery. Yet, why had Caterina taken this dagger ? What was it that had happened in the Rookery ? Was it only a delirious vision of hers ? He was afraid to ring afraid to summon any one to Gate- MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 161 rina's assistance. What might she not say when she awoke from this fainting fit ? She might be raving. He could not leave her, and yet he felt as if he were guilty for not follow- ing Sir Christopher to see what Avas the truth. It took but a moment to think and feel all this, but that moment seemed such a long agony to him that he began to reproach himself for letting it pass without seeking some means of reviving Catcrina. Happily the decanter of water on Sir Christopher's table was untouched. He would at least try the effect of throwing that water over her. She might revive without his needing to call any one else. Meanwhile Sir Christopher was hurrying at his utmost speed towards the Rookery; his face, so lately bright and confident, now agitated by a vague dread. The deep alarm- ed bark of Rupert, who ran by his side, had struck the ear of Mr. Bates, then on his way homeward, as something unwonted, and, hastening in the direction of the sound, he met the Bar- onet just as he was approaching the entrance of the Rookery. Sir Christopher's look was enough. Mr. Bates said nothing, but hurried along by his side, Avhile Rupert dashed forward among the dead leaves with his nose to the ground. They had scarcely lost sight of him a minute when a change in the tone of his bark told them that he had found something, and in another instant he was leaping back over one of the large planted mounds. They turned aside to ascend the mound, Rupert leading them ; the tumultuous cawing of the rooks, the very rustling of the leaves, as their feet plunged among them, falling like an evil omen on the Baronet's ear. They had reached the summit of the mound, and had be- gun to descend. Sir Christopher saw something purple down on the path below among the yellow leaves. Rupert was al- ready beside it, but Sir Christopher could not move faster. A tremor had taken hold of the firm limbs. Rupert came back and licked the trembling hand, as if to say " Courage !" and then was down again snuffing the body. Yes, it was a body Anthony's body. There was the white hand with its diamond-ring clutching the dark leaves. His eyes were half open, but did not heed the gleam of sunlight that darted itself directly on them from between the boughs. Still he might only have fainted ; it might only be a fit. Sir Christopher knelt clown, unfastened the cravat, unfasten- ed the waistcoat, and laid his hand on the heart. It might be syncope ; it might not it could not be death. No ! that thought must be kept far off. " Go, Bates, get help ; we'll carry him to your cottage. Send some one to the house to tell Mr. Gilfil and Warren. 162 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. Bid them send off for Doctor Hart, and break it to my lady and Miss Assher that Anthony is ill." Mr. Bates hastened away, and the Baronet was left alone kneeling beside the body. The young and supple limbs, the rounded cheeks, the delicate ripe lips, the smooth white hands, were lying cold and rigid ; and the aged face was bending over them in silent anguish ; the aged deep-veined hands were seeking with tremulous inquiring touches for some symptom that life was not irrevocably gone. Rupert was there too, waiting and watching ; licking first the dead and then the living hands ; then running off on Mr. Bates's track as if he would follow and hasten his return, but in a moment turning back again, unable to quit the scene of his master's sorrow. CHAPTER XV. 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 the blank features, like the rising sun- light on the alpine summits that lay ghastly and dead under the leaden twilight. A slight shudder, and the frost-bound eyes recover their liquid light ; for an instant they show the inward semi-consciousness of an infant's ; then, with a little start, they open wider and begin to look ; the present is vis- ible, but only as a strange writing, and the interpreter Mem- ory is not yet there. Mr. Gilfil felt a trembling joy as this change passed over Caterina's face. He bent over her, rubbing her chill hands, and looking at her with tender pity as her dark eyes opened on him wonderingly. He thought there might be some wine in the dining-room close by. He left the room, and Cateri- na's eyes turned towards the window towards Sir Christo- pher's chair. There was the link at which the chain of consciousness had snapped, and the events of the morning were beginning to recur dimly like a half-remembered dream, when Maynard .returned with some wine. He raised her, and she drank it ; but still she was silent, seeming lost in the at- tempt to recover the past, when the door opened, and Mr. Warren appeared with looks that announced terrible tidings. Mr. Gilfil, dreading lest he should tell them in Caterina's presence, hurried towards him with his finger on his lips, and drew him away into the dining-room on the opposite side of the passage. MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 163 Caterina, revived by the stimulant, was now recovering the full consciousness of the scene in the Rookery. Anthony was lying there dead ; she had left him to tell Sir Christo- pher ; she must go and see what they were doing with him ; perhaps he was not really dead only in a trance ; people did fall into trances sometimes. While Mr. Gilfil was telling Warren how it would be best to break the news to Lady Cheverel and Miss Assher, anxious himself to return to Cat- erina, the poor child had made her way feebly to the great entrance-door, which stood open. Her strength increased as she moved and breathed the fresh air, and with every in- crease of strength came increased vividness of emotion, in- creased yearning to be where her thought was in the Rook- ery with Anthony. She walked more and more swiftly, and at last, gathering the artificial strength of passionate excite- ment, began to run. But now she heard the tread of heavy steps, and under the yellow shade near the wooden bridge she saw men slow- ly carrying something. Soon she was face to face with them. Anthony was no longer in the Rookery : they were carrying him stretched on a door, and there behind him was Sir Chris- topher, with the firmly-set mouth, the deathly paleness, and the concentrated expression of suffering in the eye, which mark the suppressed grief of the strong man. The sight of this 'face, on which Caterina had never before beheld the signs of anguish, caused a rush of new feeling which for the moment submerged all the rest. She went gently up 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 with that sad procession to Mr. Bates's cottage in the Mosslands, and sat there in silence, waiting and watching to know if Anthony were really dead. She had not yet missed the dagger from her pocket ; site had not yet even thought of it. At the sight of Anthony lying dead, her nature had rebounded from its new bias- of resent- ment and hatred to the old sweet habit of love. The earliest and the longest has still the mastery over us; and the only past that linked itself with those glazed unconscious eyes, was the past when they beamed on her with tenderness. She forgot the interval of wrong and jealousy and hatred all his cruelty, and all her thoughts of revenge as the exile forgets the stormy passage that lay between home and hap- piness and the dreary land in which he finds himself deso- late. 164 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. CHAPTER XVI BEFORE night all hope was gone. Dr. Hart had said it was death ; Anthony's body had been carried to the house, and every one there knew the calamity that had fallen on them. Caterina had been questioned by Dr. Hart, and had an- swered briefly that she found Anthony lying in the Rookery. That she should have been walking there just at that time was not a coincidence to raise conjectures in any one besides Mr. Gilfil. Except in answering this question, sne had not broken her silence. She sat mute in a corner of the gardener's kitch- en, shaking her head when Maynard entreated her to return with him, and apparently unable to think of any thing but the possibility that Anthony might revive, until she saw them carrying away the body to the house. Then she fol- lowed by Sir Christopher's side again, so quietly, that even Dr. Hart did not object to her presence. It was decided to lay the body in the library until after the coroner's inquest to-morrow; and when Caterina saw the door finally closed, she turned up the gallery stairs on her way to her own room, the place where she felt at home with her sorrows. It was the first time she had been in the gallery since that terrible moment in the morning, and now the spot and the objects around began to reawaken her half-stunncd memory. The armor was no longer glittering in the sun- light, but there it hung dead and 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. But where was the dagger now ? She felt in her pocket ; it was not there. Could it have been her fancy all that about the dagger? She looked in the cabinet ; 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 be now? Could it have fallen out of her pocket ? She heard steps ascending the stairs, and hurried on to her room, where, kneeling by the bed, and burying her face to shut out the hateful light, she tried to recall every feeling and incident of the morning. It all came back ; every thing Anthony had done, and every thing she had felt for the last month for many months ever since that June evening when he had last spoken to her in the gallery. She looked back on her storms of passion, her jeal- MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 135 onsy and hatred of Miss Assher, her thoughts of revenge on Anthony. Oh how wicked she had been ! It was she who had been sinning ; it was she who had driven him to do and say those things that had made her so angry. And if he had wronged her, what had she been on the verge of doing to him ? She was too wicked ever to be pardoned. She would like to confess how wicked she had been, that they might punish her ; she would like to humble herself to the dust before every one before Miss Assher even. Sir Christopher would send her away would never see her again, if he knew all ; and she would be happier to be punished and frowned on, than to be treated tenderly while she had that guilty secret in her breast. But then, if Sir Christopher were to know all, 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 An- thony. But she could not stay at the Manor; she must go away ; she could not bear Sir Christopher's eye, could not bear the sight of all these things that reminded her of Anthony and of her sin. Perhaps she should die soon : she felt very fee- ble ; there could not be much life in her. She Avould go away and 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 anger passed than the tenderness and timidity of her nature returned, and she could do nothing but love and mourn. Her inexperience prevented her from imagining the consequences of her disappearance from the Manor ; she fore- saw none of the terrible details of alarm and distress and search that must ensue. " They will think I am dead," she said to herself, "and by-and-by they will forget me, and May- nard will get happy again, and love some one else." She was roused from her absorption by a knock at the door. Mrs. Bellamy was there. She had come by Mr. GilnTs request to see how Miss Sarti was, and to bring her some food and wine. " You look sadly, my dear," said the old housekeeper, " an' you're all of a quake wi cold. Get you to bed, now do. Mar- tha 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 I can't awhile to stay. There's so many things to see to ; an' Miss Assher's in hysterics constant, an' her maid's ill i' bed a poor creachy thing 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 166 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. woman's wrinkled cheek ; " I shall eat the arrowroot, and don't trouble about me any 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 you come up again, be- cause you may only disturb me." " W ell, well, take care o' yourself, there's a good child, an' God send you may sleep." Caterina took the arrowroot quite eagerly, while Martha was lighting her fire. She wanted to get strength for her 1 journey, and she kept the plate of biscuits by her that she might put some in her pocket. Her whole mind was now bent on going away from the Manor, and she was thinking of all the 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 to go away in the dark, but she must make her escape before any one was up in the house. There would be people watching Anthony in the library, but she 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 light- ed a candle, opened her desk, and took out the broken por- trait wrapped in paper. She folded it again in two little notes of Anthony's, written in pencil, and placed it in her bosom. There was the little china box, too Dorcas's pres- ent, the pearl ear-rings, and a silk puree, with fifteen seven- shilling pieces in it, the presents Sir Christopher had made her on her birthday, ever since she had been at the Manor. Should she take the ear-rings and the seven-shilling pieces? She could not bear to part with them ; 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 round ear-rings in her ears, and put the purse with Dorcas's box in her pock- et. She had another purse there, and she took it out to count her money,for she would never spend her seven-shilling pieces. She had a guinea and eight shillings ; that would be plenty. So now she sat down to wait for the morning, afraid to lay herself on the bed Jest she should sleep too long. If she could but see Anthony once more and kiss his cold forehead I But that could not be. She did not deserve it. She must go away from him, away from Sir Christopher, and Lady Cheverel, and Maynard > and every body who had been kind to her s and thought her good while bha was so wicked. MB. GILFJL'S LOVE-STORY. 167 CHAPTER XVH. SOME of Mrs. Sharp's earliest thoughts, the next morning, were given to Caterina, whom she had not been able to visit the evening before, and whom, from a nearly equal mixture of affection and self-importance, she did not at all like resign- ing to Mrs. Bellamy's care. At half past eight o'clock she went up to Tina's room, bent on benevolent dictation as to doses and diet and lying in bed. But on opening the door she found the bed smooth and empty. Evidently it had not been slept in. What could this mean ? Had she sat up all night, and was she gone out to walk ? The poor thing's head might be touched by what had happened yester- day ; it wds such a shock finding Captain Wybrow in that way ; she was perhaps gone out of her mind. Mrs. Sharp looked anxiously in the place where Tina kept her hat and cloak ; they were not there, so that she had had at least the presence of mind to put them on. Still the good woman felt greatly alarmed, and hastened away to tell Mr. Gilfil, who, she knew, was in his study. " 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 had betrayed 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 the worst had come : Caterina had destroyed her- self. The strong man suddenly looked so ill and helpless that Mrs. Sharp began to be frightened at the effect of her abruptness. " Oh, sir, I'm grieved to my heart to shock you so ; but I didn't know who else to go to." " No, no, you were quite right." He gathered some strength from his very despair. It was all over, and he had nothing now to do but to suffer and to help the suffering. He went on in a firmer voice : " Be sure not to breathe a word about it to any one. We must not alarm Lady Cheverel and Sir Christopher. Miss Sarti may be only walking in the garden. She was terribly excited by what she saw yesterday, and perhaps was unable 168 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. to lie down from restlessness. Just go quietly through the empty rooms, and see whether she is in the house. I will go and look for her in the grounds." He went down, and, to avoid giving any alarm in the house, walked at once towards the Mosslands in search of Mr. Bates, whom he met returning from his breakfast. To the garden- er he confided his fear about Caterina, assigning as a reason for this fear the probability that the shock she had undergone yesterday had unhinged her mind, and begging him to send men in search of her through the gardens and park, and in- quire if she had been seen at the lodges; and if she were not found or heard of in this way, 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 having searched everywhere." " Troost to mae, troost to mae, Mr. Gilfil. Eh ! but I'd ha' worked for day-wage all the rest o' my life, rether than any thin' should ha' happened to her." The good gardener, in deep distress, strode away to the stables that he might send the grooms on horseback through the park. Mr. Gilfil's next thought was to search the Rookery ; she might be haunting the scene of Captain Wybrow's death. He went hastily over every mound, looked round every large tree, and followed every winding of the walks. In reality he had little hope of finding her there ; but the bare possi- bility fenced off for a time the fatal conviction that Cateri- na's body would be found in the water. When the Rookery had been searched in vain, he walked fast to the border of the little stream that bounded one side of the grounds. The stream was almost everywhere hidden among trees, and there was one place where it was broader and deeper than else- where she would be more likely to come to that spot than to the pool. He hurried along with strained eyes, his imagi- nation continually creating what he dreaded to see. There is something white behind that overhanging bough. His knees tremble under him. He seems to eee part of her dress caught on a branch, and her dear dead face upturned. O God, give strength to thy creature, on whom thou hast laid this great agony ! He is nearly up to the bough, and the white ob- ject is moving. It is a waterfowl, that spreads its wings and flies away screaming. He hardly knows whether it is a relief or a disappointment that she is not there. The conviction that she is dead presses its cold weight upon him none the lees heavily. As he reached the great pool in front of the Manor, he saw MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 169 Mr. Bates, with a group of men already there, preparing for the dreadful search which could only displace his vague despair by a definite horror ; for the gardener, in his restless anxiety, had been unable to defer this until other means of search had proved vain. The pool was not now laughing with sparkles among the water-lilies. It looked black and cruel under the sombre sky, as if its cold depths held relentlessly all the murdered hope and joy of Maynard Gilfil's life. Thoughts of the sad consequences for others as well as himself were crowding on his mind. The blinds and shut- ters were all closed in front of the Manor, and it was not likely that Sir Christopher would be aware of any thing that was passing outside ; but Mr. Gilfil felt that Caterina's dis- appearance could not long be concealed from him. The coro- ner's inquest would be held shortly ; she would be inquired for, and then it would be inevitable that the Baronet should know all. CHAPTER XVItt AT twelve o'clock, when all search and inquiry had been in vain, and the coroner was expected every moment, Mr. Gilfil could no longer defer the hard duty of revealing this fresh calamity to Sir Christopher, who must otherwise have it discovered to him abruptly. The Baronet was seated in his dressing-room, where the dark window-curtains where drawn so as to admit only a sombre light. It was the first time Mr. Gilfil had had an in- terview with him this morning, and he was struck to see how a single day and night of grief had aged the fine old man. The lines in his brow and about his mouth were deepened ; his complexion looked dull and withered ; there was a swol- len ridge under his eyes ; and the eyes themselves, which used to cast so keen a glance on the present, had the vacant expression which tells that vision is no longer a sense, but a memory. He held out his hand to Maynard, who pressed it, and sat do war beside him in silence. Sir Christopher's heart began to swell at this unspoken sympathy ; the tears would rise, would roll in great drops down his cheeks. The first tears he had shed since boyhood wei'e for Anthony. Maynard felt as if his tongue were glued to the roof of his mouth. He could not speak first : he must wait until 8 170 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, Sir Christopher said something which 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 any thing would unman me in this way ; but I'd built every thing on that lad. Perhaps I've been wrong in not forgiving my sister. She lost one of her sons a little while ago. I've been 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 is falling 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 agitated yesterday and with her delicate health I am afraid to think what turn the 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. Sharp went 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 her everywhere in the house and garden, in the park, and in the water. No one has seen her since Martha went up to light her fire at seven o'clock in the evening." While Mr. Gilfil was speaking, Sir Christopher's eyes, which were eagerly turned on him, recovered some of their old keen- ness, and some sudden painful emotion, as at a new thought, flitted rapidly across his already agitated face, like the shad- ow of a dark cloud over the waves. When the pause came, he laid his hand on Mr. Gilfil's arm, and said in a lower voice. " Maynard, did that poor thing love Anthony ?" " She did." Maynard hesitated after these words, straggling between his reluctance to inflict a yet deeper wound on Sir Christo- pher, and his determination that no injustice should be done to Caterina. Sir Christopher's eyes were still fixed on him in solemn inquiry, and his own sunk towards the ground, while he tried to find the words that would tell the truth least cruelly. " You must not have any wrong thoughts about Tina," he said, at length. " I must tell you now, for her sake, what nothing but this should ever have caused to pass my lips. Captain Wybrow won her affections by attentions which, in his position, he was bound not to show her. Before his mar- riage was talked of, he had behaved to her like a lover." MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 171 Sir Christopher relaxed his hold of Maynard's arm, and looked away from him. He was silent for some minutes, ev- dently attempting t^ master himself, so as to be able to speak calmly. "I must see Henrietta immediately," he said at last, with something of his old sharp decision ; " she must know all ; but we must keep it from every one else as far as possible. My dear boy," he continued in a kinder tone, " the heaviest bur- then has fallen on you. But we may find her yet ; we must not despair : there has not been time enough for us to be cer- tain. Poor dear little one ! God help me ! I thought I saw every thing, and was stone-blind all the while." CHAPTER XIX. THE sad slow week was gone by at last. At the coroner's inquest a verdict of sudden death had been pronounced. Dr. Hai*t, acquainted with Captain Wybrow's previous state of health, had given his opinion that death had been imminent from long-established disease of the heart, though it had prob- ably been accelerated by some unusual emotion. Miss As- sher was the only person who positively knew the motive that led Captain Wybrow to the Rookery ; but she had not mentioned Caterina's name, and all painful" details or inquiries were studiously kept from her. Mr. Gilfil and Sir Christopher, however, knew enough to conjecture that the fatal agitation was due to an appointed meeting with Caterina. All search and inquiry after her had been fruitless, and were the more likely to be so because they were carried on under the prepossession that she had committed suicide. No one noticed the absence of the trifles she had taken from her desk ; no one knew of the likeness, or that she had hoarded her sev- en-shilling pieces, and it was not remarkable that she should have happened to be wearing the pearl earrings. She had left the house, they thought, taking nothing with her ; it seemed impossible she could have gone far ; and she must have been in a state of mental excitement that made it too probable she had only gone to seek relief in death. The same places within three or four miles of the Manor were searched again and again every pond, every ditch in the neighbor- hood was examined. Sometimes Maynard thought that death might have come on unsought, from cold and exhaustion ; and not a day passed 172 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. but he wandered through the neighboring woods, turning up the heaps of dead leaves, as if it were possible her dear body could be hidden there. Then another horrible thought r* curred, and before each night came he had been again through all the uninhabited rooms of the house, to satisfy himself once more that she was not hidden behind some cabinet, or door, or curtain that he should not find her there with mad ness 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 funeral was over, and the carriages were returning through the park. When they had set out, a heavy rain was falling ; but now the clouds were breaking up, and a gleam of sunshine was sparkling among the dripping boughs under which they were passing. This gleam fell upon a man on horseback who was jogging slowly along, and whom Mr. Gil- fil recognized, in spite of diminished rotundity, as Daniel Knott, the coachman who had married the rosy-cheeked Dor- cas ten years before. Every new incident suggested the same thought to Mr. Gilfil ; and his eye no sooner fell on Knott than he said to himself, " Can he be come to tell us any thing about Cateri- na ?" Then he remembered that Caterina had been very fond of Dorcas, and that she always had some present ready to send her when Knott paid an occasional visit to the Man- or. Could Tina have gone to Dorcas ? But his heart sank again as he thought, very likely Knott had only come be- cause he had heard of Captain Wybrow's death, and wanted 1o know how his old master had borne the blow. As soon as the carriage reached the house, he went up to his study and walked about nervously, longing, but afraid, to go down and speak to Knott, lest his faint hope should be dissipated. Any one looking at that face, usually so full 'of calm good-will, would have seen that the last week's suffering had left deep traces. By day he had been riding or wander- ing incessantly, either searching for Caterina himself, or di- recting inquiries to be made by others. By night he had not known sleep only intermittent dozing, in which he seemed to be finding Caterina dead, and woke up with a start from this unreal agony to the real anguish of believing that he should see her no more. The clear gray eyes looked sunk- en and restless, the full careless lips had a strange tension about them, and the brow, formerly so smooth and open, was contracted 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 are bound up-with our MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 173 Bense of beauty. Love meant nothing for him but to love Caterina. For years, the thought of her had been present in every thing, like the air and the light ; and now she was gone, it seemed as if all pleasure had lost its vehicle : the sky, the earth, the daily ride, the daily talk might be there, but the loveliness and joy that were in them had gone for- ever. Presently, as he still paced backward and forward, he fleard steps along the corridor, and there was a knock at his door. His voice trembled as he said " Come in," and the rush of renewed hope was hardly distinguishable from 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 bring him to you first." Mr. Gilfil could not help going up to the old coachman and wringing his hand ; but he was unable to speak, and only motioned to him to take a chair, while Warren left the room. He hung upon Daniel's moon-face, and listened to his sma/l piping voice, with the same solemn yearning expectation witK which he would have given ear to the most awful messenger from the land of shades. " It war Dorkis, sir, would hev me come ; but we knowed nothin' o' what's happened at the Manor. She's frightened out on her wits about Miss Sarti, an' she would hev me sad- dle Blackbird this mornin,' an' leave the ploughin', to come an' let Sir Christifer an' my lady know. P'raps you've hear- ed, 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 Squire Ramble, as hed them there big farms on his hans ; an' so we took a little farm o' forty acres or theie- abouts, becos Doi-kis didn't like the public when 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 any thing else now." " Well, sir," said Knott, rather frightened by the parson's vehemence, " she come four house i' the carrier's cart o' Wednesday, when it was welly nine o'clock at night ; and Dovkis run out, for she beared the cart stop, an' Miss Sarti throwed her arms roun' Dorkis's neck an' says, ' Tek me in, Dorkis, tek me in,' an' went oif into a swoond, like. An' Dorkis calls out to me, 'Dannel,' she calls an' I run out and carried the young miss in, an' she come roun' arter a bit, an' opened her eyes, and Dorkis got her to drink a spoon- ful o' rum-an'-water we've got some capital rum as we brought from the Cross Keys, and Dorkis won't let nobody 174 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. drink it. She says she keeps it for sickness ; but for my part, I think it's a pity to drink good rum when your mouth's out o' taste ; you may jest 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 teks little bits an' sups when Dorkis coaxes her. An' we begun to be frightened, an' couldn't think what had made her come away from the Man- or, and Dorkis was afeared there was summat wrong. So this mornin' she could hold no longer, an' would hev no nay but I must come and see ; an' so I've rode twenty mile upo' Blackbird, as thinks all the while he's a-ploughin', an' turns sharp roun', every thirty yards, as if he was at the 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, wring- ing the old coachman'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 learn the nearest way to your house. I shall get ready to ride there immedi- ately, when I have spoken to Sir Christopher." In an hour from that time Mr. Gilfil was galloping on a stout mare towards the little muddy village of Callam, five miles beyond Sloppeter. Once more he saw some gladness in the afternoon sunlight ; once more it was a pleasure to see the hedgerow trees flying past him, and to be conscious of a " good seat " while his black Kitty bounded beneath him, and the air whistled to the rhythm of her pace. Caterina was not dead ; he had found 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 carried his hopes at once as far as the ut- most mark they had ever reached. Caterina would come to love him at last ; she would be his. They had been carried through all that dark and weary way that she might know the depth of his love. How he would cherish her his little bird with the timid bright eye, and the sweet throat that trembled with love and music ! She would nestle against him, and the poor little breast which had been so ruffled and bruised should be safe for evermore. In the love of a. brave and faithful man there is always a strain of maternal tender- ness ; he gives out again those beams of protecting fondness which were shed on him as he lay on his mother's kjee. It was twilight as he entered the village of Callam, and, asking a homeward-bound laborer the way to Daniel Knott's, learned that it was by the church, which showed its stumpy ivy-clad spire on a slight elevation of ground ; a useful addi- tion to the means of identifying that desirable homestead af- MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STOKY. 175 forded by Daniel's description " the prittiest place iver you see " though a small cow-yard full of excellent manure, and leading right up to the door, without any frivolous interrup- tion from garden or railing, might perhaps have been enough to make that description unmistakably specific. Mr. Gilfil had no sooner reached the gate leading into the cow-yard, than he was descried by a flaxen-haired lad of nine, prematurely invested with the toga virilis, or smock-frock, who ran forward to let in the unusual visitor. In a moment Dorcas was at the door, the roses on her cheeks apparently all the redder for the three pair of cheeks which formed a group round her, and for the very fat baby who stared in her arms, and sucked a long crust with calm relish; " Is it Mr. Gilfil, sir ?" said Dorcas, courtesying low as he made his way through 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 Dan- nel's told you ; for I reckon you've come from the Manor, though you're come uncommon quick, to be sure." " Yes, he got to the Manor about one o'clock, and I set off as soon as I could. She's not worse, is she?" " No change, sir, for better or wuss. Will you please to wa.lk in, sir ? She lies there takin' no notice o' nothin', no more nor a baby as is on'y a week old, an' looks at me as blank as if she didn't know me. Oh, what can it be, Mr. Gil- fil ? How come she to leave the Manor ? How's his honor an' my lady ?" " In great trouble, Dorcas. Captain Wybrow, Sir Chris- topher's nephew, you know, has died suddenly. Miss Sarti found him lying dead, and I think the shock has affected her mind." " Eh, dear ! that fine young gentleman as was to be th' heir, as Dannel told 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 honor and my lady. But that poor Miss Tina an' she found him a-lyin' dead ? Oh dear, oh dear !" Dorcas had led the way into the best kitchen, as charm- ing a room as best kitchens used to be in farmhouses which had no parlors the fire reflected in a bright row of pewter plates and dishes ; the sand-scoured deal tables so clean you longed to stroke them ; the salt-coffer in one chimney-corner, and a three-cornered chair in the other, the walls behind handsomely tapestried with flitches of bacon, and the ceiling ornamented with pendent hams. 176 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. " Sit ye down, sir do," said Dorcas, moving the three-cor- nered chair, " an' let me get you somethin' after your long journey. Here, Becky, come an' tek the baby." Becky, a red-armed damsel, emerged from the adjoining back-kitchen, and possessed herself of baby, whose feelings or fat made him conveniently apathetic under the transference. " What'll you please to tek, sir, as I can give you ? I'll get you a rasher o' bacon i' no time, an' I've got some tea, or be- like you'd tek a glass o' rum-an'-water. I know we've got nothin' as you're used t'eat and drink ; but such as I hev, sir, I shall be proud to give you." " Thank you, Dorcas ; I can't eat or drink any thing. I'm not hungry or tired. 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 get her 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 to her lap a curly-headed little girl of three, who was twisting a corner of her mother's apron, and opening round eyes at the gentleman "folks'll tek notice o' children sometimes when they won't o' nothin' else. An' we gathered the autumn crocuses out o' th'orchard, and Bessie carried 'em up in her hand, an' put 'em on the bed. I knowed how fond Miss Tina was o' flowers an' them things, when she was a little un. But she looked at Bessie an' the flowers just the same as if she didn't see 'em. It cuts me to th'heart to look at them eyes o' hers ; I think they're bigger nor iver, an' they look like my poor baby's as died, when it ot so thin Oh dear, its little hands you could see thro' 'em. ut I've great hopes if she was to see you, sir, as come from the Manor, it might bring back her mind, like." Maynard had that hope too, but he felt cold mists of fear gathering round him after the few bright warm hours of joy- ful confidence which had passed since he first heard that Caterina was alive. The thought would urge itself upon him that her mind and body might never recover the strain that had been put upon them that her delicate thread of life had already nearly spun itself out. "Go now, Dorcas, and see how she is, but don't say any thing about my being here. Perhaps it would be better for me to wait till daylight before I see her, and yet it would be very hard to pass another night in this 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 MK. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 177 shyly now they were without their mother's countenance. He drew little Bessie towards him, and set her on his knee. She shook her yellow curls out of her eyes, and looked up at him as she said, " Zoo tome to tee ze yady ? Zoo mek her peak ? What zoo do to her ? Tiss her ?" " Do you like to be kissed, Bessie ?" "Det,"said Bessie, immediately ducking down her head very low, in resistance to the expected rejoinder. " We've got two pups," said young Daniel, emboldened by observing the gentleman's amenities towards Bessie. " Shall I show 'em yer? One's got white spots." "Yes, let me see them." Daniel ran out, and presently reappeared with two blind puppies, eagerly followed by the mother, affectionate though mongrel, and an exciting scene was beginning when Dorcas returned and said, " There's niver any difference in her hardly. I think you needn't wait, sir. She lies very still, as she al'ys does. I've put two candles i' the room, so as she may see you well. You'll please t' excuse the room, sir, an' the cap as she has on ; it's one o' mine." Mr. Gilfil nodded silently, and rose to follow her up stairs. They turned in at the first door, their footsteps making little noise on the plaster floor. The red-checkered linen curtains were drawn at the head of the bed, and Dorcas had placed the candles on this side of the room, so that the light might not fall oppressively on Caterina's eyes. When she had open- ed the door, Dorcas whispered, " I'd better leave you, sir, I think?" Mr. Gilfil motioned assent, and advanced beyond the cur- tain. Caterina lay with her eyes turned the other way, and seemed unconscious that any one had entered. Her eyes, as Dorcas had said, looked larger than ever, perhaps because her face was thinner and paler, and her hair quite gathered away under one of Dorcas's thick caps. The small hands, too, that lay listlessly on the outside of the bed-clothes were thinner than ever. She looked younger than she really was, and any one seeing the tiny face and hands for the first time might have thought they belonged to a little girl of twelve, who was being taken away from coming instead of past sorrow. When Mr. Gilfil advanced and stood opposite to her, the light fell full upon 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 as if to beckon him to stoop down towards her, and whispered, " Mavnard !" 8* 178 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. He seated himself on the bed, and stooped down towards her. She whispered again "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 in the cabinet." He took her hand in his and held it gently, awaiting what she would say next. His heart swelled so with thankfulness that she had recognized him, he could hardly repress a sob. Gradually her eyes became softer and less intense in their gaze. The tears were slowly gathering, and presently some large hot drops rolled down her cheek. Then the flood-gates were opened, and the heart-easing stream gushed forth ; deep sobs came; and for nearly an hour she lay without speaking, while the heavy icy pressure that withheld her misery from utterance was thus melting away. How precious these tears were to Maynard, who day after day had been shuddering at the continually recurring image of Tina with the dry, scorch- ing stare of insanity ! By degrees the sobs subsided, she began to breathe calm- ly, and lay quiet with her eyes shut. Patiently Maynard sat, not heeding the flight of the hours, not heeding the old clock that ticked loudly on the landing. But when it was nearly ten, Dorcas, impatiently anxious to know the result of Mr. Gilfil's appearance, could not help stepping in on tiptoe. Without moving, he whispered in her ear to supply him with candles, see that the cow-boy had shaken down his mare, and go to bed he would watch with Cateiina 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 the dagger?" "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 whisper- ed, " To kill him." " Tina, my loved one, you would never have done it. God saw your whole heart ; He knows you would never harm a living thing. He watches over His children, and will not let them do things they would pray with their whole hearts not to do. It was the angry thought of a moment, and He for- gives you." She sank into silence again till it was nearly midnight. The weary enfeebled spirit seemed to be making its slow way MU. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 179 with difficulty through the windings of thought ; and when she began to whisper again, it was in reply to Maynard's words. " But I had had such wicked feelings for a long while. I was so angry, and I hated Miss Assher so, and I didn't care what came to any body, because I was so miserable myself. I was full of bad passions. No one else was ever so wicked." " Yes, Tina, many are just as wicked. I often have very wicked feelings, and am tempted to do wrong things ; luijt then my body is stronger than yours, and I can hide my fool- ings and 'resist them better. They do not master me so. You have seen the little birds when they are very young and just begin to fly, how all their feathers are ruffled when they are frightened or angry; they have no power over themselves left, and might fall into a pit from mere fright. You "were like one of those little birds. Your sorrow and suffering had taken such hold of you, you hardly knew what you did." He would not speak long, lest he should tire her, and 1 op- press her with too many thoughts. Long pauses seemed needful for her before she could concentrate her feelings in short words. " But when I meant to do it," was the next thing she whis- pered, " it was as bad as if I had done it." " No, my Tina," answered Maynard slowly, waiting a little between each sentence ; " we mean to do wicked things that we never could do, just as we mean to do good or clever things that we never could do. Our thoughts are often worse than we are, just as they are often better than we are. And God sees us as we are altogether, not in separate feelings or actions, as our fellow-men see us. We are always doing each other injustice, and thinking better or worse of each other than we deserve, because we only hear and see separate words and actions. We don't see each other's whole nature. But God sees that you could not have committed that crime." Caterina shook her head slowly, and was silent. After a while, "I don't know," she said ; "I seemed to see him coming towards me, just as he would really 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 how it was then ; I forgot every thing. I knelt down and spoke to him, and and he took no notice of me, and his eyes were fixed, and I began to think he was dead." " And you have never felt angry since ?" 180 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. " Oh no, no ; it is I who have been more wicked than any one ; it is I who have been wrong all through." " No, Tma^_-4hHfatt&-JiajLJioJL_all been yours ; lie was wrong 4 heTgave you prorogation. And wrong makes wrong. When people use us ill, we can hardly help having ill feeling towai'ds them. But that second wrong is more excusable. I am more sinful than you, Tina ; I have often had very bad feelings towards Captain Wybrow ; and if he had provoked me as he did you, I should perhaps have done something more wicked." " Oh, it was not so wrong in him ; he didn't know how he hurt me. How was it likely he could love me as I loved him ? And how could he marry a poor little thing like me ?" Maynard made no reply to this, and there was again si- lence, till Tina said, "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 ; and if he had known, oh how naughty he would have thought me !" "My Tina, we have all our secret sins; and if we knew ourselves, we should not judge each other harshly. Sir Chris- topher himself has felt, since this trouble came upon him, that he has been too severe and obstinate." In this way in these broken confessions and answering words of comfort the hours wore on, from the deep black night to the chill early twilight, and from early twilight to the first yellow streak of morning parting the purple cloud. Mr. Gilfil felt as if in the long hours of that night the bond that united his love forever and alone to Caterina had ac- quired fresh strength and sanctity. It is so with the human relations that rest on the deep emotional sympathy of affec- tion ; every new day and night of joy or sorrow is a new ground, a new consecration for the love that is nourished by memories as well as hopes the love to which perpetual rep- etition is not a weariness but a want, and to which a sepa- rated joy is the beginning of pain. The cocks began to crow ; the gate swung ; there was a tramp of footsteps in the yard, and Mr. Gilfil heard Dorcas stirring. These sounds seemed to affect Caterina, for she looked anxiously at him and said, " Maynard, are you going away ?" " No, I shall stay here at GaJLJam until you are better, and v then you will go away too." " Never to the Manor again, oh no ! I shall live poorly, and get my own bread." " Well, dearest, you shall do what you would like best. MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 181 But I wish you could go to sleep now. Try to rest quietly, and by-and-by you will perhaps sit up a little. God has kept you in life in spite of all this sorrow ; it will be sinful not to try and make the best of His gift. Dear Tina, you will try ; and little Bessie brought you some crocuses once, you didn't notice the poor little thing ; but you will notice her when she comes again, will you not ?" " I will try," whispered Tina humbly, and then closed her 2yes. By the time the sun was above the horizon, scattering the clouds, and shining with pleasant morning warmth through the little leaded window, Caterina was asleep. Maynard gently loosed the tiny hand, cheered Dorcas with the good news, and made his way to the village inn, with a thankful heart that Tina had been so far herself again. Evidently the sight of him had blended naturally with the memories in which her mind was absorbed, and she had been led on to an unburthehing of herself that might be the beginning of a complete restoration. But her body was so enfeebled her soul so bruised that the utmost tenderness and care would be necessary. The next thing to be done was to send tid- ings to Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel ; then to write and summon his sister, under whose care he had determined to place Caterina. The Manor, even if she had been wishing to return thither, would, he knew, be the most undesirable home for her at present ; every scene, every object there, was associated with still unallayed anguish. If she were do- mesticated for a time with his mild, gentle sister, who had a peaceful home and a prattling little boy, Tina might attach herself anew to life, and recover, partly at least, the shock that had been given to her constitution. When he had writ- ten his letters and taken a hasty breakfast, he was soon in his saddle again, on his way to Sloppeter, where he would post them, and seek out a medical man, to whom he might confide the moral causes of Caterina's enfeebled condition. CHAPTER XX. IN less than a week from that time, Caterina was per- suaded to travel in a comfortable carriage, under the care of Mr. Gilfil and his sister, Mrs. Heron, whose soft blue eyes and mild manners were very soothing to the poor bruised child the more so as they had an air of sisterly equality which 182 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. was quite new to her. Under Lady Cheverel's uncaressing authoritative good-will, Tina had always retained a certain constraint and awe ; and there was a sweetness before un- known in having a young and gentle woman, like an elder sister, bending over her caressingly, and speaking in low, lov- ing tones. Maynard was almost angry with himself for feeling hap- py while Tina's mind and body were still trembling on the verge of irrecoverable decline ; but the new delight of acting as her guardian angel, of being with her every hour of the day, of devising every thing for her comfort, of watching for a ray of returning interest in her eyes, was too absorbing to leave room for 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 to greet his returning Lucy, and holding by the hand a broad-chested, tawny-haired boy of five, who was smacking a miniature hunting-whip with great vigor. Nowhere was there a lawn more smooth-shaven, walks better swept, or a porch more prettily festooned with creep- ers, than at Foxholm Parsonage, standing snugly sheltered by beeches and chestnuts half-way down the pretty green hill which was surmounted by the church, and overlooking a village that straggled at its ease among pastures and mead- ows, surrounded by wild hedgerows and broad shadowing trees, as yet unthreatened by improved methods of farming. Brightly the fire shone in the great parlor, and brightly in the little pink bed-room, which was to be Caterina's, because it looked away from the churchyard, and on to a farm home- stead, with its little cluster of beehive ricks, and placid groups of cows, and cheerful matin sounds of healthy labor. Mrs. Heron, with the instinct of a delicate, impressible wom- an, had written to her husband to have this room prepared for Caterina. Contented speckled hens, industriously scratching for the rarely-found corn, may sometimes do more for a sick heart than a grove of nightingales ; there is something ir- resistibly calming in the unsentimental cheeriness of top-knot- ted pullets, unpetted sheep-dogs, and patient cart-horses en- joying a drink of muddy water. In such a home as this parsonage, a nest of comfort, with- out any of the stateliness that would carry a suggestion of Cheverel Manor, Mr. Gilfil was not unreasonable in hoping that Caterina might gradually shake off the haunting vision of the past, and recover from the languor and feebleness which were the physical sign of that vision's blighting pres- MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 183 ence. The next tiling to bed one was to arrange an ex- change of duties with Mr. Heron's curate, that Maynard might be constantly near Caterina, and watch over her prog- ress. She seemed to like him to be with her, to look uneasi- ly for his return ; and though she seldom spoke to him, she was most contented when he sat by her, and held her tiny hand in his large protecting grasp. But Oswald, alias Ozzy, the broad-chested boy, was perhaps her most beneficial com- panion. With something of his uncle's person, he had inher- ited also his uncle's early taste for a domestic menagerie, and was very imperative in demanding Tina's sympathy in the welfare of his guinea-pigs, squirrels, and dormice. With him she seemed now and then to have gleams of her child- hood coming athwart the leaden clouds, and many hours of winter went by the more easily for being spent in 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 the drawing-room, always open, in the hope that some day the spirit of music would be reawakened in Caterina, and she would be attracted towards the instrument. But the winter was almost gone by, and he had waited in vain. The utmost improvement in Tina had not gone be- yond passiveness and acquiescence a quiet grateful smile, compliance \yith Oswald's whims, and increasing conscious- ness of what was being said and done around her. Some- times she would take up a bit of woman's work, but she seemed too languid to persevere in it ; her fingers soon dropped, and she relapsed into motionless reverie. At last it was one of those bright days in the end of Feb- ruary, when the sun is shining with a promise of approach- ing spring. Maynard had been \valking with her and Os- wald round the garden to look at the snowdrops, and she was resting on the sofa after the walk. Ozzy, roaming about the room in quest of a forbidden pleasure, came to the harp- sichord, and struck the handle of his whip on a deep bass note. The vibration rushed through Caterina like an electric shock : it seemed as if at that instant a new soul were enter- ing into her, and filling her with a deeper, more significant life. She looked round, rose from the sofa, and walked to the harpsichord. In a moment her fingers were wandering with their old sweet method among the keys, and her soul was floating in its true familiar element of delicious sound, as the water-plant that lies withered and shrunken on the ground expands into freedom and beauty when once more bathed in its native flood. 184 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. Maynard thanked God. An active power was reawaken- ed, and must make a new epoch in Caterina's recovery. Presently there were low liquid notes blending themselves with the harder tones of the instrument, and gradually the pure voice swelled into predominance. Little Ozzy stood in the middle of the room, with his mouth open and his legs very wide apart, struck with something like awe at this new power in " Tin-Tin," as he called her, whom he had been ac customed to think of as a playfellow not at all clever, and very much in need of his instruction on many subjects. A genie soaring with broad wings out of his milk-jug would not have been more astonishing. Caterina was singing the very air from the Orfeo which we heard her singing so many months ago at the beginning of her sorrows. It was Che faro, Sir Christopher's favorite, and its notes seemed to carry on their wings all the tender- est memories of her life, when Cheverel Manor was still an un- troubled home. The long happy days of childhood and girl- hood recovered all their rightful predominance over the short interval of sin and sorrow. She paused, and burst into tears the first tears she had shed since she had been at Foxholm. Maynard could not help hurrying towards her, putting his 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-tend rilled plant must have something to cling to. The soul that was born anew to music was born anew to love. CHAPTER XXL OK the 30th of May, 1790, a very pretty sight was seen by the villagers assembled near the door of Foxholm Church. The sun was bright upon the dewy grass, the air was alive with the murmur of bees and the thrilling of birds, the bushy blossoming chestnuts and the foamy flowering hedgerows seemed to be crowding round to learn why the church-bells were ringing so merrily, as Maynard Gilfil, his face bright with happiness, walked out of the old Gothic doorway with Tina on his arm. The little face was still pale, and there was a subdued melancholy in it, as of one who sups with friends for the last time, and has his ear open for the signal that will call him away. But the tiny hand rested with the pressure MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 185 of contented affection on Maynard's arm, and the dark eyes met his downward glance with timid answering love. There was no train of bridesmaids ; only pretty Mrs. Heron leaning on the arm of a dark-haired young man hitherto un- known in Foxholm, and holding by the other hand little Ozzy, who exulted less in his new velvet cap and tunic, than in the notion that he was bridesman to Tin-Tin. Last of all came a couple whom the villagers eyed yet more eagerly than the bride and bridegroom : a tine old gentleman, who looked round with keen glances that cowed the conscious scapegraces among them, and a stately lady in blue-and- white silk robes, who must surely be like Queen Charlotte. " Well, that theer's whut I call a pictur," said old " Mester " Ford, a true Staffordshire patriarch, who leaned on a stick and held his head very much on one side, with the air of a man who had little hope of the present generation, but would at all events give it the benefit of his criticism. " 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'ei un '11 carry his 'ears like that Sir Cris'fer Chuvrell." " 'Ull bet ye two pots," said another of the seniors, " as that yoongster a-walkin' wi' th' parson's wife '11 be Sir Cris'fer's son he favors him." " 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. The coochman as puts oop at th' White Hoss tellt me as theer war another nevey, a deal finer chap t' looke at nor this un, as died in a fit, all on 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 speak words of good omen as the bride and bride- froom approached. He had come all the way f 'om Cheverel lanor on purpose to see Miss Tina happy once more, and would have been in a state of unmixed joy but for the inferi- ority of the wedding nosegays to what he could have furnish- ed from the garden at the Manor. " God A'maighty bless ye both, an' send ye long laife an' happiness," were the good gardener's raJier 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 Shep- perton, where Mr. Gilfil had been for several months inducted as vicar. This small living had been given him through the in- terest of an old friend who had some claim on the gratitude of the Oldinport family ; and it was a satisfaction both to 186 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. Maynard and Sir Christopher that a home to which he might take Caterina had thus readily presented itself at a distance from Cheverel Manor. For it had never yet been thought safe that she should revisit the scene of her sufferings, her health continuing too delicate to encourage the slightest risk of painful excitement. In a year or two, perhaps by the time old Mr. Crichley, the rector of Cumbermoor, should have left a world of gout, and when Caterina would very likely be a happy mother, Maynard might safely take up his abode at Cumbermoor, and Tina would feel nothing but content at see- ing a new il little black-eyed monkey" running up and down the gallery and gardens of the Manor. A mother dreads no memories those shadows have all melted away in the dawn of baby's smile. In these hopes, and in the enjoyment of Tina's nestling af- fection, Mr. Gilfil tasted a few months of perfect happiness. She had come to lean entirely on his love, and to find life sweet for his sake. Her continual languor and want of act- ive interest was a natural consequence of bodily feebleness, and the prospect of her becoming a mpther was a new ground for 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 for evermore. EPILOGUE. THIS was Mr. Gilfil's love-story, which lay far back from the time when he sat, worn and gray, by his lonely fireside in Shepperton Vicarage. Rich brown locks, passionate love, and deep early sorrow, strangely different as they seem from the scanty white hairs, the apathetic content, and the unex- pectant quiescence of old age, are but part of the same 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 brings us to the other side of the mountain, between the sombre rocky walls and among the guttural voices of the Valais. To those who were familiar only with the gray-haired Vic- ar, jogging leisurely along on his old chestnut cob, it would perhaps have been hard to believe that he had ever been the Maynard Gilfil who, with a heart full of passien-anttTender- ness, had.urged his black Kitty to her swiftest gallop on the way to CaTlamTBT that the old gentleman of caustic tongue, MR. GILPIL'S LOVE-STORY. 187 and bucolic tastes, and sparing habits, had known all the deep secrets of devoted love, had struggled through its days and nights of anguish, and trembled under its unspeakable joys. And indeed the Mr. Gilfil of those late Shepperlon days had more of the knots and ruggedness of poor human nature than there lay any clear hint of in the open-eyed, lov- ing Maynard. But it is with men as with trees : if you lop oft' their finest branches, injto which they were pouring their young life-juice, the wounds will be healed over with some rough boss, some odd excrescence ; and what might have been a grand tree expanding into liberal shade, is but a whimsical, misshapen trunk. JVIany an irritating fault, many an unlove- ly oddity, has come of a hard sorrow, which has crushed and maimed the nature just w.hen it was expanding into plente- ous beauty ; and the trivial erring life which we visit with our harsh blame, may be but as the unsteady motion of a man whose best limb is withered. And s6 the dear old Vicar, though he nad something of the knotted, whimsical character of the poor lopped oak, had yet been sketched out by nature as a noble tree. The heart of him was sound, the grain was of the finest ; and in the gray-haired man who filled his pocket with sugar-plums for the little children, whose most biting words were directed against the evil doing of the rich man, and who, with all his social pipes and slipshod talk, never sank below the highest level of his parishioners' respect, there was the main trunk of the same brave, faithful, tender nature that had poured out the finest, freshest forces of its life-current in a first and only love the love of Tina. JANET'S REPENTANCE. CHAPTER I. "No!" said lawyer Dempster, in a loud, rasping, oratori- cal tone, struggling against chronic huskiness, "as long as my Maker grants me power of voice and power of intellect, I will take every legal means to resist the introduction of demoral- izing, methodistical doctrine into this parish ; I will not su- pinely suffer an insult to be inflicted on our venerable pas- tor, who has given us sound instruction for half a century." It was very warm everywhere that evening, but especial- ly in the bar of the Red Lion at Milby, where Mr. Dempster was seated mixing his third glass of brandy-and-water. He was a tall and rather massive man, and the front half of his large nrface-wtiS so well dredged with snuff, that the cat, having inadvertently come near him, had been sefzed with a severe fit of sneezing an accident which, being cruelly mis- understood, had caused her to be driven contumeliously from the bar. Mr. Dempster habitually held his chin tucked in, and his head hanging forward, weighed down, perhaps, by a preponderant occiput and a bulging forehead, between which his closely-clipped coronal surface lay like a flat and new-mown table-land. The only other observable features were puffy cheeks and a protruding yet lipless mouth. Of his nose I can only say that it was snuffy ; and as Mr. Dempster was never caught in the act of looking at any thing in particular, it would have been difficult to swear to the color of his eyes. " Well ! I'll not stick at giving myself trouble to put down such hypocritical cant," said Mr. Tomlinson, the rich miller. "I know well enough what your Sunday evening lectures are good for for wenches to meet their sweethearts, and brew mischief. There's work enough with the servant- maids as it rs such as I never heard the like of in my moth- er's time, and it's all along o' your schooling and newfangled plans. Give me a servant as can nayther read nor write, I 190 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. say, and doesn't know the year o' the Lord as she was born in. I should like to know what good those Sunday schools have done, now. Why, the boys used to go a bird's-nesting of a Sunday morning ; and a capital thing too ask any farm- er ; and very pretty it was to see the strings o' heggs hang- ing up in poor people's houses. You'll not see 'em nowhere now." " Pooh !" said Mr. Luke Byles, who piqued himself on his reading, and was in the habit of asking casual acquaintances if they knew any thing of Hobbes; "it is right enough that the lower orders should be instructed. But this sectarianism within the Church ought to be put down. In ,pmni_a-fkct, these Evangelicals are not Churchmen at all ; they're no_bet- ter than Pre'sByteTTims;**^ " Presbyterans ? what are they ?" inquired Mr. Tomlinson, who often said his father had given him " no eddication, and he didn't care who knowed it ; he could buy up most o' th' eddicated men he'd ever come across." " The Presbyterians," said Mr. Dempster, in rather a loud- er tone than before, holding that every appeal for information must naturally be addressed to him, " are a sect founded in the reign of Charles I., by a man named John Presbyter, who hatched all the brood of Dissenting vermin that crawl about in dirty alleys, and circumvent the lord of the manor in order 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 word presbyterian is derived from John Presbyter, a mis- erable fanatic who wore a suit of leather, and went about from town to village, and from village to hamlet, inoculating the vulgar with the asinine virus of Dissent." " Come, Byles, that seems a deal more likely," said Mr. Tomlinson, in a conciliatory tone, apparently of opinion that history was a process of ingenious guessing. "It's not a question of likelihood; it's a known fact. I could fetch you my Encyclopedia, and show it you this mo- ment," " I don't care a straw, sir, either for you or your Encyclo- paedia," said Mr. Dempster; "a farrago of false information, of which you picked up an imperfect copy in a cargo of waste paper. Will you tell me, sir, that I don't know the origin of Presbyterianism ? I, sir, a man known through the county, intrusted with the affairs of half a score of parishes ; while JANETS REPENTANCE. 191 yon, sir, are ignored by the very fleas that infest the miser- able alley in which 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 of the too well informed Mr. Byles, who, white with rage, rose and walked out of the bar. " A meddlesome, upstart, Jacobinical fellow, gentlemen," continued Mr. Dempster. " I was determined to be rid of him. What does he mean by thrusting himself into our company ? A man with about as much principle as he has property, which, to my knowledge, is considerably less than none. An insol- vent atheist, gentlemen. A deistical prater, fit to sit in the chimney-corner of a pot-house, and make blasphemous com- ments on the one greasy newspaper fingered by beer-swilling tinkers. I will not suffer in my company a man who speaks lightly of religion. The signature of a fellow like Byles would be a blot on our protest." " And how do you get on with your signatures ?" said Mr. Pilgrim, the doctor, who had presented his large top-booted person within the bar while Mr. Dempster was speaking. Mr. Pilgrim had just returned from one of his long day's rounds among the farm-houses, in the course of which he had sat down to two hearty meals that might have been mistaken for dinners if he had not declared them to be " snaps ;" and as each snap had been followed by a few glasses of" mixture," containing a less liberal proportion of water than the articles he himself labelled with that broadly generic name, he was in that condition which his groom indicated with poetic am- biguity by saying that " master had been in the sunshine." Under these circumstances, after a hard day, in which he had really had no regular meal, it seemed a natural relaxation to step into the bar of the Red Lion, where, as it was Saturday evening, he should be sure to find Dempster, and hear the latest news about the protest against the evening 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 has a way of keeping himself neutral in every thing, and he doesn't like to oppose his father. Old Landor is a regular Tryanite. But we haven't got your name yet, Pilgrim." " Tut tut, Budd," said Mr. Dempster, sarcastically, " you don't expect Pilgrim to sign? He's got a dozen Tryanite livers under his treatment. Nothing like cant and method- ism for producing a superfluity of bile." 192 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. " Oh, I thought, as Pratt had declared himself a Tryanite, we should be sure to get Pilgrim on our side." Mr. Pilgrim was not a man to sit quiet under a sarcasm, na- ture having endowed him with a considerable share of self- defensive wit. In his most sober moments he had an imped- iment in his speech, and as copious gin-and-water stimulat- ed not the speech but the impediment, he had time to make his retort sufficiently bitter. " Why, to tell you the truth, Budd," he spluttered, "there's a report all over the town that Deb Traunter swears you shall take her with you as one of the delegates, and they say there's to be a fine crowd at your door the morning you start, to see the row. Knowing your tenderness for that member of the fair sexjl thought you might find it impossible to deny her. I hang back a little from signing on that account, as Prenclergast might not take the protest well if Deb Traunter went with you." Mr. Budd was a small, sleek-headed bachelor of five-and- forty, whose scandalous life had long furnished his more moral neighbors with an after-dinner joke. He had no other strik- ing characteristic, except that he was a currier of choleric temperament, so that you might wonder why he had been chosen as clergyman's churchwarden, if I did not tell you that he had recently been elected through Mr. Dempster's ex- ertions, in order that his zeal against the threatened evening lecture might be backed by the 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 red o' the other. You've been to hear Tryan preach at Paddiford Common you know you have." " To be sure I have ; and a capital sermon too. It's a pity you were not there. It was addressed to those ' void of un- derstanding.' " " No, no, you'll never catch me there," returned Mr. Tom- linson, not in the least 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 good works; says good works are not necessary to salvation a sectarian, antinomian, anabaptist doctrine. Tell a man he is not to be saved by his works, and you open the flood-gates of all immorality. You see it in all these canting innovators; they're all bad ones by the sly; smooth-faced, drawling, hypocritical fellows, who pretend ginger isn't hot in their mouths, and cry down all innocent pleasures ; their hearts are all the blacker for their sanctimonious outsides. JANET'S REPENTANCE. 193 Haven't we been warned against those who make clean the outside of the cup and the platter ? Thi!a-tht8 Tryan^-now, he goes about praying with old women, and singing with charity-children; but what has he FeUy gat his- eye on all the while ? A domineering ambitious Jesuit, gentlemen ; all he wants is to get his foot far enough into the parish to step into Crewe's shoes when the old gentleman dies. Depend upon it, whenever you see a man pretending to be better than his neighbors, that man has either some cunning end to serve, or his heart is rotten with spiritual pride." As if to guarantee himself against this awful sin, Mr. Dempster seized his glass of brandy-and-water, and tossed off the contents with even greater rapidity than usual. " Have you fixed on your third delegate yet ?" said Mr. Pilgrim, whose taste was for detail rather than for disserta- tion. " That's the man," answered Dempster, pointing to Mr. Tomlinson. " We start for Elmstoke Rectory on Tuesday morning ; so, if you mean to give us your signature, you must make up your mind pretty quickly, Pilgrim." Mr. Pilgrim did not in the least mean it, so he only said, " I shouldn't wonder if Tryan turns out too many for you, after all. He's got a well-oiled tongue of his own, and has per- haps talked over Prendergast into 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 rods in pickle for Tryan." At this moment Boots entered the bar, and put a letter into the lawyer's hands, saying, " There's Trower's man just come into the yard wi' a gig, sir, an' he's brought this here let- ter." Mr. Dempster read the letter and said, " Tell him to turn the gig I'll be with 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 the cautious Dempster, rising deliberately from his chair, thrusting on his low-crowned hat, and walk-? ing with a slow but not unsteady step out of the bar. " 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 best part of a bottle o' brandy since here we've been sitting, and I'll bet a guinea, when he's got to Trower's his head'll be as clear as mine. He knows more 194 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. about law when he's drunk than all the rest on 'em when they're sober." " Ay, and other things too, besides law," said Mr. Budd. " Did you notice how he took up Byles about the Presbyte- rians ? Bless your heart, he knows every thing, Dempster does. He studied very hard when he was a young man." CHAPTER IL THE conversation just recorded is not, I am aware, re- markably refined or witty ; but if it had been, it could hard- ly have taken place in Milby when Mr. Dempster flourished there, and old Mr. Crewe, the curate, was yet alive. More than a quarter of a century has slipped by since then, and in the interval Milby has advanced at as rapid a pace as other market-towns in her Majesty's dominions. By this time it has a handsome railway station, where the drowsy London traveller may look out by the brilliant gas-light and see perfectly sober papas and husbands alighting with their leather-bags after transacting their day's business at the county town. There is a resident rector, who appeals to the consciences of his hearers with all the immense advantages of a divine who keeps his own carriage; the church is en- larged by at least five hundred sittings ; and the grammar- chool, conducted on reformed principles, has its upper forms and gathered it all into large barricades in front of their heads, leaving their oc- cipital region exposed without ornament, as if that, being a back view, was of no consequence, dreamed as little that their daughters would read a selection of German poetry, and be able to express an admiration for Schiller, as that they would turn all their hair the other way that instead of threatening us with barricades in front, they would be most killing in re- treat, "And, like the Parthian, wound us as they fly." Those charming well-frizzed ladies spoke French indeed with considerable facility, unshackled by any timid regard to idiom, and were in the habit of conducting conversations in that language in the presence of their less instructed elders ; for according to the standard of those backward days, their ed- ucation had been very lavish, such young ladies as Miss Lan- dor, Miss Phipps, and the Miss Pittmansjiaving been " finish; e d-"-afe- distant APjj^xpcnsive schools. Old lawyer Pittman" "na~d once "been a very important per- son indeed, having in his earlier days managed the affairs of several gentlemen in those parts, who had subsequently been obliged to sell every thing and leave the country, in which crisis Mr. Pittman accomodatingly stepped in as a purchaser 198 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. of their estates, taking on himself the risk and trouble of a more leisurely sale ; which, however, happened to turn out very much to his advantage. Such opportunities occur quite unexpectedly in the way of business. But I think Mr. Pitt- man must have been unlucky in his later speculations, for now, in his old age, he had not the reputation of being very rich ; and though he rode slowly to his office in Milby every morning on an old white hackney, he had to resign the chief profits, as well as the active business of the firm, to his young- er partner, Dempster. No one in Milby considered old Pitt- man a virtuous man, and the elder townspeople were not at all backward in narrating the least advantageous portions of his biography in a very round unvarnished manner. Yet I could never observe that they trusted him any the less, or liked him any the worse. Indeed, Pittman and Dempster were the popular lawyers of Milby and its neighborhood, and Mr. Benjamin Landor, whom no one had any thing particular to say against, had a very meagre business in comparison. Hardly a landholder, hardly a farmer, hardly a pai'ish within ten miles of Milby, whose affairs were not under the legal guardianship of Pittman and Dempster; and I think the clients were proud of their lawyers' unscrupulousness, as the patrons of the fancy are proud of their champion's " condi- tion." It was not, to be sure, the thing for ordinary life, 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 with the farmers, over an incidental glass of grog at the Red Lion. " He's a long-headed feller, Dempster ; why, it shows yer what a head-piece Dempster has, as he can drink a bottle o' brandy at a sittin', an' yit see further through a stone wall when he's done, than other folks'll see through a glass winder." Even Mr. Jerome, chief member of the congregation at Salem Chapel, an elderly man of very strict life, was one of Dempster's clients, and had quite an ex- ceptional indulgence for his attorney's foibles, perhaps attrib- uting them to the inevitable incompatibility of law and gos- pel. The standard of morality at Milby, you perceive, was not inconveniently high in those good old times, and an ingen- uous vice or two was what every man expected of his neigh- bor. Old Mr. Crewe, the curate, for example, was allowed to enjoy his avarice in comfort, without fear of sarcastic parish demagogues ; and his flock liked him all the better for having scraped together a large fortune out of his school and curacy, and the proceeds of the three thousand pounds he had with his little deaf wife. It was clear he must be a learned man, JANET'S REPENTANCE. 190 for he had once had a large private school in connection with the grammar-school, and had even numbered a yourg noble- man or two among his pupils. The fact that he read noth- ing at all now, and that his mind seemed absorbed in the commonest matters, was doubtless due to his having exhaust- ed the resources of erudition earlier in life. It is truahe was not spoken of in terms of high respect, and old Crewe s stingy housekeeping was a frequent subject of jesting; but this was a good old-fashioned characteristic in a parson who had been part of Milby life for half a century : it was like the dents and disfigurements in an old family tankard, which no one would like to part with for a smart new piece of plate fresh from Birmingham. The parishioners saw no reason at all why it should be desirable to venerate the parson or any one else: they were much more comfortable to look down a little on their fellow-creatures. Even the Dissent in Milby was then of a lax and indiffer- ent kind. The doctrine of adult baptism, struggling under a heavy load of debt, had let off half its chapel area as a rib- bon-shop ; and Methodism was only to be detected, as you detect curious larvae, by diligent search in dirty corners. The Independents were the only Dissenters of whose exist- ence Milby gentility was at all conscious, and it had a vague idea that the salient points of their creed were prayer with- out book, red brick, and hypocrisy. The Independent chapel, known as Salem, stood red and conspicuous in a broad street ; more than one pew-holder kept a brass-bound gig ; and Mr. Jerome, a retired corn-factor, and the most eminent member of the congregation, was one of the richest men in the parish. But in spite of this apparent prosperity, together with the usual amount of extemporaneous preaching mitigated by fur- tive notes, Salem belied its name, and was not always the abode of peace. For some reason or other, it was unfortu- nate in the choice of its ministers. Tke__Rev. Mr. Horner, elected with brilliant hopes, was discovered to be given to tippling and quarrelling with his wife ; the Rev. Mr. Rose's doctrine was a little too " high," verging on antinomianism ; the Rev. Mr. Stickney's gift as a preacher was found to be less striking on a more extended acquaintance ; and the Rev. Mr. Smith, a distinguished minister much sought after in the iron districts, with a talent for poetry, became objectionable from an inclination to exchange verses with the young ladies of his congregation. It was reasonably argued that such verses as Mr. Smith's must take a long time for their compo- sition, and the habit alluded to might intrench seriously on his pastoral duties. These reverend gentlemen, one and all, SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. gave it as their opinion that the Salem church members were among the least enlightened of the Lord's people, and that Milby was a low place, where they would have found it a severe lot to have their lines fall for any long period ; though to see the smart and crowded congregation assembled on oc- casion of the annual charity sermon, any one might have sup- posed tnat the minister of Salem had rather a brilliant posi- tion in the ranks of Dissent. Several Church families used to attend on that occasion, for Milby, in those uninstructed days, had not yet heard that the schismatic ministers of Salem were obviously typified by Korah, Dathan, and Abiram; and many Church people there were of opinion that Dissent might be a weakness, but, after all, had no great harm in it. These lax Episcopalians were, I believe, chiefly tradespeople, who held that, inasmuch as Congregationalism consumed candles, it ought to be supported, and accordingly made a point of pre- senting themselves at Salem for the afternoon charity ser- mon, with the expectation of being asked to hold a plate. Mr. Pilgrim, too, was always there with his half-sovereign ; for as there was no Dissenting doctor in Milby, Mr. Pilgrim looked with great tolerance on all shades of religious opinion that did not include a belief in cures by miracle. On this point he had the concurrence of Mr. Pratt, the only other medical man of the same standing in Milby. Otherwise, it was remarkable how strongly 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 pow- ers of conversation, but Pratt's anecdotes were of the fine old crusted quality to be procured only of Joe Miller ; Pil- grim's had the full fruity flavor of the most recent scandal. Pratt elegantly referred all diseases to debility, and, with a proper contempt for symptomatic treatment, went to the root of the matter with port-wine and bark; Pilgrim was persuaded that the evil principle in the human system was plethora, and he made war against it with cupping, blistering, and cathartics. They had both been long established in Mil- by, and as each had a sufficient practice, there was no very malignant rivalry between them ; on the contrary, they had that sort of friendly contempt for each other which is always conducive to a good understanding between professional men ; and when any new surgeon attempted, in an ill-advised hour, to settle himself in the town, it was strikingly demon- strated how slight and trivial are theoretic differences com- pared with the broad basis of common human feeling. There was the most perfect unanimity between Pratt and Pilgrim JANET'S REPENTANCE. 201 in the determination to drive away the obnoxious and too probably unqualified intruder as soon as possible. Wheth- er the first wonderful cure he effected was on a patient of Pratt's or of Pilgrim's, one was as ready as the other to pull the interloper by the nose, and both alike directed their re- markable powers of conversation towards making the town too hot for him. But by their respective patients these two distinguished men were pitted against each other with great virulence. Mrs. Lowme could not conceal her amazement that Mrs. Phipps should trust her life in the hands of Pratt, who let her feed herself up to that degree, it was really shock- ing to hear how short her breath was; and Mrs. Phipps had no patience with Mrs. Lowme, living, as she did, on tea and broth, and looking as, yellow as any crow-flower, and yet let- ting Pilgrim bleed and blister her and give her lowering medicine till her clothes hung on her like a scarecrow's. On the whole, perhaps, Mr. Pilgrim's reputation was at the high- er pitch,, and when any lady under Mr. Pratt's care was doing ill, she was half disposed to think that a little more " active treatment" might suit her better. But without very definite provocation no one would take BO serious a step as to pait with the family doctor, for in those remote days there were few varieties of human hatred more formidable than the med- ical. The doctor's estimate, even ot a confiding patient, was apt to rise and fall with the entries in the day-book ; and I have known Mr. Pilgrim discover the most unexpected vir- tues in a patient seized with a promising illness. At such times you might have been glad to perceive that there were some of Mr. Pilgrim's fellow-creatures of whom he entertain- ed a high opinion, and that he was liable to the amiable weakness of a too admiring estimate. A good inflammation fired his enthusiasm, and a lingering dropsy dissolved him into charity. Doubtless this crescendo of benevolence was partly due to feelings not at all represented by the entries in the day-book ; for in Mr. Pilgrim's heart, too, there was a la- tent store of tenderness and pity which flowed forth at the sight of suffering. Gradually, however, as his patients be- came convalescent, his view of their characters became more dispassionate ; when they could relish mutton-chops, he be- gan to admit that they had foibles, and by the time they had swallowed their last dose of tonic, he was alive to their most inexcusable faults. After this, the thermometer of his regard rested at the moderate point of friendly backbiting, which sufficed to make him agreeable in his morning visits to the amiable and worthy persons who were yet far from convales- cent. 9* 202 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. Pratt's patients were profoundly uninteresting to Pilgrim ; their very diseases were despicable, and he would hardly have thought their bodies worth dissecting. But of all Pratt's patients, Mr. Jerome was the one on whom Mr. Pil- grim heaped the most unmitigated contempt. In spite of the surgeon's wise tolerance, Dissent became odious to him in the person of Mr. Jerome. Perhaps it was because that old gen- tleman, being rich, and having very large yearly bills for medical attendance on himself and his wife, nevertheless em- ployed Pratt neglected all the advantages of" active treat- ment," and paid away his money without getting his system lowered. On any other ground it is hard to explain a feeling of hostility to Mr. Jerome, who was an excellent old gentle- man, expressing a great deal of good-will towards his neigh- bors, not only in imperfect English, but in loans of money to the ostensibly rich, and in sacks of potatoes to the 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 were born there, sweetening their parents' hearts with simple joys; men and women withering in disappointed worldliness, or bloated with sensual ease, had better moments in which they pressed the hand of suffering with sympathy, and were moved to deeds of neighborly kind- ness. In church and in chapel there were honest-hearted worshippers who strove to keep a conscience void of offense ; and even up the dimmest alleys you might have found here and there a Wesleyan to whom Methodism was the vehicle of peace on earth and good-will to men. To a superficial glance, Milby was nothing but dreary prose ; a dingy town, surrounded by flat fields, lopped elms, and sprawling manu- facturing villages, which crept on and on with their weaving- shops, till they threatened to graft themselves on the town. But the sweet spring came to Milby notwithstanding : the elm-tops were red with buds ; the churchyard was starred with daisies ; the lark showered his love-music on the flat- fields; the rainbows hung over the dingy town, clothing the very roofs and chimneys in a strange transfiguring beauty. And so it was with the human life there, which at first seem- ed a dismal mixture of griping worldliness, vanity, ostrich feathers, and the fumes of brandy , looking closer, you found some purity, gentleness, and unselfishness, as you may have observed a scented geranium giving forth its wholesome odors amidst blasphemy and gin in a noisy pot-house. Little deaf Mrs. Crewe would often carry half her own spare dinner to the sick and hungry ; Miss Phipps, with her cockade of red JANET'S REPENTANCE. 203 feathers, had a filial heart, and lighted her father's pipe with a pleasant smile ; and there were gray-haired men in drab gaiters, not at all noticeable as you passed them in the street, whose integrity had been the basis of their rich neighbor's wealth. Such as the place was, the people there were entirely con- tented with it. They fancied life must be but a dull affair for that large portion of mankind who were necessarily shut out from an acquaintance with Milby families, and that it must be an advantage to London and Liverpool that Milby gentlemen occasionally visited those places on business. But the inhabitants became more intensely conscious of the value they set upon all their advantages, when innovation made its appearance in the person of the Rev. Mr. Tryan, the new cu- rate, at the chapel-of-ease on Paddiford Common. It was soon notorious in Milby that Mr. Tryan held peculiar opin- ions ; that he preached extempore ; that he was founding a religious lending-library in his remote corner of the parish ; that he expounded the Scriptures in cottages ; and that his preaching M r as attracting the Dissenters, and filling the very aisles of his church. The rumor sprang up that Evangelical- ism had invaded Milby parish a murrain or blight all the more terrible, because its nature was but dimly conjectured. Perhaps Milby was one of the last spots to be reached by the wave of a new movement ; and it was only now, when the tide was just on the turn, that the limpets there got a sprink- ling. Mr. Tryan was the first Evangelical clergyman who had risen above the Milby horizon : hitherto that obnoxious adjective had been unknown to the townspeople of any gen- tility ; and there were even many Dissenters who considered " evangelical " simply a sort of baptismal name to the maga- zine which circulated among the congregation of Salem Chap- el. But now, at length, the disease had been imported, when the parishioners were expecting it as little as the innocent Red Indians expected small-pox. As long as Mr. Tryan's hearers were confined to Paddiford Common which, by-the- by, was hardly recognizable as a common at all, but was a dismal district where you heard the rattle of the handloom, and breathed the smoke of coal-pits the " canting parson " could be treated as a joke. Not so when a number of single ladies in the town appeared 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 in several good houses, where he was in the habit of finishing the evening with exhortation and prayer. Evangelicalism 204 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. was no longer a nuisance existing merely in by-corners, which any well-clad person could avoid; it was invading the very drawing-rooms, mingling itself with the comfortable fumes of port-wine and brandy, threatening to deaden with its murky breath all the splendor of the ostrich feathers, and to stifle Milby ingenuousness, not pretending to be better than its neighbors, with a cloud of cant and lugubrious hypocrisy. The alarm reached its climax when it was reported that Mr. Tryan was endeavoring to obtain authority from Mr. Pren- dergast, the non-resident rector, to establish a Sunday even- ing lecture in the parish church, on the ground that old Mr. Crewe did not preach the Gospel. It now first appeared how surprisingly high a value Milby in general set on the ministrations of Mr. Crewe ; how con- vinced it was that Mr. Crewe was the model of a parish priest, and his sermons the soundest and most edifying that had ever remained unheard by a church-going population. All allusions to his brown wig were suppressed, and by a rhetorical figure his name was associated with venerable gray hairs ; the at- tempted intrusion 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 parish where he was clearly dis- tasteful to the superior portion of its inhabitants. The town was divided into two zealous parties, the Tryanites and anti- Tryanites ; and by the exertions of the eloquent Dempster, the anti-Tryanite virulence was soon developed into an or- ganized opposition. A protest against the meditated evening lecture was framed by that orthodox attorney, and, after be- ing numerously signed, was to be carried to Mr. Prendergast fcy three delegates representing the intellect, morality, and wealth of Milby. The intellect, you perceive, was to be per- sonified in Mr. Dempster, the morality in Mr. Budd, and the wealth in Mr. Tomlinson ; and the distinguished triad was to set out on its great mission, as we have seen, on the third day from that warm Saturday evening when the conversation re- corded in the previous chapter took place in the bar of the Red Lion. CHAPTER HI. IT was quite as warm on the following Thursday evening, when Mr. Dempster and his colleagues were to return from their mission to Elmstoke Rectory ; but it was much pleas- anter in Mrs. Linnet's parlor than in the bar of the Red Lioa JANET'S REPENTANCE. 205 Through the open window came the scent of mignonnette and honeysuckle ; the grass-plot in front of the house was shaded by a little plantation of Gueldres roses, syringas, and labur- nums ; the noise of looms and carts and unmelodious voices reached the ear simply as an agreeable murmur, for Mrs. Lin- net's house was situated quite on the outskirts of P,addiford Common; njid the only sound likely to disturb the serenity iMo moflt pf"T lA flm "ght it a p^y that a.sfinsibl woman like Mary had not found a good husband and even her fe- male friends said nothing more ill-natured of her than that her face was like a piece of putty with two Scotch pebbles stuck in it Rebecca was always spoken of sarcastically, and it wajTaTSuslomary kind of banter with young ladies to recom- mend her as a wife to any gentleman they happened to be flirting with her fat, her finery, and her thick ankles suffic- ing to give piquancy to the joke, notwithstanding the ab- sence of novelty. Miss Rebecca, however, possessed the ac- complishment of music, and her singing of " Oh no, we never mention her," and " The Soldier's Tear," was so desirable an accession io the pleasures of a tea-party that no one cared to offend her, especially as Rebecca had a high spirit of her own, and, in spite of her expansively rounded contour, had a par- ticularly sharp tongue. Her reading had been more exten- sive than her sister's, embracing most of the fiction in Mr. Procter's circulating library, and nothing but an acquaintance with the course of her studies could afford a clue to the i*ap- id transitions in her dress, which were suggested by the style of beauty, whether sentimental, sprightly, or severe, possess- ed by the heroine of the three volumes actually in perusal. A piece of lace, which drooped round the edge of her white 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 shelving bust, like the sun on a fog-bank. The black velvet, meeting with a crystal clasp, which one evening encircled her head, had on another de- scended to her neck, and on a third to her wrist, suggesting to an active imagination either a magical contraction of the ornament, or a fearful ratio of expansion in Miss Rebecca's person. With this constant application of art to dress, she could have had little time for fancy-work, even if she had not been destitute of her sister's taste for that delightful and truly feminine occupation. And here, at least, you perceive the justice of the Milby opinion as to the relative suitability of the two Miss Linnets for matrimony. When a man is happy enough to win the affections of a sweet girl, who can boothe his cares with crochet, and respond to all his most JANET'S UEPENTANCE. 207 cherished ideas with beaded urn-rugs and chair-covers in German wool, he has, at least, a guaranty of domestic com- fort, whatever trials may await him out of doors. What a resource it is under fatigue and irritation to have your draw- ing-room, well supplied with small mats, which would always be ready if you ever wanted to set any thing on them ! And what styptic for a bleeding heart can equal copious squares of crochet, which are useful for slipping down the moment you touch them ? How our fathers managed without crochet is the wonder ; but I believe some small and feeble substitute existed in their time under the name of " tatting." Rebecca Linnet, however, had neglected tatting as well as other forms of fancy-work. At school, to be sure, she had spent a great deal of time in acquiring flower-painting, according to the in- genious method then fashionable, of applying the shapes of leaves and flowers cut out in cardboard, and scrubbing a brush over the surface thus conveniently marked out; but even the < spill-cases and hand-screens, which were her last half-year's performances in that way, were not considered eminently successful, and had long been consigned to the re- tirement of the best bed-room. Thus there was a good deal of family unlikeness between Rebecca and her sister, and I am afraid there was also a little family dislike ; but Mary's disapproval_had_usually been kept imprisoned behind her thin lips, for Rebecca wHs~ot only-of^'KeacIstrong disposition, but was her mother's }>et ; the old lady being herself stout, and preferring.^ moro showy style_of_cap than she could pre- vail on her daughter Mary to make up for her. But I have beerr describing Miss Rebecca as she w.as in former days only, for her appearance this evening, as she sits pasting on the green tickets, is in striking contrast with what it was three or four months ago. Her plain gray gingham dress and plain white collar could never have belonged to her wardrobe before that date; and though she is not re- duced in size, and her brown hair will do nothing but hang in crisp ringlets down her large cheeks, there is a change in her air and expression which seems to shed a softened light over her person, and make her look like a peony in the shade, in- stead of the same flower flaunting in a parterre in the hot sunlight. No one could deny that Evangelicalism had wrought a change for the better in Rebecca Linnet's person not even Miss Pratt, the thin stiff lady in spectacles, seated opposite to her, who always had a peculiar repulsion for " females with a gross habit of body." Miss Pratt was an old maid ; but that is a no more definite description than if I had said she 208 SCENES OF CLEEICAL LIFE. was in the autumn 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 leaves are fluttering in tho chill breeze ? The young ladies in Milby would have told you that 'the Miss Linnets were old maids ; but the Miss Linnets were to Miss Pratt what the apple-scented September is to the bare, nipping days of late November. The Miss Linnets were in that temperate zone of old maidism, w-hen^a woman will not say but that if a man of suitable years and character were to offer himself, she might be induced to tread the re- mainder of life's vale in company with him; Miss Pratt was in that arctic region where a woman is confident that at no time of life would she have consented to give up her liberty, and that she has never seen the man whom she would engage to honor aiid obejr. If the Miss Linnets were 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 braid- ed " front," a backbone and appendages. Miss Pratt was the one blue-stocking of Milby, possessing, she said, no less than five hundred volumes, competent, as her brother the doctor often observed, to conduct a conversation on any topic what- ever, and occasionally dabbling a little in authorship, though it was understood that she had never put forth the full pow- ers of her mind in print. Her " Letters to a Young Man on his Entrance into Life," and " De Courcy, or the Rash Promise, a Tale for Youth," were mere trifles which she had been in- duced to publish because they were calculated for popular utility, but they were nothing to what she had for years had by her in manuscript. Her latest production had been Six Stanzas, addressed to the Rev. Edgar Tryan, printed on glazed paper with a neat border, and beginning, "Forward, young wrestler for the truth !" Miss Pratt having kept her brother's house during his long widowhood, his daughter, Miss Eliza, had had the ad- vantage of being educated by her aunt, and thus of imbibing a very strong antipathy to all that remarkable woman'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 the small elderly lady in dowdy clothing, who is also working diligently, is Mrs. Pettifer, a superior- minded widow, much valued in Milby, being such a very re- spectable person to have in the house in case of illness, and of quite too good a family to receive any money-payment you could always send her garden-stuff that would make her ample amends. Miss Pratt has enough to do in commenting on the heap of volumes before her, feeling it a responsibility JANET'S REPENTANCE. 209 entailed on her by her great powers of mind to leave nothing without the advantage of her opinion. Whatever was good must be sprinkled with the chrism of her approval ; whatever was evil must be blighted by her condemnation. " Upon my word," she said, in a deliberate high voice, as if she were dictating to an amanuensis, " it is a most admira- ble selection of works for popular reading, this that our ex- cellent Mr. Tryan has made. I do not know whether, if the task had been confided to me, I could have made a selection combining in a higher degree religious instruction and edifi- cation with a due admixture of the purer species of amuse- ment. This story of ' Father Clement ' is a library in it- self on the errors of Romanism. I have ever considered fic- tion a suitable form for conveying moral and religious instruc- tion, as I have shown in my little work ' De Courcy,' which, as a very clever writer in the ' Crompton Argus ' said at the time of 'its appearance, is the light vehicle of a weighty moraV " One' 'ud think," said Mrs. Linnet, who also had her spec- tacles on, but chiefly for the purpose of seeing what the others were doing, " there didn't want much to drive people away from a religion as makes 'em walk barefoot over stone floors, like that girl in ' Father Clement' sending the blood up to the head frightful. Any body might see that was an unnat'ral creed." u Yes," said Miss Pratt, " but asceticism is not the root of the error, as Mr. Tryan was telling us the other evening it is the denial of the great doctrine of justification by faith. Much as I had reflected on all subject8^in_the course of my life, I am indebted to Mr. Tryan for opening my eyes to the full importance of that cardinal doctnn^af^thejReformation. From a child I h:veat you into your senses." He laid his hand with a firm grip on her shoulder, turned fcer round, and pushed her slowly before him along the pas- sage and through the dining-room door, which stood open on their left hand. There was a portrait of Janet's mother, a gray-haired, ciark-eyed old woman, in a neatly fluted cap, hanging over the mantel-piece. Surely the aged eyes take on a look of an- guish as they see Janet not trembling, no ! it would be bet- ter if she trembled standing stupidly unmoved in her great beauty, while the heavy arm is lifted to strike her. The blow JANET'S BEPENTANCE. 223 falls another and another. Surely the mother hears that cry " Oh, Robert ! pity! pity!" Poor gray-haired woman ! Was it for this yon suffered a mother's pangs in your lone widowhood five-and-thirty years ago ? Was it for this you kept the little worn morocco shoes Janet had first run in, and kissed them day by day when she was away from you, a tall girl at school ? Was it for this you looked proudly at her when she came back to you in her rich pale beauty, like a tall white arum that has just un- folded its grand pure curves to the sun ? The mother lies sleepless and praying in her lonely house, weeping the difficult tears of age, because she dreads this may be a cruel night for her child. She too has a picture over her mantel-piece, drawn in chalk by Janet long years ago. She looked at it before she went to bed. It is a head bowed beneath a cross, and wearing a crown of thorns. CHAPTER V. IT was half past nine o'clock in the morning. The mid- summer sun was already warm on the roofs and weathercocks of Milby. The church-bells were ringing, and many families were conscious of Sunday sensations, chiefly referable to the fact that the daughters had come down to breakfast in their best frocks, and with their hair particularly well dressed. For it was not Sunday, but Wednesday ; and though the Bishop was going to hold a Confirmation, and to decide whether or not there should be a Sunday evening lecture in Milby, the sunbeams had the usual working-day look to the hay-makers already long out in the fields, and to laggard weavers just " setting up " their week's " piece." The notion of its being Sunday was the strongest in young ladies like Miss Phipps, who was going to accompany her younger sister to the con- firmation, and to Avear a "sweetly pretty" transparent bon- net with marabout feathers on the interesting occasion, thus throwing into relief the suitable simplicity of her sisters at- tire, who was, of course, to appear in a new white frock; or in the pupils at Miss Townley's, who were absolved from all lessons, and were going to church to see the Bishop, and to hear the Honorable and Reverend Mr. Prendergast, the rec- tor, read prayers a high intellectual treat, as Miss Townley assured them. It seemed only natural that a rector whr> 224 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. was honorable should read better than old Mr. Crewe, who was only a curate, and not honorable ; and when little Clara Robins wondered why some clergymen were rectors and oth- ers not, Ellen Marriott assured her with great confidence that it was only the clever men who were made rectors. Ellen Marriott was going to be confirmed. She was a short, fair, plump girl, with blue eyes and sandy hair, which was this morning arranged in taller cannon curls than usual, for the reception of the Episcopal benediction, and some of the young ladies thought her the prettiest girl in the school ; but others gave the preference to her rival, Maria Gardner, who was much taller, and had a lovely " crop " of dark-brown ringlets, and who, being also about to take upon herself the vows made in her name at her baptism, had oiled and twisted her ringlets with special care. As she seated herself at the break- fast-table before Miss Townley's entrance to dispense the weak coffee, her crop excited so strong a sensation that Ellen Marriott was at length impelled to look at it, and to say with suppressed but bitter sarcasm, "Is that Miss Gardner's head ?" " Yes," said Maria, amiable and stuttering, and no match for Ellen in retort; "th th this is my head." " Then I don't admire it at all !" was the crushing rejoinder of Ellen, followed by a murmur of approval among her friends. Young ladies, I suppose, exhaust their sac of venom in this way at school. That is the reason why they have such a harmless tooth for each other in after life. The only other candidate for confirmation at Miss Town- ley's was Mary Dunn, a draper's daughter in Milby and a distant relation of the Miss Linnets. Her pale lanky hair could never be coaxed into permanent curl, and this morning the heat had brought it down to its natural condition of lankiness earlier than usual. But that was not Avhat made her sit melancholy and apart at the lower end of the form. Her parents were admirers of Mr. Tryan, and had been per- suaded, by the Miss Linnets' influence, to insist that their daughter should be prepared for confirmation by him, over and above the preparation given to Miss Townley's pupils by Mr. Crewe. Poor Mary Dunn ! I am afraid she thought it too heavy a price to pay for these spiritual advantages, to be excluded from every game at ball, to be obliged to walk with none but little girls in fact, to be the object of an aversion that nothing short of an incessant supply of plumcakes would have neutralized. And Mrs. Dunn was of opinion that plum- cake was unwholesome. The anti-Tryanite spirit, you per- ceive, was very strong at Miss Townley's, imported probably by day scholars, as well as encouraged by the fact that that JANET'S REPENTANCE. 225 clever woman was herself strongly opposed to innovation, and remarked every Sunday that Mr. Crewe had preached an "excellent discourse." Poor Mary Dunn dreaded the mo- ment when school-hours would be over, for then she was sure to be the butt of those very explicit remarks which, in young ladies' as well as young gentlemen's seminaries, constitute the most subtle and delicate form of the innuendo. " I'd never be a Tryanite, would you V" " Oh here comes the lady that knows so much more about religion than wrligt lilro Tryafl- And, for my part, I think we should be as well wi'out bishops, if they're no wiser than that. Where's the use o' havin' thousands a-ycar 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 of the Church ; we must have ranks and dignities there as well as everywhere else. No, sir ! Episcopacy is a good thing ; but it may hap- pen that a bishop is not a good thing. Just as brandy is a good thing, though this particular brandy is British, and tastes like sugared rain-water caught down the chimney. Here, Rat- cliffe, let me have something to drink a little less like a de- coction of sugar and soot." " I said nothing again' Episcopacy," returned Mr. Tomlin- son. " I only said I thought we should do as well wi'out bish- ops ; and I'll say it again for the matter o' that. Bishops never brought any grist to my mill." JANET'S REPENTANCE. 231 " Do you know when the lectures are to begin ?" said Mr. Pilgrim. " They are to begin on Sunday next," said Mr. Dempster, in a significant tone ; " but I think it will not take a long- sighted prophet to foresee the end of them. It strikes me Mr. Tryan will be looking out for another curacy shortly." " He'll not get many Milby people to go and hear his lec- tures after a while, I'll bet a guinea," observed Mr. Budd. " I know I'll not keep a single workman on my ground who either goes to the lecture himself or lets any body belonging to him go." "Nor me nayther," said Mr. Tomlinson. "No Tryanite shall touch a sack or drive a wagon o' mine, that you may depend on. An' I know more besides me as are o' the same mind." "Tryan has a good many friends in the town, though, and friends that are likely to stand by him too," said Mr. Pilgrim. "I should say it would be as well to let him and his lectures alone. If he goes on preaching as he does, witli such a con- stitution as his, he'll get a relapsed throat by-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 VH. MR. DEMPSTER did not stay long at the Red Lion that even- tng. He was summoned home to meet Mr. Armstrong, a wealthy client, and as he was kept in consultation till a late hour, it happened that this was one of the nights on which Mr. Dempster went to bed tolerably sober. Thus the day, which had been one of Janet's happiest, because it had been spent by her in helping her dear old friend Mrs. Crewe, ended for her with unusual quietude ; and as a bright sunset prom- ises a fair morning, so a calm lying down is a good augury for a calm waking. Mr. Dempster, on the Thursday morn- ing, was in one of his best humors, and though perhaps some of the good-humor might result from the prospect of a lucra- tive and exciting bit of business in Mr. Armstrong's probable lawsuit, the greater part was doubtless due to those stirrings of the more kindly, heal thy sap of human feeling by which good- 232 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. ness tries to get the upper hand in us whenever it seems to have the slightest chance on Sunday mornings, perhaps, when we are set free from the grinding hurry of the week, and take the little three-year-old on our knee at breakfast to share our egg and muffin ; in moments of trouble, when death visits our roof or illness makes us dependent on the tend- ing hand of a slighted wife ; in quiet talks with an aged mother, of the days when we stood at her knee with our first picture-book, or wrote her loving letters from school. In the man whose childhood has known caresses there is always a fibre of memory that can be touched to gentle issues, and Mr. Dempster, whom you have hitherto seen only as the ora- tor of the Red Lion, and the drunken tyrant of a dreary mid- night home, was the first-born darling son of a fair little mother. That mother was living still, and her own large black easy- chair, where she sat knitting through the livelong day, was now set ready for her at the breakfast-table, by her son's side, a sleek tortoise-shell cat acting as provisional incumbent. " Good-morning, Mamsey ! why, you're looking as fresh as a daisy this morning. You're getting young again," said Mr. Dempster, looking up from his newspaper when the little old lady entered. A very little old lady she was, with a pale, scarcely wrinkled face, hair of that peculiar white which tells that the locks have once been blond, a natty pure white cap on her head, and a white shawl pinned over her shoulders. You saw at a glance that she had been a mignonne blonde, strangely unlike her tall, ugly, dingy-complexioned son ; un- like her daughter-in-law, too, whose large-featured brunette beauty seemed always thrown into higher relief by the white presence of little Mamsey. The unlikeness between Janet and her mother-in-law went deeper than outline and complexion, and indeed there was little sympathy between them, for old Mrs. Dempster hadjiot-yul luurired- ta blie that her son, Robert^wolrtd^ia^ the right woman a meek woman like herself, who would have borne him children and been a deft, orderly housekeeper. In spite of Janet's tenderness and attention to her, she had had little love for her daughter-in-law from the first, and had witnessed the sad growth of home-misery through long years, always with a disposition to lay the blame on the wife rather than on the husband, and to reproach Mrs. Raynor for encouraging her daughter's faults by a too exclusive sympathy. But old Mrs. Dempster had that rare gift of silence and passivity which often supplies the absence of mental strength ; and, whatever were her thoughts, she said no word to aggravate the domestic discord. Patient and mute she sat at her knit- JANET'S REPENTANCE. 233 ting through many a scene of quarrel and anguish ; resolute- ly she appeared unconscious of the sounds that reached her ears, and the facts she divined after she had retired to her bed ; mutely she witnessed poor Janet's faults, only register- ing them as a balance of excuse on the side of her son. . The hard, astute, domineering attorney was still that little old woman's pet, as he had been when she watched with triumph- ant pride his first tumbling effort to march alone across the nursery 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." Oh, it is piteous that sorrow of aged women ! In early youth, perhaps, they said to themselves, " I shall be happy when I have a husband to love me best of all ;" then, when the husband was too careless, " My child will comfort me ;" then, through the mother's watching and toil, "My child will repay me all when it grows up." And at last, after the long journey of years has been wearily travelled through, the mother's heart is weighed down by a heavier burden, and no hope remains but the grave. But this morning old Mrs. Dempster sat down in her easy- chair without any painful, suppressed remembrance of the preceding night. " I declare mammy looks younger than Mrs. Crewe, who is only sixty-five," said Janet. " Mrs. Crewe will come to see you to-day, mammy, and tell you all about her troubles with the Bishop and the collation. She'll bring her knitting, and you'll have a regular gossip together." " The gossip will be all on one side, then, for Mrs. Crewe gets so very deaf, I can't make her hear a word. And if I motion to her, she always understands me wrong." "Oh, she will have so much to tell you to-day, you will not want to speak yourself. You, who have patience to knit those wonderful counterpanes, mammy, must not be impa- tient with dear Mrs. Crewe. Good old lady ! I can't bear her to think she's ever tiresome to people, and you know she's very ready to fancy herself in the way. I think she would like to shrink up to the size of a mouse, that she might run about and do people good without their 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 talk to her for me." " No, mammy; I promised poor Mrs. Lowme to go and sit with her. She's confined to her room, and both the Miss Lowmes are out ; so I'm going to read the newspaper to hef and amuse her." 234 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. " Couldn't you go another morning ? As Mr. Armstrong and that other gentleman are coming to dinner, I should think it would be better to stay at home. Can you trust Bet- ty to see to every thing? She's new to the place." " Oh I couldn't disappoint Mrs. Lowme ; I promised her. Betty will do very well, no fear." Old Mrs. Dempster was silent after this, and began to sip her tea. The breakfast went on without further conversation for some time, Mr. Dempster being absorbed in the papers. At length, when he was running over the advertisements, his eye seemed to be caught by something that suggested a new thought to him. He presently thumped the table with an air 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 an extraordinarily good-hu- mor), "and you shall help me. It's just what you're up to." " What is it ?" said Janet, her face beaming at the sound of the pet name, now heard so seldom. "Any thing to do with conveyancing ?" " It's a bit of fun worth a dozen fees a plan for raising a laugh against Tryan and his gang of hypocrites." " What is it ? Nothing that wants a needle and thread I hope, else I must go and tease mother." " No, nothing sharper than your wit except mine. I'll tell you what it \s. We'll get up a programme of the Sun- day evening lecture, like a play-bill, you know * Grand Per- formance of the celebrated Mountebank,' and so on. We'll bring in the Tryanites old Landor and the rest in appro- priate characters. Proctor shall print it, and we'll circulate it in the town. It will be a capital hit." " Bravo !" said Janet, clapping her hands. She would just then have pretended to like almost any thing, in her pleasure at being appealed to by her husband, and she really did like to laugh at the Tryanites. " We'll set about it di- rectly, 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 any thing in them we can use. I've only just looked into them ; they're not at all what I expected dull, stupid things nothing of the roaring fire-and-brimstone sort that I expect- ed." " Roaring ? No ; Tryan's as soft as a sucking dove one of your honey-mouthed hypocrites. Plenty of devil and malice in him, though, I could see that, while he was talking to the Bishop; but as smooth as a snake outside. He's be- ginning a single-handed fight with me, I can see persuading my clients away from me. We shall see who will be the JANET'S REPENTANCE. '^35 first to cry peccavi. Milby will do better without Mr. Tryan than without Robert Dempster, I fancy ! and Milby shall never be flooded with cant as long as I can raise a breakwa- ter against it. But now, get the breakfast 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 how the cucumbers are getting on. I've never taken you round the garden for an age. Come, you don't want a bonnet. It's like walking in a greenhouse this morning." " But she will want a parasol," said Janet. " There's one on the stand against the garden-door, Robert." The little old lady took her son's arm with placid pleasure. She could barely reach it so as to rest upon it, but he^in- clined a little towards her, and accommodated his heavy long-limbed steps to her feeble pace. The cat chose to sun herself too, and walked close beside them, with tail erect, rub- bing her sleek sides against their legs, too well fed to be ex- cited by.the twittering birds. The garden was of the grassy, shady kind, often seen attached to old houses in provincial towns ; the apple-trees had had time to spread their branch- es very wide, the shrubs and hardy perennial plants had grown into a luxuriance that required constant trimming to prevent them from intruding on the space for walking. But the farther end, which united with green fields, was open and sunny. It was rather sad, and yet pretty, to see that little group passing out of the shadow into the sunshine, and out of the sunshine into the shadow again : sad, because this tender- ness of the son for the mother was hardly more than a nu- cleus of healthy life in an organ hardening by disease, because the man who was linked in this way with an innocent past, had become callous in worldliness, fevered by sensuality, en- slaved by chance impulses ; pretty, because it showed how hard it is to kill the deep-down fibrous roots of human love and goodness how the man from whom we make it our pride to shrink, has yet a close brotherhood with us through some of 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 can copy it out after." Mammy once more deposited in her arm-chair, with her knitting in her hand, and the cat purring at her elbow, Janet seated herself at the table, while Mr. Dempster placed him- self near her, took out his snuif-box, and plentifully suffusing himself with the inspiring powder, began to dictate. What he dictated we shall see by-and-by. 236 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. CHAPTER THE next day, Friday, at five o'clock by the sun-dial, the large bow-window of Mrs. Jerome's parlor was open ; and that lady herself was seated within its ample semicircle, having a table before her on which her best tea-tray, her best china, and her best urn-rug had already been standing in readiness for half an hour. Mrs. Jerome's best tea-service was of delicate white fluted china, with gold sprigs upon it as pretty a tea-service as you need wish to see, and quite good enough for chimney ornaments ; indeed, as the cups were without handles, most visitors who had the distinction of taking tea out of them, wished that such charming china had already been promoted to that honorary position. Mrs. Jerome was like her china, handsome and old-fashioned. She was a buxom lady of sixty, in an elaborate lace cap fasten- ed by a frill under her chin, a dark, well-curled front concealing her forehead, a snowy neckerchief exhibiting its ample folds as far as her waist, and a stiff gray silk gown. She had a clean damask napkin pinned before her to guard her dress during the process of tea making ; her favorite geraniums in the bow-window were looking as healthy as she could de- sire ; her own handsome portrait, painted when she was twen- ty years younger, was smiling down on her with agreeable flattery ; and altogether she seemed to be in as peaceful and pleasant a position as a buxom, well-dressed elderly lady need desire. But, as in so many other cases, appearances were decejrtive.^ Her mind WAtJ greatly peTlllibt'd and her temper ruffled by the fact that it was more than a quarter past five even by the losing timepiece, that it was half past by her large gold watch, which she held in her hand as if she were 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 her wonder that Mr. Jerome could stay out in the garden with Lizzie in that thoughtless way, taking it so easily that tea-time was long past, and that, after all the trouble of getting down the best tea-things, Mr. Tryan would not come. This honor had been shown to Mr. Tryan, not at all be- cause Mrs. Jerome had any high appreciation of his doc- trine or of his exemplary activity as a pastor, but simply be- JANET'S REPENTANCE. z37 cause lie was a " Church clergyman," and as such was re- garded by her with the same sort of exceptional respect that a white woman who had married a native of the Society Isl- ands might be supposed to feel towards a white-skinned visitor from the land of her youth. For Mrs. Jerome had been reared a Churchwoman, and having attained the age of thirty lido re she was married, had felt tin- greate'STTBTnig- nance in the first instance to renouncing the religious forms in which she had been brought up. ** You know," she said in confidence to her Church acquaintances, " I wouldn't give no ear at all to Mr. Jerome at fust ; but after all, I begun to think as there was a many things worse nor goin' to chapel, an' you'd better do that nor not pay your way. Mr. Jerome had a very pleasant manner with him, an' there was niver another as kept a gig, an' 'ud make a settlement on me like him, chapel or no chapel. It seemed 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. But la I there's nothin' as you mayn't get used to i' time ; you can al'ys sit down, you know, before the prayer's done. The ministers say pretty nigh the same things as the Church par- sons, 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, ours is a deal comfortabler nor any i' Milby Church." Mrs. Jerome, you perceive, had not a keen susceptibility to shades of doctrine, and it is probable that, after listening to Dissenting eloquence for thirty years, she might safely have re-entered the Establishment without performing any spiritual quarantine. Her mind, apparently, was of that non- porous, flinty character which is not in the least danger from surrounding damp. But on the question of getting start of the sun on the day's business, and clearing her conscience of the necessary sum of meals and the consequent " washing up " as soon as possible, so that the family might be well in bed at nine, Mrs. Jerome was susceptible ; and the present lingering pace of things, united with Mr. Jerome's unac- countable obliviousness, Avas 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. Tell him it's goin' on for six, an' Mr. Tryan 'nil niver think o' comin' now, an' it's time we got tea over. An' he's lettin' Lizzie stain her frock, I expect, among them strawberry beds. Make her come in this minute." No wonder Mr. Jerome was tempted to linger in the gar- den, for though the house was pretty and well deserved ito 238 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. name " the White House," the tall damask roses that clus- tered over the porch being thrown into relief by rough stuc- co of the most brilliant white, yet the garden and orchards were Mr. Jerome's glory, as well they might be ; and there was nothing in which he had a more innocent pride peace to a good man's memory ! all his pride was innocent than in conducting a hitherto uninitiated visitor over his grounds, and making him in some degree aware of the incomparable t advantages possessed by the inhabitants of the White House in the matter of red-streaked apples, russets, northern greens (excellent for baking), swan-egg pears, and early vegetables, to say nothing of flowering " srubs," pink hawthorns, laven- der bushes more than ever Mrs. Jerome could use, and, in short, a superabundance of every thing that a person retired from business could desire to possess himself or to share with his friends. The garden was one of those old-fashioned para- dises which hardly exist any longer except as memories of our childhood : no finical separation between flower and kitchen garden there ; no monotony of enjoyment for one sense to the exclusion of another ; but a charming paradisia- cal mingling of all that was pleasant to the eyes and good for food. The rich flower-border running along every walk, with its endless succession of spring flowers, anemones, auric- ulas, wall-flowers, sweet-williams, campanulas, snap dragons, and tiger-lilies, had its taller beauties, such as moss and Prov- ence voses, varied with espalier apple-trees; the crimson of a carnation was carried out in the lurking crimson of the neighboring strawberry-beds; you gathered a moss-rose one moment and a bunch of currants the next ; you were in a delicious fluctuation 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 perfectly well there was no view worth looking at ; what alcoves and garden-seats in all directions ; and along one side, what a hedge, tall, and firm, and unbroken, 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 lifted up little Lizzie in his arms to look at a bird's nest. Lizzie peeped, and then 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's face. 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 Avon't come now, an' JANET'S REPENTANCE. 239 she wants you to come in an' hev tea. Dear heart, Miss Liz- zie, you've stained your pinafore, 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 '11 make all right again." Sally, regarding the wash-tub from a different point of view, -looked sourly serious, and hurried away with Lizzie, who trotted submissively along, her little head in eclipse un- der a large nankin bonnet, while Mr. Jerome followed leis- urely with his full broad shoulders in rather a stooping pos- ture, and his large good-natured features and white locks shaded by a broad-brimmed hat. " Mr. Jerome, I wonder at you," said Mrs. Jerome, in a tone of indignant remonstrance, evidently sustained by a deep sense of injury, as her husband opened the parlor door. "When will you leave off invitin' people to meals an' not lettin' 'em know the time ? I'll answer for't, you niver said a word to Mr. Try an as we should take tea at five o'clock. It's just like you !" " Nay, nay, Susan," answered the husband in i' Salem, who considered all voluntary dis- comfort as a remnant of the legal spirit, pronounced a severe condemnation on this self-neglect, and expressed his fear that Mr. Trjap waa st.il I fir from ha^U^ nt,t?mtffr> true Christian liberty. Good Mr. Jerome eagerly seized this doctrinal view of~the subject as a means of enforcing the suggestions of his own benevolence; and one cloudy afternoon, in the end of November, he mounted his roan mare with the determination of riding to Paddiford and " arguying " the point with Mr. Tryan. The old gentleman's face looked very mournful as he rode along the dismal Paddiford lanes, between rows of grimy houses, darkened with hand-looms, while the black dust was whirled about him by the cold November wind. He was thinking of the object which had brought him on this after- noon ride, and his thoughts, according to his habit when alone, found vent every now and then in audible speech. It seemed to him, as his eyes rested on this scene of Mr. Tryan's labors, that he could understand the clergyman's self-privation with- 258 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. out resorting to Mr. Stickney's theory of defective spiritual enlightenment. Do not philosophic doctors tell us that we are unable to discern so much as a tree, except by an uncon- scious cunning which combines many past and separate sen- sations ; that no one sense is independent of another, so that in the dark we can hardly taste a fricassee, or tell whether our pipe is alight or not, and the most intelligent boy, if ac- commodated with claws or hoofs instead of fingers, would be likely to remain on the lowest form ? If so, it is easy to un- derstand that our discernment of men's motives must depend on the completeness of the elements we can bring from our own susceptibility and our own experience. See to it, friend, before you pronounce a too hasty judgment, that your own moral sensibilities are not of a hoofed or clawed character. The keenest eye will not serve, unless you have the delicate fingers, with their subtle nerve filaments, which elude scien- tific lenses, and lose themselves in the invisible world of hu- man sensations. As for Mr. Jerome, he drew the elements of his moral vis- ion from the depths of his veneration and pity. If he him- self felt so much for these poor things to whom life was so dim and meagre, what must the clergyman feel who had under- taken before God to be their shepherd ? " Ah !" he whispered, interruptedly, " it's too big a load for his conscience, poor man ! He wants to mek himself their brother, like ; can't abide to preach to the fastin' on a full stomach. Ah ! he's better nor we are, that's it he's a deal better nor we are." Here Mr. Jerome shook his bridle violently, and looked up witli an air of moral courage, as if Mr. Stickney had been present, and liable to take offense at this conclusion. A few minutes more brought him in front of Mrs. Wagstaff's, where Mr. Tryan lodged. He had often been here before, so that the contrast between this ugly square brick house, with its shabby bit of grass-plot, stared at all round by cottage win- dows, and his own pretty white home, set in a paradise of orchard and garden and pasture, was not new to him ; but he felt it with fresh force to-day, as he slowly fastened his roan by the bridle to the wooden paling, and knocked at the door. Mr. Tryan was at home, and sent to request that Mr. Jerome would walk up into his study, as the fire was out in the par- lor below. At the mention of a clergyman's study, perhaps your too active imagination conjures up a perfect snuggery, where the general air of comfort is rescued from a secular character by strong ecclesiastical suggestions in the shape of the furniture, JANET'S REPENTAXCE. 259 the pattern of the carpet, and the prints on the wall ; where, if a nap is taken, it is in an easy-chair with a Gothic back, and the very feet rest on a warm and velvety simulation of church windows; where the pure art of rigorous English Protestant- ism smiles above the mantel-piece in the portrait of an emi- nent bishop, or a refined Anglican taste is indicated by a Ger- man print from Overbeck; where the walls are lined with choice divinity in sombre binding, and the light is softened by a screen of boughs with a gray church in the background. But I must beg you to dismiss all such scenic prettiness, suitable as they may be to a clergyman's character and com- plexion ; for I have to confess that Mr. Tryan's study was a very ugly little room indeed, with an ugly slap-dash pattern on the walls, an ugly carpet on the floor, and an ugly view of cottage roofs and cabbage-gardens from the window. His own person, his writing-table, and his book-case, were the only objects in the room that had the slightest air of refinement ; and the sole provision for comfort was a clumsy straight- backed arm-chair, covered with faded chintz. 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 he must have chosen that least attractive form of self-mor- tification which wears no haircloth and has no meagre days, but accepts the vulgar, the commonplace, and the ugly, when- ever the highest duty seems to lie among them. " Mr. Tryan, I hope you'll excuse me disturbin' on you," said Mr. Jerome. " But I'd summat particler to say." " You don't disturb me at all, Mr. Jerome ; I'm very glad to have a visit from you," said Mr. Tryan, shaking him heart- ily by the hand, and offering him the chintz-covered " easy " chair; "it is some time since I've had an opportunity of see- ing you, except on a Sunday." "Ah, sir ! your time's so taken up, I'm well aware o' that; it's not only what you hev to do, but it's goin' about from place to place ; an' you don't keep a hoss, Mr. Tryan. You don't take care enough o' yourself you don'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 walking does me no harm. It is rather a relief to me after speaking or writing. Yoii know I have no great circuit to make. The farthest distance I have to walk is to Milby Church, and if ever I want a horse on a Sunday, I hire Radley'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 dil- 260 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. licate, as any body may see, for the matter o' that, wi'out beiu' a doctor. An' this is the light I look at it in, Mr. Try- an : who's to fill up your place, if you was to be disabled, as I may say ? Consider what a valuable life yours is. You've begun a great work i' Milby, and so you might carry it on, if you'd your health and strength. The more care you take o' yourself, the longer you'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 any case ; and if I were to take care of myself under the pretext of doing more 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 help you to do more, though Pratt says as it's usin' your voice so constant as does you the most harm. Now, isn't it I'm no scholard, Mr. Try an, 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 fling our lives away." " No, not fling them away lightly, but we are permitted to lay down our lives 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's this There's my little chacenut hoss; I should take it quite a kindness if 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 to sell him. So if you'll only ride him for me, you'll do me a kindness you will, indeed, Mr. Tryan." " Thank you, Mr. Jerome. I promise you to ask for him when I feel that I want 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 very little, and it would be an inconvenience to me to keep him rather than otherwise." t Mr. Jerome looked troubled and hesitating, as if he had 'something on his mind 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 know what great claims you hev on you as a clergyman. Is it the expense, Mr. Try- an ? is it the money ?" " No, my dear sir. I have much more than a single man needs. My way of living is quite of my own choosing, and I am doing nothing but what I feel bound to do, quite apart JANET'S REPENTANCE. 261 from money considerations. We can not judge for one an- other, you know ; we have each our peculiar weaknesses and temptations. I quite admit that it might be right for an- other man to allow himself more luxuries, and I assure you I think it no superiority in myself to do without them. On the contrary, if my heart were less rebellious, and if I were less liable to temptation, I should not need that sort of self- denial. But," added Mr. Try an, holding out his hand to Mr. Jerome, " I understand your kindness, and bless you for it. If I want a horse, I shall ask for the chestnut." Mr. Jerome was obliged to rest contented with this prom- ise, and pode home sorrowfully, reproaching himself with not having said one thing he meant to say when setting out, and with having " clean forgot " the arguments he had in- tended to quote from Mr. Stickney. Mr. Jerome's was not the only mind that was seriously disturbed by the idea that the curate was over-working him- self. There, Avere tender women's hearts in which anxiety about the state of his affections was beginning to be merged in anxiety about the state of his health. Miss Eliza Pratt had at one time passed through much sleepless cogitation on the possibility of Mr. Tryan's being attached to some lady at a distance at Laxeter, perhaps, where he had formerly held a curacy ; and her fine eyes kept close watch lest any symptom of engaged affections on his part should escape her. It seemed an alarming fact that his handkerchiefs were beau- tifully marked with hair, until she reflected that he had an unmarried sister of whom he spoke with much affection as his father's companion and comforter. Besides, Mr. Tryan had never paid any distant visit, except one for a few days to his father, and no hint escaped him of his intending to take a house, or change his mode of living. No ! he could not be engaged, though he might have been disappointed. But this latter misfortune is one from which a devoted cler- gyman has been known to recover, by the aid of a fine pair of gray eyes that beam on him with affectionate reverence. Before Christmas, however, her cogitations began to take another turn. She heard her father say very confidently that " Tryan was consumptive, and if he didn't take more care of himself, his life would not be worth a year's purchase ;" and shame at having speculated on suppositions that were likely to prove so false, sent poor Miss Eliza's feelings with all the stronger impetus into the one channel of sorrow r ful alarm at the prospect of losing the pastor who had opened to her 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 262 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. him anew to us ; as if life were not sacred too as if it were comparatively a light thing to fail in love and reverence to the brother who has to climb the whole toilsome steep with us, and all our tears and tenderness were due to the one who is spared that hard journey. The Miss Linnets, too, were beginning to take a new view of the future, entirely uncolored by jealousy of Miss Eliza Pratt. " Did you notice," said Mary, one afternoon when Mrs. Pettifer was taking tea with them "did you notice that short dry cough of Mr. Tryan's yesterday ? I .think he looksVX' worse and worse every week, and I only wish LJOMW Jllti sis-/\ ter; I would write to her about him. I'm sure something should be done to make him give up part of his work, and he will listen to no one here." "Ah," said Mrs. Pettifer, "it's a thousand pities his father and sister can't come and live with him, if he isn't to mar ry. But IwishjEJthall my heart he could have taken to some nice woman as would have fnade a comfortable 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; "Miv- Tryan's heart is not for any woman to win ; it is all given to his work; and I could never wish to see him Avitli ;i young inexperienced wife who would be a drag on him instead of a ~ He'd need have somebody, young or old," observed Mrs. Linnet, " to see as he wears a flannel w r escoat, 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. Wag- staffs a poor addle-headed thing ; she doesn't half tek care on him." " Oh mother !" said Rebecca, " she's a very pious woman. And I'm sure she thinks it too great a privilege to have Mr. Tryan with her, not to do the best she can to make him com- fortable. She can't help her rooms being shabby." " I've nothing to say again' her piety, my dear ; but I know very well I shouldn'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 his stomach, piety or no piety. I called in one day when she was dishin' up Mr. 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 my potatoes mealy. I don't sec as any body 'ull go to heaven the sooner for not digestin' their dinner JANET'S REPENTANCE. 263 providin' they don't die sooner, as mayhap Mr. 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 any body to till up that gap. There's the new clergyman that's just come to Shrppfftou_ A fr Parry; I saw him the oilier 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 hira^ajij(L_Mrr-yan ! He's a sharp-sort-of-looking man, and hasn't that- feeling way with him that Mr. Tryan has. What is so wonderful to me in Mr. Tryan is the way he puts himself on a level with one, and talks to one like a brother. I'm never afraid of telling him any thing. He never seems to look down on any body. He knows how to lift up those that are cast down, if ever man did." " Yes," said Mary. " And when I see all the faces turned up to him in Paddiford Church, I often think how hard it would be for any clergyman who had to come after him ; he has made the people love him so." CHAPTER XH. IN her occasional visits to her near neighbor Mrs.PfiUifer, too old a friend to be shunned because she was""aiTryanite J Janet was obliged sometimes to hear allusions to Mr. Tryan, and even to listen to his praises, which she usually met with playful incredulity. " Ah, well," she answered one day, " I like dear old Mr. Crewe and his pipes a great deal better than your Mr. Tryan and his Gospel. When I was a little toddle, Mr. and Mrs. Crewe used to let me play about in their garden, and have a swing between the great elm-trees, because mother had no garden. I like people who are kind ; kindness is my religion ; and that's the reason I like you, dear Mrs. Pettifer, though you are a Tryanite." " But that's Mr. Tryan's religion too at least partly. There's nobody can give himself up more to doing good amongst the poor ; and he thinks of their bodies too, as well as their souls." " Oh yes, yes ; but then he talks about faith, and grace, and all that, making people believe they are better than others, and that God loves them more than He does the rest of the world. I know he has put a great deal of that into Sally 264 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. Martin's head, and it has done her no good at all. She was as nice, honest, patient a girl as need be before ; and now she fancies she has new light and new wisdom. I don't like those notions." " You mistake him, indeed you do, my dear Mrs. Dempster; I wish yow'd go and hear him preach." " Hear him preach ! Why, you wicked woman, you would persuade me to disobey my husband, would you ? Oh, shock- ing ! I shall run away from you. Good-bye." A few days after this conversation, however, Janet went to Sally Martin's about three o'clock in the afternoon. The pud- ding that had been sent in for herself and "Mammy" struck her as just the sort of delicate morsel the poor consumptive girl would be likely to fancy, and in her usual impulsive way she had started up from the dinner-table at once, put on her bonnet, and set off with a covered plateful to the neighboring street. When she entered the house there was no one to be seen ; but in the little side room where Sally lay, Janet heard a voice. It was one she had not heard before, but she imme- diately guessed it to be Mr. Tryan's. Her first impulse was to set down her plate and go away, but Mrs. Martin might not be in, and then there would be no one to give Sally that delicious bit of pudding. So she stood still, and was obliged to hear what Mr. Tryan was saying. He was interrupted by one of the invalid's violent 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 wonder- fully. Pray for me, Sally, that I may have strength too when the hour of great suffering comes. It is one of my worst weaknesses to shrink from bodily pain, and I think the time is perhaps not far off when I shall have to bear what you are bearing. But now I have tired you. We have talked enough. Good-bye." Janet was surprised, and forgot her wish not to encounter Mr. Tryan ; the tone and the words were so unlike what she had expected to hear. There was none of the self-satisfied unction of the teacher, quoting, or exhorting, or expounding, for the benefit of the hearer, but a simple appeal for help, a confession of weakness. Mr. Tryan had his deeply-felt troub- les, then ? Mr. Tryan, too, like herself, knew what it was to tremble at a foreseen trial to shudder at an impending bur- then, heavier than he felt able to bear ? The most brilliant deed of virtue could not have inclined Janet's good-will towards Mr. Tryan so much as this fellow- ship in suffering, and the softening thought was in her eyes w r hen he appeared in the doorway, pale, weary, and depressed. JANET'S REPENTANCE. 265 The sight of Janet standing there with the entire absence of self-consciousness which belongs to a new and vivid impres- sion, made him start and pause a little. Their eyes met, and they looked 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 lov- ing human soul, which will do more to dissipate prejudice and kindle charity than the most elaborate arguments. The full- est exposition of Mr. Tryan's doctrine might not have sufficed to convince Janet that he had not an odious self-complacency in believing himself a peculiar child of God ; but one direct, 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 of arriving at a still more complete contra- diction of her former ideas. We have all of us considerable regard for our past self, and are not fond of casting reflections on that respected individual by a total negation of his opin- -^ ions. Janet could no longer think of Mr. Tryan without sym- pathy, bulfsnTTstiinniKHitnTO^^ ^ er_aiul admirer. That was a reversal of the- past which was -,.; as little accordant with her inclination as her circumstances. And indeed this interview with Mr. Tryan was soon thrust into the background of poor Janet's memory by the daily thickening miseries of her life. CHAPTER Xin. THE loss of Mr. Jerome as a client proved only the begin- ning of annoyances to Dempster. That old gentleman had in him the vigorous remnant of an energy and perseverance which had created his own fortune ; and being, as I have hinted, given to chewing the cud of a righteous indignation with considerable relish, he was determined to carry on his retributive war against the persecuting attorney. Having some influence with Mr. Pryuie, who was one of the most substantial rate-payers in the neighboring parish of Dingley, and who had himself a complex and long-standing private account with Dempster, Mr. Jerome stirred up this gentleman to an investigation of some suspicious points in the attorney's conduct of the parish affairs. The natural consequence was a personal quarrel between Dempster and Mr, Pryme j the "* to ._ 266 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. client demanded his account, and then followed the old story of an exorbitant lawyer's bill, with the unpleasant anti-cli- max of taxing. These disagreeables, extending over many months, ran along side by side with the pressing business of Mr. Arm- strong's law-suit, which was threatening to take a turn rath- er depreciatory of Dempster's professional prevision ; and it is not surprising that, being thus kept in a constant state of irritated excitement about his own affairs, he had little time for the further exhibition of his public spirit, or for rallying the forlorn hope of sound churchmanship against cant and hypocrisy. Not a few persons who had a grudge against him began to remark, with satisfaction, that "Dempster's luck was forsaking him ;" particularly Mrs. Linnet, who thought she saw distinctly the gradual ripening of a providential scheme, whereby a just retribution would be wrought on the man who had deprived her of Pye's Croft. On the other hand, Dempster's well-satisfied clients, who were of opinion that the punishment of his wickedness might conveniently be deferred to another world, noticed with some concern that he was drinking more than ever, and that both his temper and his driving were becoming more furious. Unhappily those ad- ditional glasses of brandy, that exasperation of loud-tongued abuse, had other effects than any that entered into the con- templation of anxious clients : they were the little superadd- ed symbols that were perpetually raising the sum of home misery. Poor Janet ! how heavily the months rolled on for her, laden with fresh sorrows as the summer passed into autumn, the autumn into winter, and the winter into spring again. Every feverish morning, with its blank listlessness and de- spair, seemed more hateful than the last ; every corning night more impossible to brave without arming herself in leaden stupor. The morning light brought no gladness to her : it seemed only to throw its glare on what had happened in the dim candle-light on the cruel man seated immovable in drunken obstinacy by the dead fire and dying lights in the dining-room, rating her in harsh tones, reiterating old re- proaches or on a hideous blank of something unremembered, something that must have made that dark bruise on her shoulder, which ached as she dressed herself. Do you wonder how it was that things had come to this pass what offense Janet had committed in the early years of marriage to rouse the brutal hatred of this man ? The seeds of things are very small : the hours that lie between eunrise and the gloom of midnight are travelled through by JANET'S REPENTANCE. 267 tiniest markings of the clock : and Janet, looking back along the fifteen years of her marr^dlifc,Jia i ^ T 3 g:fen< * w limy"m : Vhr^ this total misery began ; hardly knew when the sweet wed- ded love and hope that had set forever had ceased to make a twilight of. memory and relenting, before the on-coming of the utter dark. Old*mrsTDempster thought she saw the true beginning of \ it all in Janet's want of housekeeping skill and exactness. ^ " Janet," she said to herself, " wa^always running about do- ing things^for other people, and^negtecttag. Jier own house. That provokes a man; "what use is it for a woman to be lov- ing, and making a fuss with her nusbiiml, if she doesn't take' care and keep his 'hoifRTfTmt'im lie 1 likes it Lij'-ghe isn't at hand when he wants any thing done ; if she doesn't attend to ally his wishes, let them be as small as they may ? That_w_as wha I did w lien I was a wjfe^ though I didn't makcrKalfso m'ucl fuss ql^jjjr iovipg~my"'|r"gT>7rtul. Thtu, thmet had no chil faGn^ 1 *^ Aft ! there Mammy Dempster had touched a true spring, not perhaps of her son's cruelty, but of half Janet's misery. If she had babes to rock to sleep little ones to kneel in their night-dress and say their prayers at her knees sweet boys and girls to put their young arms round her neck and kiss away her tears, her poor hungry heart would have been fed with sti'ong love, and might never have needed that fiery poison to still its cravings. Mighty is the force of mother- hood ! says the great tragic poet~to~iTs~TrciO9s the ages, find ing, alT'usual, the simplest words for the sublimest fact - vuv TO TIKTHV inriv. It transforms all things by its vital heat ; it turns timidity into fierce courage, and drcadless defiance into tremulous submission ; it turns thoughtlessness into fore* sight, and yet stills all anxiety into calm content ; it makes selfishness become self-denial, and gives even to hard vanity the glance of admiring love. Yes ! if Janet had been a moth- er, she might have been saved from much sin, and therefore from mnrh of hrr^Trro'n' But do not believe that it was any thing either present or wanting in poor Janet that formed the motive of her hus- band's cruelty. Cruelty, like every other vice, requires no motive outside itself it only requires opportunity. You do not suppose Dempster had any motive for drinking beyond the craving for drink ; the presence of brandy was the only necessary condition. And an unloving, tyrannous, brutal man needs no motive to prompt his cruelty ; he needs only the perpetual presence of a woman he can call his own. A whole park full of tame or timid-eyed animals to torment at his will would not serve him so well to glut his lust of tor* 268 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. ture ; they could not feel as one woman does : they could not throw out the keen retort which whets the edge of hatred. Janet's "bitterness would overflow in ready words; she was not to be made meek 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 the old days of fondness ; and in times of comparative calm would often re- cover her sweet woman's habit of caressing, playful affection. But such days 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, angry resistance and sullen en- durance were now almost the only alternations she knew. She would bear it all proudly to the world, but proudly to- wards him too ; 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 first relented. _What,had she ever done to him but love him too well but believe in him too foolishly ? He had no pity on her tender flesh ; he could strike the soft neck he hud once asked to kiss. Yet she would not admit her wretchedness ; she had married him blindly, and she would bear it out to the terrible end, what- ever that might be. Better this misery than the blank that lay for her outside her married home. But there was one person who heard all the plaints and all the outbursts of bitterness and despair which Janet was never tempted to pour into any other ear ; and alas ! in her worst moments, Janet would throw out wild reproaches against that patient listener. For the wrong that rouses our /ingry passions finds only a medium in us ; it passes through us like a vibration, and we inflict what we have suffered. Mrs. Raynor saw too clearly all through the winter that things were getting worse in Orchard Street. She had evi- dence enough of it in Janet's visits to her ; and, though her own visits to her daughter Avere so timed that she saw little of Dempster personally, she noticed many indications not only that he was drinking to greater excess, but that he was beginning to lose that physical power of supporting excess which had long been the admiration of such fine spirits as Mr. Tomlinson. It seemed as if Dempster had some con- sciousness of this some new distrust of himself; for, before winter was over, it was observed that he had renounced his habit of driving out alone, and was never seen in his gig without a servant by his side. Nemesis is lame, but she is of colossal stature, like the gods ; a1i"d l T>6nTDlimes, while her sword is not yet unsheathed, Bhe stretches out her huge left arm and grasps her victim. JANET'S REPENTANCE. 269 The mighty hand is invisible, but the victim totters under the dire clutch. The various symptoms that things were getting worse with the Dempsters afforded Milby gossip something new to say on an old subject. Mrs. Dempster, every one remarked, looked more miserable than ever, though she kept up the old pretense of being happy and satisfied. She was scarcely ever seen, as she used to be, going about on her good-natured er-* rands ; and even old Mrs. Crewe, who had always been will- fully blind to any thing wrong in her favorite Janet, was obliged to admit that she had not seemed like herself lately. " The poor thing's out of health," said the kind little old lady, in answer to all gossip about Janet ; " her headaches always were bad, and I know what headaches are : why, they make one quite delirious sometimes." Mrs. Phipps, for her part, declared she would never accept an invitation to Demp- ster's again ; it was getting so very disagreeable to go there, Mrs. Dempster was often " so strange." To be sure, there were dreadful stories about the way Dempster used hi* wife ; but in Mrs. Phipps's opinion, it was six of one and half- a-dozen of the other. Mrs. Dempster had never been like other women ; she had always a nighty way with her, carry- ing parcels of snuff to old Mrs. Tooke, and going to drink tea with Mrs. Brinley, the carpenter's wife ; and then never taking care of her clothes, always wearing the same things week-day or Sunday. A man has a poor look-out with a wife of that sort,-- Mr. Phipps, amiable and laconic, wonder- ed how it was women were so fond of running 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 colloquy with his brother surgeon the next day, " So Dempster has left off driving himself, I see ; he won't end with a broken neck after all. You'll have a case of me- ningitis and delirium tremens instead." " Ah," said Mr. Pilgrim, " he can hardly stand it much longer at the rate he's going on, one would think. He's been confoundedly cut up about that business of Armstrong's, I fancy. It may do him some harm, perhaps, but Dempster must have feathered his nest pretty well ; he can afford to lose a little business." " His business will outlast him, that's pretty clear," said Pratt ; " he'll run down like a watch with a broken spring one of these days." Another prognostic of evil to Dempster came at the begin- ning of March. For then little " Mamsey " died died sud- 270 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. denly. The housemaid found her seated motionless in her arm-chair, her knitting fallen down, and the tortoise-shell cat reposing on it unreproved. The little white old woman had ended her Avintry 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 scarf and hat-band, turned awsly homeward, his good angel, lingering with outstretched wing on the edge of the grave, cast one despairing look after him, and took flight forever. CHAPTER XIV. THE last week in March three weeks after old Mrs. Demp- ster died occurred the unpleasant winding-up of affairs be- tween Dempster and Mr. Pryme, and under this additional scarce of irritation the attorney's diurnal drunkenness had taken on its most ill-tempered and brutal phase. On the Fri- day morning, before setting out for Rotherbv, he told his wife that he had invited " four men " to dinner at half past six that evening. The previous night had been a terribleone for Ja- net, and when her husba4idjir^kclu&.grlmjai)riji5g silence to say these few words, she was looking so blank and listless that he added in a loud, sharp key, " Do you hear what I say ? or must I tell the cook ?" She started, and said, " Yes, I hear." " Then mind and have a dinner provided, and don't go mooning about like crazy Jane." Half an hour afterwards Mrs. Raynor, quietly busy in her kitchen with her household labors for she had only a little twelve-year-old girl as a servant heard with trembling the rattling of the garden gate and the opening of the outer door. She knew the step, and in one short moment she lived before- hand through the coming scene. She hurried out of the kitchen, and there in the passage, as she had felt, stood Janet, her eyes worn as if by night-long watching, her dress careless, her step languid. No cheerful morning greeting to her moth- er no kiss. She turned into the parlor, and, seating herself on the sofa opposite her mother's chair, looked vacantly at the walls and furniture until the coraers of her mouth began to tremble, and her dark eyes filled with tears that fell un- wiped down her cheeks. The mother sat silently opposite to her, afraid to speak. She felt sure there was nothing new the JANET'S REPENTANCE. 271 matter sure that the torrent of words would come sooner or later. " Mother ! why don't you speak to me ?" Janet burst out at last ; " you don't care about my suffering ; you are blam- ing me because I feel because I am miserable." " My child, I am not blaming you my heart is bleeding for you. Your head is bad this morning you have had a bad night. Let me make you a cup of tea now. Perhaps f you didn't like your breakfast." " Yes, that is what you always think, mother. It is the old \ story, you think. You don't ask me what it is I have had to ; bear. You are tired of hearing me. You are cruel, like the / j rest ; every one is cruel in this world. Nothing but blame / blame blame ; never any pity. God^ja cruel to have sent/ \ me into the world to bear all this misery. "~ V_X^ r tTanet T Jauat^xLau^'say "BU. Il'isnwt 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 a heart to feel, and He has sent me nothing but misery. How could I help it ? How could I know what would come ? Why didn't you tell me, mother ? why did you let me marry? YJH know wfrf-t- brutes men could be ; aj]d there's no help for me no hbpe. l canT kill myself; I've tried ; but 1 can't le&V6 this world and go to another. There may be no pi,ty for me there, as there is none here." " Janet, my child, there is pity. Have I ever done any thing but love you ? And there is pity in God. Hasn't He put pity into your heart for many a poor sufferer? Where did it come from, if not from Him ?" Janet's nervous irritation now broke out into sobs in- stead of complainings ; and her mother was thankful, for af- ter that crisis there would very likely come relenting, and tenderness, and comparative calm. She went out to make some tea, and when she returned with the tray in her hands, Janet had dried her eyes and now turned them towards her mother with a faint attempt to smile ; but the poor face, in its sad blurred beauty, looked all the more piteous. " Mother will insist upon her tea," she said, " and I really think I can drink a cup. But I must go home directly, for there are people coming to dinner. Could you go with me and help me, mother ?" Mrs. Ray_nor was always ready to do that. She went to Orchard Street with Janet, and remained with her through the day comforted, as evening approached, to see her be- come more cheerful and willing to attend to her toilette. 272 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. At half past five every thing was in order ; Janet v r as dress- ed ; and when the mother had kissed her and said good-bye, she could not help pausing a moment in sorrowful admira- tion at the tall, rich figure, looking all the grander for the plainness of the deep mourning dress, and the noble face with its massy folds of black hair, made matronly by a sim- ple white cap. Janet had that enduring beauty which be- longs to pure majestic outline and depth of tint. Sorrow and neglect leave their traces on such beauty, 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 gain- ed a solemn history, and fills our imagination the more be- cause it is incomplete to the sense. It was six o'clock before Dempster returned from Rother- by. He had evidently drunk a great deal, and was in an an- gry humor ; but Janet, who had gathered some little courage and forbearance from the consciousness that she had done her best to-day, was determined to speak pleasantly to him. " Robert," she said gently, as she saw him seat himself in the dining-room in 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 V" said Dempster, in his most brutal tone. " Do change your coat and waistcoat, they are so dusty. I've laid all your things out ready." " Oh, you have, have you ?" After a few minutes he rose very deliberately and walked up stairs into his bedroom. Janet had often been scolded before for not laying out his clothes, and she thought now, not without some Avonder, that this attention of hers had brought him to compliance. Presently, he called out, " Janet !" and she went up stairs. " Here ! * Take that !" he said, as soon as she readied the door, flinging at her the coat she had laid out. 4i Another time, leave me to do as I please, will you ?" The coat, flung with great force, only brushed her shoul- der, and fell some distance within the drawing-room, the door of which stood open just opposite. She hastily retreated as she saw the waistcoat coming, and one by 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 her resentment overcame the long-cherished pride that made her hide her griefs from the world. There are moments when, by some strange impulse, we contradict our past selves fatal moments, when a fit of passion, like a lava stream, lays low the work of half our lives. Janet thought, JANET'S REPENTANCE. 273 " I will not 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 the drawing-room, lest the servant should enter and remove the clothes, which were lying half on the table and half on the ground. Mr. Low me entered with a less fa- miliar visitor, a client of Dempster's, and the next moment Dempster himself came in. His eye fell at once on the clothes, and then turned for an instant with a devilish glance of concentrated hatred on Janet, who, still flushed and excited, affected unconsciousness. After shaking hands with his visitors he immediately rang the bell. " Take those clothes away," he said to the servant, not looking at Janet again. During dinner, she kept up her assumed air of indifference, and tried to seem in high spirits, laughing and talking more than usual, fn reality, she felt as if she had defied a wild beast within the four walls of his den, and he was crouching backward in preparation for his deadly spring. Dempster affected to take no notice of her, talked obstreperously, and drank steadily. About eleven the party dispersed, with the exception of Mr. Budd, Avho had joined them after dinner, and appeared disposed to stay drinking a little longer. Janet began to hope that he would stay long enough for Dempster to be- come heavy and stupid, and so to fall asleep down stairs, which was a rare but occasional ending of his nights. She told the servants to sit up no longer, and she herself undressed and went to bed, trying to cheat her imagination into the be- lief that the day was ended for her. But when she lay down she became more intensely awake than ever. Every thing she had taken this evening seemed only to stimulate her senses and her apprehensions to new vividness. Her heart beat vi- olently, and she heard every sound in the house. At last, when it was twelve, she heard Mr. Budd go out ; she heard the door slam. Dempster had not moved. Was he asleep ? Would he forget ? The minute seemed long, while, with a quickening pulse, she was on the stretch to catch every sound. " Janet !" The loud jarring voice seemed to strike her like a hurled weapon. " Janet !" he called again, moving out of the dining-room to the foot of the stairs. There was a pause of a minute. " If you don't come, I'll kill you." 12* 274 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. Another pause, and she heard him turn back into the din- ing-room. He was gone for a light perhaps for a weapon. Perhaps he would kill her. Let him. Life was as hideous as death. For years she had been rushing on to some unknown but certain horror; and now she was close upon it. She was almost glad. She was in a state of flushed, feverish defiance that neutralized her woman's terrors. She heard his heavy step on the stairs ; she saw the slow- ly advancing light. Then she saw the tall, massive figure, and the heavy face, now fierce with drunken rage. He had nothing but the candle in his hand. He set 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 in- stant !" In the close presence of the dreadful man of this huge crushing force, armed with savage will poor Janet's despe- rate defiance all forsook her, and her terrors came back. Trembling she got up, and stood helpless in her night-dress before her husband. He seized her with his heavy grasp by the shoulder, and pushed her before him. " 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 the passage, where a small oil lamp was still flicker- ing. What was he going to do to her ? She thought every moment he was going to dash her before him 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 while he 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 harsh north-east wind that blew through her thin night- dress, and sent her long heavy black hair streaming, seemed like the breath of pity after the grasp of that threatening monster. But soon the sense of release from an overpower- ering terror gave way before the sense of the fate that had really come upon her. This, then, was what she had been travelling towards through her long years of misery ! Not yet death. Oh ! if she had been brave enough for it, death would have been better. The servants slept at the back of the house ; it was impossible to make them hear, so that they might let her in again quietly without her husband's knowledge. And she JANET'S REPENTANCE. 275 would not have tried. He had thrust her out, and it should be forever. There would have been dead silence in Orchard Street but for the whistling of the wind and the swirling of the March dust on the pavement. Thick clouds covered the sky ; every door was closed ; every window was dark. No ray of light fell on the tall white figure that stood in lonely misery on the doorstep ; no eye rested on Janet as she sank down on the cold stone, and looked into the dismal night. She seemed to be looking into her own blank future. CHAPTER XV. THE stony street, the bitter north-east wind and darkness and in the midst of them a tender woman thrust out from her husband's home in her thin night-dress, the harsh wind cutting her naked feet, and driving her long hair away from her half-clad bosom, where the poor heart is crushed with an- guish and despair. The drowning man, urged by the supreme agony, lives in an instant through all his happy and unhappy past : when the dark flood has fallen like a curtain, memory, in a single moment, sees the drama acted over again. And even in those earlier crises, which are but types of death when we are cut off abruptly from the life we have known, when we can no longer expect to-morrow to resemble yesterday, and find ourselves by some sudden shock on the confines of the unknown there is often the same sort of lightning-flash through the dark and unfrequented chambers of memory. When Janet sat down shivering on the door-stone, with the door shut upon her past life, and the future black and unshapen before her as the night, the scenes of her childhood, her youth, and her painful womanhood, rushed back upon her consciousness, and made one picture with her present desola- tion. The petted child taking her newest toy to bed with her the young girl, proud in strength and beauty, dreaming that life was an easy thing, and that it was pitiful weakness to be unhappy the bride, passing with trembling joy from the outer court to the inner sanctuary of woman's life the wife, beginning her initiation into sorrow, wounded, resenting, yet stitl hoping and forgiving the poor bruised woman, seeking through weary years the one refuge of despair, oblivion : Janet seemed to herself all these in the same moment that 276 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. she was conscious of being seated on the cold stone under the shock of a new misery. All her early gladness, all her bright hopes and illusions, all her gifts of beauty and affection, served only to darken the riddle of her life ; they were the betraying promises of a cruel destiny which had brought out those sweet blossoms only that the winds and storms might have a greater work of desolation, which had nursed her like a pet fawn into tenderness and fond expectation, only that she might feel a keener terror in the clutch of the panther. Her mother had sometimes said that troubles were sent to make us better and draw us nearer to God. What mockery that seemed to Janet ! Her troubles had been sinking her lower from year to year, pressing upon her like heavy fever- laden vapors, and perverting the very plenitude of her na- ture into a deeper source of disease. Her wretchedness had been a perpetually tightening instrument of torture, which had gradually absorbed all the other sensibilities of her nature into the sense of pain and the maddened craving for relief. Oh, if some ray of hope, of pity, of consolation, would pierce through the horrible gloom, she might believe then in. a Di- vine love in a heavenly Father who cared for His children ! But now she had no faith, no trust. There was nothing she could lean on in the wide world, for her mother was only a fellow-sufferer in her own lot. The poor patient woman could do little more than mourn with her daughter : she had humble resignation enough to sustain her own soul, but she could no more give comfort and fortitude to Janet, than the withered ivy-covered trunk can bear up its strong, full-boughed offspring crashing down under an Alpine storm. Janet felt she was alone : no human soul had measured her anguish, had understood her self-despair, had entered into her sorrows and her sins with that deep-sighted sympathy which is wiser than all blame, more potent than all reproof 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 aloof from her, it poured no balm into her wounds, it stretch- ed out no hand to bear up her weak resolve, to fortify her fainting courage. Now, in her utmost loneliness, she shed no tear : she sat staring fixedly into the darkness, while inwardly she gazed at her own past, almost losing the sense that it was her own, or that she was any thing more than a spectator at a strange and dreadful play. The loud sound of the church clock, striking one, startled her. She had not been there more than half an hour, then ? And it seemed to her as if she had been there half the niirht. JANETS REPENTANCE. 277 She was getting benumbed with cold. With that strong in- stinctive dread of pain and death which had made her recoil from suicide, she started up, and the disagreeable sensation of resting on her benumbed feet helped to recall her complete- ly to the sense of the present. The wind was beginning to make rents in the clouds, and there came every now and then a dim light of stars that frightened her more than the dark- ness ; it was like a cruel finger pointing her out in her wretch- edness and humiliation ; it made her shudder at the thought of the morning twilight. What could she do ! Not go to her mother not rouse her in the dead of night to tell her this. Her mother would think she was a spectre ; it would be enough to kill her with horror. And the way there was so long .... if she should meet some one .... yet she must seek some shelter, 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 be proud 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 thought of braving the morning light, there in the street she was frightened at the thought of spending long hours in the cold. Life might mean anguish, might mean despair ; but oh, she must clutch it, though with bleeding fingers ; her feet must cling to the firm earth that the sunlight would revisit, not slip into the untried abyss, where she might long even for familiar pains. Janet trod slowly with her naked feet on the rough pave- ment, trembling at the fitful gleams of starlight, and support- ing herself by the wall, as the gusts of wind drove right against her. The very wind was cruel ; it tried to push her back from the door where she wanted to go and knock and ask for pity. Mrjs. Pet.tifer^ house did not look into Orchard Street ; it stood a little way 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 bed-room window. The glimmer of a rushlight from a room where a friend was lying, was like a ray of mercy to Janet, after that long, long time of darkness and loneliness ; it would not be so dreadful to awake Mrs. Pettifer as she had thought. Yet she lingered some minutes at the door before she gathered courage to knock ; she felt as if the sound must betray her to others besides Mrs. Pettifer, though there was no other dwelling that opened into the passage only warehouses and outbuildings. There was no gravel for her to throw up at the window, nothing but heavy pavement ; there was no 278 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. door-bell ; she must knock. Her first rap was very timid one feeble fall of the knocker ; and then she stood still again for many minutes ; but presently she rallied her courage and knocked several times together, not loudly, but rapidly, so that Mrs. Pettifer, if she only heard the sound, could not mis- take it. And she had heard it, for by-and-by the casement of her window was opened, and Janet perceived that she 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's sake." " 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 win- dow, and was soon at the door with a light in her hand. " Come in, my poor dear, come in," said the good woman in a tremulous voice, drawing Janet within the door. " Come into my warm bed, and may God in heaven save and comfort you." The pitying eyes, the tender voice, the warm touch, caused a rush of new feeling in Janet. Her heart swelled, and she burst out suddenly, like a child, into loud, passionate sobs. Mrs. Pettifer could not help crying with her, but she said, " Come up-stairs, my dear, come. Don't linger in the cold." She drew the poor sobbing thing gently up stairs, and per- suaded her to get into the warm bed. But it was long be- fore Janet could lie down. She sat leaning her head on her knees, convulsed by sobs, while the motherly woman covered her with clothes, and held her ai'ms round her to comfort her with warmth. At last the hysterical passion had exhausted itself, and she fell back on the pillow ; but her throat was still agitated by piteous after-sobs, such as shake a little child even when it has found a refuge from its alarms on its mother's lap. Now Janet was getting quieter, Mrs. Pettifer determined to go down and make a cup of tea, the first thing a kind old woman thinks of as a solace and restorative under all calam- ities. Happily there was no danger of awaking her servant, a heavy girl of sixteen, who was snoring blissfully in the attic, and might be kept ignorant of the way in which Mrs. Demp- ster had come in. So Mrs. Pettifer busied herself with rousing the kitchen fire, which was kept in under a huge "raker" a possibility by which the coal of the midland counties atones for all its slowness and white ashes. When she carried up the tea, Janet was lying quite JANET'S REPENTANCE. 279 the spasmodic agitation had ceased, and she seemed lost in thought; her eyes were fixed vacantly on the rushlight shade, and all the lines of sorrow were deepened in her face. " Now, my dear," said Mrs. Pettifer, " let me persuade you to drink a cup of tea; you'll find it warm you and soothe you very much. Why, dear heart, your feet are like ice still. Now, do drink this tea, and I'll wrap 'em up in flannel, and then they'll get warm." Janet turned her dark eyes on her old friend and stretch- ed out her arms. She was too much oppressed to say any thing ; her suiFering lay like a heavy weight on her power of speech; but she wanted to kiss the good kind woman. Mrs. Pettifer, setting down the cup, bent towards the sad, beautiful face, and Janet kissed her with earnest sacramental kisses such kisses as seal a new and closer bond between the helper and the helped. She drank the tea obediently. " It does warm me," she said. " But now you will get into bed. I shall lie still now." Mrs. Pettifer felt it Avas the best thing she could do to lie down quietly and say no more. She hoped Janet might go to sleep. As for herself, with that tendency to wakefulness common to advanced years, she found it impossible to com- pose herself to sleep again after this agitating surprise. She lay listening to the clock, wondering what had led to this new outrage of Dempster's, praying for the poor thing at her side, and pitying the mother who would have to hear it all to- morrow. CHAPTER XVI. JANET lay still, as she had promised ; but the tea, which had warmed her and given her a sense of greater bodily ease, had only heightened the previous excitement of her brain. Her ideas had a new vividness, which made her feel as if she had only seen life through a dim haze before ; her thoughts, instead of springing from the action of her own mind, were external existences, that thrust themselves imperiously upon her like haunting 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 her life that her imagination Could riot keep holer of a condition in which that great dread was absent ; and even his absence' J80 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. what was it ? only a dreary, vacant flat, where there was nothing to strive after, nothing to long for. At last, the light of morning quenched the rushlight, and Janet's thoughts became more and more fragmentary and confused. She was every moment slipping off the level on which she lay thinking, down, down into some depth from which she tried to rise again with a start. Slumber was stealing over her weary brain : that uneasy slumber which is only better than wretched waking, because the life we seemed to live in it determines no wretched future, because the things we do and suffer in it are but hateful shadows, and leave no impress that petrifies into an irrevocable past. She had scarcely been asleep an hour when her movements became more violent, her mutterings more frequent and agi- tated, till at last she started up with a smothered cry, and looked wildly round her, shaking with terror. " Don't be frightened, dear Mrs. Dempster," said Mrs. Pet- tifer, who was up and dressing, " you are with me, your old friend, Mi's. Pettifer. Nothing will harm you." Janet sank back again on her pillow, still trembling. After lying silent a 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, he will come and drag me back again." " No, my dear, depend on me. I've just thought I shall send the servant home on a holiday I've promised her a good while. I'll send her away as soon as she's had her breakfast, and she'll have no occasion to know you're here. There's no holding servants' tongues, if you let 'em know any thing. What they don't know, they won't tell; you may trust 'em so far. 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. I shall leave you for an hour or two, and send off Phoebe, and then bring you some breakfast. I'll lock the door behind me, so that the girl mayn't come in by chance." The daylight changes the aspect of misery to us, as of every thing 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 dreary persistence of defi- nite measurable reality. The man who looks with ghastly horror on all his property aflame in the dead of night, has not \\alf the sense of destitution he will have in the morning, when he walks over the ruins lying blackened in the pitiless sunshine. That moment of intensest depression was come tJ TANET'S REPENTAXCE. 281 Janet, when the daylight which showed her the walls, and chairs, and tables, and all the commonplace reality that sur- rounded her, seemed to lay bare the future too, and bring out into oppressive distinctness all the details of a weary life to be lived from day to day, with no hope to strengthen her against that evil habit, which she loathed in retrospect and yet was powerless to resist. Her husband would never con- sent to her living away from him : she was become necessary to his tyranny ; he would never willingly loosen his grasp on her. She had a vague notion of some protection the law might give her, if she could prove her life in danger from him ; but she shrank utterly, as she had always done, from any act- ive, public resistance or vengeance : she felt too crushed, too faulty, too liable to reproach, to have the courage, even if she had had the wish to put herself openly in the position of a wronged woman seeking redress. She had no strength to sus- tain her in a course of self-defense and independence : there was a darker shadow over her life than the dread of her husband it was the shadow of self-despair. The easiest thing would be to go away and hide herself from him. But then there was her mother : Robert had all her little property in his hands, and that little was scarcely enough to keep her in com- fort without his aid. If Janet went away alone he would be sure to persecute her mother ; and if she did go away what then? She must work to maintain herself; she must exert herself, weary and hopeless as she was, to begin life afresh. How hard that seemed to her ! Janet's nature did not belie her grand face and form: there was energy, there was strength in it ; but it was the strength of the vine, which must have its broad leaves and rich clusters borne up by a firm stay. And now she had nothing to rest on no faith, no love. If her mother had been very feeble, aged, or sickly, Janet's deep pity and tenderness might have made a daugh- ter's duties an interest and a solace ; but Mrs. Raynor had never needed tendance ; she had always been giving help to her daughter ; she had always been a sort of humble minister- ing spirit ; and it was one of Janet's pangs of memory, that instead of being her mother's comfort, she had been her moth- er's trial. Everywhere the same sadness ! Her life was a sun-dried, barren tract, where there was no shadow and where all the waters were bitter. No! She suddenly thought and the thought was like an electric shock there was one spot in her memory which seemed to promise her an untried spring, where the waters might be sweet. That short interview with Mr. Tryan had come back upon her his voice, his words, his look, which told 282 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. her that he knew sorrow. His words had implied that he thought his death was near ; yet he had a faith which enabled him to labor enabled him to give comfort to others. That look of his came back on 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 he had some message of \ xjomfort, different from the feeble words she had been used to \f hear from others. She was tired, she was sick of that barren / \ exhortation Do right, and keep a clear conscience, and God \will reward you, and your troubles will be easier to bear. She wanted strength to do right she wanted something to rely on besides her own resolutions ; for was not the path be- hind her all strewn with broken resolutions ? How could she trust in new ones ? She had often heard Mr. Tryan laughed at for being fond of great sinners. She began to see a new meaning in those words; he would perhaps understand her helplessness, her wants. If she could pour out her heart to him ! if she could for the first time in her life unlock all the chambers of her soul ! The impulse to confession almost always requires the pres- ence of a fresh ear and a fresh heart ; and in our moments of spiritual need, the man to whom we have no tie but our com- mon nature, seems nearer to us than mother, brother, or friend. Our daily familiar life is but a hiding of ourselves from each other behind a screen of trivial words and deeds, and those who sit with us at the same hearth are often the farthest off from the 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 door very gently, Janet, instead of being asleep, as her good friend had hoped, was intensely occupied with her new thought. She longed to ask Mrs. Pettifer if she could see Mr. Tryan ; but she was arrested by doubts and ti- midity. He might not feel for her he might be shocked at her confession lie might talk to her of doctrines she could not understand or believe. She could not make up her mind yet ; but she was too restless under 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 parlor, and tried to take some of the breakfast her friend had prepared for her. But her effort was not a successful one ; her cup of tea and bit of toast were only half finished. The leaden weight of discouragement pressed upon her more and more heavily. JANET'S REPENTANCE. 283 The wind had fallen, and a drizzling rain had come on ; there was no prospect from Mrs. Pettifer's parlor but a blahk wall ; and as Janet looked out at the window, the rain and the smoke-blackened bricks seemed to blend themselves in sick- ening identity with her desolation of spirit and the headachy weariness of her body. Mrs. Pettifer got through her household work as soon as she could, and sat down with her sewing, hoping that Janet would perhaps be able to talk a little of what had passed, and find some relief by unbosoming herself in that way. But Ja- net could not speak to her; she was importuned with the longing to see Mr. Tryan, and yet hesitating to express it. Two hours passed in this way. The rain went on driz- zling, and Janet sat still, leaning her aching head on her hand, and looking alternately at the fire and out of the window. She felt this could not last this motionless, vacant misery. She must determine on something, she must take some step ; and yet every thing was so difficult. It was one o'clock, and Mrs. Pettifer rose from her seat, saying, " I must go and see about dinner." The movement and the sound startled Janet from her rev- erie. It seemed as if an opportunity were escaping her, and she said hastily, " Is Mr. Tryan in the town to-day, 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 sent for. I can send Jcsson's boy with a note to him any time. Should you like to see him ?" "Yes, I think I should." " Then I'll send for him this instant." CHAPTER XVH. WHEN Dempster awoke in the morning, he was at no loss to account to himself for the fact that Janet was not by his side. His hours of drunkenness were not cut off from his oth- er hours by any blank wall of oblivion ; he remembered what Janet had done to offend him the evening before, he remem- bered what he had done to her at midnight, just as he would have remembered if he had been consulted about a right of road. The remembrance gave him a definite ground for the extra ill-humor which had attended his waking every morning this 284 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. week, but he would not admit to himself that it cost him any anxiety. " Pooh," he said inwardly, " she would go straight to her mother's. She's as timid as a hare ; and she'll never let any body know about it. She'll be back again before night." But it would be as well for the servants not to know any thing of the affair : 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 key in 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 their mistress put on her bonnet hastily and go to her mother's, thought it only something a little worse than usual that she should have gone thither in consequence of a violent quarrel, either at midnight, or in the early morning before they were up. The housemaid told the cook what she sup- posed had happened ; the cook shook her head and said, " Eh, dear, dear !" but they both expected to see their mistress back again in an hour or two. Dempster, on his return home the evening before, had or- dered his man, who lived away from the house, to bring up his horse and gig from the stables at ten. After breakfast he said to the housemaid, " No one need sit up for me to-night ; I shall not be at home till to-morrow evening ;" and then he walked to the office to give some orders, expecting, as he re- turned, to see the man waiting with his gig. But though the church clock had struck ten, no gig was there. In Dempster's mood this was more than enough to exasperate him. He went in to take his accustomed glass of brandy before setting out, promising himself the satisfaction of presently thunder- ing at Dawes for being a few minutes behind his time. An outbreak of temper towards his man was not common with him ; for Dempster, like most tyrannous people, had that das- tardly kind of self-restraint which enabled him 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 only gave him high wages, but usually treated him with ex- ceptional civility. This morning, however, ill-humor got the better of prudence, and Dempster was determined to rate him soundly ; a resolution for which Dawes gave him much better ground than he expected. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quar- ter of an hour, had passed, and Dempster was setting off to the stables in a back street to see what was the cause of the delay, when Dawes appeared with the gig. " What the devil do you keep me here for ?" thundered JANET'S REPENTANCE. 285 Dempster, " kicking my heels like A beggarly tailor waiting for a carrier's cart ? I ordered you to 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's to 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 damned laziness, I suppose. Do you think I give you wages for you to choose your own hours, and come dawdling up a quarter of an hour after my time ?" " Come, give me good words, will yer ?" said Dawes, sulk- ily. " I'm not lazy, nor no man shall call me lazy. I know well anuft* what you gi' me wages for ; it's for doiii' what yer won't find many men as 'nil do." " What, you impudent scoundrel," said Dempster, getting into the gig, " you think you're necessary to me, do you ? As if a beastly bucket-carrying idiot 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." Dawes's blood was now fairly up. "I'll look out for a master as has got a better charicter nor a lyin', bletherin' drunkard, an' I shouldn't hev to go fur." Dempster, furious, snatched the whip from the socket, and gave Dawes a cut 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 lash fell, and the cut went across his face. With white lips, he said, " I'll have the law on yer for that, lawyer us y'are," and threw the reins on the 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 on his head one of these days." " Not he," said Mr. Budd, nodding to Dempster as he pass- ed ; " he's got nine lives, Dempster has." CHAPTER IT was dusk, and the candles were lighted before Mr. Tryan knocked at Mrs. Pettifer's door. Her messenger had brought back word that he was not at home, and all after- 286 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. noon Janet had been agitated by the fear that he would not come ; but as soon as that anxiety was removed by the knock at the door, she felt a sudden rush of doubt and timid- ity : she trembled and turned cold. Mrs. Pettifer went to open the door, and told Mr. Tryan, in as few words as possible, what had happened in the night. As he laid down his hat and prepared to enter the parlor, she said, " I won't go in with you, for I think perhaps she would rather see you go in alone." Janet, wrapped up in a large white shawl which threw her dark face into startling relief, was seated with her eyes turned anxiously towards the door when Mr. Tryan entered. He had not seen her since their interview at Sally Martin's, long months ago ; and he felt a strong movement of compas- sion at the sight of the pain-stricken face which seemed to bear written on it the signs of all Janet's intervening misery. Her heart gave a great leap, as her eyes met his once more. No! she had not deceived herself : there was all the sincerity, all the sadness, all the deep pity in them her memory had told her of; more than it had told her, for in proportion as his face had become thinner and more worn, his eyes appeared to have gathered intensity. He came forward, and, putting out his hand, said, "I am so glad you sent for me I am so thankful you thought I could be any comfort to you." Janet took his hand in si- lence. She was unable to utter any words of mere polite- ness, or even of gratitude ; her heart was too full of other words that had welled up the moment she met his pitying glance, and felt her doubts fall away. They sat down opposite each other, and she said in a low voice, while slow, difficult tears gathered in her aching eyes, "I want to tell you how 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 speaking to a fellow-sinner who has needed just the comfort and help you are needing." "And you did find it?" " Yes ; and I trust you will find it." " Oh, I should like to be good and to do right," Janet burst forth; "but indeed, indeed, my lot has been a very hard one. I loved my husband very dearly when we were mai*ried, and I meant to make him happy I wanted nothing 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 unkind to me, and then very cruel, JANET'S REPENTANCE. 287 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 drink any thing but water. I hated wine and spirits because Robert drank them so ; but one day when I was very wretched, and the wine was standing on the table, I suddenly .... I can hardly remember how I came to do it .... I poured some wine into a large glass and drank it. It blunted my feelings, and made me more indifferent. Af- ter that, the temptation was always coming, and it got strong- er and stronger. I was ashamed, and I hated what I did ; but almost while the thought was passing through my mind that I would never do it again, I did it. It seemed as if there was a demon in me always making me rush to do what I longed not to do. And I thought all the more that God was cruel ; for if he had not sent me that dreadful trial, so much worse than other women have to bear, I should not have done wrong in that way. I suppose it is wicked to think so. , . . I feel as if there must be goodness and right above us, but I can't see it, I can't trust in it. And I have gone on in that way for years and years. At one time it used to be better now and then, but every thing has got worse lately : I felt sure it must soon end somehow. And last night he turned me out of doors .... I don't know what to do. I will never go back to that life again if I can help jt ; and yet every thing else seems so miserable. I feel sure that demon will be always urging me to satisfy the craving that comes upon me, and the days will go on as they have done through all those miserable years. I shall always be doing wrong, and hating myself after sinking lower and lower, and knowing that I am sinking. Oh, can you tell me any way of getting strength ? Have you ever known any one like me that got peace of mind and power to do right ? Can you give me any comfort any hope?" While Janet was speaking, she had forgotten every thing but her misery and her yearning for comfort. Her voice had risen from the low tone of timid distress to an intense pitch of imploring anguish. She clasped her hands tightly, and looked at Mr. Tryan with eager, questioning eyes, with part- ed, trembling lips, with the deep horizontal lines of overmas- tering pain on her brow. In this artificial life of ours, it is not often we see a human face with all a heart's agony in it, uncontrolled by self-consciousness; when we do see it, it startles us as if we had suddenly waked into the real world of which this every-day one is but a puppet-show copy. For Rome moments Mr. Tryan was too deeply moved to speak. 288 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. " Yes, dear Mrs. Dempster," he said at last, " there is com- fort, there is hope for you. Believe me there is, for I speak from my own deep and hard experience." He paused, as if he had not made up his mind to utter the words that were urging themselves to his lips. Presently he continued, " Ten years ago, I felt as wretched as you do. I think my wretch- edness was even worse than yours, for I had a heavier sin on my conscience. I had suffered no wrong from others as you have, and I had injured another irreparably in body and soul. The image of the wrong I had done pursued me every- where, and I seemed on the brink of madness. I hated my life, for I thought, just as you do, that I should go on falling \jnto temptation and doing more harm in the Avorld ; and I dreaded death, for with that sense of guilt on my soul, I felt ^ that whatever state I entered on must be one of misery. But a dear friend to whom I opened my mind showed me it was just such as I the helpless who feel themselves helpless - that God specially invites to come to Him, and offers all the riches of His salvation ; not forgiveness only ; forgiveness would be worth little if it left us under the powers of our evil passions ; but strength that strength which enables us to conquer sin." " But," said Janet, " I can feel no trust in God. He seems always to have left me to myself. I have sometimes prayed to Him to help me, and yet every thing has been just the same as before. If you felt like me, how did you come to have hope and trust ?" " Do not believe that God has left you to yourself. How can you tell but that the hardest trials you have known have been only the road by which He was leading you to that com- plete sense of your own sin and helplessness, without which you would never have renounced all other hopes, and trusted in His love alone ? I know, dear Mrs. Dempster, I know it is hard to bear. I would not speak lightly of your sorrows. I feel that the mystery of our life is great, and at one time it seemed as dark to me as it does to you." Mr. Tryan hesi- tated again. He saw that the first thing Janet needed was to be assured of sympathy. She must be made to feel that her anguish was not strange to him ; that he entered into the only half-expressed secrets of her spiritual weakness, before any other message of consolation could find its way to her heart. The tale of the Divine Pity was never yet believed from lips that were not felt to be moved by human pity. And Janet's anguish was not strange to Mr. Tryan. He had never been in the presence of a sorrow and a self-despair that had sent so strong a thrill through all the recesses of his sad' JANETS REPENTANCE. 289 det experience ; and it is because sympathy is but a living again through our own past in a new form, that confession often prompts a response of confession. Mr. Tryan felt this prompting, and his judgment, too, told him that in obeying it he would be taking the best means of administering comfort to Janet. Yet he hesitated ; as we tremble to let in the day- light on a chamber of relics which we have never visited ex- cept in curtained silence. But the first impulse triumphed, and he went on. " I had lived all my life at a distance from God. My youth was spent in thoughtless self-indulgence, and all my hopes were of a vain, worldly kind. I had no thought of entering the Church ; I looked forward to a politi- cal 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 in intimacy with the gay- est men, even adopting follies and vices for which I had no taste, out of mere pliancy and the love of standing well with my companions. You see, I was more guilty even then than you have been, for I threw away all the rich blessings of un- troubled youth and health ; I had no excuse in my outward lot. But while I was at college that event in my life occur- red, which in the end brought on the state of mind I have mentioned to you the state of self-reproach and despair, which enables me to understand to the full what you are Buffering ; and I tell you the facts, because I want you to be assured that I am not uttering mere vague words when I say that I have been raised from as low a depth of sin and sorrow as that in which you feel yourself to be. At college I had an attachment to a lovely girl of seventeen ; she was very much below my own station in life, and I never contemplated marrying her; but I induced her to leave her father's house. I did not mean to forsake her when I left college, and I quiet- ed all scruples of conscience by promising myself that I would always take care of poor Lucy. But on my return from a va- cation spent in travelling, I found that Lucy was gone gone away with a gentleman, her neighbors said. I was a good deal distressed, but I tried to persuade myself that no harm would come to her. Soon afterwards I had an illness which left my health delicate, and made all dissipation distasteful to me. Life seemed very wearisome and empty, and I looked with envy on every one who had some great and absorbing object even on my cousin who was preparing to go out as a missionary, and whom I had been used to think a dismal, tedious person, because he was constantly urging religious subjects upon me. We were living in London then ; it was three years since I had lost sight of Lucy ; and one summer 13 290 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. evening, about nine o'clock, as I was walking along Gower Street, I saw a knot of people on 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 way within the circle. The body of a woman, dressed in fine clothes, was lying against a door-step. Her head was bent on one side, and the long curls had fallen over her cheek. A N tremor seized me when I saw the hair : it was light chestnut the color of Lucy's. I knelt down and turned aside the hair ; it was Lucy dead with paint on her cheeks. I found out afterwards that she had taken poison that she was in the power of a wicked woman that the very clothes on her back were not her own. It was then that my past life burst upon me in all its hideousness. I wished I had never been born. I couldn't look into the future. Lucy's dead painted face would follow me there, as it did when I looked back into the past as it did when I sat down to table with my friends, when I lay down in my bed, and when I rose up. There was only one thing that could make life tolerable to me ; that was, to spend all the rest of it in trying to save others from the ruin I had brought on one. But how was that possible for me ? I had no comfort, no strength, no wisdom in my own soul ; how could I give them to others ? My mind was dark, rebellious, at war with itself and with God." Mr. Try an had been looking away from Janet. His face was towards the fire, and he was absorbed in the images his memory was recalling. But now he turned his eyes on her, and they met hers, fixed on him with the look of rapt ex- pectation, with which one clinging to a slippery summit of a rock, while the waves are rising higher and higher, watches the boat that has put from shore to his rescue. " You see, Mrs. Dempster, how deep my need was. I went on in this way for months. I was convinced that if I ever got health and comfoi't, it must be from religion. I went to hear celebrated preachers, and I read religious books. But I found nothing that fitted my own need. The faith which puts the sinner in possession of salvation seemed, as I understood it, to be quite out of my reach. I had no faith ; I only felt utterly wretched, under the power of habits and dispositions which had wrought hideous evil. At last, as I told you, I found a friend to whom I opened all my feelings to whom I confessed every thing. He was a man who had gone through very deep experience, and could understand the different wants of different minds. He made it clear to me that the only preparation for coming to Christ and partaking of his salvation, was that very sense of guilt and helplessness which JANET'S BEPENTANCE. 291 was weighing me down. He said, you are weary and heavy- laden ; well, it is you Christ invites to come to him and find rest. He asks you to cling to him, to lean on him ; he does not command you to walk alone without stumbling. He does not tell you, as your fellow-men do, that you must first merit his love ; he neither condemns nor reproaches you for the past, he only bids you to come to him that you may have life ; he bids you stretch out your hands, and take of the fullness of his love. You have only to rest on him as a child rests on its mother's arms, and you will be upborne by his divine strength. That is what is meant by faith. Your evil habits, you feel, are too strong for you ; you are unable to wrestle with them ; you know beforehand you shall fall. But when once we feel our helplessness in that way, and go to the Sav- iour, desiring to be freed- from the power as well as the pun- ishment of sin, we are no longer left to our own strength. As long as we live in rebellion against God, desiring to have our own will, seeking happiness in the things of this world, it is as if we shut ourselves up in a crowded, stifling room, where we breathe only poisoned air ; but we have only to walk out under the infinite heavens, and we breathe the pure free air that gives us health, and strength, and gladness. It is just so with God's spirit : as soon as we submit ourselves to his will, as soon as we desire to be united to him, and made pure and holy, it is as if the walls had fallen down that shut us out from God, and we are fed with his spirit, which gives us new strength." " that is what I want," said Janet ; " I have left off mind- ing about pleasure. I think I could be contented in the midst of hardship, if I felt that God cared for me, and would give me (strength to lead a pure life. But tell me, did you soon find peace and strength ?" " Not perfect peace for a long while, but hope and trust, which is strength. No sense of pardon for myself could do away with the pain I had in thinking what I had helped to bring on another. My friend used to urge upon 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 re- mained to this hour the sin which causes me the bitterest ,pang. I could never rescue Lucy ; but by God's blessing I might rescue other weak and falling souls ; and that was why I entered the Church. I asked for nothing through the rest of my life but that I might be devoted to God's work, with- out swerving in search of pleasure either to the right hand or to the left. It has been often a hard struggle but God has btjen with me and perhaps it may not last much longer." 292 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. Mr. Tryan paused. For a moment he had forgotten Janot, and for a moment she had forgotten her own sorrows. When she recurred to herself, it was with a new feeling.- " Ah, what a difference between our lives ! y ou h aye Jieaa choosing pain, and working^andjtenying youi'nolf; and I have been tlnnkinjp-enty 6'f mvselft I was only angry and dis- contentecTnecause I had pain to bear. You never had that wicked feeling that I have had so often, did you ? that God was cruel to send me trials and temptations worse than oth- ers have." " Yes, I had ; I had very blasphemous thoughts, and I know that spirit of rebellion must have made the worst part of your lot. You did not feel how impossible it is for us to judge rightly of God's dealings, and you opposed yourself to his will. But what do we know ? We can nojt foretell the working of the smallest event in our own lot ; how can we presume to judge of things that are so much too high for us? There is nothing that becomes us but entire submission, perfect resig- nation. As long as we set up our own will and our own wis- dom against God's, we make that wall between us and his love which I have spoken of just now. But as soon as we lay our- selves entirely at his feet, we have enough light given us to guide our own steps ; as the foot-soldier who hears nothing of the councils that determine the course of the great battle he is in, hears plainly enough the 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 flesh and blood. But carry that difficulty to the Saviour along with all your other sins and weaknesses, and ask him to pour into you a Spirit of submission. He enters into your struggles ; he has drunk the cup of our suffering 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 and strength." CHAPTER XIX. BEFORE leaving Janet, Mr. Tryan urged her strongly to send for her mother. " Do not H r ound her," he said, " by shutting her out any longer from your troubles. It is right that you should be with her." " Yes, I will send for her," said Janet. " But I would rathe* JANET'S REPE.VTAXCR. 293 not go to my mother's yet, because my husband is sure to think I am there, and he might 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 you from violence. Your mother, I think, should consult some confidential friend, some man of charac- ter and experience, who might mediate between you 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 to myself?" "You will not be left to yourself. God is with you. If I have been able to give you any comfort, it is because his power and love have been present with us. But I am very thankful that he has chosen to work through me. I shall see you again to-morrow not before evening, for it will be Sun- day, you know ; but after the evening lecture I shall be at liberty. You will be in my prayers till then. In the mean time, 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 from acknowledging our weakness to our friends. Ask them to help you in guarding yourself from the least approach of the sin you most dread. Deprive yourself as far as possible of the very means and op- portunitv of committing it. Every effort of that kind made in humility and dependence is a prayer. Promise me you will do this." "Yes, I promise you. I know I have always been too froud ; I could never bear to speak to any one about myself! have been proud towards my mother, even ; it has always made me angry when she has seemed to take notice of my faults." " Ah, dear Mrs. Dempster, you will never say again that life is blank, and that there is nothing to live for, will you? See what work there is to be done in life, both in our own souls and for others. Surely it matters little whether we have more or less of this world's comfort in these short years, when God is training us for the eternal enjoyment of his love. Keep that great end of life before you, and your troub- les here will seem 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 has been very good to me in sending you to me. I will trust in him. I will try to do every thing you tell me." 294 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. Blessed influence of one true loving human sou! on an- other ! Not calculable by algebra, not deducible by logic, but mysterious, effectual, mighty as the hidden process by which the tiny seed is quickened, and bursts forth into tall stem and broad leaf, and glowing tasselled flower. Ideas are often poor ghosts; our sun-tilled eyes can not discern them ; they pass athwart us in thin vapor, and can not make themselves felt. But sometimes they are made flesh ; they breathe upon us with warm breath, they touch us with soil responsive hands, they look at us with sad, sincere eyes, and speak to us in appealing tones ; they are clothed in a living human soul, with all its conflicts, its faith, and its love. Then their presence is. a power, then they shake us like a passion, and we are drawn after them with gentle compulsion, as flame is drawn to flame. Janet's dark grand face, still fatigued, had become quite calm, and looked up, as she sat, with a humble, childlike ex- pression at the thin blond face and slightly sunken gray eyes which now shone with hectic brightness. She might have been taken for an image of passionate strength beaten and worn with conflict ; and he for an image of the self-renounc- ing faith which has soothed that conflict into rest. As he looked at the sweet submissive face, he remembered its look of despairing anguish, and his heart was very full as he turn- ed away from her. " Let me only live to see this work con- firmed, and then . . . ." It was nearly ten o'clock when Mr. Tryan left, but Janet was bent on sending for her mother ; so Mrs. Pettifer, as the readiest plan, put on her bonnet and went herself to fetch Mrs. Raynor. The mother had been too long used to expect that every fresh week would be more painful than the last, for Mrs. fettifer's news to come upon her with the shock of a surprise. Quietly, without any show of distress, she made up a bundle of clothes, and, telling her little maid that she should not return home that night, accompanied Mrs. Petti- fer back in silence. When they entered the parlor, Janet, wearied out, had sunk to sleep in the large chair, which stood with its back to the door. The noise of the opening door disturbed her, and she was looking round wonderingly, when Mrs. Raynor came up to her chair, and said, " It's your mother, Janet." " Mother ? dear mother !" Janet cried, clasping her closely. " I have not been a good tender child to you, but I will be I will not grieve you any more." The calmness which had withstood a new sorrow was overcome by a new joy, and the mother burst into tears. J-ANET'S BEPENTANCE. 295 CHAPTER XX. ON Sunday morning the rain had ceased, and Janet, look- ing out of the bedroom window, saw, above the house-tops, a shining mass of white cloud rolling under the far-away blue sky. It was going to be a lovely April day. The fresh sky, left clear and calm after the long vexation of wind and rain, mingled its mild influence with Janet's new thoughts and prospects. She felt a buoyant courage that surprised herself, after the cold, crushing weight of despondency which had op- pressed her the day before: she could think even of her hus- band's rage without the old overpowering dread. For a de- licious hope the hope of purification and inward peace had entered into Janet's soul, and made it spring-time there as well as in the outer world. While her mother was brushing and coiling up her thick black hair a favorite task, because it seemed to renew the days of her daughter's girlhood Janet told how she came to send for Mr. Tryan, how she had remembered their meet- ing at Sally Martin's in the autumn, and had felt an irresisti- ble 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 meet in that way, to overcome my prejudice against him, and make me feel that he was good, and then bringing it back to my mind in the depth of my trouble. You know what foolish things I used to say about him, knowing nothing of him all the while. And yet he was the man who was to give me comfort and help when every thing else failed me. It is wonderful how I feel able to speak to him as I never have done to any one before ; and how every word he says to me enters my heart and has a new meaning for me. I think it must be because he has felt life more deeply than others, and has a deeper faith. I believe every thing he says at once. His words come to me like rain on the parched ground. It has always seemed to me before as if I could see behind people's words, as one sees behind a screen ; but in Mr. Tryan it is his very soul that speaks." " Well, my dear child, I love and bless him for your sake, if he has given you any comfort. I never believed the harm people said of him, though I had no desire to go and hear him, for I am contented with old-fashioned ways. I find more good teaching than I can practise in reading my 296 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. Bible at 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 good advice of Mr. Try- an's you told me of last night that we should consult some one that may interfere for you with your husband ; and I have been turning it over in my mind while I've been lying awake in the night. I think nobody will do so well as Mr. Benjamin Landor, for we must have a man that knows the law, and that Robert is rather afraid of. And perhaps he could bring about an agreement for you to live apart. Your husband's bound to maintain you, you know ; and, if you liked, we could move away from Milby and live somewhere else." "Oh, mother, we must do nothing yet ; I must think about it a little longer. I have a different feeling this morning from what I had yesterday. Something seems to tell me that I must go back to Robert some time 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 that were 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. But something 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 church and hear Mr. Tryan. There would be no fear of ray meeting Robert, for he never goes out on a Sunday morning." " I'm afraid it would not do for me to go to the house and fetch your clothes," said Mrs. Raynor. "Oh, no, no ! I must stay quietly here while you two go to church. I will be Mrs. Pettifer's maid, and get the dinner ready for her by the time she comes back. Dear good wom- an ! 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 word to her to thank her." CHAPTER XXI. THE servants at Dempster's felt some surprise when the morning, noon, and evening of Saturday had passed, and still their mistress did not reappear. " It's very odd," said Kitty, the housemaid, as she trimmed her next week's cap, while Betty, the middle-aged cook, look- ed on with folded arms. "Do you think as Mrs. Raynoi was ill and sent for the missis afore we was up ?" JANET'S REPENTANCE. 297 " Oh," 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 little Ann to let us know." " There's summat up more nor usal between her an' the master, that you may depend on," said Kitty. " I know those clothes as was lying i' the drawing-room yesterday, when the company was come, meant summat. I shojildn!t- wonder if that was what they've had a fresh row about. She's p'raps gone awav, airs made up her mind not to come back again." " AiTT the right on't, too," said Betty. " I'd ha' overrun him long afore now, if it had been me. I wouldn't stan' bein* mauled as she is by no husband, not if he was the biggest lord i' the laud. It's poor work beiu' a wife at that price: I'd sooner be a cook wi'out perkises, an' hev roast, an' boil, an' fry, an' bake, all to mind at once. She may well do as she does. I know I'm glad enough of a drop o' summat my- self when I'm plagued. I feel very low, like, to-night ; I think I shall put my beer i' the saucepan an' warm it." " What a one you arc for warmin' your beer, Betty ! I couldn't abide it nasty bitter stuff!" " It's fine talkin' ; if you was a cook you'd know what be- longs to bein' a cook. It's none so nice to hev a sinkin' at your stomach, I can tell you. You wouldn't think so much o r 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' in ivery place, an' you may change, an' change, an' not better yourself when all's said an' done.' Lors ! why, Liza told me herself as Mrs. Phipps was as 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 'em out. 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' the world, that's my belief an' hansome too. I al'ys think there's nobody looks half so well as the missis when she's got her 'air done nice. Lors J I wish I'd got long 'air like her my 'air's a-comin' off dreaa- ful." " There'll be fine work to-morrow, I expect," said Betty, " when the master comes home, an' Dawes a-swearin' as he'll niver do a stroke o' work for him 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 his life !" " Why, he was in a temper like a fi-end this morning," said Kitty. "I daresay it was along o' what had happened wi' 13* 298 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. the missis. We shall hev a pretty house wi' him if she doesn't come back he'll want to be leatherin' s, I shouldn't wonder. He must hev somethin' t' ill-use when lie's in a passion." " I'd tek care he didn't leather me no, not if he was my husban' ten times o'er; I'd pour hot drippin' on him sooner. But the missis hasn't a sperrit like me. He'll mek her come back, you'll see; he'll come round her somehow. There's no likelihood of her coining back 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 dis- turbed by more definite and alarming conjectures about her mistress. While Betty, encouraged by the prospect of un- wonted leisure, was sitting down to continue a letter which had long lain unfinished between the leaves of her Bible, Kit- ty 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 just looked into the missis's ward- robe, an' there's both her bonnets. She must ha' gone wi'out her bonnet. An' then I remember as her night-clothes wasn't on the bed yisterday mornin' ; I thought she'd put 'em away to be washed ; but she hcdn't, for I've been lookin'. It's my belief he's murdered her, and shut her up i' that closet as he keeps locked al'ys. He's capible on't." u Lors-ha-massy, why you'd better run to Mrs. Raynor's an' see if she's there, arter all. It was p'raps all a lie." Mrs. Ilaynor had returned home to give directions to her little majden, when Kitty, with the elaborate manifestation of alarm which servants delight in, rushed in without knock- ing, and, holding her hands on her heart as if the consequences to that organ were likely to be very serious, 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', since afore we was up ; an' we thought somethin' must ha' happened to her." " No, don't be frightened, Kitty. Your mistress is quite safe; I know where she is. Is your master at home?" " No 'm ; he went out yesterday mornin', an' said he shouldn't be back afore to-night." " Well, Kitty, there's nothing the matter with your mis- tress. You needn't say any thing to any one about her be- ing away from home. I shall call presently and fetch her gown and bonnet. She wants them to put on." Kitty, perceiving there was a mystery she was not to in- quire into, returned to Orchard Street, really glad to know that her mistress was safe, but disappointed nevertheless a* JANET'S REPEXTAJJCE. 299 being told that she was not to be frightened. She was soon followed by Mrs. Raynor iii quest of the gown and bonnet. The good mother, on learning that Dempster was not at home, had at once thought that she could gratify Janet's wish to go to Paddiford Church. " See, my dear," she said, as she entered Mrs. Pettifer'a parlor ; " I've brought you your black clothes. Robert's not at home, and is not coming till this evening. I couldn't find your best black gown, but this will do. I wouldn't bring any thing else, you know ; but there can't be any objection to my fetching clothes to cover you. You can go to Paddi- ford Church, 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 me to get ready. Good little Mrs. Crewe ! It will vex her sadly that I should go to hear Mr. Tryan. But I must kiss her, and make it up with her." Many eves were turned on Janet with a look of surprise as she walked up the aisle of Paddiford Church. She felt a little tremor at the notice she knew she was exciting, but it was a strong satisfaction to her that she had been able at once to take a step that would let her neighbors know her change of feeling towards Mr. Tryan : she had left herself now no room for proud reluctance or weak hesitation. The walk through the sweet spring air had stimulated all her fresh hopes, all her yearning desires after purity, strength, and peace. She thought she should find a new meaning in the prayers this morning ; her full heart, like an overflowing riv- er, wanted those ready-made channels to pour itself into ; and then she should hear Mr. Tryan again, and his words would fall on her like precious balm, as they had done last night. There was a liquid brightness in her eyes as they rested on the mere walls, the pews, the weavers and colliers in their Sunday clothes. The commonest things seemed to touch the spring of love within her, just as, when we are suddenly released from an acute absorbing bodily pain, our heart and senses leap out in new freedom ; we think even the noise of streets harmonious, and are ready to hug the trades- man who is wrapping up our change. A door had been open- ed in Janet's cold dark prison of self-despair, and the golden light of morning 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 comfort for 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 his desk ; but he rejoiced with trembling. He 300 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIP*. could not look at the sweet hopeful face without remember ing its yesterday's look of agony ; and there was the possi- bility that that look might return. Janet's appearance at church was greeted not only by wondering eyes, but by kind hearts, and after the service sev- eral of Mr. Tryan's hearers with whom she had been on cold terms of late, contrived to come up to her and take her by the hand. " Mother," said Miss Linnet, " do let us go and speak to Mrs. Dempster. I'm sure there's a great change in her mind towards Mr. Tryan. I noticed how eagerly 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's been as haughty as any thing since I quarrelled with her husband. However, let bygones be by~ gones ; I've no grudge again' the poor thing, more particular as she must ha' flew in her husband's face to come and hear Mr. Tryan. Yes, let us go an' speak to her." The friendly words and looks touched Janet a little too keenly, and Mrs. I'ettifer wisely hurried her home by the least-frequented road. When they reached home, a violent fit of weeping, followed by continuous lassitude, showed that the emotions of the morning had overstrained her nerves. She was suffering, too, from the absence of the long-accus- tomed stimulus which she had promised Mr. Tryan not to touch again. The poor thing was conscious of this, and dreaded her own weakness, as the victim of intermittent in- sanity dreads the oncoming of the old illusion. "Mother," she whispered, when Mrs. Raynor urged her to lie down and rest all the afternoon, that she might be the better prepared to see Mr. Tryan in the evening " mother, don't let me have any thing if I ask for it." In the mother's mind there was the same anxiety, and in her it was mingled with another fear the fear lest Janet, in her present excited state of mind, should take some premature step in relation to her husband, which might lead back to all the former troubles. The hint she had 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 the long- saddened sober mother tremble. But as evening approached, Janet's mom ing heroism all for- sook her: her imagination, influenced by physical depression as well as by mental habits, was haunted by the vision of her husband's return home, and she began to shudder with tho yesterday's dread. She heard him calling her, gh saw him JANET'S REPENTANCE. 301 going to her mother's to look 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 evening service, and soon the congregation was stream- ing along Orchard Street in the mellow sunset. The street .-opened towards the west. The red half-sunken sun shed a solemn splendor on the every-day houses, and crimsoned the windows of Dempster's projecting upper story. Suddenly a loud murmur arose and spread along the stream of church-goers, and one group after another paused and look- ed backward. At the far end of the street, men, accompanied by a miscellaneous group of onlookers, were slowly carry- ing something a body stretched on a door. Slowly they passed along 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's door. It was Dempster's body. No one knew whether he was alive or dead. CHAPTER XXH. IT was probably a hard saying to the Pharisees, that " there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repentcth, than over ninety and nine just persons that need no repentance." And certain ingenious philosophers of our own day must sure- ly take offense at a joy so entirely out of correspondence with arithmetical proportion. But a heart that has been taught by its own sore struggles to bleed for the woes of another that has " learned pity through suffering " is likely to find very imperfect satisfaction in the " balance of happiness," " doctrine of compensations," and other short and easy meth- ods of obtaining thorough complacency in the presence of pain ; and for such a heart that saying will not be altogether dark. The emotions, I have observed, are but slightly influ- enced by arithmetical considerations ; the mother, when her sweet lisping little ones have all been taken from her one af ter another, and she is hanging over her last dead babe, finds small consolation in the fact that the tiny dimpled corpse is but one of a necessary average, and that a thousand other babes brought into the world at the. same time are doing well, and are likely to live ; and if you stood beside that mother if 302 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. you knew her pang and shared it it is probable you would be equally unable to see a ground of complacency in statistics. Doubtless a complacency resting on that basis is highly rational ; but emotion, I fear, is obstinately irrational : it in- sists on caring for individuals ; it absolutely refuses to adopt the quantitative view of human anguish, and to admit that thirteen happy lives are a set oft* against twelve miserable lives, which leaves a clear balance on the side of satisfaction. This is the inherent imbecility of feeling, and one must be a great philosopher to have got quite clear of all that, and to have emerged into the serene air of pure intellect, in which it is evident that individuals really exist for no other purpose than that abstractions may be drawn from them abstractions that may rise from heaps of ruined lives like the sweet savor of a sacrifice in the nostrils of philosophers, and of a philo- sophic Deity. And so it comes to pass that for the man who knows sympathy because he has known sorrow, that old, old saying about the joy of angels over the repentant sinner out- weighing their joy over the ninety-nine just, has a meaning which does not jar with the language of his own heart. It only tells him, that for angels too there is a transcendent val- ue in human pain, which refuses to be settled by equations; that the eyes of angels too are turned away from the serene happiness of the righteous to bend with yearning pity on the poor erring soul wandering in the desert where no water is ; that for angels too the misery of one casts so tremendous a shadow as to eclipse the 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 hje entered the vestry after the evening service, he was impa- tient to fulfill the promise of seeing her. His experience ena- bled him to divine what was the fact that the hopefulness of the morning would be followed by a return of depression and discouragement ; and his sense of the inward and out- ward difficulties in the way of her restoration was so keen, that he could only find relief from the foreboding it excited by lifting up his heart in prayer. There are unseen elements which often frustrate our wisest calculations which raise up the sufferer from the edge of the grave, contradicting the prophecies of the clear-sighted physician, and fulfilling the blind clinging hopes of affection ; such unseen elements Mr. Tryan called the Divine Will, and filled up the margin of ig- norance which surrounds all our knowledge with the feelings of trust and resignation. Perhaps the profoundest philoso- phy could hardly fill it up better. JANET'S REPENTANCE. 303 His mind was occupied in this way as he was absently taking oft* his gown, when Mr. Landor startled him by enter- ing 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 up for dead. They were carrying him home as we were coming to church, and I staid 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 is not dead, however; he was stunned with the fall. Pilgrim came in a few minutes, and he says the right leg is broken in two places. It's likely to be a terrible case, with his state of body. It seems he was more drunk than usual, and they say he came along the Bridge Way flogging his horse like a madman, till at last it gave a sudden wheel, and he was pitched out. The servants said they didn't know where Mrs. Dempster was : she had been away from home since yesterday morning ; but Mrs. Raynor knew." " I know where she is," said Mr. Tryau ; " but I think it will be better for her 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 be kept out of the house for the present. Do you know if any thing new has happened between Dempster and his wife lately ? I was surprised to hear of her being at Paddiford Church this morning." " Yes, something has happened; but I believe she is anxious that the particulars of his behavior towards her should not be known. She is at Mrs. Pettifer's there is no reason for con- cealing that, since what has happened to her husband ; and yesterday, when she was in very deep trouble, she sent for me. I was very thankful she did so : I believe a great change of feeling has begun in her. But she is at present in that ex- citable state of mind she has been shaken by so many pain- ful emotions during the last two days, that I think it would be better, for this evening at least, to guard her from a new shock, if possible. But I am going now to call upon her, and I shall see how she is." " Mr. Tryan," said Mr. Jerome, who had entered during the dialogue, and had been standing by, listening with a distressed face, " I shall take it as a favor if you'll let me know if iver there's any thing I can do for Mrs. Dempster. Eh, dear, what a world this is ! I think I see 'em fifteen year ago as happy a young couple as iver was ; and now, what it's all come to ! I was in a hurry . like, to punish 304 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. Dempster for pessecutin', but there was a stronger hand at work nor mine." " Yes, Mr. Jerome ; but don't let us rejoice in punishment, even when the hand of God alone inflicts it. The best of us are but poor wretches just saved from shipwreck : can we feel any thing but awe and pity when we see a fellow-passenger swallowed by the waves ?" " Right, right, Mr. Tryan. I'm over hot and hasty, that I am. But I beg on you to tell Mrs. Dempster I mean, in course, when you've an opportunity tell her she's a friend at the White House as she may send for any hour o' the day." " Yes ; I shall have an opportunity, I dare say, and I will remember your wish. I think," continued Mr. Tryan, turning to Mr. Landor, " I had better see Mr. Pilgrim on my wav, and learn what is exactly the state of things by this time. What do you think ?" " By all means : if Mrs. Dempster is to know, there's no one can break the news to her so well as you. I'll walk with you to Dempster's door. I dare say Pilgrim is there still. Come, Mr. Jerome,you've got to go our way too, 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 no ground for resisting the growing conviction that the Evangelical curate was really a good fellow, though he was a fool for not taking better care of himself. " Why, I didn't expect to see you in your old enemy's quar- ters," he said to Mr. Tryan. " However, it will be a good while before poor Dempster shows any fight again." "I came on Mrs. Dempster's account," said Mr. Tryan. " She is staying at Mrs. Pettifer's ; she has had a great shock from some severe domestic trouble lately, and I think it will be wise to defer telling her of this dreadful event for a short time." " Why, what has been up, eh ?"said Mr. Pilgrim, whose curi- osity was at once awakened. " She used to be no friend of yours. Has there been some split between them? It's a new thing for her to turn round on him." " Oh, merely an exaggeration of scenes that must often have happened before. But the question now is, whether you think there is any immediate danger of her husband's de:ith ; for in that case, I think, from what I have observed of her feelings, she would be pained afterwards to have been kept in ignorance." " Well, there's no telling in these cases, yon know. I don't JANET'S REPENTANCE. 305 apprehend speedy death, and it is not absolutely impossible that we may bring him round again. At present he's in a state of apoplectic stupor ; but if that subsides, delirium is almost sure to supervene, and we shall have some painful scenes. It's one of those complicated cases in which the de- lirium is likely to be of the worst kind meningitis and delir- ium tremens together and we may have a good deal of trou- ble with him. If Mrs. Dempster were told, I should say it would be desirable to persuade her to remain out of the house at present. She could do no good, you know. I've got 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 few words what had happened, and begged her to take an opportunity of letting Mrs. Raynor know, that they might, if possible, concur in preventing a premature or sud- den 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 had any thing to keep her up, as she's been used to. She seems frightened at the thought of being tempted to take it." " Thank God for it ; that fear is her greatest security." When Mr. Tryan entered the parlor this time, Janet was again awaiting him eagerly, and her pale sad face was light- ed up with a smile as she rose to meet him. But the next moment she said, with a look of anxiety, " How very ill and tired you look ! You have been work- ing so hard all day, and yet you are come to talk to me. Oh, you are wearing yourself out. I must go and ask Mrs. Pet- tifer to come and make you have some supper. But this is my mother ; you have not seen her before, I think." While Mr. Tryan was speaking to Mrs. Raynor, Janet hur- ried out, and he, seeing that this good-natui'ed thoughtfulness on his behalf would help to counteract her depression, was not inclined to oppose her wish, but accepted the supper Mrs. Pettifer offered him, quietly talking the while about a cloth- ing club he was going to establish in Paddiford, and the want of provident habits among the poor. Presently, however, Mrs. Raynor said she must go home for an hour, to see how her little maiden was going on, and Mrs. Pettifer left the room with her 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 uncertain what to do about my husband. I am 306 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. BO weak my feelings change so from hour to hour. This morning, when I felt so hopeful and happy, I thought I should (ike to go back to him, and try to make up for what has been wrong in me. I thought, now God would help me, and I should have you to teach and advise me, and I could bear the troubles that would come. But since then all this af ternoon and evening I have had the same feelings I used to have, the same dread of his anger and cruelty, and it seems to me as if 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 should live apart from him, I know it would always be a load on my mind that I had shut myself out from going back to him. It seems a dreadful thing in life, when any one has been so near to one as a husband for fifteen years, to part and be nothing to each other anymore. Surely that is a very strong tie, and I feel as if my duty can never lie quite away from it. 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 until your mind is calmer. You might remain with your mother for a little while ; I think you have no real ground for fearing any annoyance from your husband at present ; he has put himself too much in the wrong ; he will very likely leave you unmolested for some time. Dismiss this difficult question from your mind just now, if you can. Every new day may bring you new grounds for decision, and what is most needful for your health of mind is repose from that haunting anxiety about the future which has been preying on you. Cast yourself on God, and trust that he will direct you; he will make your duty clear to you, if you wait sub- missively on him." " Yes ; I will wait a little, as you tell me. I will go to my mother's to-morrow, and pray to be guided rightly. You il pray for me, too." CHAPTER XXIII. THE next morning Janet was so much calmer, antf at breakfast spoke so decidedly of going to her mother's, that Mrs. Pettifer and Mrs. Raynor agreed it would be wise to let her know by degrees what had befallen her husband, since as soon as she went out there would be danger of her meeting some one who would betray the fact. But Mrs. Raynor JANET'S KEPENTANCE. 307 thought it would be well first to call at Dempster's, and as- certain how he was : so she said to Janet, " My dear, I'll go home first, and see to things, and get your room ready. You needn't come yet, you know. I shall be back again in an hour or so, and we can go together." " Oh no," said Mrs. Pettifer. " Stay with me till evening. I shall be lost without you. You needn't go till quite even- ing." Janet had dipped into the " Life of Henry Martyn," which Mrs. Pettifer had from the Paddiford Lending Library, and her interest was so arrested by that pathetic missionary story, that she readily acquiesced in both propositions, and Mrs. Ray nor set out. She had been gone more than an houi-, and it was nearly twelve o'clock, when Janet put down her book ; and after sit- ting meditatively for some minutes with her eyes unconscious- ly fixed on the opposite wall, she rose, went to her bedroom, and, hastily putting on her bonnet and shawl, came down to Mrs. Pettifer, who was busy in the kitchen. " Mrs. Pettifer," she said, " tell mother, when she conies back, I'm gone to see what has become of those poor Lakins in Butcher Lane. I know they're half starving, and I've neg- lected them so, lately. And then, I think, I'll go on to Mrs. Crewe. I want to see the dear little woman, and tell her my- self about my going to hear Mr. Try an. She won't feel it half so much if I tell her myself." "Won't you wait till your mother comes, or put it off till to-morrow?" 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 your husband's, you know; and yesterday you were so afraid of seeing him." " Oh, Robert will be shut up at the office now, if he's r iot gone out of the town. I must go I feel I must be doing something for some one not be a mere useless log any longer. I've been reading about that wonderful Henry Mar- tyn; 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 shall be back soon." She ran off before Mrs. Pettifer could utter another word of dissuasion, leaving the good woman in considerable anxie- ty lest this new impulse of Janet's should frustrate all pre- cautions to save her from a sudden shock. Janet having paid her visit in Butcher Lane, turned again into Orchard Street on her way to Mrs. Crowe's, and was thinking, rather sadly, that her mother's economical house- keeping would leave no abundant surplus to be sent to the 308 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. hungry Lakins, when she saw Mr. Pilgrim in advance of her on the other side of the street. He was walking at a rapid pace, and when he reached Dempster's door he turned and en tered without knocking. Janet was startled. Mr. Pilgrim would never enter in that way unless there was some one very ill in the house. It was her husband ; she felt certain of it at once. Something had happened to him. Without a moment's pause, she ran across the street, opened the door, and entered. There was no one in the passage. The dining-room door was wide open no one was there. Mr. Pilgrim, then, was already up stairs. She rushed up at once to Dempster's room her own room. The door was open, and she paused in pale horror at the sight before her, which seemed to stand out only with the more ap- palling distinctness because the noonday light was darkened to twilight in the chamber. T\vo 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's face was purple and swollen, his eyes dilated, and fixed with a look of dire terror on something he seemed to see approaching him from the iron closet. 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 black serpents .... 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 to drag me into the cold water .... her bosom is cold .... it is black. ... it is all serpents. . . ." " No, Robert," Janet cried, in tones of yearning pity, rush- ing to the side of the bed, and stretching out her arms to- wards him, " no, here is Janet. She is not dead she for- gives you." Dempster's maddened senses seemed to receive some new impression from her appearance. The terror gave way to rage. u Ha ! you sneaking hypocinte ?" he burst out in a grat- ing voice, " you threaten me .... you mean to have your revenge on me, do you ? Do your worst ! I've got the law on my side. ... I know the law. . . . I'll hunt you down 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 mag- JANETS REPENTANCE. 309 gots ! I'll make a fire under you, and smoke off the whole pack of you. . . . I'll sweep you up. . . . I'll grind you to powder .... small powder .... (here his voice dropped to a low tone of shuddering disgust) .... powder on the bed-clothes .... running about .... black lice .... they are coming in swarms. . . . Janet ! come and take them away .... curse you ! why don't you come ? Janet !" Poor Janet was kneeling by the bed with her face buried in her hands. She almost wished her worst moment back again rather than this. It seemed as if her husband was al- ready imprisoned in misery, and she could not reach him his ear deaf forever to the sounds of love and forgiveness. His sins had made a hard crust round his soul ; her pitying voice could not pierce it. " Not there, isn't she ?" he went on in a defiant tone. " Why do you ask me where she is ? I'll have every drop of yellow blood out of your veins if you come questioning me. Your blood is yellow .... in your purse .... running out of your purse. . . . What ! you're changing it into toads, are you ? They're crawling .... they're flying .... they're flying about my head .... the toads are flying about. Ost- ler ! 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 ! curse you ! 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, that Janet involuntai'ily started up from her knees, rtnd stood as if petrified by the horrible vibration. Dempster i tared wildly in silence for some moments; 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 her clothes 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 are the black serpents .... stop her .... let me go .... stop her .... she wants to drag me away into the cold black water .... her bosom is black .... it is all ser- pents .... they are getting longer .... the great white ser- pents are getting longer . . . ." Here Mr. Pilgrim came forward with the apparatus to bind him, but Dempster's struggles became more and more violent. " Ostler ! ostler !" he shouted, " bring out the gig .... give me the whip !" and bursting loose from the strong hands that held him, he began to flog the bed-clothes furious- ly with his right arm. 310 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. " Get along, you lame brute ! sc sc sc ! that's it 1 there you go ! They think they've outwitted me, do they ? The sneaking idiots ! I'll be up with them by-and-by. I'll make them say the Lord's Prayer backwards. . . . I'll pep- per them so that the devil shall eat them raw .... sc sc sc we shall see who'll be the winner yet .... got along, you damned limping beast. . . . I'll lay your back open. . . . ril " He raised himself with a stronger effort than ever to flog 4he bed-clothes, and fell back in convulsions. Janet gave a scream, and sank on her knees again. She thought he was dead. As soon as Mr. Pilgrim was able to give her a moment's attention, he came to her, and, taking her by the arm attempt- ed to draw her gently out of the room. " Now, my dear Mrs. Dempster, let me persuade you not to remain in the room at present. We shall soon relieve these symptoms, I hope ; it is nothing but the delirium that ordinarily attends such casei?*- " Oh, what is the matter ? what brought it on ?" " He fell out of the gig ; the right leg is broken. It is a terrible accident, and I don't disguise that there is consider- able danger attending it, owing to the state of the brain. But Mr. Dempster has a strong constitution, you know ; in a few davs these symptoms may be allayed, and he may do well. Let me beg of you to keep out of the room at present : you can do no good until Mr. Dempster is better, and able to know you. But you ought not to be alone ; let me advise you to have Mrs. Kaynor with you." " Yes, I will send for mother. But you must not object to my being in the room. I shall be very quiet now, only just at first the shock was so great ; I knew nothing about it. I can help the nurses a great deal ; I can put the cold things to his head. He may be sensible for a moment and know me. Pray do not say any more against it : my heart is set on being with him." Mr. Pilgrim gave way, and Janet, having sent for her mother and put off her bonnet and shawl, returned to take her place by the aide of her husband's bed. JANETS REPENTANCE. 311 CHAPTER XXFV. DAT after day, with only short intervals of rest, Janet kept her place in that sad chamber. No wonder the sick- room and the lazaretto have so often been a refuge from the tossings of intellectual doubt a place of repose for the worn and wounded spirit. Here is a duty about which all creeds and all philosophies are of one ; here, at least, the conscience will not be dogged by doubt, the benign impulse will not be checked by adverse theory : here you may begin to act with- out settling one preliminary question, lo moisten the suf- ferer's parched lips through the long night-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 of the hand or beseeching glance of the eye these are of- fices that demand no self-questionings, no casuistry, no assent to propositions, no weighing of consequences. Within the four walls where the stir and glare of the world are shut out, and every voice is subdued where a human being lies pros- trate, thrown on the tender mercies of his fellow, the moral relation of man to man is reduced to its utmost clearness and simplicity : bigotry can not confuse it, theory can not per- vert it, passion, awed into quiescence, can neither pollute nor perturb it. As we bend over the sick-bed, all the forces of our nature rush towards the channels of pity, of patience, and of love, and sweep down the miserable choking drift of our quarrels, our debates, our would-be wisdom, and our clamorous selfish desires. This blessing of serene freedom from the importunities of opinion lies in all simple direct acts of mercy, and is one source of that sweet calm which is often felt by the watcher in the sick-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 in her husband's chamber. When the first heart-piercing hours were over when her horror at his delir- ium was no longer fresh, she began to be conscious of her relief from the burthen of decision as to her future course. The question that agitated her, about returning to her hus- band, had been solved in a moment ; and this illness, after all, might be the herald of another blessing, just as that di'eadful midnight when she stood an outcast in cold and darkness had been followed by the dawn of a new hope. 312 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. Robert would get better ; this illness might alter him ; he would be a long time feeble, needing help, walking with a crutch, perhaps. She would wait on him with such tender- ness, such all-forgiving love, that the old harshness and cruel- ty must melt away forever under the heart-sunshine she would pour around him. Her bosom heaved at the thought, and delicious tears fell. Janet's was a nature in which ha- tred and revenge could find no place ; the long bitter years drew half their bitterness from her ever-living remembrance of the too short years of love that went before ; and the thought that her husband would ever put her hand to his lips again, and recall the days when they sat on the grass to- gether, and he laid scarlet poppies on her black hair, and call- ed her his gypsy queen, seemed to send a tide of loving ob- livion over all the harsh and stony space they had traversed since. The Divine Love that had already shone upon her would be with her ; she would lift up her soul continually for help ; Mr. Tryan, she knew, would pray for her. If she felt herself failing, she would confess it to him at once ; if her feet be- gan to slip, there was that stay for her to cling to. Oh, she could never be drawn back into that cold damp vault of sin and despair again ; she had felt the morning sun, she had tasted the sweet pure air of trust and penitence and submis- sion. These were the thoughts passing through Janet's mind as she hovered about her husband's bed, and these were the hopes she poured out to Mr. Tryan when he called to see her. It was so evident that they were strengthening her in her new struggle they shed such a glow of calm enthusiasm over her face as she spoke of them, that Mr. Tryan could not bear to throw on them the chill of premonitory doubts, though a previous conversation he had had with Mr. Pilgrim had convinced him that there was not the faintest probabili- ty of Dempster's recovery. Poor Janet did not know the significance of the changing symptoms, and when, after the lapse of a week, the delirium began to lose some of its vio- lence, and to be interrupted by longer and longer intervals of stupor, she tried to think that these might be steps on the way to recovery, and she shrank from questioning Mr. Pil- grim lest he should confirm the fears that began to get pre- dominance in her mind. But before many days were past, he thought it right not to allow her to blind herself any longer. One day it was just about noon, when bad news al- ways seems most sickening he led her from her husband's chamber into the opposite drawing-room, where Mrs. Ray nor was sitting, and said to her, in that low tone of sympathetic JANET'S REPENTANCE. 313 feeling which sometimes gave a sudden air of gentleness to this rough man " My dear Mrs. Dempster, it is right in these cases, you know, to be prepared for the worst. I think I shall be sav- ing you pain by preventing you from entertaining any false hopes, and Mr. Dempster's state is now such that I fear we must consider recovery impossible. The affection of the brain might not have been hopeless, but, you see, there is a terrible complication ; and 1 am grieved to say the broken limb is mortifying." Janet listened with a sinking heart. That future of love and forgiveness would never come, then : he was going out of her sight forever, where her pity could never reach him. She turned cold, and trembled. " But do you think he will die," she said, " without ever coming to himself? without ever knowing me?" " One can not say that with certainty. It is not impossi- ble that the cerebral oppression may subside, and that he may become conscious. If there is any thing you would wish to be said or done in that case, it would be well to be prepared. I should think," Mr. Pilgrim continued, turning to Mrs. Ray- nor, " Mr. Dempster's affairs are likely to be in order his will is ... ." " Oh, 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't take up the time with that. I only want to ... ." She was unable to finish ; she felt her sobs rising, and left the room. " O God !" she said inwardly, " is not Thy love greater ithan mine ? Have mercy on him ! have mercy on him !" This happened on Wednesday, ten days after the fatal ac- cident. By the following Sunday Dempster was in a state of rapidly increasing prostration ; and when Mr. Pilgrim, who, in turn with his assistant, had slept in the house from the beginning, came in, about half past ten, as usual, he scarce- ly believed that the feebly struggling life would last out till morning. For the last few days he had been administering stimulants to relieve the exhaustion which had succeeded the alternations of delirium and stupor. This slight office was all that now remained to be 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 any change took place, or if Mrs. Dempster desired his presence. Janet could not be persuaded to leave the room. She waa yearning and watching for a moment in which her husband's 14 314 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. eyes would rest consciously upon her, and he would know that she had forgiven him. How changed he was since that terrible Monday, nearly .a fortnight ago ! He lay motionless, but for the irregular breathing that stirred his broad chest and thick muscular neck. His features were no longer purple and swollen ; they were pale, sunken, and haggard. A cold perspiration stood in beads on the protuberant forehead, and on the wasted hands stretched motionless on the bed-clothes. It was better to see the hands so, than convulsively 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 from the brow and cheeks, and keep- ing her left hand on the cold unanswering right hand that lay beside her on the bed-clothes. She was almost as pale as her dying husband, and there were dark lines under her eyes, for this was the third night since she had taken off her clothes; but the eager straining gaze of her dark eyes, and the acute sensibility that lay in every line about her mouth, made a strange contrast with the blank unconsciousness and emacia- ted animalism of the face she was watching. There was profound stillness in the house. She heard no sound but her husband's breathing and the ticking of the watch on the mantel-piece. The candle, placed high up, shed a soft light down on the one object she cared to see. There was a smell of brandy in the room ; it was given to her hus- band from time to time ; but this smell, which at first had produced in her a faint shuddering sensation, was now becom- ing indifferent to her : she did not even perceive it ; she was too unconscious of herself to feel either temptations or accu- sations. She only felt that the husband of her youth was dying ; far, far out of her reach, as if she were standing help- less on the shore, while he was sinking in the black storm- waves ; she only yearned for one moment in which she might satisfy the deep forgiving pity of her soul by one look of love, one word of tenderness. Her sensations and thoughts were so persistent that she could not measure the hours, and it was a surprise to her when the nurse put out the candle, and let in the faint morn- ing light. Mrs. Raynor, anxious about Janet, was already up, and now brought in some fresh coffee for her ; and Mr. Pilgrim having awaked, had hurried on his clothes and was coming in to see how Dempster was. This change from candle-light to morning, this recom- mencement of the same round of things that had happened JANET'S KEPENTANCE. 315 yesterday, was a discouragement rather than 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 still work that death had been doing through the night ; she felt her last lingering hope that he would ever know her again forsake her. But now, Mr. Pilgrim, having felt the pulse, was putting some brandy in a tea-spoon between Dempster's lips ; the brandy went down and his breathing became freer. Janet noticed the change, and her heart beat faster 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 opened his eyes full on Janet. It was almost like meeting him again on the resurrection morning, after the night of the grave. " Robert, do you know me ?" He kept his eyes fixed on her, and there was a faintly per- ceptible motion of the lips, as if he wanted to speak. But the moment of speech was forever gone the moment for asking pardon of her, if he wanted to ask it. Could he read the full forgiveness that was written in her eyes? She never knew ; for, as she was bending to kiss him, the thick veil of death fell between them, and her lips touched a corpse. CHAPTER XXV. TnE laces looked very hard and unmoved that surrounded Dempster's grave, while old Mr. Crewe read the burial serv- ice in his low, broken voice. The pall-bearers were such men as Mr. Pittman, Mr. Lowme, and Mr. Budd men whom Dempster had called his friends while he was in life ; and worldly faces never look so worldly as at a funeral. They have the same effect of grating incongruity as the sound of a coarse voice breaking the solemn silence of night. The one face that had sorrow in it was covered by a thick crape veil, and the sorrow was suppressed and silent. No one knew how deep it was ; for the thought in most of her neighbors' minds was, that Mrs. Dempster could hardly have had better fortune than to lose a bad husband who had left her the compensation of a good income. They found it diffi- cult to conceive that her husband's death could be felt by her otherwise than as a deliverance. The person who was most thoroughly convinced that Janet's grief was deep and SI 6 SCENES OF CLEEICAL LIFE. real, was Mr. Pilgrim, who in general was not at all weakly given to a belief in disinterested feeling. " That woman has a tender heart," he was frequently heard to observe in his morning rounds about this time. " I used to think there was a great deal of palaver in her, but you may depend upon it there's no pretense about her. If he'd been the kindest husband in the world she couldn't have felt more. There's a great deal of good in Mrs. Dempster a great deal of good." "/always said so," was Mrs. Lowme's reply, when he made the observation to her; "she was always so very full of pretty attentions to me when I was ill. But they tell me now she's turned Tryanite ; if that's it we sha'n't agree again. It's very inconsistent in her, I think, turning round in that way, after being the foremost to laugh at the Tryanite cant, and especially in a woman of her habits ; she should cure herself of them before she pretends to be over-religious." " Well, I think she means to cure herself, do you know," said Mr. Pilgrim, whose good-will towards Janet was just now quite above that temperate point at which he could indulge his feminine patients with a little judicious detraction. "I feel sure sl*e has not taken any stimulants all through her husband's illness ; and she has been constantly in the way of them. I can see she sometimes suffers a good deal of depres- sion for want of 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." Miu Lowme took an opportunity of retailing Mr. Pilgrim's conversation to Mrs. Phipps, who, as a victim of Pratt and plethora, could rarely enjoy that 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 of improvement in Mrs. Dempster, but I think the way things have turned out seems 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, I un- derstand, has left his wife pretty nearly all his property to do as she likes with ; that isn't behaving like such a very bad husband. I don't believe Mrs. Dempster can have had so much provocation as they pretended. I've known hus- bands who've laid plans for tormenting their wives when they're underground tying up their money and hindering them from marrying again. Not that I should ever wish to marry again; I think one husband in one's life is enough, in all conscience;" here she threw a fierce glance at the JANET'S REPENTANCE. 317 amiable Mr. Phipps, who was innocently delighting himself with the facetiae, in the "Kotherby Guardian," and thinking the editor must be a droll fellow " but it's aggravating to be tied up in that way. Why, they say Mrs. Dempster will have as good as six hundred a-year at least. A tine thing for her, that was a poor girl without a farthing to her fortune. It's well if she doesn't make ducks and drakes of it some- how." Mrs. Phipps's view of Janet, however, was far from being the prevalent one in Milby. Even neighbors who had no strong personal interest in her, could hardly see the noble- looking woman in her widow's dress, with a sad sweet gravi- ty in her face, and not be touched with fresh admiration for her and not feel, at least vaguely, that she had entered on a new life in which it was a sort of desecration to allude to the painful past. And the old friends who had a real regard for her, but whose cordiality had been repelled or chilled of late years, now came round her with hearty demonstration!, of affection. Mr. Jerome felt that his happiness had a sub- stantial addition now he could once more call on that "nice little woman Mrs. Dempster," and think of her with rejoic- ing instead of sorrow. The Pratts lost no time in returning to the footing of old-established friendship with Janet and her mother ; and Miss Pratt felt it incumbent on her, on all suitable occasions, to deliver a very emphatic approval of the remarkable strength of mind she understood Mrs. Dempster to be exhibiting. The Miss Linnets were eager to meet Mr. Tryan's wishes by greeting Janet as one who was likely to be a sister in religious feeling and good works ; and Mrs. Linnet was so agreeably surprised by the fact that Demp- ster had left his wife the money " in that handsome way, to do what she liked with it," that she even included Dempster himself, and his villainous discovery of the flaw in her title to Pye's Croft, in her magnanimous oblivion of past offenses. She and Mrs. Jerome agreed over a friendly cup of tea that there were " a many husbands as was very fine spoken an' all that, an' yet all the while kep' a will locked up from you, as tied you up as tight as any thing. I assure you" Mrs. Jerome continued, dropping her voice in a confidential man- ner, " I know no more to this day about Mr. Jerome's will, nor the child as is unborn. I've no fears about a income I'm well aware Mr. Jerome 'ud niver leave me stret for that ; but I should like to hev a thousand or two at my own dis- posial ; it makes a widow a deal more looked on." Perhaps this ground of respect to widows might not be entirely without its influence on the Milby mind, and might 318 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. do something towards conciliating those more aristocratic acquaintances of Janet's, who would otherwise have been in- clined to take the severest view of her apostasy towards Evangelicalism. Errors look so very ugly in persons of small means one feels they are taking quite a liberty in going astray ; whereas people of fortune may naturally indulge in a few delinquencies. " They've got the money for it," as the girl said of her mistress who had made herself ill with pick- led salmon. However it may have been, there was not an acquaintance of Janet's in Milby, that did not offer her civili- ties in the early days of her widowhood. Even the severe Mrs. Phipps was not an exception ; for heaven knows what would become of our sociality if we never visited people we speak ill of: we should live, like Egyptian hermits, in crowd- ed solitude. Perhaps the attentions most grateful to Janet were those of her old friend Mrs. Ore we, whose attachment to her fa- vorite proved quite too strong for any resentment she might be supposed to feel on the score of Mr. Tryan. The little deaf old lady couldn't do without her accustomed visitor, whom she had seen grow up from child to woman, always so willing to chat with her and tell her all the news, though she was deaf; while other people thought it tiresome to shout in her ear, and irritated her by recommending- ear- trumpets of various construction. All this friendliness was very precious to Janet. She was conscious of the aid it gave her in the self-conquest which was the blessing she prayed for with every fresh morning. The chief strength of her nature lay in her affec- tion, which colored all the rest of her mind : it gave a per- sonal sisterly tenderness to her acts of benevolence ; it made her cling with tenacity to every object that had once stirred her kindly emotions. Alas ! it was unsatisfied, wounded af- fection that had made her trouble greater than she could bear. And now there was no check to the full flow of that plenteous current in her nature no gnawing secret anguish no overhanging terror no inward shame. Friendly faces beamed on her ; she felt that friendly hearts were approving her, and wishing her well, and that mild sunshine of good- will fell beneficently on her new hopes and efforts, as the clear shining after rain falls on the tender leaf-buds of spring, and wins them from promise to fulfillment. And she needed these secondary helps, for her wrestling with her past self was not always easy. The strong emotions from which the life of a human being receives a new bias, win their victory as the sea wins his : though their. advan-e may JANET'S KEPENTANCE. 319 be sure, they will often, after a mightier wave than usual, seem to roll back so far as to lose all the ground they had made. Janet showed the strong bent of her will by taking every outward precaution against the occurrence of a temp- tation. Her mother was now her constant companion, hav- ing shut up her little dwelling and come to reside in Orchard Sti'eet ; and Janet gave all dangerous keys into her keeping, entreating her to lock them away in some secret place. Whenever the too well known depression and craving threat- ened her, she would seek a refuge in what had always been her purest enjoyment in visiting one of her poor neighbors, in carrying some food or comfort to a sick-bed, in cheering with her smile some of the familiar dwellings up the dingy back-lanes. But the great source of courage, the great help to perseverance, was the sense that she had a friend and teacher in Mr. Tryan : she could confess her difficulties to him; she knew he prayed for her; she had always before her the prospect of soon seeing him, and hearing words of ad- monition and comfort, that came to her charged with a divine power such as she had never found in human words before. So the time passed, till it was far on in May, nearly a month after her husband's death, when, as she and her moth- er were seated peacefully at breakfast in the dining-room, looking through the open window at the old-fashioned gar- den, where the grassplot was now whitened with apple-blos- soms, a letter was brought in for Mrs. Raynor. " Why, there's the Thurston post-mark on it," she said. "It must be about your aunt Anna. Ah, so it is, poor thing ! she's been taken worse this last day or two, and has asked them to send for me. That dropsy is carrying her off at last, I dare- say. Poor thing ! it will be a happy release. I must go, my dear she's your father's last sister though I'm sorry to leave you. However, perhaps I shall not have to stay more than a night or two." Janet looked distressed as she said, " Yes, you must go, mother. But I don'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'm sure she will." At twelve o'clock, Janet, having seen her mother in the coach that was to carry her to Thurston, called, on her way back, at Mrs. Pettifer's, but found, to her great dis- appointment, that her old friend was gone out for the day. So she wrote on a leaf of her pocket-book an urgent request that Mrs. 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 she came home, walked on to the 320 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. Vicarage to sit with Mrs. Crewe, thinking to relieve in thia way the feeling of desolateness and undefined fear that was taking possession of her on being left alone for the first time since that great crisis in her life. And Mrs. Crewe, too, was not at Lome ! Janet, with a sense of discouragement for which she re- buked herself as childish, walked sadly home again ; and when she entered the vacant dining-room, she could not help bursting into tears. It is such vague undefinable states of susceptibility as this states of excitement or depression, half mental, half physical that determine many a tragedy in women's lives. Janet could scarcely eat any thing at her solitary dinner ; she tried to fix her attention on a book in vain ; she walked about the garden, and felt the very sun- shine melancholy. Between four and five o'clock, old Mr. Pittman called, and joined her in the garden, where she had been sitting for some time under one of the great apple-trees, thinking how Robert, in his best moods, used to take little Mamsey to look at the cucumbers, or to see the Alderney cow with its calf in the paddock. The tears and sobs had come again at these thoughts ; and when Mr. Pittman approached her, she was feeling languid and exhausted. But the old gentleman's sight and sensibility wei'e obtuse, and, to Janet's satisfaction, he showed no consciousness that she was in grief. " I have a task to impose upon you, Mrs. Dempster," he said, with a certain toothless pomposity habitual to him : " I want you to look over those letters again in Dempster's bu- reau, and see if you can find one from Poole about the mort- gage on those houses at Dingley. It will be worth twenty pounds, if you can find it ; and I don't know where it can be, if it isn't among those letters in the bureau. I've looked everywhere at the office for it. I'm going home now, but I'll call again to-morrow, if you'll be good enough to look in the mean time." Janet said she would look directly, and turned with Mr. Pittman into the house. But the search would take her some time, so he bade her good-bye, and she went at once to a bu- reau which stood in a small back-room, where Dempster used sometimes to write letters and receive people who came on business out of office-hours. She had looked through the contents of the bureau more than once ; but to-day on remov- ing the last bundle of letters from one of the compartments, she saw what she had never seen before, a small nick in the wood, made in the shape of a thumb-nail, evidently intended as a means of pushing aside the movable back of the com- JANET'S KEPENTANCE. 321 partment. In her examination hitherto she had not found such a letter as Mr. Pittman had described perhaps there might be more letters behind this slide. She pushed it back at once and saw no letters, but a small spirit-decanter, half full of pale brandy, Dempster's habitual drink. An impetuous desire shook Janet through all her mem- bers ; it seemed to master her with the inevitable force of strong fumes that flood our senses before we are aware. Her hand was on the decanter; pale and excited, she was lifting it out of its niche, when, with a start and a shudder, she dash- ed it to the ground, and the room was filled with the odor of the spirit. Without staying to shut up the bureau, she rushed out of the room, snatched up her bonnet and mantle which lay in the dining-room, and hurried out of the house. Where should she go? In what place would this demon that had re-entered her be scared back again? She walked rapidly along the street in the direction of the church. She was soon at the gate of the churchyard ; she passed through it, and made her way across the graves to a spot she knew a spot where the turf had been stirred not long before, where a tomb was to be erected soon. It was very near the church wall, on the side which now lay in deep shadow, quite shut out from the rays of the western sun by a 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 on each side. But she wanted to shut out even these objects. Her thick crape veil was down ; but she closed her eyes behind it, and pressed her hands upon them. She wanted to summon up the vision of the past ; she wanted to lash the demon out of her soul with the stinging memories of the bygone misery ; she wanted to renew the old horror and the old anguish, that she might throw herself with the more desperate clinging energy at the foot of the cross, where the Divine Sufferer would impart divine strength. She tried to recall those first bitter moments of shame, which were like the shuddering discovery of the leper that the dire taint is upon him ; the deeper and deeper lapse ; the on-coming of settled despair ; the awful moments by the bedside of her self-maddened husband. And then she tried to live through, with a remembrance made more vivid by that contrast, the blessed hours of hope and joy and peace that had come to her of late, since her whole soul had been bent towards the attain- ment of purity and holiness. But now, when the paroxysm of temptation was past, dread and despondency began to thrust themselves, like cold heavy mists, between her and the heaven to which she want- 14* 322 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. ed to look for light and guidance. The temptation would come again that rush of desire might overmaster her the next time she would slip back- again into that deep slimy pit from which she had been once rescued, and there might be no deliverance for her more. Her prayers did not help her, for fear predominated over trust ; she had no confidence that the aid she sought would be given ; the idea of her fu- ture fall had grasped her mind too strongly. Alone, in this way, she was powerless. If she could see Mr. Try an, if she could confess all to him, she might gather hope again. Sho 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. It was late for her to walk to Paddiford and go to Mr. Tryan's, where she had never called before ; but there was no other way of seeing him that even- ing, and she could not hesitate about it. She walked towards a footpath through the fields, which would take her to Paddi- ford without obliging her to go through the town. The way was rather long, but she preferred it, because it left less proba- bility of her meeting acquaintances, and she shrank from hav- ing to speak to any one. The evening red had nearly faded by the time Janet knocked at Mrs. WagstafTs door. The good woman looked surprised to see her at that hour ; but Janet's mourning weeds and the painful agitation of her face quickly brought the second thought, that some urgent trouble had sent her there. " Mr. Trvan's just come in," she said. " If you'll step into the parlor, 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 was disturbing Mr. Tryan when he required rest ; but now her need was too great for that : she could feel noth- ing but a sense of coming relief, when she 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 something is 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 burthen removed. The act of confiding in human sympa- thy, the consciousness that a fellow-being was listening to her with patient pity, prepared her soul for that stronger leap by which faith grasps the idea of the Divine sympathy. When Mr. Tryan spoke words of consolation and encouragement, she could now believe the message of mercy ; the water-floods JANET'S REPENTANCE. 323 that had threatened to overwhelm her rolled back again, and life once more spread its heaven-covered space before her. She had been unable to pray alone ; but now his prayer bore her own soul along with it, as the broad tongue of flame car- ries upwards in its vigorous leap the little flickering fire that could hardly keep alight by itself. But Mr. Try an was anxious that Janet should not linger out at this late hour. When he saw that she was calmed, he said, " I will walk home with you now ; we can talk on the way." But Janet's mind was now sufficiently at liberty for her to notice the signs of feverish weariness in his appearance, and she would not hear of causing him any further fatigue. " No, no," she said, earnestly, " you will pain me very much indeed you Avill, by going out again to-night on my account. There is no real reason why I should not go alone." And when he persisted, fearing that for her to 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 me do, if you went from us ? Why will you not think more of that, and take care of yourself ?" He had often had that appeal made to him before, but to- night from Janet's lips it seemed to have a new force for him, and he gave way. At first, indeed, he only did so on condition that she would let Mrs. Wagstaff go with her ; but Janet had determined to walk home alone. She preferred solitude ; she wished not to have her present feelings distract- ed by any conversation. So she went out into the dewy starlight ; and as Mr. Try- an turned away from her, he felt a stronger wish than ever that his fragile life might last out for him to see Janet's res- toration thoroughly established to see her no longer fleeing, struggling, clinging up the steep sides of a precipice whence she might be any moment hurled back into the depths of de- spair, but walking firmly on the level ground of habit. He inwardly resolved that nothing but a peremptory duty should ever take him from Milby that he would not cease to watch over her until life forsook him. Janet walked on quickly till she turned into the fields ; then she slackened her pace a little, enjoying the sense of soli- tude which a few hours before had been intolerable to her. The Divine Presence did not now seem far off, where she had not wings to reach it ; prayer itself seemed superfluous in those moments of calm trust. The temptation which had so lately made her shudder before the possibilities of the fu- ture, was now a source of confidence ; for had she not been delivered from it ? Had not rescue come in the extremity of 324 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. danger? Yes; Infinite Love was caring for her. She felt like a little child whose hand is firmly grasped by its father, as its frail limbs make their way over the rough ground ; if it should stumble, the father will not let it go. That walk in the dewy starlight remained forever in Janet's memory as one of those baptismal epochs, when the soul, dipped in the sacred waters of joy and peace, rises from them with new energies, with more unalterable longings. When she reached home she found Mrs. Pettifer there, anx- ious for her return. After thanking her for coming, Janet only said, " I have been to Mr. Tryan's ; I wanted to speak to him ;" and then remembering how she had left the bureau and papers, she went into the back-room, where, apparently, no one had been since she quitted it ; for there lay the frag- ments of glass, and the room was still full of the hateful odor. How feeble and miserable the temptation seemed to her at this moment ! She rang for Kitty to come and pick up the fragments and rub the floor, while she herself replaced the papers and locked up the bureau. The next morning, when seated at breakfast with Mrs. Pet- tifer, Janet said, " What a dreary, unhealthy-looking place that is where Mr. Tryan lives ! 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 little plan in my mind. I think it a charming one all the more, because you are concerned in it." " Why, what can that be ?" " You know that house on the Redhill road they call Holly Mount ; it is shut up now. That is Robert's house ; at least, it is mine now, and it stands on one of the healthiest spots about here. Now, I've been settling in my own mind, that if a dear good woman of my acquaintance, who knows how to make a home as comfortable and cosy as a bird's nest, were to take up her abode there, and have Mr. Tryan as a lodger, she Avould be doing one of the most useful deeds in all her useful life." " You've such a way of wrapping up things in pretty words. You must speak plainer." " In plain words, then, I should like to settle you at Holly Mount. You would not have to pay any more rent than wlu'i e you are, and it would be twenty times pleasanter for you than living up that passage where you see nothing but a brick wall. And then, as it is not far from Paddiford, I think Mr. Tryan might be persuaded to lodge with you, instead of in that musty house, among dead cabbages and smoky cottages. I JANET'S REPENTANCE. 325 know you would like 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 world for me. But there'll be furniture wanted. My little bit of furniture won't fill that house." " Oh, I can put some in out of this house ; it is too full ; and we can buy the rest. They tell me I'm to have more money than I shall know what to do with." "I'm almost afraid," said Mrs. Pettifer, doubtfully, "Mr. Tryan will hardly be persuaded. He's been talked to so much about leaving that place ; and he always said he must stay there he must be among the people, and there was no other place for him in Paddiford. It cuts me to the heart to see him getting thinner and thinner, and I've noticed him quite short o' breath sometimes. Mrs. Linnet will have it, Mrs. WagstafF half poisons him with bad cooking. I don't know about that, but he can't have 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 she comes home, will set to work di- rectly and get the house in order, and then we'll get you snug- ly settled in it. I shall see Mr. Pittman to-day, and I will tell him what I mean to do. I shall say I wish to have you for a tenant. Every body knows I'm very fond of that naughty person, Mrs. Pettifer ; so it will seem the most natural thing in the world. And then I shall by-and-by point out to Mr. Tryan that he will be doing you a service as well as himself by taking up his abode, with you. I think I can prevail upon him ; for last night, when he was quite bent on coming out into the night air, I persuaded him to give it up." " Well, I only hope you may, my dear. I don't desire any thing better than to do something towards prolonging Mr. Tryan's life, for I've sad fears about him." " Don't speak of them I can't bear to think of them. We will only think about getting the house ready. We shall be as busy as bees. How we shall want mother's clever fingers ! I know the room up stairs that will just do for Mr. Tryan's study. There shall be no seats in it except a very easy chair and a very easy sofa, so that he shall be obliged to rest him- self when he comes home." 326 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. CHAPTER XXVL THAT was the last terrible crisis of temptation Janet had to pass through. The good-will of her neighbors, the helpful sympathy of the friends who shared her religious feelings, the occupations suggested to her by Mr. Tryan, concurred with her strong spontaneous impulses towards works of love and mercy, to fill up her days with quiet social intercourse_and charitable exertion. BestcTeT, her constitution, naturally healthy and strong, was every week tending, with the gathering force of habit, to recover its equipoise, and set her free from those physical solicitations which the smallest habitual vice always leaves behind it. The prisoner feels where the iron has galled him, long after his fetters have been loosed. There were always neighborly visits to be paid and re- ceived; and as the months wore on, increasing familiarity with Janet's present self began to efface, even from minds as rigid as Mrs. Phipps's, the unpleasant impressions that had been left by recent years. Janet was recovering the popu- larity which her beauty and sweetness of nature had won for her when she was a girl ; and popularity, as every one knows, is the most complex and self-multiplying of echoes. Even anti-Tryanite prejudice could not resist the fact that Janet Dempster was a changed woman changed as the dusty, bruised, and sun-withered plant is changed when the soft rains of heaven have fallen on it and that this change was due to Mr. Tryan's influence. The last lingering sneers against the Evangelical curate began to die out ; and though much of the feeling that had prompted them remained behind, there was an intimidating consciousness that the expression of such feel- ing would not be effective jokes of that sort had ceased to tickle the Milby mind. Even Mr. Budd and Mr. Tomlinson, when they saw Mr. Tryan passing pale and worn along the street, had a secret sense that this man was somehow not that very natural and comprehensible thing, a humbug that, in fact, it was impossible to explain him from the stomach-and- pocket point of view. Twist and stretch their theory as they might, it would not fit Mr. Tryan ; and so, with that remarkable resemblance as to mental processes which may frequently be observed to exist between plain men and philosophers, they concluded that the less they said about him the better. Among all Janet's neighborly pleasures, there was noth- JANET'S REPENTANCE. 327 ing she liked better than to take an early tea at the White House, and to stroll with Mr. Jerome round the old-fashioned garden and orchard. There was endless matter for talk be- tween her and the good old man, for Janet had that genuine delight in human fellowship which gives an interest to all personal details that come warm from truthful lips ; and, be- sides, they had a common interest in good-natured plans for helping their poorer neighbors. One great object of Mr. Je- rome's charities was, as he often said, " to keep industrious men an' women off the parish. I'd rether given ten shillin' an' help a man to stand on his own legs, nor pay half-a-crown to buy him a parish crutch ; it's the ruination on him if he once goes to the parish. I've see'd many a timo, if you help a man wi' a present in a neeborly way, it sweetens his blood he thinks it kind on you ; but the parish shillins turn it sour he niver thinks 'em enough. In illustration of this opinion Mr. Jerome had a large store of details about such persons as Jim Hardy, the coal-carrier, " as lost his hoss,' r and Sally Butts, " as hed to sell her mangle, though she was as decent a woman as need to be ;" to the hearing of which details Janet seriously inclined; and you would hardly de- sire to see a prettier picture than the kind-faced, white-haired old man telling these fragments of his simple experience as he walked, with shoulders slightly bent, among the moss-roses and espalier apple-trees, while Janet in her widow's cap, her dark eyes bright with interest, went listening by his side, and little Lizzie, with her nankin bonnet hanging down her back, toddled on before them. Mrs. Jerome usually declined these lingering strolls, and often observed, " I niver see the like to Mr. Jerome when he's got Mrs. Dempster to talk to ; it sinni- fies nothin' to him whether we've tea at four or at five o'clock ; he'd go on till six, if you'd let him alone he's like off his head." However, Mrs. Jerome herself could not deny that Janet was a very pretty-spoken woman : " She aly's says she niver gets sich pikelets as mine nowhere ; I know that very well other folks buy 'em at shops thick unwholesome things, you might as well eat a sponge." The sight of little Lizzie often stirred in Janet's mind a sense of the childlessness which had made a fatal blank in her life. She had fleeting thoughts that perhaps among her husband's distant relatives there might be some children whom she could help to bring up, some little girl whom she might adopt ; and she promised herself one day or other to hunt out a second cousin of his a married woman of whom he had lost sight for many years. But at present her hands and heart were too full for he* 328 SCENES OP CLERICAL, L.IFE. to carry out that scheme. To her great disappointment, her project of settling Mrs. Pettifer at Holly Mount had been delayed by the discovery that some repairs were necessary in order to make the house habitable, and it was not till September had set in that she had the satisfaction of seeing her old friend comfortably installed, and the rooms destined for Mr. Tryan looking pretty and cosy to her heart's content. She had taken several of his chief friends into her confidence, and they were warmly wishing success to her plan for induc- ing him to quit poor Mrs. Wagstaff's dingy house and dubious cookery. That he should consent to some such change was becoming more and more a matter of anxiety to his hearers ; for though no more decided symptoms were yet observable in him than increasing emaciation, a dry hacking cough, and an occasional shortness of breath, it was felt that the fulfill- ment of Mr. Pratt's prediction could not long be deferred, and that this obstinate persistence in labor and self-disregard must soon be peremptorily cut short by a total failure of strength. Any hopes that the influence of Mr. Tryan's father and sister would prevail on him to change his mode of life that they would perhaps come 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 more persuasive from hers were now quite dissipated. His father had lately had an attack of paralysis, and could not spare his only daughter's tendance. On Mr. Tryan's return from a visit to his father, Miss Linnet was very anxious to know whether his sister had not urged him to try a change of air. From his answers she gathered that Miss Tryan wished him to give up his curacy and travel, or at least go to the south Devon- shire coast. " And why will you not do so ?" Miss Linnet said ; " you might come back to us well and strong, and have many years of usefulness before you." " No," he answered quietly, " I think people attach more importance to such measures than is warranted. I don't see any good end that is to be served by going to die at Nice, in- stead of dying amongst one's friends and one's work. I can not leave Milby at least I will not leave it voluntarily." But though he remained immovable on this point, he had been compelled to give up his afternoon service on the Sun- day, and to accept Mr. Parry's offer of aid in the evening serv- ice, as well as to curtail his weekday labors ; and he had even written to Mr. Prendergast to request that he would ap- point another curate to the Paddiford district, on the under- standing that the new curate should receive the salary, but JANET'S REPENTANCE. 329 that Mr. Tryan should co-operate with him as long as he was able. The hopefulness which is an almost constant attend- ant on consumption, had not the effect of deceiving him as to the nature of his malady, or of making him look forward to ultimate recovery. He believed himself to be consump- tive, and he had not yet felt any desire to escape the early death which he had for some time contemplated as proba- ble. Even diseased hopes will take their direction from the strong habitual bias of the mind, and to Mr. Tryan death had for years seemed nothing else than the laying down of a burthen, under which he sometimes felt himself fainting. He was only sanguine about his powers of work : he flattered himself that what he was unable to do one week he should be equal to the next, and he would not admit that in desist- ing from any part of his labor he was renouncing it perma- nently. He had lately delighted Mr. Jerome by accepting his long-proffered loan of the " little chacenut hoss ;" and he found so much benefit from substituting constant riding ex- ercise for walking, that he began to think he should soon bo able to resume some of the work he had dropped. That was a happy afternoon for Janet, when, after exert- ing herself busily for a week with her mother and Mrs. Petti- fer, she saw Holly Mount looking orderly and comfortable from attic to cellar. It was an old red-brick house, with two gables in front, and two clipped holly-trees flanking the gar- den-gate ; a simple, homely-looking place, that quiet people might easily get fond of; and now it was scoured and polish- ed and carpeted and furnished so as to look really snug with- in. When there was nothing more to be done, Janet delight- ed herself with contemplating Mr. Tryan's study, first sitting down in the easy-chair, and then lying for a moment on the sofa, that she might have a keener sense of the repose he would get from those well-stuffed articles of furniture, which she had gone to Rotherby on purpose to choose. " Now, mother," she said, when she had finished her survey, " you have done your work as well as any fairy-mother or god-mother that ever turned a pumpkin 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 Rebec- ca the good news, that I've got the exciseman to -promise that he will take Mrs. WagstafPs lodgings when Mr. Tryan leaves. They'll be so pleased to hear it, because they thought he would make her poverty an objection to his leaving her." " But, my dear child," said Mrs. Raynor, whose face, al- ways calm, was now a happy one, " have a cup of tea with us first. You'll perhaps miss Mrs. Linnet's tea-time." 330 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. " No, I feel too excited to take tea yet. I'm like a child with a new baby-house. Walking in the air will do me good." So she set out. Holly.. Mount was about a mile from that outskirt of Pacldiford Common where Mrs. Linnet's house stood nestled among its laburnums, lilacs, and syringas. Janet's way thither lay for a little while 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 front lay smoky Paddiford, and away to the left the mother-town of Milby. There was no line of silvery willows marking the course of a stream no group of Scotch firs with their trunks reddening in the level sunbeams nothing to break the flow^ erless monotony of grass and hedgerow but an occasional oak or elm, and a few cows sprinkled here and there. A very commonplace scene, indeed. But what scene was ever com- monplace in the descending sunlight, when color has awaken* ed from its noonday sleep, and the long shadows awe us like a disclosed presence ? Above all, what scene is commonplace to the eye that is filled with serene gladness, and brightens all things with its own joy ? And Janet just now was very happy. As she walked along the rough lane with a buoyant step, a half smile of inno- cent, kindly triumph played about her mouth. She was de- lighting beforehand in the anticipated success of her persua- sive power, and for the time her painful anxiety about Mr. Tryan's health w r as thrown into abeyance. But she had not gone far along the lane before she heard the sound of a horse advancing at a walking pace behind her. Without looking back, she turned aside to make way for it 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 a minute she heard a well-known voice say, " Mrs. Demp- ster ;" and, turning, saw Mr. Tryan close to her, holding his horse by the bridle. It seemed very natural to her that he should be there. Her mind was so full of his presence at that moment, that the actual sight of him was only like a more vivid thought, and she behaved, as we ai*e apt to do when feeling obliges us to be genuine, with a total forgetful- ness of polite forms. She only looked at him with a slight deepening of the smile that was already on her face. He said gently, " Take my arm ;" and they walked on a little way in silence. It was he who broke it. " You are going to Paddiford, I suppose ?" The question recalled Janet to the consciousness that this JANET'S REPENTANCE. 331 was an unexpected opportunity for beginning her work of persuasion, and that she was stupidly neglecting it. " Yes," she said, " I was going to Mrs. Linnet's. I knew Miss Linnet would like to hear that our friend Mrs. Pettifer is quite settled now in her new house. She is as fond of Mrs. Pettifer as I am almost ; I won't admit that any one loves her quite as well, for no one else has such good reason as I have. But now the dear woman wants a lodger, for you know she can't afford to live in so large a house by herself. But I knew when I persuaded her to go there that she would be sure to get one she's such a comfortable creature to live with ; and I didn't like her to spend all the rest of her days up that dull passage, being at every one's beck and call who wanted to make use of her." " Yes," said Mr. Tryan, " I quite understand your feeling ; I don't wonder at your strong regard for her." " Well, but now I want her other friends to second me. There she is, with three rooms to let, ready furnished, every thing in order ; and I know some one, who thinks as well of her as I do, and who would be doing good all round to every one that knows him, as well as to Mrs. Pettifer, if he would go to live with her. He would leave some uncomfort- able lodgings, which another person is already coveting and would take immediately ; and he would go to breathe pure air at Holly Mount, and gladden Mrs. Pettifer's heart by let- ting 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 for his sake. He could not be sorry ; he could not say no ; he could not resist the sense that life had a new sweetness for him, and that he should like it to be prolonged a little, only a little, for the sake of feeling a stronger security about Janet. When she had finished speaking, she looked at him with a doubtful, inquiring glance. He was not look- ing at her ; his eyes were cast downward ; but the expression of his face encouraged her, and she said, in a half-playful tone of entreaty, " You will go and live with her ? I know you will. You will come back with me now and see the house." He looked at her then, and smiled. There is an unspeak- able blending of sadness and sweetness in the smile of a face sharpened and paled by slow consumption. That smile of Mr. Tryan's pierced poor Janet's heart : she felt in it at once the assurance of grateful affection and the prophecy of coming death. Her tears rose ; they turned round without speaking, and went back again along the lane. 332 SCENES OF CLEKICAL LIFE. CHAPTER XXVII. IN less than a week Mr. Tryan was settled at Holly Mount, and there was not one of his many attached hearers who did not sincerely rejoice at the event. The autumn that year was bright and warm, and at the beginning of October, Mr. Walsh, the new curate, came. The mild weather, the relaxation from excessive work, and per- haps another benignant influence, had for a few weeks a visi- bly favorable effect on Mr. Tryan. At least he began to feel new hopes, which sometimes took the guise of new strength. He thought of the cases in which consumptive patients re- main nearly stationary for years, without suffering so as to make their life burthensome to themselves or to others ; and he began to struggle with a longing that it might be so with him. He struggled with it, because he felt it to be an indi- cation that earthly affection was beginning to have too strong a hold on him, and he prayed earnestly for more perfect sub- mission, and fora more absorbing delight in the Divine Pres- ence as the chief good. He was conscious that he did not wish for prolonged life solely that he might reclaim the wan- derers and sustain the feeble : he was conscious of a new yearning for those pure human joys which he had voluntari- ly and determinedly banished from his lite for a draught of that deep affection from which he had been cut off by a dark chasm of remorse. For now, that affection was within his reach ; he saw it there, like a palm-shadowed well in the des- ert ; he could not desire to die in sight 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 his flock, and to look in at his schools ; but his growing satisfaction in Mr. Walsh as his successor saved him from too eager exertion and from worrying anxi- eties. Janet was with him a great deal now, for she saw that he liked her to read to him in the lengthening evenings, and it became the rule for her and her mother to have tea at Hol- ly Mount, where, with Mrs. Pettifer, and sometimes another friend or two, they brought Mr. Tryan the unaccustomed en- joyment of companionship by his own fireside. Janet did not share his new hopes, for she was not only in the habit of hearing Mr. Pratt's opinion that Mr. Tryan could hardly stand out through the winter, but she also knew that JANET'S REPENTANCE. 333 it was shared by Dr. Madely, of Rotberby, whom, at her re quest, he had consented to call in. It was not necessary or desirable to tell Mr. Tryan what was revealed by the stetho- scope, but Janet knew the -worst. 8he felt no rebellion under this prospect of bereavement, but rather a quiet submissive sorrow. Gratitude that his influence and guidance had been given her, even if only for a little while gratitude that she was permitted to be with him, to take a deeper and deeper impress from daily communion with him, to be something to him in these last months of his life, was so strong in her that it almost silenced regret. Janet had lived through the great tragedy of wom- an's life. Her keenest personal emotions had been poured forth in her early love her wounded affection with its years of anguish her agony of unavailing pity over that deathbed seven months ago. The thought of Mr. Tryan was associated for her with repose from that conflict of emotion, with trust in the unchangeable, with the influx of a power to subdue self. To have been assured of his sympathy, his teaching, his help, all through her life, would have been to her like a heaven already begun a deliverance from fear and danger; but the time was not yet come for her to be conscious that the hold he had on her heart was any other than that of the heav- en-sent friend who had come to her like the angel in the pris- on, and loosed her bonds, and led her by the hand till she could look back on the dreadful doors that had once closed her in. Before November was over, Mr. Tryan had ceased to go out. A new crisis had come on : the cough had changed its t-haracter, and the worst symptoms developed themselves so rapidly that Mr. Pratt began to think the end would arrive sooner than he had expected. Janet became a constant at- tendant on him now, and no one could feel that she was per- forming any thing but a sacred office. She made Holly Mount her home, and, with her mother and Mrs. Pettifer to help her, she filled the painful days and nights with every soothing in- fluence that care and tenderness could devise. There were many visitors to the sick-room, led thither by venerating af- fection ; and there could hardly be one who did not retain in after years a vivid remembrance of the scene there of the pale wasted form in the easy-chair (for he sat up to the last), of the gray eyes so full even yet of inquiring kindness, as the thin, almost transparent hand was held out to give the press- ure of welcome ; arid of the sweet woman, too, whose dark watchful eyes detected every want, and who supplied the want with a ready hand. 334 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. There were others who would have had the heart and the skill to fill this place by Mr. Tryan's side, and who would have accepted it as an honor; but they could not help feeling that God had given it to Janet by a train of events which were too impressive not to shame all jealousies into silence. That sad history which most of us know too well, lasted more chan three months. He was too feeble and suffering for the last few weeks to see any visitors, but he still sat up through the day. The strange hallucinations of the disease which had seemed to take a more decided hold on him just at the fatal crisis, and had made him think he was perhaps getting better at the very time when death had begun to hurry on with more rapid movement, had now given way and left him calmly conscious of the reality. One afternoon, near the end of February, Janet was moving gently about the room, in the fire-lit dusk, arranging some things that would be wanted in the night. There was no one else in the room, and his eyes followed her as she moved with the firm grace natural to her, while the bright fire every now and then lit up her face, and gave an unusual glow to its dark beauty. Even to follow her in this way with his eyes was an exertion that gave a painful tension to his face, while afie looked like an image of life and strength. " Janet," he said presently, in his faint voice he always called her Janet now. In a moment she was close to him, bending over him. He opened his 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 am gone." A sudden pang of fear shot through her. She thought he felt himself dying, and she sank on her knees at his feet, hold- ing his hand, while she looked up at him, almost breathless. " But you will not feel the need of me as you have done. . . . You have a sure trust in God. ... I shall not look for you in vain at the last." " No ... no. ... I shall be there. . . . God will not for- sake me." She could hardly utter the words, though she was not weeping. She was waiting with trembling eagerness for any thing 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-breathicg lips met the wasted dying ones in a sacred kiss of promise. JANET'S REPENTANCE. 335 CHAPTER XXVm. IT soon came the blessed day of deliverance, the sad day of bereavement ; and in the second week of March they car- ried him to the grave. He was buried as he had desired: there was no hearse, no mourning-coach ; his coffin was borne by twelve of his humbler hearers, who relieved each other by turns. But he was followed by a long procession of mourn- ing friends, women as well as men. Slowly, amid deep silence, the dark stream passed along Orchard Street, where eighteen months before the Evangeli- cal curate had been saluted with hooting and hisses. Mr. Jerome and Mr. Landor were the eldest pall-bearers ; and be^ hind the coffin, led by Mr. Tryan's cousin, walked Janet, in quiet submissive sorrow. She could not feel that he was quite gone from her ; the unseen world lay so very near her it held all that had 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 in large masses when they entered the churchyard, and Mr. Walsh's voice was heard saying, " I am the Resurrection and the Life." The faces were not hard at this funeral ; the burial-service was not a hollow form. Every heart there was filled with the memory of a man who, through a self-sacrificing life and in a painful death, had been sustained by the faith which fills that form with breath and substance. When Janet left the grave, she did not return to Holly Mount ; she went to her home in Orchard Street, where her mother was waiting to receive her. She said quite calmly, " Let us walk round the garden, mother." And they walked round in silence, with their hands clasped together, looking at the golden crocuses bright in the spring sunshine. Janet felt a deep stillness within. She thirsted for no pleasure; she craved no worldly good. She saw the years to come stretch before her like an autumn afternoon, filled with re- signed memory. Life to her could never more have any ea- gerness; it was a solemn service of gratitude and patient ef- fort. She walked in the presence of unseen witnesses of the Divine love that had rescued her, of the human love that wait- 336 SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFE. ed for its eternal repose until it had seen her endure to the end. Janet is living still. Her black hair is gray, and her step is no longer buoyant ; but the sweetness of her smile remains, the love is not gone from her eyes ; and strangers sometimes ask, Who is that noble-looking elderly woman, that walks about holding a little boy by the hand ? The little boy is the son of Janet's adopted daughter, and Janet in her old age has children about her knees, and loving young arms round her neck. There is a simple gravestone in Milby churchyard, telling that in this spot lie the remains of Edgar Tryan, for two years officiating curate at the 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 un- faithfully, the office of guide and instructor to his fellow-men. But there is another memorial of Edgar Tryan, which bears a fuller record : it is Janet Dempster, rescued from self-de- spair, strengthened with divine hopes, and now looking back on years of purity and helpful labor. The man who has left such a memorial behind him, must have been one whose heart beat with true compassion, and whose lips were moved by fervent faith. THE END OF "SCENES OF CLEBICAL LIFE.*' SILAS MARKER THE WEAVER OF RAVELOE. BY GEORGE ELIOT. " A child, more than all other gifts That earth can offer to declining man, Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts." WORDSWORTH. HARPER'S LIBRARY EDITION. NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE. SILAS MARNER: THE WEAVER OF RAVELOE. PART I. CHAPTER I. IN thtr days when the spinning-wheels hummed busily in the farmhouses and even great ladies, clothed in silk and thread-lace, had their toy spinning-wheels of polished oak there might be seen in districts far away among the lanes, or deep in the bosom of the hills, certain pallid undersized men, who, by the side of the brawny country-folk, looked like the remnants of a disinherited race. The shepherd's dog barked fiercely when one of these alien-looking men appeared on the upland, dark against the early winter sunset ; for what dog likes a figure bent under a heavy bag ? and these pale men rarely stirred abroad without that mysterious burden. The ohepherd himself, though he had good reason to believe that the bag held nothing but flaxen thread, or else the long rolls of strong linen spun from that thread, was not quite sure that this trade of weaving, indispensable though it was, could be carried on entirely without the help of the Evil One. In that far-oif time superstition clung easily round every person or thing that was at all unwonted, or even intermittent and occasional merely, like the visits of the peddler or the knife- grinder. No one knew where wandering men had their homes or their origin ; and how was a man to be explained unless you at least knew somebody who knew his father and mother? To the peasants of old times, the world outside their own direct experience was a region of vagueness and mystery : to their untravelled thought a state of wandering was a conception as dim as the winter life of the swallows that came back with the spring ; and even a settler, if he came from distant parts, hardly ever ceased to be viewed 340 SILAS MAENER. with a remnant of distrust, which would have prevented any surprise if a long course of inoffensive conduct on his part had ended in the commission of a crime; especially if he had any reputation for knowledge, or showed any skill in handi- craft. All cleverness, whether in the rapid use of that diffi- cult instrument the tongue, or in some other art unfamiliar to villagers, was in itself suspicious : honest folks, born and bred in a visible manner, were mostly not over-wise or clever at least not beyond such a matter as knowing the signs of the weather; and the process by which rapidity and dexteri- ty of any kind were acquired was so wholly hidden, that they partook of the nature of conjuring. In this way it came to pass that those scattered linen-weavers emigrants from the town into the country were to the last regarded as aliens by their rustic neighbors, and usually contracted the eccentric habits which belong to a state of loneliness. In the early years of this century, such a linen-weaver, named Silas Marner, worked at his vocation in a stone cot- tage that stood among the nutty hedgerows near the village of Raveloe, and not far from the edge of a deserted stone- pit. The questionable sound of Silas's loom, so unlike the natural cheerful trotting of the winnowing machine, or the simpler rhythm of the flail, had a half-fearful fascination for the Raveloe boys, who would often leave off their nutting or birds'-nesting to peep in at the window of the stone cot- tage, counterbalancing a certain awe at the mysterious ac- tion of the loom, by a pleasant sense of scornful superiority, drawn from the mockery of its alternating noises, along with the bent, tread-mill attitude of the weaver. But sometimes it happened that Marner, pausing to adjust an irregularity in his thread, became aware of the small scoundrels, and, though chary of his time, he liked their intrusion so ill that he would descend from his loom, and, opening the door, would fix on them a gaze that was always enough to make them take to their legs in terror. For how was it possible to believe that those large brown protuberant eyes in Silas Marner's pale face really saw nothing very distinctly that was not close to them and not rather that their dreadful stare could dart cramp, or rickets, or a wry mouth at any boy who happened to be in the rear? They had, perhaps, heard their fathers and moth- ers hint that Silas Manier could cure folks' rheumatism if he had a mind, and add, still more darkly, that if you could only speak the devil fair enough, he might save you the cost of the doctor. Such strange lingering echoes of the old demon- worship might perhaps even now be caught by the diligent listener among the gray-haired peasantry ; for the rude mind SILAS MARXER. 341 with difficulty associates the ideas of power and benignity. A shadowy conception of power that by much persuasion can be induced to refrain from inflicting harm, is the shape most easily taken by the sense of the Invisible in the minds of men who have always been pressed close by primitive wants, and to whom a life of hard toil has never been illumi- nated by any enthusiastic religious faith. To them pain and mishap present a far wider range of possibilities than gladness and enjoyment : their imagination is almost barren of the images that feed desire and hope, but is all overgrown by recollections that are a perpetual pasture to fear. "Is there any thing you can fancy that you would like to eat ?" I once said to an old laboring man, who was in his last ill- ness, and who had refused all the food his wife had offered him. " No," he answered, " I've never been used to nothing but common victual, and I can't eat that." Experience had bred no fancies in him that could raise the phantasm of appe- tite. And Raveloe was a village where many of the old echoes lingered, undrowned by new voices. Not that it was one of those barren parishes lying on the outskirts of civilization inhabited by meagre sheep and thinly-scattered shepherds; on the contrary, it lay in the rich central plain of what we are pleased to call Merry England, and held farms which, speaking from a spiritual point of view, paid highly-desira- ble tithes. But it was nestled in a snug well-wooded hol- low, quite an hour's journey on horseback from any turn- pike, where it was never reached by the vibrations of the r> 342 SILAS MARNER. coach-horn, or of public opinion. It was an important-look- ing village, with a fine old church and large churchyard in the heart of it, and two or three large brick-and-stone home- steads, with well-walled orchards and ornamental weather- cocks, standing close upon the road, and lifting more impos- ing fronts than the rectory, which peeped from among the trees on the other side of the churchyard ; a village which showed at once the summits of its social life, and told the practised eye that there was no great park and manor-house in the vicinity, but that there were several chiefs in Raveloe who could farm badly quite at their ease, drawing enough money from their bad farming, in those war times, to live in a rollicking fashion, and keep a jolly Christmas, Whitstin, and Easter tide. It was fifteen yeara since Silas Marner had first come to Raveloe; he was then simply a pallid young man, with prom- inent, short-sighted brown eyes, whose appearance would have had nothing strange for people of average culture and experience, but for the villagers near whom he had come to settle it had mysterious peculiarities which corresponded with the exceptional nature of his occupation, and his advent from an unknown region called " North'ard." So had his way of life : he invited no comer to step across his door-sill, and he never strolled into the village to drink a pint at the Rainbow, or to gossip at the wheelwright's : he sought no man or wom- an, save for the purposes of his calling, or in order to supply himself with necessaries ; and it was soon clear to the Rave- loe lasses that he would never urge one of them to accept him against her will quite as if he had heard them declare that they would never marry a dead man come to life again. This view of Marner's personality was not without another ground than his pale face and unexampled eyes; for Jem Rodney, the mole-catcher, averred that, one evening as he was returning homeward, he saw Silas Marner leaning against a stile with a heavy bag on his back, instead of resting the bag on the stile as a man in his senses would have done ; and that, on coming up to him, he saw that Maraer's eyes were set like a dead man's, and he spoke to him, and shook him, and his limbs were stiff, and his hands clutched the bag as if they'd been made of iron; but just as he had made up his mind that the weaver was dead, he came all right again, like, as you might say, in the winking of an eye, and said " Good-night," and walked off. All this Jem swore he had seen, more by token that it was the very day he had been mole-catching on Squire Cass's land, down by the old saw- pit. Some said Marner must have been in a " fit," a word SILAS MAKNER. 343 which seemed to explain things otherwise incredible; but the argumentative Mr. Macey, clerk of the parish, shook his head, and asked if any body was ever known to go off in a fit and not fall down. A fit was a stroke, wasn't it ? and it was in the nature of a stroke to partly take away the use of a man's limbs and throw him on the parish, if he'd got no children to look to. No, no ; it was no stroke that would let a man stand on his legs, like a horse between the shafts, and then walk off as soon as you can say " Gee !" But there might be such a thing as a man's soul being loose from his body, and going out and in, like a bird out of its nest and back; and that was how folks got over-wise, for they went to school in this shell-less state to those who could teach them more than their neighbors could learn with their five senses and the parson. And where did Master Marner get his knowledge of herbs from and charms too, if he liked to give them away? Jem Rodney's story was no more than what might have been expected by any body who had seej how Marner had cured Sally Gates, and made her sleep lik*. a baby, when her heart had been beating enough to burst her body, for two months and more, while she had been un- der the doctor's care. He might cure more folks if he would ; but he was worth speaking fair, if it was only to keep him from doing you a mischief. It was partly to this vague fear that Marner was indebted for protecting him from the persecution that his singularities might have drawn upon him, but still more to the fact that, the old linen-weaver in the neighboring parish of Tarley be- ing dead, his handicraft made him a highly welcome settler to the richer housewives of the district, and even to the more provident cottagers, who had their little stock of yarn at the year's end ; and their sense of his usefulness would have counteracted any repugnance or suspicion which was not confirmed by a deficiency in the quality or the tale of the cloth he wove for them. And the years had rolled on with- out producing any change in the impressions of the neigh- bors concerning Marner, except the change from novelty to habit. At the end of fifteen years the Raveloe men said just the same things about Silas Marner as at the beginning : they did not say them quite so often, but they believed them much more strongly when they did say them. There was only one important addition which the years had brought : it was, that Master Marner had laid by a fine sight of money some- where, and that he could buy up " bigger men " than him- self. But while opinion concerning him had remained nearly 344 SILAS MARKER. stationary, and Ins daily habits had presented scarcely any visible change, Marner's inward life had been a history and a metamorphosis, as that of every fervid nature must be when it has fled, or been condemned to solitude. His life, before he came to Raveloe, had been filled with the movement, the mental activity, and the close fellowship which, in that day as in this, marked the life of an artisan early incorporated in\ a narrow religious sect, where the poorest layman has the chance of distinguishing himself by gifts of speech, and has, at the very least, the weight of a silent voter in the govern- ment of his community. Marner was highly thought of in that little hidden world, known to itself as the church assem- bling in Lantern Yard ; he was believed to be a young man of exemplary life and ardent faith ; and a peculiar interest had been centred in him ever since he had fallen, at a prayer- meeting, into a mysterious rigidity and suspension of con- sciousness, which, lasting for an hour or more, had been mis- taken for death. To have sought a medical explanation for this phenomenon would have been held by Silas himself, as well as by his minister and fellow-members, a willful self- exclusion from the spiritual significance that might lie there- in. Silas was evidently a brother selected for a peculiar dis- cipline, and though the effort to interpret this discipline was discouraged by the absence, on his part, of any spiritual vis- ion during his outward trance, yet it was believed by himself and others that its effect was seen in an accession of light and fervor. A less truthful man than him might have been tempted into the subsequent creation of a vision in the form of resurgent memory ; a less sane man might have believed in such a creation ; but Silas was both sane and honest, though, as with many honest and fervent men, culture had not defined any channels for his sense of mystery, and so it spread itself over the proper pathway of inquiry and knowledge. He had in- herited from his mother some acquaintance with medicinal herbs and their preparation a little store of wisdom which she had imparted to him as a solemn bequest but of late years he had had doubts about the lawfulness of applying this knowledge, believing that herbs could have no efficacy without prayer, and that prayer might suffice without herbs ; BO that the inherited delight he had in wandering in the fields in search of foxglove and dandelion and coltsfoot, be- gan to wear to him the character of a temptation. Among the members of his church there was one young man, a little older than himself, with whom he had long lived in such close friendship that it was the custom of their Lan- tern Yard brethren to call them David and Jonathan. The SILAS MAKNEE. 34O real name of the friend was William Dane, and he, too, was regarded as a shining instance of youthful piety, though somewhat given to over-severity towards weaker brethren, and to be so dazzled by his own light as to hold himself wiser than his teachers. But whatever blemishes others might discern in William, to his friend's mind he was fault- less; for Marner had one of those impressible self-doubting natures which, at an inexperienced age, admire imperative- ness and lean on contradiction. The expression of trusting simplicity in Marner's face, heightened by that absence of special observation, that defenseless, deer-like gaze which be- longs to large prominent eyes, was strongly contrasted by the self-complacent suppression of inward triumph that lurked in the narrow slanting eyes and compressed lips of William Dane. One of the most frequent topics of conversation be- tween the two fi iends was Assurance of salvation : Silas con- fessed that he could never arrive at any thing higher than hope mingled with fear, and listened with longing wonder when William declared that he had possessed unshaken as- surance ever since, in the period of his conversion, he had dreamed that he saw the words " calling and election sure " standing by themselves on a white page in the open Bible. Such colloquies have occupied many a pair of pale-faced weav- ers, whose unnurtured souls have been like young winged things, fluttering forsaken in the twilight. It had seemed to the unsuspecting Silas that the friendship, had suffered no chill even from his formation of another at- tachment of a closer kind. For some months he had been en- gaged to a young servant-woman, waiting only for a little increase to their mutual savings in order to their marriage ; and it was a great delight to him that Sarah did not object to William's occasional presence in their Sunday interviews. It was at this point in their history that Silas's cataleptic fit occurred during the prayer-meeting ; and amidst the various queries and expressions of interest addressed to him by his fellow-members, William's suggestion alone jarred with the general sympathy towards a brother thus singled out for spe- cial dealings. He observed that, to him, this trance looked more like a visitation of Satan than a proof of divine favor, and exhorted his friend to see that he hid no accursed thing within his soul. Silas, feeling bound to accept rebuke and ad- monition as a brotherly office, felt no resentment, but only pain, at his friend's doubts concerning him ; and to this was soon added some anxiety at the perception that Sarah's man- ner towards him began to exhibit a strange fluctuation be- tween an effort at an increased manifestation of regard and 15* 346 SILAS MARNEK. involuntary signs of shrinking and dislike. He asked her if she wished to break off their engagement ; but she denied this : their engagement was known to the church, and had been recognized in the prayer-meetings ; it could not be bro- ken off without strict investigation, and Sarah could render no reason that would be sanctioned by the feeling of the com- munity. At this time the senior deacon was taken danger- ously ill, and, being a childless widower, he was tended night and day by some of the younger brethren or sisters. Silas frequently took his turn in the night-watching with William, the one relieving the other at two in the morning. The old man, contrary to expectation, seemed to be on the way to re- covery, when one night Silas, sitting up by his bedside, ob- served that his usual audible breathing had ceased. The can- dle was burning low, and he had to lift it to see the patient's face distinctly. Examination convinced him that the deacon was dead had been dead some time, for the limbs were rigid. Silas asked himself if he had been asleep, and looked at the clock : it was already four in the morning. How was it that William had not come ? In much anxiety he went to seek for help, and soon there were several friends assembled in the house, the minister among them, while Silas went away to his work, wishing he could have met William to know the reason of his non-appearance. But at six o'clock, as he was thinking of going to seek his friend, William came, and with him the minister. They came to summon him to Lantern Yard, to meet the church members there ; and to his inquiry concern- ing the cause of the summons the only reply was, " You will hear." Nothing further was said until Silas was seated in the vestry, in front of the minister, with the eyes of those who to him represented God's people fixed solemnly upon him. Then the minister, taking out a pocket-knife, showed it to Si- las, and asked him if he knew where he had left that knife ? Silas said, he did not know that he had left it anywhere out of his own pocket but he was trembling at this strange in- terrogation. He was then exhorted not to hide his sin, but to confess and repent. The knife had been found in the bu- reau by the departed deacon's bedside found in the place where the little bag of church money had lain, which the minister himself had seen the day before. Some hand had re- moved that bag ; and whose hand could it be, if not that of the man to whom the knife belonged ? For some time Silas was mute with astonishment : then he said, " God will clear me : I know nothing about the knife being there, or the mon- ey being gone. Search me and my dwelling; you will find nothing but three pound five of my own savings, which Wil- SILAS MARKER. 347 liam Dane knows I have had these six months." At this Wil- liam groaned, but the minister said, "The proof is heavy against you, brother Marner. The money was taken in the night last past, and no man was with our departed brother but you, for William Dane declares to us that he was hinder- ed by sudden sickness from going to take his place as usual, and you yourself said that he had not come ; and, moreover, you neglected the dead body." ' I must have slept," said Silas. Then, after a pause, he added, " Or I must have had another visitation like that which you have all seen me under, so that the thief must have come and gone while I was not in the body, but out of the body. But, I say again, search me and my dwelling, for I have been nowhere else." The search was made, and it ended in William Dane's finding the well-known bag, empty, tucked behind the chest of drawers in Silas's chamber ! On this William exhorted his friend to confess, and not to hide his sin any longer. Silas turned a look of keen reproach on him, and said, " William, for nine years that we have gone in and out together, have you ever known me tell a lie? But God will clear me." " Brother," said William, " how do I know what you may have done in the secret chambers of your heart, to give Satan an advantage over you ?" Silas was still looking at his friend. Suddenly a deep flush came over his face, and he was about to speak impetuously, when he seemed checked again by some inward shock, that sent the flush back and made him tremble. But at last he spoke feebly, looking at William. " I remember now the knife wasn't in my pocket." William said, " I know nothing of what you mean." The other persons present, however, began to inquire where Silas meant to say that the knife was, but he would give no further explanation: he only said, "I am sore stricken; I can say nothing. God will clear me." On their return to the vestry there was further delibera- tion. Any resort to legal measures for ascertaining the culprit was contrary to the principles of the Church : prosecution was held by them to be forbidden to Christians, even if it had been a case in which there was no scandal to the community. But they were bound to take other measures for finding out the truth, and they resolved on praying and drawing lots. This resolution can be a ground of surprise only to those who are unacquainted with that obscure religious life which has gone on in the alleys of our towns. Silas knelt with his brethren, relying on his own innocence being certified by immediate di 348 SILAS MABNEK. vine interference, but feeling that there was sorrow and mourn* ing behind for him even then that his trust in man had been cruelly bruised. The lots declared that Silas Marner was guilty-. He was solemnly suspended from church-member- ship, and called upon to render up the stolen money : only on confession, as the sign of repentance, could he be received once more within the fold of the church. Marner listened in silence. At last, when every one rose to depart, he went towards Wil- liam Dane and said, in a voice shaken by agitation " The last time I remember using my knife, was when I took it out to cut a strap for you. I don't remember putting it in my pocket again. You stole the money, and you have woven a plot to lay the sin at my door. But you may prosper, for all that: there is no just God that governs the earth right- eously, but a God of lies, that bears witness against the inno- cent." There was a general shudder at this blasphemy. William saidmeekly,"! leave our brethren to judge whether this is the voice of Satan or not. I can do nothing but pray for you, Silas." Poor Marner went out with that despair in his soul that f.haken trust in God and man, which is little short of madness to a loving nature. In the bitterness of his wounded spirit, lie said to himself, "She will cast me oif too." And he reflected that, if she did not believe the testimony against him, her whole faith must be upset as his was. To people accustomed to reason about the forms in which their religious feeling has incorporated itself, it is difficult to enter into that simple, un- taught state of mind in which the form and the feeling have never been severed by an act of reflection. We are apt to think it inevitable that a man in Marner's position should have begun to question the validity of an appeal to the divine judg- ment by drawing lots ; but to him this would have been an effort of independent thought such as he had never known ; and he must have made the effort at a moment when all his energies were turned into the anguish of disappointed faith. If there is an angel who records the sorrows of men as well as their sins, he knows how many and deep are the sorrows that spring from false ideas for which no man is culpable. Marner went home, and for a whole day sat alone, stunned by despair, without any impulse to go to Sarah and attempt to win her belief in his innocence. The second day he took refuge from benumbing unbelief, by getting into his loom and working away as usual ; and before many hours were past, the minister and one of the deacons came to him with the message from Sarah, that she held her engagement to him at an end. SILAS MARKER. 349 Silas received the message mutely, and then turned away from the messengers to work at his loom again. In little more than a month from that time, Sarah was married to William Dane ; and not long afterwards it was known to the brethren in Lan- tern Yard that Silas Marner had departed from the town. CHAPTER H EVEN people whose lives have been made various by learning, sometimes find it hard to keep a fast hold on their habitual views of life, on their faith in the Invisible nay, on the sense that their past joys and sorrows are a real experience, when they are suddenly transported to a new land, where the beings around them know nothing of their history, and share none of their ideas where their mother earth shows another lap, and human life has other forms than those on which their souls have been nourished. Minds that have been unhinged from their old faith and love, have per- haps sought this Lethean influence of exile, in which the past becomes dreamy because its symbols have all vanished, and the present too is dreamy because it is linked with no mem- ories. But even their experience may hardly enable them thoroughly to imagine what was the effect on a simple weaver like Silas Marner, when he left his own country and people and came to settle in Raveloe. Nothing could be more unlike his native town, set within sight of the wide-spread hillsides, than this low, wooded region, where he felt hidden even from the heavens by the screening trees and hedge-rows. There was nothing here, when he rose in the deep morning quiet and looked out on the dewy brambles and rank tufted grass, that seemed to have any relation with that life centring in Lan- tern Yard, which had once been to him the altar-place of high dispensations. The white-washed walls ; the little pews where well-known figures entered with a subdued rustling, and where first one well-known voice and then another, pitch- ed in a peculiar key of petition, uttered phrases at once oc- cult and familiar, like the amulet worn on the heart ; the pul- pit where the minister delivered unquestioned doctrine, and swayed to and fro, and handled the book in a long accustom- ed manner ; the very pauses between the couplets of the hymn, as it was given out, and the recurrent swell of voices in song ; these things had been the channel of divine influ- ences to Marner they were the fostering home of his religious 350 SILAS MARKER. emotions they were Christianity and God's kingdom upon earth. A weaver who finds hard words in his hymn-book knows nothing of abstractions ; as the little child knows noth- ing of parental love, but only knows one face and one lap to- wards which it stretches its arms for refuge and nurture. And what could be more unlike that Lantern Yard world than the world in Raveloe ? orchards looking lazy with neg- lected plenty ; the large church in the wide churchyard, which men gazed at lounging at their own doors in service- time ; the purple=-faced farmers jogging along the lanes or turning in at the Rainbow ; homesteads, where men supped heavily and slept in the light of the evening hearth, and where women seemed to be laying up a stock of linen for the life to come. There were no lips in Raveloe from which a word could fall that would stir Silas Marner's benumbed faith to a sense of pain. In the early ages of the world, we know, it was believed that each territory was inhabited and ruled by its own divinities, so that a man could cross the bordering heights and be out of the reach of his native gods, whose presence was confined to the streams and the groves and the hills among which he had lived from his birth. And poor Silas was vaguely conscious of something not unlike the fueling of primitive men, when they fled thus, in fear or in sullenness, from the face of an unpropitious deity. It seemed to him that the Power in which he had vainly trusted among the streets and in the prayer-meetings, was very far away from this land in which he had taken refuge, where men lived in careless abundance, knowing and needing nothing of that trust, which, for him, had been turned to bitterness. The lit- tle light he possessed spread its beams so narrowly, that frus- trated belief was a curtain broad enough to create for him the blackness of night. His first movement after the shock had been to work in his loom ; and he went on with this unremittingly, never asking himself why, now he was come to Raveloe, he worked far on into the night to finish the tale of Mrs. Osgood's table- linen sooner than she expected without contemplating be- forehand the money she would put into his hand for the work. He seemed to weave, like the spider, from pure impulse, with- out reflection. Every man's work, pursued steadily, tends in this way to become an end in itself, and so to bridge over the loveless chasms of his life. Silas's hand satisfied it- self with throwing the shuttle, and his eye with seeing the little squares in the cloth complete themselves under his ef- fort. Then there were the calls of hunger; and Silas, in his solitude, had to provide his own breakfast, dinner, and supper, SILAS MARKER. 351 to fetch his own water from the well, and put his own kettle on the fire ; and all these immediate promptings helped, along with the weaving, to reduce his life to the unquestioning ac- tivity of a spinning insect. He hated the thought of the past ; there was nothing that called out his love and fellow- ship towards the strangers he had come amongst ; and the future was all dark, for there was no Unseen Love that cared for him. Thought was arrested by utter bewilderment, now its old narrow pathway Avas closed, and affection seemed to have died under the bruise that had fallen on its keenest nerves. But at last Mrs. Osgood's table-linen was finished, and Si- las was paid in gold. His earnings in his native town, where he worked for a wholesale dealer, had been after a lower rate ; he had been paid weekly, and of his weekly earnings a large proportion had gone to objects of piety and charity. Now, for the first time in his life, he had five bright guineas put into his hand ; no man expected a share of them, and he loved no man that he should offer him a share. But what were the guineas to him who saw no vista beyond countless days of weaving ? It was needless for him to ask that, for it was pleasant to him to feel them in his palm, and look at their bright faces, which were all his own : it was another element of life, like the weaving and the satisfaction of hunger, sub- sisting quite aloof from the life of belief and love from which he had been cut off. The weaver's hand had known the touch of hard-won money even before the palm had grown to its full breadth ; for twenty years, mysterious money had stood to him as the symbol of earthly good, and the immediate ob- ject of toil. He had seemed to love it little in the years when every penny had its purpose for him ; for he loved the purpose then. But now, when all purpose was gone, that habit of looking towards the money and grasping it with a sense of fulfilled effort made a loam that was deep enough for the seeds of desire ; and as Silas walked homeward across the fields in the twilight, he drew out the money, and thought it was brighter in the gathering gloom. About this time "an incident happened which seemed to open a possibility of some fellowship with his neighbors. One day, taking a pair of shoes to be mended, he saw the cobbler's wife seated by the fire, suffering from the terrible symptoms of heart-disease and dropsy, which he had witnessed as the precursors of his mother's death. He felt a rush of pity at the mingled sight and remembrance, and, recalling the relief his mother had found from a simple preparation of foxglove, he promised Sally Gates to bring her something that would 352 SILAS MABNKR. ease her, since the doctor did her no good. In this office of charity, Silas felt, for the first time since he had come to Rave- loe, a sense of unity between his past and present life, which might have been the beginning of his rescue from the insect- like existence into which his nature had shrunk. But Sally Oates's disease had raised her into a personage of much in- terest and importance among the neighbors, and the fact of her having found relief from drinking Silas Marner' s "stuff'* became a matter of general discourse. When Doctor Kimble gave physic, it was natural that it should have an effect ; but when a weaver, who came from nobody knew where, worked wonders with a bottle of brown waters, the occult character of the process was evident. Such a sort of thing had not been known since the Wise Woman at Tarley died ; and she had charms as well as " stuff:" every body went to her when their children had fits. Silas Marner must be a person of the same sort, for how did he know what would bring back Sally Oates's breath, if he didn't know a fine sight more than that ? The Wise Woman had words that she muttered to herself, so that you couldn't hear what they were, and if she tied a bit of red thread round the child's toe the while, it would keep off the water in the head. There were women in Raveloe, at that present time, who had worn one of the Wise Woman's little bags round their necks, and, in consequence, had never had an idiot child, as Ann Coulter had. Silas Marner could very likely do as much, and more ; and now it was all clear how he should have come from unknown parts, and be so " comical- looking." But Sally Gates must mind and not tell the doc- tor, for he would be sure to set his face against Marner ; he was always angry about the Wise Woman, and used to threat- en those who went to her that they should have none of his help any more. Silas now found himself and his cottage suddenly beset by mothers who wanted him to charm away the whooping-cougn, or bring back the milk, and by men who wanted stuff against the rheumatics or the knots in the hands ; and, to secure them- selves against a refusal, the applicants brought silver in their palms. Silas might have driven a profitable trade in charms as well as in his small list of drugs ; but money on this con- dition was no temptation to him : he had never known an im- pulse towards falsity, and he drove one after another away with growing irritation, for the news of him as a wise man had spread even to Tarley, and it was long before people ceased to take long walks for the sake of asking his aid. But the hope in his wisdom was at length changed into dread, for no one believed him when he said he knew no charms and could SILAS MARNER. 853 work no cures, and every man and woman who had an acci- dent or a new attack after applying to him, set the misfortune down to Master Marner's ill-will and irritated glances. Thus it came to pass that his movement of pity towards Sally Gates, which had given him a transient sense of brotherhood, heightened the repulsion between him and his neighbors, and made his isolation more complete. Gradually the guineas, the crowns, and the half-crowns, grew to a heap, and Marner drew less and less for his own wants, trying to solve the problem of keeping himself strong enough to Avork sixteen hours a day on as small an outlay as possible. Have not men, shut up in solitary imprisonment, found an interest in marking the moments by straight strokes of a certain length on the wall, until the growth of the sum of straight strokes, arranged in triangles, has become a mas- tering purpose ? Do we not while away moments of inanity or fatigued waiting by repeating some trivial movement or sound, until the repetition has bred a want, which is incipi- ent habit ? That will help us to understand how the love of accumulating money grows an absorbing passion in men whose imaginations, even in the very beginning of their hoard, showed them no purpose beyond it. Marner wanted the heaps of ten to grow into a square, and then into a larger square ; and every added guinea, while it was itself a satis- faction, bred a new desire. In this strange world, made a hopeless riddle to him, he might, if he had had a less intense nature, have sat weaving, weaving looking towards the end of his pattern, or towards the end of his web, till he forgot the riddle, and every thing else but his immediate sensa- tions : but the money had come to mark off his weaving into periods, and the money not only grew, but it remained with him. He began to think it was conscious of him, as his loom was, and he would on no account have exchanged those coins, which had become his familiars, for other coins with unknown faces. He handled them, he counted them, till their form and color were like the satisfaction of a thirst to him : but it was only in the night, when his work was done, that lie drew them out to enjoy their companionship. He had taken up some bricks in his floor underneath his loom, and here he had made a hole in which he set the iron pot that contained his guineas and silver coins, covering the bricks with sand whenever he replaced them. Not that the idea of being robbed presented itself often or strongly to his mind : hoarding was common in country districts in those days ; there were old laborers in the parish of Raveloe who were known to have their savings by them, probably inside their 354 SILAS MAItXEJB. flock-beds ; but their rustic neighbors, though not all of them as honest as their ancestors in the days of King Alfred, had not imaginations bold enough to lay a plan of burglary. How could they have spent the money in their own village without betraying themselves ? They would be obliged to " run away " a course as dark and dubious as a balloon journey. So, year after year, Silas Marner had lived in this solitude, his guineas rising in the iron pot, and his life narrowing and hardening itself more and more into a mere pulsation of de- sire and satisfaction that had no relation to any other being. His life had reduced itself to the mere functions of weaving and hoarding, without any contemplation of an end towards which the functions tended. The same sort of process has perhaps been undergone by wiser men, when they have been cut off from faith and love only, instead of a loom and a heap of guineas, they have had some erudite research, some ingenious project, or some well-knit theory. Strangely Mar- ner's face and figure shrank and bent themselves into a con- stant mechanical relation to the objects of his life, so that he produced the same sort of impression as a handle or a crook- ed tube, which has no meaning standing apart. The promi- nent eyes that used to look trusting and dreamy, now looked as if they had been made to see only one kind of thing that was very small, like tiny grain, for which they hunted every- where : and he was so withered and yellow, that, though he was not yet forty, the children always called him " Old Mas- ter Marner." Yet even in this stage of withering a little incident hap- pened which showed that the sap of affection was not all gone. It was one of his daily tasks to fetch his water from a well a couple of fields off, and for this purpose, ever since he came to Raveloe, he had had a brown earthenware pot, which he held as his most precious utensil, among the very few conveniences he had granted himself. It had been his companion for twelve years, always standing on the same spot, always lending its handle to him in the early morning, so that its form had an expression for him of willing helpful- ness, and the impress of its handle on his palm gave a satis- faction mingled with that of having the fresh clear water. One day as he was returning from the well, he stumbled against the step of the stile, and his brown pot, falling with force against the stones that overarched the ditch below him, was broken in three pieces. Silas picked up the pieces and carried them home with grief in his heart. The brown pot could never be of use to him any more, but he stuck the SILAS MARXEK. 355 bits together and propped the ruin in its old place for a memorial. This is the history of Silas Marner until the fifteenth year after he came to Raveloe. The livelong day he sat in his loom, his ear filled with its monotony, his eyes bent close down on the slow gi'owth of sameness in the brownish web, his muscles moving with such even repetition that their pause seemed almost as much a constraint as the holding of his breath. But at night came his revelry ; at night he closed his shutters, and made fast his doors, and drew out his gold. Long ago the heap of coins had become too large for the iron pot to hold them, and he had made for them two thick leather bags, which wasted no room in their resting-place, but lent themselves flexibly to every corner. How the guin- eas shone as they came pouring out of the dark leather mouths ! The silver bore no large proportion in amount to the gold, because the long pieces of linen which formed his chief work were always partly paid for in gold, and out of the silver he supplied his own bodily wants, choosing always the shillings and sixpences to spend in this way. He loved the guineas best, but he would not change the silver the crowns and half-crowns that were his own earnings, begotten by his labor; he loved them all. He spread them out in heaps and bathed his hands in them ; then he counted them and set them up in regular piles, and felt their rounded out- line between his thumb and fingers, and thought fondly of the guineas that were only half-earned by the work in his loom, as if they had been unborn children thought of the guineas that were coming slowly through the coming "years, through all his life, which spread tar away before .him, the end quite hidden by countless days of weaving. No won- der his thoughts were still with his loom and his money when he made his journeys through the fields and the lanes to fetch and carry home his work, so that his steps never wandered to the hedge-banks and the lane-side in search of the once familiar herbs : these too belonged to the past, from which his life had shrunk away, like a rivulet that has sunk far down from the grassy fringe of its old breadth into a lit- tle shivering thread, that cuts a groove for itself in the bar- ren sand. But about the Christmas of that fifteenth year, a second great change came over Marner's life, and his history became blent in a singular manner with the life of his neighbors. 356 SILAS MABNEB. CHAPTER El. THE greatest man in Raveloe was Squire Cass, who lived in the large red house with the handsome flight of stone steps in front and the high stables behind it, nearly opposite the church. He was only one among several landed parish- ioners, but he alone was honored with the title of Squire : for though Mr. Osgood's family was also understood to be of timeless origin the Raveloe imagination having never ven- tured back to that fearful blank when there were no Osgoods still, he merely owned the farm he occupied; whereas Squire Cass had a tenant or two, who complained of the game to him quite as if he had been a lord. It was still that glorious war-time which was felt to be a peculiar favor of Providence towards the landed interest, and the fall of prices had not yet come to carry the race of small squires and yeomen down that road to ruin for which extravagant habits and bad husbandry were plentifully anointing their wheels. I am speaking now in relation to Raveloe and the parishes that resembled it; for our old- fashioned country life had many different aspects, as all life mviot have when it is spread over a various surface, and breathed on variously by multitudinous currents, from the winds of heaven to the thoughts of men, which are forever moving and crossing each other with incalculable results. Raveloe lay low among the bushy trees and the rutted lanes, aloof from the currents of industrial energy and Puritan earnestness ; the rich ate and drank freely, and accepted gout and apoplexy as things that ran mysteriously in re- spectable families, and the poor thought that the rich were entirely in the right of it to lead a jolly life ; besides, their feasting caused a multiplication of orts, which were the heir- looms of the poor. Betty Jay scented the boiling of Squire Cass's hams, but her longing was arrested by the unctuous liquor in which they were boiled ; and when the seasons brought round the great merry-makings, they were regarded on all hands as a fine thing for the poor. For the Raveloe feasts were like the rounds of beef and the barrels of ale they were on a large scale, and lasted a good while, especial- ly in the winter-time. After ladies had packed up their best gowns and top-knots in bandboxes, and had incurred the risk of fording streams on pillions with the precious burden in rainy or snowy weather, when there was no knowing how SILAS MARXER. 357 Ligh the water would rise, it was not to be supposed that they looked fonvard to a brief pleasure. On this ground it was always contrived in the dark seasons, when there was little work to be done, and the hours were long, that several neighbors should keep open house in succession. So soon as Squire Cass's standing dishes diminished in plenty and fresh- ness, his guests had nothing to do but to walk a little higher up the village to Mr. Osgood's, at the Orchards, and they found hams and chines uncut, pork-pies with the scent of the fire in them, spun butter in all its freshness every thing, in fact, that appetites at leisure could desire, in perhaps greater per- fection, though not in greater abundance, than at Squire Cass's. For the Squire's wife had died long ago, and the Red House was without that presence of the wife and mother which is the fountain of wholesome love and fear in parlor and kitchen ; and this helped to account not only for there being more pro- fusion than finished excellence in the holiday provisions, but also for the frequency with which the proud Squire condescend- ed to preside in the parlor of the Rainbow rather than under the shadow of his own dark wainscot ; perhaps, also, for the fact that his sons had turned out rather ill. Raveloe was not a place where moral censure was severe, but it was thought a weakness in the Squire that he had kept all his sons at home in idleness ; and though some license was to be allowed to young men whose fathers could afford it, people shook their heads at the courses of the second son, Dunstan, commonly called Dunsey Cass, whose taste for swopping and betting might turn out to be a sowing of something worse than wild oats. To be sure, the neighbors said, it was no matter what became of Dunsey a spiteful jeering fellow, who seemed to enjoy his drink the more when other people went dry always provided that his doings did not bring trouble on a family like Squire Cass's, with a monument in the church and tank- ards older than King George. But it would be a thousand pities if Mr. Godfrey, the eldest, a fine, open-faced, good-na- tured young man, who was to come into the land some day, should take to going along the same road as his brother, as he had seemed to do" of late. If he went on in that way, he would lose Miss Nancy Lammeter ; for it was well-known that she had looked very shyly on him ever since last Whitsuntide twelvemonth, when there was so much talk about his being away from home days and days together. There was some- thing wrong, more than common that was quite clear ; for Mr. Godfrey didn't look half so fresh-colored and open as he used to do. At one time every body was saying, What a hand- 358 SILAS MAKNEK. some couple he and Miss Nancy Lamraeter would make ! and if she could come to be mistress at the Red House, there would be a fine change, for the Lammeters had been brought up in that way, that they never suffered a pinch of salt to be wasted, and yet every body in their household had of the best, ac- cording to his place. Such a daughter-in-law would be a sav- ing to the old Squire, if she never brought a penny to her for- tune, for it was to be feared that, notwithstanding his incom- ings, there were more holes in his pocket than the one where he put his own hand in. But if Mr. Godfrey didn't turn over a new leaf, he might say " Good-bye " to Miss Nancy Lam- meter. It was the once hopeful Godfrey who was standing, with his hands in his side-pockets and his back to the fire, in the dark wainscoted parlor, one late November afternoon, in that fif- teenth year of Silas Marner's life at Raveloe. The fading gray light fell dimly on the walls decorated with guns, whips, and foxes' brushes, on coats and hats flung on the chairs, on tank- ards sending forth a scent of flat ale, and on a half-choked fire, with pipes propped up in the chimney-corners : signs of a do- mestic life destitute of any hallowing charm, with which the look of gloomy vexation on Godfrey's blond face was in sad accordance. He seemed to be waiting and listening for some one's approach, and presently the sound of a heavy step, with an accompanying whistle, was heard across the large empty entrance-hall. The door opened, and a thick-set, heavy-looking young man entered, with the flushed face and the gratuitously elated bear- ing which mark the first stage of intoxication. It was Dun- sey, and at the sight of him Godfrey's face parted with some of its gloom to take on the more active expression of hatred. The handsome brown spaniel that lay on the hearth retreated under the chair in the chimney-corner. " Well, Master Godfrey, what do you want with me ?" said Dunsey, in a mocking tone. "You're my elders and bet- ters, you know ; I was obliged to come when you sent for me." " Why, this is what I want and just shake yourself sober and listen, will you ?" said Godfrey, savagely. He had himself been drinking more than was good for him, trying to turn his gloom into uncalculating anger. " I want to tell you, I must hand over that rent of Fowlers to the Squire, or else tell him I gave it you ; for he's threatening to distrain for it, and it'll all be out soon, whether I tell him or not. He said just now, before he went out, he should send word to Cox to distrain, if Fowler didn't come and pay up his arrears this week. Tho SILAS MARKER. 359 Squire's short o' cash, and in no humor to stand any nonsense ; and you know what he threatened, if ever he found you mak- ing away with his money again. So, see and get the money, and pretty quickly, will you ?" "Oh!" said Dunsey, sneeringly, coming nearer to his brother, and looking in his face. " Suppose, now, you get the money yourself, and save me the trouble, eh ? Since you was so kind as to hand it over to me, you'll not refuse me the kindness to pay it back for me : it was your brotherly love made you do it, you know." Godfrey bit his lips and clenched his fist. " Don't come near me with that look, else I'll knock you down." " Oh, no, you won't," said Dunsey, turning away on his heel, however. " Because I'm such a good-natured brother, you know. I might get you turned out of house and home, and cut off with a shilling any day. I might tell the Squire how his handsome son was married to that nice young wom- an, Molly Farran, and was very unhappy because he couldn't live with his drunken wife, and I should slip into your place as comfortable as could be. But you see, I don't do it I'm so easy and good-natured. You'll take any trouble for me. You'll get the hundred pounds for me I know you will." " How can I get the money ?" said Godfrey, quivering. " I haven't a shilling to bless myself with. And it's a lie that you'd slip into my place : you'd get yourself turned out too, that's all. For if you begin telling tales I'll follow. Bob's my father's favorite you know that very well. He'd only think himself well rid of you." " Never mind," said Dunsey, nodding his head sideways is he looked out of the window. " It' ud be very pleasant to me to go in your company you're such a handsome brother, and we've always been so fond of quarrelling with one anoth- er I shouldn't know what to do without you. But you'd like better for us both to stay at home together; I know you would. So you'll manage to get that little sum o' money, and I'll bid you good-bye, though I'm sorry to part." Dunstan was moving off, but Godfrey rushed after him and seized him by the arm, saying, with an oath, " I tell you I have no money : I can get no money." " Borrow of old Kimble." " I tell you, he won't lend me any more, and I sha'n't ask him." " Well then, sell Wildfire." " Yes, that's easy talking. I must have the money direct" ly." " Well, you've only got to ride him to the hunt to-morrow. 360 SILAS MAKNEB. There'll be Bryce and Keating there, for sure. You'll get more bids than one." " I dare say, and get back home at eight o'clock, splashed up to the chin. I'm going to Mrs. Osgood's birthday dance." " Oho !" said Dunsey, turning his head on one side, and trying to speak in a small mincing treble. " And there's sweet Miss Nancy coming ; and we shall dance with her and promise never to be naughty again, and be taken into favor, and " " Hold your tongue about Miss Nancy, you fool," said God- frey, turning very red, " else I'll throttle you." " What for ?" said Dunsey, still in an artificial tone, but taking a whip from the table and beating the butt-end of it on his palm. " You've a very good chance. I'd advise you to creep up her sleeve again : it 'ud be saving time, if Molly should happen to take a drop too much laudanum some day, and make a widower of you. Miss Nancy wouldn't mind being a second, if she didn't know it. And you've got a good-natured brother, who'll keep your secret well, because you'll be so very obliging to him." " I'll tell you what it is," said Godfrey, quivering, and pale again. " My patience is pretty near at an end. If yon d a little more sharpness in you, you might know that you may urge a man a bit too far, and make one leap as easy as an- other. I don't know but what it is so now : I may as well tell the Squire every thing myself I should get you off my back, if I got nothing else. And, after all, he'll know some time. She's been threatening to come herself and tell him. So, don't flatter yourself that your secrecy's worth any price you choose to ask. You drain me of money till I have got nothing to pacify her with, and she'll do as she threatens some day. It's all one. I'll tell my father every thing myself, and you may go to the devil." Dunsey perceived that he had overshot his mark, and that there was a point at which even the hesitating Godfrey might be driven into decision. But he said with an air of unconcern, " As you please ; but I'll have a draught of ale first." And ringing the bell, he threw himself across two chairs, and be- gan to rap the window-seat with the handle of his whip. Godfrey stood still with his back to the fire, uneasily moving his fingers among the contents of his side-pockets, and looking at the floor. That big muscular frame of his held plenty of animal courage, but helped him to no decision when the dangers to be braved were such as could neither be knocked down nor throttled. His natural irresolution and moral cowardice were exaggerated by a position in which SILAS MABNEK. 301 dreaded consequences seemed to press equally on all sides, and his irritation had no sooner provoked him to defy Dun- stan and anticipate all possible betrayals, than the miseries he must bring on himself by such a step seemed more unen- durable to him than the present evil. The results of confes- sion were not contingent, they were certain; whereas be- trayal was not certain. From the near vision of that cer- tainty he fell back on suspense and vacillation with a sense of repose. The disinherited son of a small squire, equally disinclined to dig and to beg, was almost as helpless as an uprooted tree, which, by the favor of earth and sky, has grown to a handsome bulk on the spot where it first shot upward. Perhaps it would have been possible to think of digging with some cheerfulness if Nancy Lammeter were to be won on those terms ; but since he must irrevocably lose her as well as the inheritance, and must break every tie but the one that degraded him and left him without motive for trying to recover his better self, he could imagine no future for himself on the other side of confession but that of" 'listing for a soldier " the most desperate step short of suicide, in the eyes of respectable families. No ! he would rather trust to casualties than to his own resolve rather go on sitting at the feast and sipping the wine he loved, though with the sword hanging over him and terror in his heart, than rush away into the cold darkness where there was no pleasure left. The utmost concession to Dunstan about the horse began to seem easy, compared with the fulfillment of his own threat. But his pride would not let him recommence the conversa- tion otherwise than by continuing the quarrel. Dunstan was waiting for this, and took his ale in shorter draughts than usual. " It's just like you," Godfrey burst out in a bitter tone, " to talk about my selling Wildfire in that cool way the last thing I've got to call my own, and the best bit of horse-flesh I ever had in my life. And if you'd got a spark of pride in you, you'd be ashamed to see the stables emptied, and every body sneering about it. But it's my belief you'd sell your- self, if it was only for the pleasure of making somebody feel he'd got a bad bargain." " Ay, ay," said Dunstan, very placably, " you do me justice, I see. You know I'm a jewel for 'ticing people into bargains. For which reason I advise you to let me sell Wildfire. I'd ride him to the hunt to-morrow for you with pleasure. I shouldn't look so handsome as you in the saddle, but it's the horse they'll bid for, and not the rider." " Yes, I dare say trust my horse to you !" 362 SILAS MARKER. " As you please," said Dunstan, rapping the window-seat again with an air of great unconcern. " It's you have got to pay Fowler's money ; it's none of my business. You received the money from him when you went to Bramcote, and you told the Squire it wasn't paid. I'd nothing to do with that ; you chose to be so obliging as give it me, that was all. If you don't want to pay the money, let it alone ; it's all one to me. But I was willing to accommodate you by undertaking to sell the horse, seeing it's not convenient to you to go so far to-morrow." Godfrey was silent for some moments. He would have liked to spring on Dunstan, wrench the whip from his hand, and flog him to within an inch of his life ; and no bodily fear could have deterred him ; but he was mastered by another sort of fear, which was fed by feelings stronger even than his resentment. When he spoke again, it was in a half-concilia' tory tone. " Well, you mean no nonsense about the horse, eh ? You'll sell him all fair, and hand over the money ? If you don't, you know, every thing 'ull go to smash, for I've got nothing else to trust to. And you'll have less pleasure in pulling the house over my head, when your own skull's to be broken too." " Ay, ay," said Dunstan, rising, " all right. I thought you'd come round. I'm the fellow to bring old Bryce up to the scratch. I'll get you a hundred and twenty for him, if I get you a penny." " But it'll perhaps rain cats and dogs to-morrow, as it did yesterday, and then you can't go," said Godfrey, hardly know- ing whether he wished for that obstacle or not. " Not Y," said Dunstan. " I'm always lucky in my weath- er. It might rain if you wanted to go yourself. You never hold trumps, you know I always do. You've got the beau- ty, you see, and I've got the luck, so you must keep me by you for your crooked sixpence ; you'll ne-ver get along with- out me." " Confound you, hold your tongue !" said Godfrey, impetu- ously. " And take care to keep sober to-morrow, else you'll get pitched on your head coming home, and Wildfire might be the worse for it." " Make your tender heart easy," said Dunstan, opening the door. " You never knew me see double when I'd got a bar- fain to make ; it 'ud spoil the fun. Besides, whenever I fall, 'm warranted to fall on my legs." With that, Dunstan slammed the door behind him, and left Godfrey to that bitter rumination on his personal circum- SILAS MARNER. 363 stances which was now unbroken from day to day save by the excitement of sporting, drinking, card-playing, or the rarer and less oblivious pleasure of seeing Miss Nancy Lam- meter. The subtle and varied pains springing from the high- er sensibility that accompanies higher culture are perhaps less pitiable than that dreary absence of impersonal enjoyment and consolation which leaves ruder minds to the perpetual urgent companionship of their own griefs and discontents. The lives of those rural forefathers, whom we are apt to think very prosaic figures men whose only work was to ride round their land, getting heavier and heavier in their saddles, and who passed the rest of their days in the half-listless gratifica- tion of senses dulled by monotony had a certain pathos in them nevertheless. Calamities came to them too, and their early errors carried hard consequences : perhaps the love of some sweet maiden, the image of purity, order, and calm, had opened their eyes to the vision of a life in which the days would not seem too long, even without rioting ; but the maid- en was lost, and the vision passed away, and then what was left to them, especially when they had become too heavy for the hunt, or for carrying a gun over the furrows, but to drink and get merry, or to drink and get angry, so that they might be independent of variety, and say over again with eager em- phasis the things they had said already any time that twelve- month ? Assuredly, among these flushed and dull-eyed men there were some whom thanks to their native human kind- ness even riot could never drive into brutality ; men who, when their cheeks were fresh, had felt the keen point of sor- i'ow or remorse, had been pierced by the reeds they leaned on, or had lightly put their limbs in fetters from which no struggle could loose them; and under these sad circum- stances, common to us all, their thoughts could find no rest' ing-place outside the ever-trodden round of their own petty history. That, at least, was the condition of Godfrey Cass in this six-and-twentieth year of his life. A movement of compunc- tion, helped by those small indefinable influences which every personal relation exerts on a pliant nature, had urged him into a secret marriage, which was a blight on his life. It was an ugly story of low passion, delusion, and waking from, delusion, which needs not to be dragged from the privacy of Godfrey's bitter memory. He had long known that the delusion was partly due to a trap laid for him by Dunstan, who saw in his brother's degrading marriage the means of gratifying at once his jealous hate and his cupidity. And if Godfrey could have felt himself simply a victim, the iron 364 SILAS MARNER. bit that destiny had put into his mouth would have chafed him, less intolerably. If the curses he muttered half aloud when he was alone had had no other object than Dunstan's diabolical cunning, he might have shrunk less from the con- sequences of avowal. But he had something else to curse his own vicious folly, which now seemed as mad and unac- countable to him as almost all our follies and vices do when their promptings have long passed away. For four years he had thought of Nancy Lammeter, and wooed her with tacit, patient worship, as the woman who made him think of the future with joy : she would be his wife, and would make home lovely to him, as his father's home had never been ; and it would be easy, when she was always near, to shake off those foolish habits that were no pleasures, but only a fe- verish way of annulling vacancy. Godfrey's was an essen- tially domestic nature, bred up in a home where the hearth had no smiles, and where the daily habits were not chastised by the presence of household order; his easy disposition made him fall in unresistingly with the family courses, but the need of some tender, permanent affection, the longing for gome influence that would make the good he preferred easy to pursue, caused the neatness, purity, and liberal orderli- ness of the Lammeter household, sunned by the smile of Nancy, to seem like those fresh bright hours of the morning, when temptations go to sleep, and leave the ear open to the voice of the good angel, inviting to industry, sobriety, and peace. And yet the hope of this paradise had not been enough to save him from a course which shut him out of it /'orever. Instead of keeping fast hold of the strong silken i ope by which Nancy would have drawn him safe to the green banks, where it was easy to step firmly, he had let himself be dragged back into mud and slime, in which it was useless to struggle. He had made ties for himself which robbed him of all wholesome motive, and were a constant exasperation. Still, there was one position worse than the present ; it was the position he would be in when the ugly secret was disclosed; and the desire that continually triumphed over every other was that of warding off the evil day, when he would have to bear the consequences of his father's violent resentment for the wound inflicted on his family pride would have, perhaps, to turn his back on that hereditary ease and dignity which, after all, was a sort of reason for living, and would carry with him the certainty that he was banished forever from the sight and esteem of Nancy Lam- meter. The longer the interval, the more chance there was of deliverance from some, at least, of the hateful consequen* SILAS MARNER. 365 ces to which he had sold himself the more opportunities remained for him to snatch the strange gratification of see- ing Nancy, and gathering some faint indications of her lin- gering regard. Towards this gratification he was impelled fitfully, every now and then, after having passed weeks in which he had avoided her as the far-off bright-winged prize, that only made him spring forward, and find his chain all the more galling. One of those fits of yearning was on him now, and it would have been strong enough to have per- suaded him to trust Wildfire to Dunstan rather than disap- point the yearning, even if he had not had another reason for his disinclination towards the morrow's hunt. That oth- er reason was the fact that the morning's meet was near Batherley, the market-town where the unhappy woman lived, whose image became more odious to him every day ; and to his thought the whole vicinage was haunted by her. The yoke a man creates for himself by wrong-doing will breed hate in the kindliest nature ; and the good-humored, affec- tionate-hearted Godfrey Cass was fast becoming a bittev man, visited by cruel wishes, that seemed to enter, and de- part, and enter again, like demons who had found in him a ready-garnished home. What was he to do this evening to pass the time? He might as well go to the 'Rainbow, and hear the talk about the cock-fighting : every body was there, and what else was there to be done ? Though, for his own part, he did not care a button for cock-fighting. Snuff, the brown spaniel, who had placed herself in front of him, and had been watching him for some time, now jumped up in impatience for the ex- pected caress. But. Godfrey thrust her away without look- ing at her, and left the room, followed humbly by the un re- senting Snuff perhaps because she saw no other career open to her. CHAPTER IV. DTJNSTAN CASS, setting off in the raw morning, at the judi- ciously quiet pace of a man who is obliged to ride to cover on his hunter, had to take his way along the lane which, at its farther extremity, passed by the piece of unenclosed ground called the Stonepit, where stood the cottage, once a stone-cutter's shed, now for fifteen years inhabited by Silas Marner. The spot looked very dreary at this season, with the moist trodden clay about it, and the red muddy wate* 366 SILAS MARNER. high up in the deserted quarry. That was Dunstan's first thought as he approached it ; the second was, that the old fool of'a weaver, whose loom he heard rattling already, had a great deal of money hidden somewhere. How was it that he, Dunstan Cass, who had often heard talk of Marner's mi- serliness, had never thought of suggesting to Godfrey that he should frighten or persuade the old fellow into lending the money on the excellent security of the young Squire's prospects ? The resource occurred to him now as so easy and agreeable, especially as Marner's hoard was likely to be large enough to leave Godfrey a handsome surplus beyond his immediate needs, and enable him to accommodate his faith- ful brother, that he had almost turned the horse's head towards home again. Godfrey would be ready enough to accept the suggestion : he would snatch eagerly at a plan that might save him from parting with Wildfire. But when Dunstan's meditation reached this point, the inclination to go on grew strong and prevailed. He didn't want to give Godfrey that pleasure : he preferred that Master Godfrey should be vexed. Moreover, Dunstan enjoyed the self-important consciousness ol having a horse to sell, and the opportunity of driving a bargain, swaggering, and, possibly, taking somebody in. He might have all the satisfaction attendant on selling his broth- er's horse, and not the less have the further satisfaction of setting Godfrey to borrow Marner's money. So he rode on to cover. Bryce and Keating were there, as Dunstan was quite sure they would be he was such a lucky fellow. "Hey-day," said Bryce, who had long had his eye on Wildfire, " you're on your brother's horse to-day ; how's that ?" " Oh, I've swapped with him," said Dunstan, whose de- light in lying, grandly independent of utility, was not to be diminished by the likelihood that his hearer would not be- lieve him " Wildfire's mine now." " What ! has he swopped with you for that big-boned hack of yours ?" said Bryce, quite aware that he should get another lie in answer. " Oh, there was a little account between us," said Dunstan, carelessly, " and Wildfire made it even. I accommodated him by taking the horse, though it was against my will, for I'd got an itch for a mare o' JTortin's as rare a bit o' blood as ever you threw your leg across. But I shall keep Wild- fire, now I've got him, though I'd a bid of a hundred and fifty for him the other day from :i man over at Flitton he's buy- ing for Lord Cromleck a fellow with a cast in his eye, and a SILAS MARNER. 867 green waistcoat. But I mean to stick to Wildfire : 1 sha'n't get a better at a fence in a hurry. The mare's got more blood, but she's a bit too weak in the hind quarters." Bryce of course divined that Dunstan wanted to sell the horse, and Duustan knew that he divined it (horse-dealing is only one of many human transactions carried on in this ingen- ious manner) ; and they both considered that the bargain was in its first stage, when Bryce replied ironically " I wonder at that now ; I wonder you mean to keep him ; for I never heard of a man who didn't want to sell his horse getting a bid of half as much again as the horse was worth. You'll be lucky if you get a hundred." Keating rode up now, and the transaction became more complicated. It ended in the purchase of the horse by Bryce for a hundred and twenty, to be paid on the delivery of Wild- fire, safe and sound, at the Batherley stables. It did occur to Dunsey that it might be wise for him to give up the day's hunting, proceed at once to Batherley, and, having waited for Bryce's return, hire a horse to carry him home with the mon- ey in his pocket. But the inclination for a run, encouraged by confidence in his luck, and by a draught of brandy from his pocket-pistol at the conclusion of the bargain, was not easy to overcome, especially with a horse under him that would take the fences to the admiration of the field. Dun- stan, however, took one fence too many, and " staked " his horse. His own ill-favored person, which was quite unmarket- able, escaped without injury, but poor Wildfire, unconscious of his price, turned on his flank, and painfully panted his last. It happened that Dunstan, a short time before, having had to get down to arrange his stirrup, had muttered a good many curses at this interruption, which had thrown him in the rear of the hunt near the moment of glory, and under this exaspe- ration had taken the fences more blindly. He would soon have been up with the hounds again, when the fatal accident happened ; and hence he was between eager riders in advance, not troubling themselves about what happened behind them, and far-off stragglers, who were as likely as not to pass quite aloof from the line of road in which Wildfire had fallen. Dunstan, whose nature it was to care more for immediate an- noyances than for remote consequences, no sooner recovered his legs, and saw that it was all over with Wildfire, than he felt a satisfaction at the absence of witnesses to a position which no swaggering could make enviable. Reinforcing him- self, after his shake, with a little brandy and much swearing, he walked as fast as he could to a coppice on his right hand, through which it occurred to him that he could make his way 368 SILAS MARNER. to Batherley without danger of encountering any member of the hunt. His first intention was to hire a horse there and I'ide home forthwith, for to walk many miles without a gun in his hand, and along an ordinary road, was as much out of the question to him as to other spirited young men of his kind. He did not much mind about taking the bad news to Godfrey, for he had to offer him at the same time the resource of Marner's money; and if Godfrey kicked, as he always did, at the notion of making a fresh debt, from which he himself got the smallest share of advantage, why, he wouldn't kick long : Dunstan felt sure he could worry Godfrey into any thing. The idea of Marner's money kept growing in vivid- ness, now the want of it had become immediate ; the prospect of having to make his appearance with the muddy boots of a pedestrian at Batherley, and encounter the grinning queries of stablemen, stood unpleasantly in the way of his impatience to be back at Raveloe and carry out his felicitous plan ; and a casual visitation of his waistcoat-pocket, as he was ruminat- ing, awakened his memory to the fact that the two or three small coins his fore-finger encountered there were of too pale a color to cover that small debt, without payment of which Jennings had declared he would never do any more business with Dunsey Cass. After all, according to the direction in which the run had brought him, he was not so very much farther from home than he was from Batherley ; but Dunsey, not being remarkable for clearness of head, was only led to this conclusion by the gradual perception that there were other reasons for choosing the unprecedented course of walk- ing home. It was now nearly four o'clock, and a mist was gathering : the sooner he got into the road the better. He remembered having crossed the road and seen the finger-post only a little while before Wildfire broke down ; so, buttoning his coat, twisting the lash of his hunting-whip compactly round the handle, and rapping the tops of his boots with a self-possessed air, as if to assure himself that he was not at all taken by surprise, he set off with the sense that he was undertaking a remarkable feat of bodily exertion, which some- how, and at some time, he should be able to dress up and magnify to the admiration of a select circle at the Rainbow. When a young gentleman like Dunsey is reduced to so ex- ceptional a mode of locomotion as walking, a whip in his hand is a desirable corrective to a too bewildering dreamy sense of xmwontedness in his position ; and Dunstan, as he went along through the gathering mist, was always rapping his whip somewhere. It was Godfrey's whip, which he had chosen to take without leave because it had a gold handle ; SILAS MAKNEB. 369 of course no one could see, when Dunstan held it, that the name Godfrey Cass was cut in deep letters on that gold han- dle they could only see that it was a very handsome whip. Dunsey Avas not without fear that he might meet some ac- quaintance in whose eyes he would cut a pitiable figure, for mist is no screen where people get close to each other ; but when he at last found himself in the well-known Raveloe lanes without having met a soul, he silently remarked that that was part of his usual good-luck. But now the mist, helped by the evening darkness, was more of a screen than he desired, for it hid the ruts into which his feet were liable to slip hid every thing, so that he had to guide his steps by drag- ging his whip along the low bushes in advance of the hedge- row. He must soon, he thought, be getting near the opening at the Stone-pits : he should find it out by the break in the hedgerow. He found it out, however, by another circum- stance which he had not expected namely, by certain gleams of light, which he presently guessed to proceed from Silas Marner's cottage. That cottage and the money hidden with- in it had been in his mind continually during his walk, and he had been imagining ways of cajoling and tempting the weaver to part with the immediate possession of his money for the sake of receiving interest. Dunstan felt as if there must be a little frightening added to the cajolery, for his own arithmetical convictions were not clear enough to afford him any forcible demonstration as to the advantages of interest ; and as for security, he regarded it vaguely as a means of cheating a man, by making him believe that he would be paid. Altogether, the operation on the miser's mind was a task that Godfrey would be sure to hand over to his more daring and cunning brother : Dunstan had made up his mind to that ; and by the time he saw the light gleaming through the chinks of Marner's shutters, the idea of a dialogue with the weaver had become so familiar to him, that it occurred to him as quite a natural thing to make the acquaintance forthwith. There might be several conveniences attending this course ; the weaver had possibly got a lantern, and Dunstan was tired of feeling his way. He was still nearly three-quarters of a mile from home, and the lane was becoming unpleasantly slippery, for the mist was passing into rain. He turned up the bank, not without some fear lest he might miss the right way, since he was not certain whether the light were in front or on the side of the cottage. But he felt the ground before him cautiously with his whip-handle, and at last arrived safe- ly at the door. He knocked loudly, rather enjoying the idea that the old fellow would be frightened at the sudden noise. 16* 70 SILAS MAKNER. lie heard no movement in reply : all was silence in the cot- tage. Was the weaver gone to bed, then ? If so, why had he left a light ? That was a strange forgetfulness in a miser. Dunstan knocked still more loudly, and, without pausing for a reply, pushed his fingers through the latch-hole, intending to shake the door and pull the latch-string up and down, not doubting that the door was fastened. But, to his surprise, at this double motion the door opened, and he found himself in front of a bright fire, which lit up every corner of the cottage the bed, the loom, the three chairs, and the table and show- ed him that Marner was not there. Nothing at that moment could be much more inviting to Dunsey than the bright fire on the brick hearth ; he walked in and seated himself by it at once. There was something in front of the tire, too, that would have been inviting to a hungry man, if it had been in a different stage of cooking. It was a small bit of pork suspended from the kettle-hanger by a string passed through a large door-key, in a way known to primitive housekeepers unpossessed of jacks. But the pork had been hung at the farthest extremity of the hanger, apparently to prevent the roasting from proceeding too rap- idly during the owner's absence. The old staring simpleton had hot meat for his supper, then ? thought Dunstan. Peo- P'le had always said he lived on mouldy bread, on purpose to check his appetite. But where could he be at this time, and on such an evening, leaving his supper in this stage of prep- aration, and his door unfastened ? Dunstan's own recent difficulty in making his way suggested to him that the weav- er had perhaps gone outside his cottage to fetch in fuel, or for fc^me such brief purpose, and had slipped into the Stone-pit. That was an interesting idea to Dunston, carrying conse- quences of entire novelty. If the weaver was dead, who had a right to his money ? Who would know where his money was hidden ? Who would know that any body had come to take it away ? He went no farther into the subtleties of ev- idence : the pressing question, " Where is the money ?" now took such entire possession of him as to make him quite for- get that the weaver's death was not a certainty. A dull mind, once arriving at an inference that flatters a desire, is rarely able to retain the impression that the notion from which the inference started was purely problematic. And Dunstan's mind was as dull as the mind of a possible felon usually is. There were only three hiding-places where he had ever heard of cottagers' hoards being found ; the thatch, the bed, and a hole in the floor. Marner's cottage had no thatch ; and Dunstan's first act, after a train of thought made SILAS MAKNER. 371 rapid by the stimulus of cupidity, was to go up to the bed ; but while he did so, his eyes travelled eagerly over the floor, where the bricks, distinct in the fire-light, were discernible under the sprinkling of sand. But not everywhere ; for there was one spot, and one only, which was quite covered witn sand, and sand showing the marks of fingers, which had ap- parently been careful to spread it over a given space. It was near the treddles of the loom. In an instant Dunstan darted to that spot, swept away the sand with his whip, and, insert- ing the thin end of the hook between the bricks, found that they were loose. In haste he lifted up two bricks, and saw what he had no doubt was the object of his search ; for what could there be but money in those two leathern bags ? And, from their weight, they must be filled with guineas. Dun- stan felt round the hole, to be certain that it held no more ; then hastily replaced the bricks, and spread the sand over them. Hardly more than five minutes had passed since he entered the cottage, but it seemed to Dunstan like a long while ; and though he was without any distinct recognition of the possibility that Marner might be alive, and might re- enter the cottage at any moment, he felt an undefinable dread laying hold on him, as he rose to his feet with the bags in his hand. He would hasten out into the darkness, and then consider what he should do with the bags. He closed the door behind him immediately, that he might shut in the stream of light ; a few steps would be enough to carry him beyond betrayal by the gleams from the shutter-chinks and the latch-hole. The rain and darkness had got thicker, and he was glad of it ; though it was awkward walking with both hands filled, so that it was as much as he could do to grasp his whip along with one of the bags. But when he had gone a yard or two, he might take his time. So he stepped for- ward into the darkness. CHAPTER V. WHEN Dunstan Cass turned his back on the cottage, Silas Marner was not more than a hundred yards away from it, plod- ding along from the village with a sack thrown round his shoul- ders as an over-coat, and with a horn lantern in his hand. His legs were weary, but his mind was at ease, free from the pre- sentiment of change. The sense of security more frequently springs from habit than from conviction, and for this reason it 372 SILAS MARNER. often subsists after such a change in the conditions as might have been expected to suggest alarm. The lapse of time during which a given event has not happened, is, in this logic of habit, constantly alleged as a reason why the event should never hap pen, even when the lapse of time is precisely the added con- dition which makes the event imminent. A man will tell you that he has worked in a mine for forty years unhurt by an acci- dent as a reason why he should apprehend no danger, though the roof is beginning to sink ; and it is often observable, that the older a man gets, the more difficult it is to him to retain a believing conception of his own death. This influence of habit was necessarily strong in a man whose life was so monotonous as Marner's who saw no new people and heard of no new events to keep alive in him the idea of the unexpected and the changeful ; and it explains, simply enough, why his mind could be at ease, though he had left his house and his treasure more defenseless than usual. Silas was thinking with double com- placency of his supper : first, because it would be hot and sa- vory ; and secondly, because it would cost him nothing. For the little bit of pork was a present from that excellent house- wife, Miss Priscilla Lammeter, to whom he had this day car- ried home a handsome piece of linen ; and it was only on oc- casion of a present like this, that Silas indulged himself with roast-meat. Supper was his favorite meal, because it came at his time of revelry, when his heart warmed over his gold ; whenever he had roast-meat, he always chose to have it for supper. But this evening, he had no sooner ingeniously knot- ted nis string fast round his bit of pork, twisted the string ac- cording to rule over his door-key, passed it through the handle, and made it fast on the hanger, than he remembered that a piece of very fine twine was indispensable to his " setting up " a new piece of work in his loom early in the morning. It had slipped his memory, because, in coming from Mr. Lammeter's, he had not had to pass through the village ; but to lose time by going on errands in the morning was out of the question. It was a nasty fog to turn out into, but there were things Si- las loved better than his own comfort ; so, drawing his pork to the extremity of the hanger, and arming himself with his lantern and his old sack, he set out on what, in ordinary weath- er, would have been a twenty minutes' errand. He could not have locked his door without undoing his well-knotted string and retarding his supper ; it was not worth his while to make that sacrifice. What thief would find his way to the Stone- pits on such a night as this ? and why should he come on this particular night, when he had never come through all the fif- teen years before ? These questions were not distinctly pres- SILAS MARNER. 373 ent in Silas's mind ; they merely serve to represent the vague- ly-felt foundation of his freedom from anxiety. He reached his door in much satisfaction that his errand was done : he opened it, and to his short-sighted eyes every thing remained as he had letl it, except that the fire sent out a welcome increase of heat. He trod about the floor while putting by his lantern and throwing aside his hat and sack, so as to merge the marks of Dunstan's feet on the sand in the marks of his own nailed boots. Then he moved his pork nearer to the fire, and sat down to the agreeable business of tending the meat and warming himself at the same time. Any one who had looked at him as the red light shone upon his pale face, strange straining eyes, and meagre form, would perhaps have understood the mixture of contemptuous pity, dread, and suspicion with which he was regarded by his neighbors in Raveloe. Yet few men could be more harmless than poor Marner. In his truthful simple soul, not even the growing greed and worship of gold could beget any vice di- rectly injurious to others. The light of his faith quite put out, and his affections made desolate, he had clung with all the force of his nature to his work and his money; and like all objects to which a man devotes himself, they had fashion- ed him into correspondence with themselves. His loom, as he wrought in it without ceasing, had in its turn wrought on him, and confirmed more and more the monotonous craving for its monotonous response. His gold, as he hung over it and saw it grow, gathered his power of loving together into a hard isolation like its own. As soon as he was warm he began to think it would be a long while to wait till after supper before he drew out his guineas, and it would be pleasant to see them on the table be- fore him as he ate his unwonted feast. For joy is the best of wine, and Silas's guineas were a golden wine of that sort. He rose and placed his candle unsuspectingly on the floor near his loom, swept away the sand without noticing any change, and removed the bricks. The sight of the empty hole made his heart leap violently, but the belief that his gold was gone could not come at once only terror, and the eager effort to put an end to the terror. He passed his trembling hand all about the hole, trying to think it possible that his eyes had deceived him ; then he held the candle in the hole and ex- amined it curiously, trembling more and more. At last he shook so violently that he let fall the candle, and lifted his hands to his head, trying to steady himself, that he might think. Had he put his gold somewhere else, by a sudden resolution last night, and then forgotten it? A man falling 374 SILAS MARNEE. into dark waters seeks a momentary footing even on sliding stones ; and Silas, by acting as if he believed in false hopes, warded off the moment of despair. He searched in every corner, he turned his bed over, and shook it, and kneaded it ; he looked in his brick oven where he laid his sticks. When there was no other place to be searched, he kneeled down again and felt once more all round the hole. There was no untried refuge left for a moment's shelter from the terrible truth. Yes, there was a sort of refuge which always comes with the prostration of thought under an overpowering passion : it was that expectation of impossibilities, that belief in con- tradictory images, which is still distinct from madness, be- cause it is capable of being dissipated by the external fact. Silas got up from his knees trembling, and looked round at the table : didn't the gold lie there after all ? The table was bare. Then he turned and looked behind him looked all round his dwelling, seeming to strain his brown eyes after some possible appearance of the bags where he had already sought them in vain. He could see every object in his cot- tage and his gold was not there. Again he put his trembling hands to his head, and gave a wild ringing scream, the cry oi desolation. For a few mo- ments after, he stood motionless ; but the cry had relieved him from the first maddening pressure ot the truth. He turn- ed, and tottered towards his loom, and got into the seat where he worked, instinctively seeking this as the strongest assur- ance of reality. And now that all the false hopes had vanished, and the first shock of certainty was past, the idea of a thief began to present itself, and he entertained it eagerly, because a thief might be caught and made to restore the gold. The thought brought some new strength with it, and he started from his loom to the door. As he opened it the rain beat in upon him, for it was falling more and more heavily. There were no footsteps to be tracked on such a night footsteps ? When had the thief come ? During Silas's absence in the day-time the door had been locked, and there had been no marks of any inroad on his return by day-light. And in the evening, too, he said to himself, every thing was the same as when he had left it. The sand and bricks looked as if they had not been moved. Was it a thief who had taken the bags ? or was it a cruel power that no hands could reach, which had delight- ed in making him a second time desolate ? He shrank from this vaguer dread, and fixed his mind with struggling effort on the robber with hands, who could be reached by hands. SILAS MARNER. 375 His thoughts glanced at all the neighbors who had made any remarks, or asked any questions which he might now regard as a ground of suspicion. There was Jem Rodney, a known poacher, and otherwise disreputable : he had often met Mar- ner in his journeys across the fields, and had said something jestingly about the weaver's money ; nay, he had once irri- tated Marner, by lingering at the fire when he called to light his pipe, instead of going about his business. Jem Rodney was the man there was ease in the thought. Jem could be found and made to restore the money : Marner did not want to punish him, but only to get back his gold which had gone from him, and left his soul like a forlorn traveller on an un- known desert. The robber must be laid hold of. Marner's ideas of legal authority were confused, but he felt that he must go and proclaim his loss ; and the great people in the village the clergyman, the constable, and Squire Cass would make Jem Rodney, or somebody else, deliver up the stolen money. He rushed out in the rain, under the stimulus of this hope, forgetting to cover his head, not caring to fasten his door; for he felt as if he had nothing left to lose. He ran swiftly, till want of breath compelled him to slacken his pace as he was entering the village at the turning close to the Rainbow. The Rainbow, in Marner's view, was a place of luxurious resort for rich and stout husbands, whose wives had super- fluous stores of linen ; it was the place where he was likely to find the powers and dignities of Raveloe, and where he could most speedily make his loss public. He lifted the latch, and turned into the bright bar or kitchen on the right hand, where the less lofty customers of the house were in the habit of assembling, the parlor on the left being reserved for the more select society in which Squire Cass frequently en joyed the double pleasure of conviviality and condescension. But the parlor was dark to-night, the chief personages who ornamented its circle being all at Mrs. Osgood's birthday dance, as Godfrey Cass was. And in consequence of this, the party on the high-screened seats in the kitchen was more numerous than usual ; several personages, who would other- wise have been admitted into the parlor and enlarged the opportunity of hectoring and condescension for their betters, being content this evening to vary their enjoyment by tak- ing their spirits-and-water where they could themselves hec- tor and condescend in company that called for beer. 376 SILAS MAKNEE. CHAPTER VI. THE conversation, which was at a high pitch of animation when Silas approached the door of the Rainbow, had, as usual, been slow and intermittent when the company first as- sembled. The pipes began to be puffed in a silence which had an air of severity; the more important customers, who drank spirits and sat nearest the fire, staring at each other as if a bet were depending on the first man who winked ; while the beer-drinkers, chiefly men in fustian jackets and smock-frocks, kept their eyelids down and rubbed their hands across their mouths, as if their draughts of beer were a funereal duty attended with embarrassing sadness. At last, Mr. Snell, the landlord, a man of a neutral disposition, ac- customed to stand aloof from human differences, as those of beings who were all alike in need of liquor, broke silence, by saying in a doubtful tone to his cousin the butcher " Some folks 'ud say that was a fine beast you druv in yesterday, Bob ?" The butcher, a jolly, smiling, red-haired man, was not dis- posed to answer rashly. He gave a few puffs before he spat and replied, " And they wouldn't be fur wrong, John." After this feeble delusive thaw, the silence set in as se- verely as before. " Was it a red Durham ?" said the farrier, taking up the thread of discourse after the lapse of a few minutes. The farrier looked at the landlord, and the landlord look- ed at the butcher, as the person who must take the respon- sibility of answering. "Red it was," said the butcher, in his good-humored husky treble " and a Durham it was." " Then you needn't tell me who you bought it of," said the farrier, looking round with some triumph ; " I know who it is has got the red Durhams o' this country-side. And she'd a white star on her brow, I'll bet a penny ?" The far- rier leaned forward with his hands on his knees as he put this question, and his eyes twinkled knowingly. " Well ; yes she might," said the butcher, slowly, con- sidering that he was giving a decided affirmative. " I don't say contrairy." " I knew that very well," said the farrier, throwing himself backward again, and speaking defiantly ; " if /don't know Mr. SILAS MARNER. 377 Lammeter's cows, I should like to know who does that's all. And as for the cow you've bought, bargain or no bargain, I've been at the drenching of her contradick me who will." The farrier looked fierce, and the mild butcher's conversa- tional spirit was roused a little. " I'm not for contradicking no man," he said ; " I'm for peace and quietness. Some are for cutting long ribs I'm for cutting 'em short myself; but I don't quarrel with 'em. All I say is, it's a lovely carkiss and any body as was rea- sonable, it 'ud bring tears into their eyes to look at it." " Well, it's the cow as I drenched, whatever it is," pur- sued the farrier, angrily ; " and it was Mr. Lammeter's cow, else you told a lie when you said it was a red Durham." " I tell no lies," said the butcher, with the same mild huski- ness as before, " and I contradick none not if a man was to swear himself black : he's no meat o' mine, or none o' my bargains. All I say is, it's a lovely carkiss. And what I say I'll stick to ; but I'll quarrel wi' no man." " No," said the farrier, with bitter sarcasm, looking at the company generally ; " and p'raps you aren't pig-headed ; and p'raps you didn't say the cow was a red Durham ; and p'raps you didn't say she'd got a star on her brow stick to that, now you're at it." "Come, come," said the landlord; "let the cow alone. The truth lies atween you : you're both right and both wrong, as I allays say. And as for the cow's being Mr. Lammeter's, I say nothing to that ; but this I say, as the Rainbow's the Rainbow. And for the matter o' that, if the talk is to be o' the Lammeters, you know the most upo' that head, eh, Mr. Macey ? You remember when first Mr. Lammeter's father came into these parts, and took the Warrens ?" Mr. Macey, tailor and parish-clerk, the latter of which functions rheumatism had of late obliged him to share with a small-featured young man who sat opposite him, held his white head on one side, and twirled his thumbs with an air of complacency, slightly seasoned with criticism. He smiled pityingly, in answer to the landlord's appeal, and said " Ay, ay ; I know, I know ; but I let other folks talk. I've laid by now, and gev up to the young uns. Ask them as have been to school at Tarley : they've learnt pernouncing ; that's come up since my day." " If you're pointing at me, Mr. Macey," said the deputy- clerk, with an air of anxious propriety, " I'm nowise a man to speak out of my place. As the psalm says ' I know what's right, nor only so, But also practise what I know.' " 378 SILAS MARNER. " Well, then, I wish you'd keep hold o' the tune, when it's set for you ; if you're for prac^mng, I wish you'd practise that," said a large jocose-looking man, an excellent wheel- wright in his week-day capacity, but on Sundays leader of the choir. He winked, as he spoke, at two of the company, who were known officially as the " bassoon " and the " key-bugle," in the confidence that he was expressing the sense of the musical profession in Raveloe. Mr. Tookey, the deputy-clerk, who shared the unpopulari- ty common to deputies, turned very red, but replied, with careful moderation " Mr. Winthrop, if you'll bring me any proof as I'm in the wrong, I'm not the man to say I won't alter. But there's people set up their own ears for a stand- ard, and expect the whole choir to follow 'em. There may be two opinions, I hope." "Ay, ay," said Mr. Macey, who felt very well satisfied with this attack on youthful presumption ; " you're right there, Tookey : there's allays two 'pinions ; there's the 'pin- ion a man has of himsen, and there's the 'pinion other folks have on him. There'd be two 'pinions about a cracked bell, if the bell could hear itself." " Well, Mr. Macey," said poor Tookey, serious amidst the general laughter, " I undertook to partially fill up the office of parish-clerk by Mr. Crackenthorp's desire, whenever your infirmities should make you unfitting; and it's one of the rights thereof to sing in the choir else why have you done the same yourself?" " Ah ! but the old gentleman and you are two folks," said Ben Winthrop. " The old gentleman's got a gift. Why the Squire used to invite him to take a glass, only to hear him sing the 'Red Rovier ;' didn't he, Mr. Macey ? It's a nat'ral gift. There's my little lad Aaron, he's got a gift he can sing a tune off straight, like a throstle. But as for you, Mas- ter Tookey, you'd better stick to your ' Amens:' your voice is well enough when you keep it up in your nose. It's your inside as isn't right made for music : it's no better nor a hol- low stalk." This kind of unflinching frankness was the most piquant form of joke to the company at the Rainbow, and Ben Win- throp's insult was felt by every body to have capped Mr. Macey's epigram. " I see what it is plain enough," said Mr. Tookey, unable to keep cool any longer. " There's a consperacy to turn me out o' the choir, as I shouldn't share the Christmas money that's where it is. But I shall speak to Mr. Crackenthorp ; I'll not be put upon by no man." SILAS MARNER. 379 " Nay, nay, Tookey," said Ben Winthrop. " We'll pay you your share to keep out of it that's Avhat we'll do. There's things folks 'ud pay to be rid on, besides varmin." " Come, come," said the landlord, who felt that paying people for their absence was a principle dangerous to socie- ty ; "a joke's a joke. We're all good friends here, I hope. We must give and take. You're both right and you're both wrong, as I say. I agree with Mr. Macey here, as there's two opinions; and if mine was asked, I should say they're both right. Tookey's right and Winthrop's right, and they've only got to split the difference and make themselves even." The farrier was puffing his pipe rather fiercely, in some contempt at this trivial discussion. He had no ear for music himself, and never went to church, as being of the medical profession, and likely to be in requisition for delicate cows. But the butcher, having music in his soul, had listened with a divided desire for Tookey's defeat, and for the preservation of the peace. " To be sure," he said, following up the landlord's concili- atory view, " we're fond of our old clerk ; it's nat'ral, and him used to be such a singer, and got a brother as is known for the first fiddler in this country-side. Eh, it's a pity but what Solomon lived in our village, and could give us a tune when we liked ; eh, Mr. Macey ? I'd keep him in liver and lights for nothing that I would." " Ay, ay," said Mr. Macey, in the height of complacency ; " our family's been known for musicianers as far back as any body can tell. But them things are dying out, as I tell Sol- omon every time he comes round ; there's no voices like what there used to be, and there's nobody remembers what we remember, if it isn't the old crows." " Ay, you remember when first Mr. Lammeter's father come into these parts, don't you, Mr. Macey ?" said the land- lord. " I should think I did," said the old man, who had now gone through that complimentary process necessary to bring him up to the point of narration ; " and a fine old gentleman he was as fine, and finer nor the Mr. Lammeter as now is. He came from a bit north'ard, so far as I could ever make out. But there's nobody rightly knows about those parts: only it couldn't be far north'ard, nor much different from this country, for he brought a fine breed o' sheep with him, so there must be pastures there, and every thing reasonable. We heared tell as he'd sold his own land to come and take the Warrens, and that seemed odd for a man as had land of his own, to come and rent a farm in a strange place. But 380 SILAS MARNER. they said it was along of his wife's dying ; though there'* reasons in things as nobody knows on that's pretty much what I've made out ; though some folks are so wise, they'll find -you fifty reasons straight off, and all the while the real reason's winking at 'em in the corner, and they niver Bee't. Howsomever, it was soon seen as we'd got a new parish'ner as know'd the rights and customs o' things, and kep a good house, and was well looked on by every body. And the young man that's the Mr. Larameter as now is, for he'd niver a sister soon begun to court Miss Osgood, that's the sister o' the Mr. Osgood as now is, and a fine handsome lass she was eh, you can't think they pretend this young lass is like her, but that's the way wi' people as don't know what come before 'em. I should know, for I helped the old rector, Mr. Drumlow as was, I helped him marry 'em." Here Mr. Macey paused ; lie always gave his narrative in instalments, expecting to be questioned according to prece- dent. " Ay, and a partic'lar thing happened, didn't it, Mr, Ma- cey, so as you were likely to remember that marriage ?" said the landlord, in a congratulatory tone. "I should think there did a very partic'lar* thing/ 1 said Mr. Macey, nodding sideways. " For Mr. Drumlow --poor old gentleman, I was fond on him, though he'd got a bit con- fused in his head, what wi' age and wi' taking a drop o' sum- mat warm when the service come of a cold morning. And young Mr. Lammeter, he'd have no way but he must be mar- ried in Janiwary, which, to be sure, 's a unreasonable time to be married in, for it isn't like a christening or a burying, as you can't help ; and so Mr. Drnmlow poor old gentleman, I was fond on him but when he come to put the questions, he put 'em by the rule o' contrairy, like, and he says, ' Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded wife?' says he, and then he says, ' Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded hus- band ?' says he. But the partic'larest thing of all is, as no- body took any notice on it but me, and they answered straight off ' yes,' like as if it had been me saying ' Amen ' i' the right place, without listening to what went before." " But you knew what was going on well enough, didn't you, Mr. Macey ? You were live enough, eh ?" said the butcher. " Lor bless you !" said Mr. Macey, pausing, and smiling in pity at the impotence of his hearer's imagination *' why, I was all of a tremble; it was as if I'd been a coat pulled by the two tails, like; for I couldn't stop the parson, I couldn't take upon me to do that ; and yet I said to myself, I says, SILAS MAENER. 381 * Suppose they shouldn't be fast married, 'cause the words are contrairy ?' and my head went working like a mill, for I was allays uncommon for turning things over and seeing all round 'em ; and I says to myself, ' Is't the meanin' or. the words as makes folks fast i' wedlock ?' For the parson meant right, and the bride and bridegroom meant right. But then, when I come to think on it, meanin' goes but a little way i' most things, for you may mean to stick things together and your glue may be bad, and then where are you? And so I says to mysen, ' It isn't the meanin', it's the glue.' And I was worreted as if I'd got three bells to pull at once, when we got into the vestry, and they begun to sign their names. But Mihere's the use o' talking ? you can't think what goes on in a 'cute man's inside." " But you held in, for all that, didn't you, Mr. Macey ?" said the landlord. " Ay, I held in tight till I was by mysen wi' Mr. Drumlow, and then I out wi' every thing, but respectful, as I allays did. And he made light on it, and he says, 'Pooh, pooh, Macey, make yourself 1 easy,' he says ; * it's neither the meaning nor the words it's the rcgester does it that's the glue.' So you see he settled it easy; for parsons and doctors know every thing by heart, like, so as they aren't worreted wi' thinking what's the rights and wrongs o' things, as I'n been many and many's the time. And sure enough the wedding turned out all right, on'y poor Mrs. Lammetcr that's Miss Osgood as was died afore the lasses were growed up ; but for prosperity and every thing respectable, there's no family more looked on." Every one of Mr. Macey's audience had heard this story many times, but it was listened to as if it had been a favor- ite tune, and at certain points the puffing of the pipes was momentarily suspended, that the listeners might give their whole minds to the expected words. But there was more to come ; and Mr. Snell, the landlord, duly put the leading question. " Why, old Mr. Lammeter had a pretty fortin, didn't they say, when he come into these parts ?" " Well, yes," said Mr. Macey ; " but I dare say it's as much as this Mr. Lammeter has done to keep it whole. For there was allays a talk as nobody could get rich on the Warrens: though he holds it cheap, for it's what they call Charity Land." " Ay, and there's few folks know so well as you how it come to be Charity Land, eh, Mr. Macey?" said the butcher. 382 SILAS MARKER. " How should they ?" said the old clerk, with some con- tempt. " Why, my grandfather made the grooms' livery for that Mr. Cliff as came and built the big stables at the War- rens* Why, they're stables four times as big as Squire Cass's, for he thought o' nothing but bosses and hunting, Cliff didn't a Lunnon tailor, some folks said, as had gone mad wi' cheat- ing. For he couldn't ride ; lor bless you ! they said he'd got no more grip o' the hoss than if his legs had been cross sticks ; my grandfather beared old Squire Cass say so many and many a time. But ride he would as if Old Harry had been a-driving him ; and he'd a son, a lad o' sixteen ; and nothing would his father have him do, but he must ride and ride though the lad was frighted, they said. And it was a com- mon saying as the father wanted to ride the tailor out o' the lad, and make a gentleman on him not but what I'm a tailor myself, but in respect as God made me such, I'm proud on it, for ' Macey, tailor,' 's been wrote up over our door since afore the Queen's heads went out on the shil- lings. But Cliff, he was ashamed o' being called a tailor, and he was sore vexed as his riding was laughed at, and nobody o' the gentlefolks hereabouts could abide him. Howsomever, the poor lad got sickly and died, and the father didn't live long after him, for he got queerer nor ever, and they said he used to go out i' the dead o' the night, wi' a lantern in his hand, to the stables, and set a lot o' lights burning, for he got as he couldn't sleep ; and there he'd stand, cracking his whip and looking at his bosses ; and they said it was a mercy as the stables didn't get burnt down wi' the poor dumb crea- turs in 'em. But at last he died raving,. and they found as he'd left all his property, Warrens and all, to a Lunnon Char? ity, and that's how the Warrens come to be Charity Land ; though, as for the stables, Mr. Lammeter never uses 'em they're out o' all charicter lor bless you ! if you was to set the doors a-banging in 'em, it 'ud sound like thunder half o'er the parish." " Ay, but there's more going on in the stables than what folks see by daylight, eh, Mr. Macey ?" said the landlord. " Ay, ay ; go that way of a dark night, that's all," said Mr. Macey, winking mysteriously, " and then make believe, if you like, as you didn't see lights i' the stables, nor hear the stamping o' the bosses, nor the cracking o' the whips, and howling, too, if it's tow'rt daybreak. ' Cliff's Holiday ' has been the name of it ever sin' I were a boy ; that's to say, some said as it was the holiday Old Harry gev him from roasting, like. That's what my father told me, and he was a reasonable man, though there's folks nowadays know what SILAS MARNER. 383 happened afore they were bora better nor they know their own business." " What do you say to that, eh, Dowlas ?" said the landlord, turning to the farrier, who was swelling with impatience for his cue. " There's a nut for you to crack." Mr. Dowlas was the negative spirit in the company, and was proud of his position. " Say ? I say what a man should say as doesn't shut his eyes to look at a finger-post. I say, as* I'm ready to wager any man ten pound, if he'll stand out wi' me any dry night in the pasture before the "Warren stables, as we shall neither see lights nor hear noises, if it isn't the blowing of our own noses. That's what I say, and I've said it many a time ; but there's nobody 'ull ventur a ten-pun' note on their ghos'es as they make so sure of." " Why, Dowlas, that's easy betting, that is," said Ben Win- throp. " You might as well bet a man as he wouldn't catch the rheumatise if he stood up to 's neck in the pool of a frosty night. It 'ud be fine fun for a man to win his bet as he'd catch the rheumatise. Folks as believe in Cliff's Holiday aren't a-going to ventur near it for a matter o' ten pound." " If Master Dowlas wants to know the truth on it," said Mr. Macey, with a sarcastic smile, tapping his thumbs together, " he's no call to lay any bet let him go and stan' by himself there's nobody 'ull hinder him ; and then he can let the parish'ners know if they're wrong." " Thank you ! I'm obliged to you," said the farrier, with a snort of scoi'n. " If folks are fools, it's no business o' mine. I don't want to make out the truth about ghos'es : I know it a'ready. But I'm not against a bet every thing fair and open. Let any man bet me ten pound as I shall see Cliff's Holiday, and I'll go and stand by myself. I want no compa- ny. I'd as lief do it as I'd fill this pipe." " Ah, but who's to watch you, Dowlas, and see you do it ? That's no fair bet," said the butcher. " No fair bet ?" replied Mr. Dowlas, angrily. " I should like to hear any man stand up and say I want to bet unfair. Come now, Master Lundy, I should like to hear you say it." "Very like you would," said the butcher. "But it's no business o' mine. You're none o' my bargains, and I aren't agoing to try and 'bate your price. If any body'll bid for you at your own vallying, let him. I'm for peace and quiet- ness, I am." " Yes, that's what every yapping cur is, when you hold a stick up at him," said the farrier. " But I'm afraid o' neither 384 SILAS MARNER. man nor ghost, and I'm ready to lay a fair bet I aren't a turn-tail cur." " Ay, but there's this in it, Dowlas," said the landlord, speaking in a tone of much candor and tolerance. " There's folks, i' my opinion, they can't see ghos'es, not if they stood as plain as a pike-staff before 'em. And there's reason i' that. For there's my wife now, can't smell, not if she'd the strong- est o' cheese under her nose. I never see'd a ghost myself; but then I says to myself, ' Very like I haven't got the smell for 'em.' I mean, putting a ghost for a smell, or else contrai- riways. And so, I'm for holding with both sides ; for, as I say, the truth lies between 'em. And if Dowlas was to go and stand, and say he'd never seen a wink o' Cliff's Holiday all the night through, I'd back him ; and if any body said as Clift's Holiday was certain sure for all that, I'd back him too. For the smell's what I go by." The landlord's analogical argument was not well received by the farrier a man intensely opposed to compromise. " Tut, tut," he said, setting down his glass with refreshed irritation ; " what's the smell got to do with it ? Did ever a ghost give a man a black eye ? That's what I should like to know. If ghos'es want me to believe in 'em, let 'em leave off skulking i' the dark and i' lone places let 'em come where there's company and candles." " As if ghos'es 'ud Avant to be believed in by any body so ignirant J>' said Mr. Macey, in deep disgust at the farrier's crass incompetence to apprehend the conditions of ghostly phenomena. CHAPTER VII. YET the next moment there seemed to be some evidence that ghosts had a more condescending disposition than Mr. Macey attributed to them ; for the pale thin figure of Silas Marner was suddenly seen standing in the warm light, utter- ing no word, but looking round at the company with his strange unearthly eyes. The long pipes gave a simultaneous movement, like the antennae of startled insects, and every man present, not excepting even the skeptical farrier, had an impression that he saw, not Silas Marner in the flesh, but an apparition ; for the door by which Silas had entered was hid- den by the high-screened seats, and no one had noticed his approach. Mr. Macey, sitting a long way off the ghost, might be supposed to have felt an argumentative triumph, which SILAS MAENER. 385 would lend to neutralize his share of the general alarm. Had he not always said that when Silas Marner was in that strange trance of his, his soul went loose from his body ? Here was the demonstration : nevertheless, on the whole, he would have been as well contented without it. For a few moments there was a dead silence, Marner's want of breath and agitation not allowing him to speak. The landlord, under the habitual sense that he was bound to keep his house open to all compa- ny, and confident in the protection of his unbroken neutrality, at last took on himself the task of adjuring the ghost. " Master Marner," he said, in a conciliatory tone, " what's lacking to you ? What's your business here ?" " Robbed !" said Silas, gaspingly. " I've been robbed ! I want the constable and the Justice and Squire Cass and Mr. Crackenthorp." "Lay hold on him, Jem Rodney," said the landlord, the idea of a ghost subsiding ; " he's off his head, I doubt. He's wet through." Jem Rodney was the outermost man, and sat convenient- ly near Marner's standing-place ; but he declined to give his services. " Come and lay hold on him yourself, Mr. Snell, if you've a a mind," said Jem, rather sullenly. " He's been robbed, and murdered too, for what I know," he added, in a muttering tone. " Jem Rodney !" said Silas, turning and fixing his strange eyes on the suspected man. " Ay, Master Marner, what do ye want wi' me ?" said Jem, trembling a little, and seizing his drinking-can as a defensive weapon. " If it was you stole my money," said Silas, clasping his hands entreatingly, and raising his voice to a cry, " give ut me back, and I won't meddle with you. I won't set the con- stable on you. Give it me back, and I'll let you I'll let you have a guinea." " Me stole your money !" said Jem, angrily. " Til pitch this can at your eye if you talk o' my stealing your money." " Come, come, Master Marner," said the landlord, now ris- ing resolutely, and seizing Marner by the shoulder, " if you've got any information to lay, speak it out sensible, and show as you're in your right mind, if you expect any body to listen to you. You're as wet as a drownded rat. Sit down and dry yourself, and speak straight forrard." " Ah, to be sure, man," said the farrier, who began to feel that he had not been quite on a par with himself and the oc- casion. " Let's have no more staring and screaming, else 17 386 SILAS MARNEB. we'll have you strapped for a madman. That was why 1 didn't speak at the first thinks I, the man's run mad." " Ay, ay, make him sit down," said several voices at once, well pleased that the reality of ghosts remained still an open question. The landlord forced Marner to take off his coat, and then to sit down on a chair aloof from every one else in the centre of the circle, and in the direct rays of the fire. The weaver, too feeble to have any distinct purpose beyond that of get- ting help to recover his money, submitted unresistingly. The transient fears of the company were now forgotten in their strong curiosity, and all faces were turned towards Silas, when the landlord, having seated himself again, said " Now then, Master Marner, what's this you've got to say, as you've been robbed? Speak out." "He'd better not say again as it was me robbed him," cried Jem Rodney, hastily. " What could I ha' done with his money ? I could as easy steal the parson's surplice, and wear it." " Hold your tongue, Jem, and let's hear what he's got to say," said the landlord. " Now then, Master Marner." Silas now told his story under frequent questioning, as the mysterious, character of the robbery became evident. This strangely novel situation of opening his trouble to his Raveloe neighbors, of sitting in the warmth of a hearth not his own, and feeling the presence of faces and voices which were his nearest promise of help, had doubtless its in- fluence on Marner, in spite of his passionate preoccupation with his loss. Our consciousness rarely registers the begin- ning of a growth within us any more than without us: there have been many circulations of the sap before we detect the smallest sign of the bud. The slight suspicion with which his hearers at first listen- ed .to him, gradually melted away before the convincing simplicity of his distress : it was impossible for the neighbors to doubt that Marner was telling the truth, not because they were capable of arguing at once from the nature of his state- ments to the absence of any motive for making them falsely, but because, as Mr. Macey observed, " Folks as had the devil to back 'em were not likely to be so mushed " as poor Silas was. Rather, from the strange fact that the robber had left no traces, and had happened to know the nick of time, utterly incalculable by mortal agents, when Silas would go away from home without locking his door, the more probable con- clusion seemed to be that his disreputable intimacy in that quarter, if it ever existed, had been broken up, and that, in SILAS MARVER. 387 consequence, this ill turn had been done to Marner by gome- body it was quite in vain to set the constable after. Why this preternatural felon should be obliged to wait till the door was left unlocked, was a question which did not present itself. " It isn't Jem Rodney as has done this work, Master Mar- ner," said the landlord. "You mustn't be a-casting your eye at poor Jem. There may be a bit of a reckoning against Jem for the matter of a hare or so, if any body was bound to keep their eyes staring open, and niver to wink but Jem's been a-sitting here drinking his can, like the decentest man i' the parish, since before you left your house, Master Marner, by your oAvn account." " Ay, ay," said Mr. Macey ; " let's have no accusing o' the innicent. That isn't the law. There must be folks to swear again' a man before he can be ta'en up. Let's have no ac- cusing o' the innicent, Master Marner." Memory was not so utterly torpid in Silas that it could not be wakened by these words. With a movement of com- punction as new and strange to him as every thing else with- in the last hour, he started from his chair and went close up to Jem, looking at him as if he wanted to assure himself of the expression in his face. " I was wrong," he said " yes, yes I ought to have thought. There's nothing to witness against you, Jem. Only you'd been into my house oftener than any body else, and so you came into my head. I don't accuse you I won't accuse any body only," he added, lifting up his hands to his head, and turning away with bewildered misery, " I try 1 try to think where my money can be." " Ay, ay, they're gone where it's hot enough to melt 'em, I doubt," said Mr. Macey. "Tchuh !" said the farrier. And then he asked, with a cross-examining air, " How much money might there be in the bags, Master Marner ?" " Two hundred and seventy-two pounds, twelve and six- pence, last night when I counted it," said Silas, seating him- self again, with a groan. " Pooh ! why, they'd be none so heavy to carry. Some tramp's been in, that's all ; and as for the no footmarks, and the bricks and the sand being all right why, your eyes are pretty much like a insect's, Master Marner ; they're obliged to look so close, you can't see much at a time. It's my opin- ion as, if I'd been you, or you'd been me for it comes to the same thing you wouldn't have thought you'd found every thing as you left it. But what I vote is, as two of the sen- 388 SILAS MAKNER. siblest o' the company should go with you to Master Kench, the constable's he's ill i' bed, I know that much and get him to appoint one of us his deppity ; for that's the la\v, and I don't think any body 'nil take upon him to contradick me there. It isn't much of a walk to Kench's ; and then if it's me as is deppity, I'll go back with you, Master Marner, and examine your primises; and if any body's got any fault to find with that, I'll thank him to stand up and say it out like a man." By this pregnant speech the farrier had i*e-established his self-complacency, and waited with confidence to hear himself named as one of the superlatively sensible men. " Let us see how the night is, though," said the landlord, who also considered himself personally concerned in this proposition. " Why it rains heavy still," he said, returning from the door. " Well, I'm not the man to be afraid o' the rain," said the farrier. " For it'll look bad when Justice Malam hears as re- spectable men like us had a information laid before 'em and took no steps." The landlord agreed with this view, and after taking the sense of the company, and duly rehearsing a small ceremony known in high ecclesiastical Hie as the nolo episcopari, he con- sented to take on himself the chill dignity of going to Kench's. But to the farrier's strong disgust, Mr. Macey now started an objection to his proposing himself as a deputy-constable ; for that oracular old gentleman, claiming to know the law, stated, as a fact delivered to him by his father, that no doctor could l>e a constable. " And you're a doctor, I reckon, though you're only a cow-doctor for a fly's a fly, though it may be a hoss-fly," con- cluded Mr. Macey, wondering a little at his own " 'cute- ness." There was a hot debate upon this, the farrier being of course indisposed to renounce the quality of doctor, but con- tending that a doctor could be a constable if he liked the law meant, he needn't be one if he didn't like. Mr. Macey thought this was nonsense, since the law was not likely to be fonder of doctors more than of other folks. Moreover, if it was in the nature of doctors more than of other men not to like being constables, how came Mr. Dowlas to be so eager to act in that capacity ? "/don't want to act the constable," said the farrier, driven into a corner by this merciless reasoning ; " and there's no man can say it of me, if he'd tell the truth. But if there's to be any jealousy and envying about going to Kench's in the SILAS MAKNER. 889 rain, let them go as like it you won't get me to go, I can tell you." By the landlord's intervention, however, the dispute was accommodated. Mr. Dowlas consented to go as a second person disinclined to act officially ; and so poor Silas, furnish- ed with some old coverings, turned out with his two com- panions into the rain again, thinking of the long night-hours before him, not as those do who long to rest, but as those who expect to " watch for ihe morning." CHAPTER WHEN Godfrey Cass returned from Mrs. Osgood's party at midnight, he was not much surprised to learn that Dunsey had not come home. Perhaps he had not sold Wildfire, and was waiting for another chance perhaps, on that foggy afternoon, he had preferred housing himself at the Red Lion at Batherley for the night, if the run had kept him in that neighborhood ; for he was not likely to feel much concern about leaving his brother in suspense. Godfrey's mind was too full of Nancy Lammeter's looks and behavior, too full of the exasperation against himself and his lot, which the sight of her always produced in him, for him to give much thought to Wildfire, or to the probabilities of Dunstan's conduct. The next morning the whole village was excited by the story of the robbery, and Godfrey, like every one else, was occupied in gathering and discussing news about it, and in visiting the Stone-pits. The rain had washed away all pos- sibility of distinguishing footmarks, but a close investigation of the spot had disclosed, in the direction opposite to the vil- lage, a tinder-box, with a flint and steel, half sunk in the mud. It was not Silas's tinder-box, for the only one he had ever had was still standing on his shelf; and the inference generally accepted was, that the tinder-box in the ditch was somehow connected with the robbery. A small minority shook their heads, and intimated their opinion that it was not a robbery to have much light thrown on it by tinder-boxes, that Master Marner's tale had a queer look Avith it, and that such things had been known as a man's doing himself a mischief, and then setting the justice to look for the doer. But when questioned closely as to their grounds for this opinion, and what Master Marner had to gain by such false pretenses, they only shook their heads as before, and observe'.! that 390 SILAS MARNER. there was no knowing what some folks counted gain ; more- over, that every body had a right to their own opinions, grounds or no grounds, and that the weaver, as every body knew, was partly crazy. Mr. Macey, though he joined in the defense of Marner against all suspicions of deceit, also pooh- poohed the tinder-box ; indeed, repudiated it as a rather im- pious suggestion, tejiding to imply that every thing must be done by human hands, and that there was no power which could make away with the guineas without moving the bricks. Nevertheless, he turned round rather sharply on Mr. Tookey, when the zealous deputy, feeling that this was a view of the case peculiarly suited to a parish-clerk, carried it still farther, and doubted whether it was right to inquire into a robbery at all when the circumstances were so myste- rious. " As if," concluded Mr. Tookey " as if there was nothing but what could be made out by justices and constables." " Now, don't you be for overshooting the mark, Tookey," said Mr. Maccy, nodding his head aside admonishingly. "That's what your allays at; if I throw a stone and hit, you think there's summat better than hitting, and you try to throw a stone beyond. What I said was against the tinder- box: I said nothing against justices and constables, for they're o' King George's making, and it 'ud be ill-becoming a man in a parish office to fly out again' King George." While these discussions were going on amongst the group outside the Rainbow, a higher consultation was being earned on within, under the presidency of Mr. Crnckenthorp, the rec- tor, assisted by Squire Cass, and other substantial parishioners. It had just occurred to Mr. Snell, the landlord he being, as he observed, a man accustomed to put two and two together to connect with the tinder-box, which, as deputy constable, he himself had had the honorable distinction of finding, cer- tain recollections of a peddler who had called to drink at the house about a month before, and had actually stated that he carried a tinder-box about with him to light his pipe. Here, surely, was a clue to be followed out. And as memory, when duly impregnated with ascertained facts, is sometimes surprisingly fertile, Mr. Snell gradually recovered a vivid im- pression of the effect produced on him by the peddler's coun- tenance and conversation. He had a " look with his eye " which fell unpleasantly on Mr. Snell's sensitive organism. To be sure, he didn't say any thing particular no, except that about the tinder-box but it isn't what a man savs, it's the way he says it. Moreover, he had a swarthy foreignness of complexion, which boded little honesty. SILAS MABNEB. 391 " Did he wear ear-rings ?" Mr. Crackenthorp wished to know, having some acquaintance with foreign customs. " Well stay let me see," said Mr. Snell, like a docile clairvoyante, who would really not make 'a mistake if she could help it. After stretching the corners of his mouth and contracting his eyes, as if he were trying to see the ear-rings, lie appeared to give up the effort, and said, " Well, he'd got ear-rings in his box to sell, so it's nat'ral to suppose he might wear 'em. But he called at every house, a'most, in the vil- lage: there's somebody else, mayhap, saw 'em in his ears, though I can't take upon me rightly to say." Mr. Snell was correct in his surmise, that somebody else would remember the peddler's ear-rings. For, on the spread of inquiry among the villagers, it was stated with gathering emphasis, that the parson had wanted to know whether the peddler wore ear-rings in his ears, and an impression was created that a great deal depended on the eliciting of this fact. Of course, every one who heard the question, not hav- ing any distinct image of the peddler as without ear-rings, immediately had an image of him with ear-rings, larger or smaller, as the case might be ; and the image was presently taken for a vivid recollection, so that the glazier's wife, a well-intentioned woman, not given to lying, and whose house was among the cleanest in the village, was ready to declare, as sure as ever she meant to take the sacrament the very next Christmas that was ever coming, that she had seen big ear-rings, in the shape of the young moon, in the peddler's two ears ; while Jinny Gates, the cobbler's daughter, being a more imaginative person, stated not only that she had seen them too, but that they had made her blood creep, as it did at that very moment while there she stood. Also, by way of throwing further light on this clue of the tinder-box, a collection was made of all the articles purchased from the peddler at various houses, and carried to the Rain- bow to be exhibited there. In fact, there Avas a general feel- ing in the village, that for the clearing-up of this robbery there must be a great deal done at the Rainbow, and that no man need offer his wife an excuse for going there while it was the scene of severe public duties. Some disappointment was felt, and perhaps a little indig- nation also, when it became known that Silas Marner, on be- ing questioned by the Squire and the parson, had retained no other recollection of the peddler than that he had called at his door, but had not entered his house, having turned away at once when Silas, holding the door ajar, had said that he wanted nothing. This had been Silas's testimony, though he 392 SILAS MARNEK. clutched strongly at the idea of the peddler's being the cul- prit, if only because it gave him- a definite image of a where- about for his gold, after it had been taken away from its hid- ing-place : he could see it now in the peddler's box. But it was observed with some irritation in the village, that any body but a " blind creatur " like Marner would have seen the man prowling about, for how came he to leave his tinder-box in the ditch close by, if he hadn't been lingering there ? Doubtless, he had made his observations when he saw Mar- ner at the door. Any body might know and only look at him that the weaver was a half-crazy miser. It was a won- der the peddler hadn't murdered him; men of that sort, with rings in their ears, had been known for murderers often and often ; there had been one tried at the 'sizes, not so long ago but what there were people living who remembered it. Godfrey Cass, indeed, entering the Rainbow during one of Mr. Snell's frequently repeated recitals of his testimony, had treated it lightly, stating that he himself had bought a penknife of the peddler, and thought him a merry grinning fellow enough ; it was all nonsense, he said, about the man's evil looks. But this was spoken of in the village as the random talk of youth, " as if it was only Mr. Snell who had seen some- thing odd about the peddler ! On the contrary, there were at least half a dozen who were ready to go before Justice Malam, and give in much more striking testimony than any the landlord could furnish. It was to be hoped Mr. Godfrey would not go to Tarley and throw cold water on what Mr. Snell said there, and so prevent the justice from drawing up a warrant. He was suspe " I doubted it was so," said Mr. Macey. " Now, let me advise you to get a Sunday suit : there's Tookey, he's a poor creatur, but he's got my tailoring business, and some o' my money in it, and he shall make a suit at a low price, and give you trust, and then you can come to church, and be a bit neighborly. Why, you've never heaved me say ' Amen ' since you come into these parts, and I recommend you to lose no time, for it'll be poor work when Tookey has it all to himself, for I mayn't be equil to stand i' the desk at all, come another winter." Here Mr. Macey paused, perhaps expecting some sign of emotion in his hearer ; but not observing any, he went on. "And as for the money for the suit o' clothes, why, you get a matter of a pound a-week at your weaving, Master Marner, and you're a young man, eh, for all you look so mushed. Why, you couldn't ha' been five-and-twenty when you come into these parts, eh ?" Silas started a little at the change to a questioning tone, and answered mildly, " I don't know ; I can't rightly say it's a long while since." After receiving such an answer as this, it is not surprising that Mr. Macey observed, later on in the evening at the Rain- bow, that Marner's head was " all of a muddle," and that it was to be doubted if he ever knew when Sunday came around, which showed him a worse heathen than many a dog. Another of Silas's comforters, besides Mr. Macey, came to him with a mind highly chai'ged on the same topic. This was Mrs. Winthrop, the wheelwright's wife. The inhabitants of Raveloe were not severely regular in their church-going, and perhaps there was hardly a person in the parish who would not have held that to go to church every Sunday in the calendar would have shown a greedy desire to stand well SILAS MAKNER. 407 with Heaven, and get an undue advantage over their neigh- bors a wish to be better than the " common run," that would have implied a reflection on those who had had god- fathers and godmothers as well as themselves, and had an equal right to the burying-service. At the same time, it was understood to be requisite for all who were not household servants, or young men, to take the sacrament at one of the great festivals : Squire Cass himself took it on Christmas- day ; while those who were held to be " good livers " went to church with greater, though still with moderate, frequency. Mrs. Winthrop was one of these : she was in all respects a woman of scrupulous conscience, so eager for duties, that life seemed to offer them too scantily unless she rose at half- past four, though this threw a scarcity of work over the more advanced hours of the morning, which it was a con- stant problem with her to remove. Yet she had not the vixen- ish temper which is sometimes supposed to be a necessary condition of such habits : she was a very mild, patient wom- an, whose nature it was to seek out all the sadder and more serious elements of life, and pasture her mind upon them. She was the person always first thought of in Raveloe when there was illness or death in a family, when leeches were to be applied, or there was a sudden disappointment in a month- ly nurse. She was a "comfortable woman" good-looking, fresh-complexioned, having her lips always slightly screwed, as if she felt herself in a sick-room with the doctor or the cler- gyman present. But she was never whimpering ; no one had seen her shed tears; she was simply grave and inclined to shake her head and sigh, almost imperceptibly, like a fu- nereal mourner who is not a relation. It seemed surprising that Ben Winthrop, who loved his quart-pot and his joke, got along so well with Dolly ; but she took her husband's jokes and joviality as patiently as every thing else, consid- ering that " men would be so," and viewing the stronger sex in the light of animals whom it had pleased Heaven to make naturally troublesome, like bulls and turkey-cocks. This good wholesome woman could hardly fail to have her mind drawn strongly towards Silas Marner, now that he ap- peared in the light of a sufferer ; and one Sunday afternoon she took her little boy Aaron with her, and went to call on Silas, carrying in her hand some small lard-cakes, flat paste- like articles, much esteemed in Raveloe. Aaron, an apple- cheeked youngster of seven, with a clean starched frill, which looked like a plate for the apples, needed all his adventurous curiosity to embolden him against the possibility that the ing-eyed weaver might do him some bodily injury ; and his 408 SILAS MAKNER. dubiety was much increased when, on arriving at the Stone- pits, they heard the mysterious sound of the loom. " Ah, it is as I thought," said Mrs. Winthrop, sadly. They had to knock loudly before Silas heard them ; but when he did come to the door, he showed no impatience, as he would once have done, at a visit that had been unasked for and unexpected. Formerly, his heart had been as a locked casket with its treasure inside ; but now the casket was empty, and the lock was broken. Left groping in darkness, with his prop utterly gone, Silas had inevitably a sense, though a dull and half-despairing one, that if any help oame to him it must come from without ; and there was a slight stirring of expectation at the sight of his fellow-men, a faint consciousness of dependence on their good-will. He opened the door wide to admit Dolly, but without otherwise returning her greeting than by moving the arm-chair a few inches as a sign that she was to sit down in it. Dolly, as soon as she was seated, removed the white cloth that covered her lard- cakes, and said in her gravest way " I'd a baking yisterday, Master Marner, and the lard-cakes turned out better nor common, and I'd ha' asked you to ac- cept some, if you'd thought well. I don't eat such things myself, for a bit o' bread's what I like from one year's end to the other ; but men's stomichs are made so comical, they want a change they do, I know, God help 'em." Dolly sighed gently as she held out the cakes to Silas, who thanked her kindly,, and looked very close at them, ab- sently, being accustomed to look so at every thing he took into his hand eyed all the while by the wondering bright orbs of the small Aaron, who had made an outwork of his mother's chair, and was peeping round from behind it. " There's letters pricked on 'em," said Dolly. " I can't read 'em myself, and there's nobody, not Mr. Macey himself, rightly knows what they mean ; but they've a good mean- ing, for they're the same as is on the pulpit-cloth at church. What are they, Aaron, my dear ?" Aaron retreated completely behind his outwork. " Oh go, that's naughty," said his mother, mildly. " Well, whativer the letters are, they've a good meaning ; and it's a stamp as has been in our house, Ben says, ever since he Avas a little un, and his mother used to put it on the cakes, and I've allays put it on too ; for if there's any good, we've need of it i' this world." "It'sL H. S.," said Silas, at which proof of learning Aaron peeped round the chair again. "Wll, to be sure, you can read 'cm off," said Dolly SILAS MARKER. 409 " Ben's read 'era to me many and many a time, but they slip out o' my mind again ; the more's the pity, for they're good letters, else they wouldn't be in the church ; and so I prick 'em on all the loaves and all the cakes, though sometimes they won't hold, because o' the rising for, as I said, if there's any good to be got, we've need on it i' this world that we have ; and I hope they'll bring good to you, Master Marner, for it's wi' that will I brought you the cakes ; and you see the letters have held better nor common." Silas was as unable to interpret the letters as Dolly, but there was no possibility of misunderstanding the desire to give comfort that made itself heard in her quiet tones. He said, with more feeling than before " Thank you thank you kindly." But he laid down the cakes and seated himself ab- sently drearily unconscious of any distinct benefit towards which the cakes and the letters, or even Dolly's kindness, could tend for him. " Ah, if there's good anywhere, we've need of it," repeated Dolly, who did not lightly forsake a serviceable phrase. She looked at Silas pityingly as she went on. "But you didn't hear the church-bells this morning, Master Marner? I doubt you didn't know it was Sunday. Living so lone here, you lose your count, I daresay ; and then, when your loom makes a noise, you can't hear the bells, more partic'lar now the frost kills the sound." " Yes, I did ; I heard 'em," said Silas, to whom Sunday bells were a mere accident of the day, and not part of its sacredness. There had been no bells in Lantern Yard. " Dear heart !" said Dolly, pausing before she spoke again. " But what a pity it is you should work of a Sunday, and not clean yourself if you didn't go to church ; for if you'd a roastingbit, it might be as you couldn't leave it, being a lone man. But there's the bakehus, if you could make up your mind to spend a twopence on the oven now and then, not every week, in course I shouldn't like to do that myself, you might carry your bit o' dinner there, for it's nothing but right to have a bit o' summat hot of a Sunday, and not to make it as you can't know your dinner from Saturday. But now, upo' Christmas-day, this blessed Christmas as is ever coming, if you was to take your dinner to the bakehus, and go to church, and see the holly and the yew, and hear the an- thim, and then take the sacramen', you'd be a deal the better, and you'd know which end you stood on, and you could put your trust i' Them as knows better nor we do, seein' you'd ha' done what it lies on us all to do." Dolly's exhortation, which was an unusually long effort of 18 410 SILAS MAK NEK. speech for her, was uttered in the soothing persuasive tone with which she would have tried to prevail on a sick man to take his medicine, or a basin of gruel for which lie had no ap- petite. Silas had never before been closely urged on the point of his absence from church, which had only been thought of as a part of his general queerness ; and he was too direct and simple to evade Dolly's appeal. "Nay, nay," he said, "I know nothing o' church. I've never been to church." "No !" said Dolly, in a low tone of wonderment. Then bethinking herself of Silas's advent from an unknown coun- try, she said, " Could it ha' been as they'd no church where you was born ?" " Oh yes," said Silas, meditatively, sitting in his usual pos- ture of leaning on his knees, and supporting his head. " There was churches a many it was a big town. But I knew nothing of 'em I went to chapel." Dolly was much puzzled at this new word, but she was rather afraid of inquiring further, lest " chapel " might mean some haunt of wickedness. After a little thought, she said " Well, Master Marner, it's niver too late to turn over a new leaf, and if you've never had no church, there's no telling the good it'll do you. For I feel so set up and comfortable as niver was, when I've been and heard the prayers, and the singing to the praise and glory o' God, as Mr. Macey gives out and Mr. Crackenthorp saying good words, and more partic'ler on Sacramen' Day ; and if a bit o trouble comes, I feel as I can put up wi' it, tor I've looked for help i' the right quarter, and gev myself up to them as we must all give our- selves up to at the last ; and if we'n done our part, it isn't to be believed as Them as are above us 'ull be worse nor we are, and come short o' Theirn." Poor Dolly's exposition of her simple Raveloe theology fell rather unmeaningly on Silas's ears, for there was no word in it that could rouse a memory of what he had known as re- ligion, and his comprehension was quite baffled by the plural pronoun, which was no heresy of Dolly's, but only her way of avoiding a presumptuous familiarity. He remained silent, not feeling inclined to assent to the part of Dolly's speech which he fully understood her recommendation that he should go to church. Indeed, Silas was so unaccustomed to talk beyond the brief questions and answers necessary for the transaction of his simple business, that words did not easily come to him without the urgency of a distinct purpose. But now, little Aaron, having become used to the weaver's awful presence, had advanced to his mother's side, and Silas, SILAS MARNER. 411 seeming to notice him for the first time, tried to return Dol- ly's signs of good-will by offering the lad a bit of lard-cake. Aaron shrank back a little, and rubbed his head against his mother's shoulder, but still thought the piece of cake worth the risk of putting his hand out for it. " Oh, for shame, Aaron," said his mother, taking him on her lap, however ; " why, you don't want cake again yet awhile. He's wonderful hearty," she went on, with a little sigh " that he is, God knows. He's my youngest, and we spoil him sad- ly, for either me or the father must allays hev him in our sight that we must." She stroked Aaron's brown head, and thought it must do Master Marner good to see such a " pictur of a child." But Marner, on the other side of the hearth, saw the neat-featured rosy face as a mere dim round, with two dark spots in it. "And he's got a voice like a bird you wouldn't think,'* Dolly went on ; " he can sing a Christmas carril as his father's taught him : and I take it for a token as he'll come to good, as he can learn the good tunes so quick. Come, Aaron, stan' up and sing the carril to Master Marner, come." Aaron replied by rubbing his forehead against his moth- er's shoulder. " Oh, that's naughty," said Dolly, gently. " Stan' up, when mother tells you, and let me hold the cake till you've done." Aaron was not indisposed to display his talents, even to an ogre, under protecting circumstances ; and after a few more signs of coyness, consisting chiefly in rubbing the backs of his hands over his eyes, and then peeping between them at Master Marner, to see if he looked anxious for the " carril," he at length allowed his head to be duly adjusted, and stand ing behind the table, which let him appear above it only as far as his broad frill, so that he looked like a cherubic head untroubled with a body, he began with a clear chirp, and in a melody that had the rhythm of an industrious hammer, "God rest yon, merry gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay, For Jesus Christ our Saviour Was born on Christmas-day." Dolly listened with a devout look, glancing at Marner in some confidence that this strain would help to allure him to church. " That's Christmas music," she said, when Aaron had ended, and had secured his piece of cake again. " There's no other music equil to the Christmas music ' Hark the erol angils 412 SILAS MARNER. sing.' And you may judge what it is at church, Master Mar- ner, with the bassoon and the voices, as you can't help think- ing you've got to a better place a'ready for I wouldn't speak ill o' this world, seeing as Them put us in it as knows best ; but what wi' the drink, and the quarrelling, and the bad ill- nesses, and the hard dying, as I've seen times and times, one's thankful to hear of a better. The boy sings pretty, don't lie, Master Marner ?" " Yes," said Silas, absently, " very pretty." The Christmas carol, with its hammer-like rhythm, had fall- en on his ears as strange music, quite unlike a hymn, and could have none of the effect Dolly contemplated. But he wanted to show her that he was grateful, and the only mode that occurred to him was to offer Aaron a bit more cake. " Oh, no, thank you, Master Marner," said Dolly, holding down Aaron's willing hands. " We must be going home now. And so I wish you good-bye, Master Marner ; and if you ever feel anyways bad in your inside, as you can't fend for yourself, I'll come and clean up for you, and get you a bit o' victual, and willing. But I beg and pray of you to leave off weaving of a Sunday, for it's bad for soul and body and the money as comes i' that way 'nil be a bad bed to lie down on at the last, if it doesn't fly away, nobody knows where, like the white frost. And you'll excuse me being that free with you, Master Marner, for I wish you well I do. Make your bow, Aaron." Silas said " Good-bye, and thank you kindly," as he open- ed the door for Dolly, but he couldn't help feeling relieved when she was gone relieved that he might weave again and inoan at his ease. Her simple view of life and its comforts, by which she had tried to cheer him, was only like a report of unknown objects, which his imagination could not fashion. The fountains of human love and divine faith had not yet been unlocked, and his sou. was still the shrunken rivulet, with only this difference, that its little groove of sand was blocked up, and it wandered confusedly against dark obstruc- tion. And so, notwithstanding the honest persuasions of Mr. Ma- cey and Dolly Winthrop, Silas spent his Christmas-day in lone- liness, eating his meat in sadness of heart, though the meat had come to him as a neighborly present. In the morning he looked out on the black frost that seemed to press cruelly on every blade of grass, while the half-icy red pool shivered under the bitter wind ; but towards evening the snow began to fall, and curtained from him even that dreary outlook, shut- ting him close up with his narrow grief. And he sat in his SILAS MARNER. 413 robbed home through the livelong evening, not caring to close his shutters or lock his door, pressing his head between his hands and moaning, till the cold grasped him and told him that his fire was gray. Nobody in this world but himself knew that he was the same Silas Marner who had once loved his fellow with ten- der love, and trusted in an unseen goodness. Even to him- self that past experience had become dim. But in Kaveloe village the bells rang merrily, and the church was fuller than all through the rest of the year, with red faces among the abundant dark-green boughs faces prepared for a longer service than usual by an odorous breakfast of toast and ale. Those green boughs, the hymn and anthem never heard but at Christmas even the Athanasian Creed, which was discriminated from the others only as being long- er and of exceptional virtue, since it was only read on rare oc- casions brought a vague exulting sense, for which the grown men could as little have found words as the children, that some thing great and mysterious had been done for them in heaven above, and in earth below, Avhich they were appropriating by their presence. And then the red faces made their way through the black biting frost to their own homes, feeling themselves free for the rest of the day to eat, drink, and be merry, and using that Christian freedom without diffidence. At Squire Cass's family party that day nobody mentioned Dunstan nobody was sorry for his absence, or feared it would be too long. The doctor and his wife, uncle and aunt Kimble, were there, and the annual Christmas talk was car- ried through without any omissions, rising to the climax of Mr. Kimble's experience when he walked the London hospi- tals thirty years back, together with striking professional an- ecdotes then gathered. Whereupon cards followed, with Aunt Kimble's annual failure to follow suit, and Uncle Kim- ble's irascibility concerning the odd trick which was rarely explicable to him, when it was not on his side, without a gen- eral visitation of tricks to see that they were formed on sound principles : the whole being accompanied by a strong steam- ing odor of spirits-and-water. But the party on Christmas-day, being a strictly family party, was not the pre-eminently brilliant celebration of the season at the Red House. It was the great dance on New Year's Eve that made the glory of Squire Cass's hospitality, as of his forefathers', time out of mind. This was the occa- sion when all the society of Raveloe and Tarley, whether old acquaintances separated by long rutty distances, or cooled ac- quaintances separated by misunderstandings concerning run 414 SILAS MAKNKK. away calves, or acquaintances founded on intermittent conde- scension, counted on meeting and on comporting themselves with mutual appropriateness. This was the occasion on which fair dames who came on pillions sent their bandboxes before them, supplied with more than their evening costume ; for the feast was not to end with a single evening, like a paltry town entertainment, where the whole supply of eatables is put on the table at once, and bedding is scanty. The Red House was provisioned as if for a siege ; and as for the spare feath- er-beds ready to be laid on floors, they were as plentiful as might naturally be expected in a family that had killed its own geese for many generations. Godfrey Cass was looking forward to this New Year's Eve with a foolish reckless longing, that made him half deaf to his importunate companion, Anxiety. "Dunsey will be coming home soon : there will be a great blow-up, and how will you bribe his spite to silence ?" said Anxiety. " Oh, he won't come home before New Year's Eve, perhaps," said Godfrey ; " and I shall sit by Nancy then, and dance with her, and get a kind look from her in spite of herself!" " But money is wanted in another quarter," said Anxiety, in a louder voice, "and how will you get it without selling your mother's diamond pin ? Ana if you don't get it. ... ?" " Well, but something may happen to make things easier. At any rate, there's one pleasure for me close at hand : Nan- cy is coming." " Yes, and suppose your father should bring matters to a pass that will oblige you to decline marrying her and to give your reasons ?" " Hold your tongue, and don't worry me. I can see Nan- cy's eyes, just as they will look at me, and feel her hand in mine already." But Anxiety went on, though in noisy Christmas compa- ny ; refusing to be utterly quieted even by much drinking. CHAPTER XL SOME women, I grant, would not appear to advantage seat- ed on a pillion, and attired in a drab Joseph and a drab bea- ver-bonnet, with a crown resembling a small stew-pan ; for a garment suggesting a coachman's great-coat, cut out under an exiguity of cloth that would only allow of miniature SILAS MARKER. 415 capes, is not well adapted to conceal deficiencies of contour, nor is drab a color that will throw sallow cheeks into lively contrast. It was all the greater triumph to Miss Nancy Lam- meter's beauty that she looked thoroughly bewitching in that costume, as, seated on the pillion behind her tall, erect father, she held one arm round him, and looked down, with open- eyed anxiety, at the treacherous snow-covered pools and pud- dles, which sent up formidable splashings of mud under the stamp of Dobbin's foot. A painter would, perhaps, have pre- ferred her in those moments when she was free from self-con- sciousness ; but certainly the bloom on her cheeks was at its highest point of contrast with the surrounding drab when she arrived at the door of the Red House, and saw Mr. God- frey Cass ready to lift her from the pillion. She wished her sister Priscilla had come up at the same time with the serv- ant, for then she would have contrived that Mr. Godfrey should have lifted off Priscilla first, and, in the mean time, she would have persuaded her father to go round to the horse- block instead of alighting at the door-steps. It was very painful, when you had made it quite clear to a young man that you were determined not to marry him, however much he might wish it, that he would still continue to pay you marked attentions ; besides, why didn't he always show the same attentions, if he meant them sincerely, instead of being so strange as Mr. Godfrey Cass was, sometimes behaving as if he didn't want to speak to her, and taking no notice of her for weeks and weeks, and then, all on a sudden, almost mak- ing love again ? Moreover, it was quite plain he had no real love for her, else he would not let people have that to say of him which they did say. Did"he suppose that Miss Nancy Lammeter was to be won by any man, squire or no squire, who led a bad life ? That was not what she had been used to see in her own father, who was the soberest and best man in that country-side, only a little hot and hasty now and then, if things were not done to the minute. All these thoughts rushed through Miss Nancy's mind, in their habitual succession, in the moments between her first sight of Mr. Godfrey Cass standing at the door and her own arrival there. Happily, the Squire came out too, and gave a loud greeting to her father, so that, somehow, under cover of this noise, she seemed to find concealment for her confusion and neglect of any suitably formal behavior, while she was being lifted from the pillion by strong arms, which seemed to find her ridiculously small and light. And there was the best reason for hastening into the house at once, since the snow was beginning to fall again, threatening an unpleasant 416 SILAS MARNER. journey for such guests as were still on the road. These were a small minority ; for already the afternoon was begin- ning to decline, and there would not be too much time for the ladies who came from a distance to attire themselves in readiness for the early tea which was to inspirit them for the dance. There was a buzz of voices through the house, as Miss Nancy entered, mingled with the scrape of a fiddle prelud- ing in the kitchen ; but the Lammeters were guests whose arrival had evidently been thought of so much that it had been watched for from the windows, for Mi's. Kimble, who did the honors at the Red House on these great occasions, came forward to meet Miss Nancy in the hall, and conduct her up stairs. Mrs. Kimble was the Squire's sister, as well as the doctor's wife a double dignity, with which her diameter was in direct proportion ; so that, a journey up stairs being rather fatiguing to her, she did not oppose Miss Nancy's re- quest to be allowed to find her way alone to the Blue Room, where the Miss Lammeters' bandboxes had been deposited on their arrival in the morning. There was hardly a bedroom in the house where feminine compliments were not passing and feminine toilettes going forward, in various stages, in space made scanty by extra beds spread upon the floor ; and Miss Nancy, as she entered the Blue Room, had to make her little formal courtesy to a group of six. On the one hand, there were ladies no less im- portant than the two Miss Gunns, the wine merchant's daugh- ters from Lytherly, dressed in the height of fashion, with the tightest skirts and the shortest waists, and gazed at by Miss Ladbrook (of the Old Pastures) with a shyness not unsus- tained by inward criticism. Partly, Miss Ladbrook felt that her own skirt must be regarded as unduly lax by the Miss Gunns, and partly, that it was a pity the Miss Gunns did not show that judgment which she herself would show if she were in their place, by stopping a little on this side of the fashion. On the other hand, Mrs. Ladbrook was standing in skull-cap and front, with her turban in her hand, courtesying and smiling blandly and saying, " After you, ma'am," to an- other lady in similar circumstances, who had politely offered the precedence at the looking-glass. But Miss Nancy had no sooner made her courtesy than an elderly lady came forward, whose full white muslin kerchief, and mob-cab round her curls of smooth gray hair, were in daring contrast with the puffed yellow satins and top-knot- ted caps of her neighbors. She approached Miss Nancy with much primness, and said, with a slow, treble suavity, SILAS MARNER. 417 " Niece, I hope I see you well in health." Miss Nancy kissed her aunt's cheek dutifully, and answered, with the same sort of amiable primness, " Quite well, I thank you, aunt ; and I hope I see you the same." " Thank you, niece ; I keep my health for the present. And how is my brother-in-law ?" These dutiful questions and answers were continued until it was ascertained in detail that the Lammeters were all as well as usual, and the Osgoods likewise, also that niece Priscilla, must certainly arrive shortly, and that travelling on pillions in snowy weather was unpleasant, though a Joseph was a great protection. Then Nancy was formally introduced to her aunt's visitors, the Miss Gunns, as being the daughters of a mother known to ttwir mother, though now for the first time induced to make a journey in these parts ; and these ladies were so taken by surprise at finding such a lovely face and figure in an out-of-the-way country place, that they be- gan to feel some curiosity about the dress she would put on when she took off her Joseph. Miss Nancy, whose thoughts were always conducted with the propriety and moderation conspicuous in her manners, remarked to herself that the Miss Gunns were rather hard-featured than otherwise, and that such very low dresses as they wore might have been attrib- uted to vanity if their shoulders had been pretty, but that, being as they were, it was not reasonable to suppose that they showed their necks from a love of display, but rather from some obligation not inconsistent with sense and modes- ty. She felt convinced, as she opened her box, that this must be her aunt Osgood's opinion, for Miss Nancy's mind resembled her aunt's to a degree that every body said was surprising, considering the kinship was on Mr. Osgood's side ; and though you might not have supposed it from the formal- ity of their greeting, there was a devoted attachment and mu- tual admiration between aunt and niece. Even Miss Nancy's refusal of her cousin Gilbert Osgood (on the ground solely that he was her cousin), though it had grieved her aunt greatly, had not in the least cooled the preference which had determined her to leave Nancy several of her hered- itary ornaments, let Gilbert's future wife be whom she might. Three of the ladies quickly retired, but the Miss Gunns were quite content that Mrs. Osgood's inclination to remain with her niece gave them also a reason for staying to see the rustic beauty's toilette. And it was really a pleasure from the first opening of the bandbox, where every thing smelt of lavender and rose-leaves, to the clasping of the small coral 18* 4 18 SILAS MABNER. necklace that fitted closely round her little white neck. Every thing belonging to Miss Nancy was of delicate purity and nattiness : not a crease was where it had no business to be, not a bit of her linen professed whiteness without fulfill- ing its profession ; the very pins on her pincushion were stuck in after a pattern from which she was careful to allow no aberration ; and as for her own person, it gave the same idea of perfect unvarying neatness as the body of a little bird. It is true that her light-brown hair was cropped behind like a boy's, and was dressed in front in a number of flat rings, that lay quite away from her face ; but there was no sort of coiffure that could make Miss Nancy's cheek and neck look otherwise than pretty ; and when at last she stood complete in her silvery twilled silk, her lace tucker, her coral necklace, and coral ear-drops, the Miss Gunns could see nothing to criticise except her hands, which bore the traces of butter- making, cheese-crushing, and even still coarser work. But Miss Nancy was not ashamed of that, for while she was dress- ing she narrated to her aunt how she and Priscilla had pack- ed their boxes yesterday, because this morning was baking morning, and since they were leaving home, it was desirable to make a good supply of meat-pics for the kitchen ; and as she concluded this judicious remark, she turned to the Miss Gunns that she might not commit the rudeness of not includ- ing them in the conversation. The Miss Gunns smiled stiff- ly, and thought what a pity it was that these rich country people, who could afford to buy such good clothes (really Miss Nancy's lace and silk were very costly), should be brought up in utter ignorance and vulgarity. She actually said " mate " for " meat," " 'appen " for " perhaps," and " oss " for " horse," which, to young ladies living in good Lytherly society, who habitually said 'orse, even in domestic privacy, and only said 'appen on the right occasions, was necessarily shocking. Miss Nancy, indeed, had never been to any school higher than Dame Tedman's : her acquaintance with profane literature hardly went beyond the rhymes she had worked in her large sampler under the lamb and the shepherdess ; and in order to balance an account, she was obliged to effect her subtraction by removing visible metallic shillings and six- pences from a visible metallic total. There is hardly a serv- ant-maid in these days who is not better informed than Miss Nancy ; yet she had the essential attributes of a lady high veracity, delicate honor in her dealings, deference to others, and refined personal habits, and lest these should not suffice to convince grammatical fair ones that her feelings can at all resemble theirs, I will add that she was slightly proud and SILAS MARNER. 419 exacting, and as constant in her affection towards a baseless opinion as towards an erring lover. The anxiety about sister Priscilla, which had grown rath- er active by the time the coral necklace was clasped, was happily ended by the entrance of that cheerful-looking lady herself, with a face made blowsy by cold and damp. Af- ter the first questions and greetings, she turned to Nan- cy, and surveyed her from head to foot then wheeled her round, to ascertain that the back view was equally fault- less. " What do you think o' these gowns, aunt Osgood ?" said Priscilla, while Nancy helped her to unrobe. "Very handsome indeed, niece," said Mrs. Osgood, with a slight increase of formality. She always thought niece Priscilla too rough. " I'm obliged to have the same as Nancy, you know, for all I'm five years older, and it makes me look yallow; for she never will have any thing without I have mine just like it, because she wants us to look like sisters. And I tell her, folks 'nil think it's my weakness makes me fancy as I shall look pretty in what she looks pretty in. For I am ugly there's no denying that : I feature my father's family. But, law ! I don't mind, do you ?" Priscilla here turned to the Miss Gunns, rattling on in too much preoccupation with the delight of talking, to notice that her candor was not appre- ciated. "The pretty uns do for fly-catchers they keep the men off us. I've no opinion o' the men, Miss Gunn I don't know what you have. And as for fretting and stewing about what they'll think of you from morning till night, and mak- ing your life uneasy about what they're doing when they're out o' your sight as I tell Nancy, it's a folly no woman need be guilty of, if she's got a good father and a good home : let her leave it to them as have got no fortin, and can't help themselves. As I say, Mr. Have-your-own-way is the best husband, and the only one I'd ever promise to obey. I know it isn't pleasant, when you've been used to living in a big way, and managing hogsheads and all that, to go and put your nose in by somebody's else's fireside, or to sit down by yourself to a scrag or a knuckle ; but, thank God ! my fa- ther's a sober man and likely to live ; and if you've got a man by the chimney-corner, it doesn't matter if he's childish the business needn't be broke up." The delicate process of getting her narrow gown over her head without injury to her smooth curls, obliged Miss Pris- cilla to pause in this rapid survey of life, and Mrs. Osgood seized the opportunity of rising and saying, 420 SILAS MARKER. " Well, niece, you'll follow us. The Miss Gunns will like to go down." " Sister," said Nancy, when they were alone, " you've of- fended the Miss Gunns, I'm sure." " What have I done, child ?" said Priscilla, in some alarm. " Why, you asked them if they minded about being ugly you're so very blunt." " Law, did I ? Well, it popped out : it's a mercy I said no more, for I'm a bad un to live with folks when they don't like the truth. But as for being ugly, look at me, child, in this silver-colored silk I told you how it 'ud be I look as yallow as a daffodil. Any body 'ud say you wanted to make a mawkin of me." " No, Priscy, don't say so. I begged and prayed of you not to let us have this silk if you'd like another better. I was willing to have your choice, you know I was," said Nan- cy, in anxious self-vindication. " Nonsense, child, you know you'd set your heart on this : and reason good, for you're the color o' cream. It 'ud be fine doings for you to dress yourself to suit my skin. What I find fault with, is that notion o' yours as I must dress myself just like you. But you do as you like with me you always did, from when first you begun to walk. If you wanted to go the field's length, the field's length you'd go ; and there was no whipping you, for you looked as prim and innicent as a daisy all the while." "Priscy," said Nancy, gently, as she fastened a coral necklace, exactly like her own, round Priscilla's neck, which was very far from being like her own, "I'm sure I'm willing to give way as far as is right, but who shouldn't dress alike if it isn't sisters? Would you have us go about looking as if we were no kin to one another us that have got no moth- er and not another sister in the world ? I'd do what was right, if I dressed in a gown dyed with cheese-coloring ; and I'd rather you'd choose, and let me wear what pleases you." " There you go again ! You'd come round to the same thing if one talked to you from Saturday night till Saturday morning. It will be fine fun to see how you'll master your husband and never raise your voice above the singing o' the kettle all the while. I like to see the men mastered !" " Don't talk so, Priscy," said Nancy, blushing. " You know I don't mean ever to be married." " Oh, you never mean a fiddlestick's end !" said Priscilla, as she arranged her discarded dress, and closed her bandbox. " Who shall I have to work for when father's gone, if you are to go and take notions in your head and bo an old maid. SILAS MARNER. 421 because some folks are no better than they should be ? I haven't a bit o' patience with you sitting on an addled egg forever, as if there was never a fresh un in the world. One old maid's enough out o' two sisters ; and I shall do credit to a single life, for God A'mighty meant me for it. Come, we can go down now. I'm as ready as a mawkin can be there's nothing awanting to frighten the crows, now I've got my ear-droppers in." As the two Miss Lammeters walked into the large parlor together, any one who did not know the character of both, might certainly have supposed that the reason why the square-shouldered, clumsy, high-featured Priscilla wore a dress the fac-simile of her pretty sister's, was either the mis- taken vanity of the one, or the malicious contrivance of the other in order to set off" her own rare beauty. But the good- natured self-forgetful cheeriness and common-sense of Pris- cilla would soon have dissipated the one suspicion ; and the modest calm of Nancy's speech and manners told clearly of a mind free from all disavowed devices. Places of honor had been kept for the Miss Lammeters near the head of the principal tea-table in the wainscoted parlor, now looking fresh and pleasant with handsome branches of holly, yew, and laurel, from the abundant growths of the old garden ; and Nancy felt an inward flutter, that no firmness of purpose could prevent, when she saw Mr. Godfrey Cass advancing to lead her to a seat between himself and Mr. Crackenthorp, while Priscilla was called to the opposite side between her father and the Squire. It certainly did make some difference to Nancy that the lover she had given up was the young man of quite the highest consequence in the parish at home in a venerable and unique parlor, which was the extremity of grandeur in her experience, a parlor, where she might one day have been mistress, with the con- sciousness that she was spoken of as " Madam Cass," the Squire's wife. These circumstances exalted her inward drama in her own eyes, and deepened the emphasis with which she declared to herself that not the most dazzling rank should induce her to marry a man whose conduct show- ed him careless of his character, but that, "love once, love always," was the motto of a true and pure woman, and no man should ever have any right over her which would be a call on her to destroy the dried flowers that she treasured, and always would treasure, for Godfrey Cass's sake. And Nancy was capable of keeping her word to herself under very trying conditions. Nothing but a becoming blush betrayed the moving thoughts that urged themselves upon her as she 422 SILAS MARNER. accepted the seat next to Mr. Crackenthorp ; for she was so instinctively neat and adroit in all her actions, and her pret- ty lips met each other with such quiet firmness, that it would have been difficult for her to appear agitated. It was not the rector's practice to let a charming blush pass without an appropriate compliment. He was not in the least lofty or aristocratic, but simply a merry-eyed, small- featured, gray-haired man, with his chin propped by an am- ple, many-creased white neckcloth, which seemed to predom- inate over every other point in his person, and somehow to impress its peculiar character on his remarks ; so that to have considered his amenities apart from his cravat, would have been a severe, and perhaps a dangerous, effort of abstraction. " Ha, Miss Nancy," he said, turning his head within his cravat, and smiling down pleasantly upon her, " when any body pretends this has been a severe winter, I shall tell them I saw the roses blooming on New Year's Eve eh, Godfrey, what do you say ?" Godfrey made no reply, and avoided looking at Nancy very markedly ; for though these complimentary personali- ties were held to be in excellent taste in old-fashioned Rave- loe society, reverent love lias a politeness of its own which it teaches to men otherwise of small schooling. But the Squire was rather impatient at Godfrey's showing himself a dull spark in this way. By this advanced hour of the day, the Squire was always in higher spirits than we have seen him in at the breakfast-table, and felt it quite pleasant to fulfill the hereditary duty of being noisily jovial and patronizing : the large silver snuff-box was in active service, and was of- fered without fail to all neighbors from time to time, how- ever often they might have declined the favor. At present the Squire had only given an express welcome to the heads of families as they appeared ; but always as the evening deepened, his hospitality rayed out more widely, till he had tapped the youngest guests on the back, and shown a pecu- liar fondness for their presence, in the full belief that they must feel their lives made happy by their belonging to a parish where there was such a hearty man as Squire Cass to invite them and wish them well. Even in this early stage of the jovial mood, it was natural that he should wish to sup- ply his son's deficiencies by looking and speaking for him. "Ay, ay," he began, offering his snuff-box to Mr. Lam me- ter, who for the second time bowed his head and waved his hand in stiff rejection of the offer, " us old fellows may wish ourselves young to-night, when we see the mistletoe-bough in the White Parlor. It's true, most things are gone back'ard SILAS MARNER. 428 in these last thirty years the country's going down since the old king fell ill. But when I look at Miss Nancy here, I be- gin to think the lasses keep up their quality ; ding me if I remember a sample to match her, not when I was a fine young feilow, and thought a deal about my pigtail. No offense to you, madam," he added, bending to* Mrs. Crackenthorp, who sat by him, " I didn't know you when you were as young as Miss Nancy here." Mrs. Crackenthorp a small blinking woman, who fidgeted incessantly with her lace, ribbons, and gold chain, turning her head about and making subdued noises, very much like a guinea-pig, that twitches its nose and soliloquizes in all com- pany indiscriminately now blinked and fidgeted towards the Squire, and said, " Oh no no offense." This emphatic compliment of the Squire's to Nancy was felt by others besides Godfrey to have a diplomatic signifi- cance; and her father gave a slight additional erectness to his back, as he looked across the table at her with complacent gravity. That grave and orderly senior Avas not going to bate a jot of his dignity by seeming elated at the notion of a match between his family and the Squire's : he was gratified by any honor paid to his daughter; but he must see an al- teration in several ways before his consent would be vouch- safed. His spare but healthy person, and high-featured, firm face, that looked as if it had never been flushed by excess, was in strong contrast, not only with the Squire's, but with the appearance of the Raveloe farmers generally in accordance with a favorite saying of his own, that " breed was stronger than pasture." " Miss Nancy's wonderful like what her mother was, though ; isn't she, Kimble ?" said the stout lady of that name, looking round for her husband. But Doctor Kimble (country apothecaries in old days en- joyed that title without authority of diploma), being a thin and agile man, was flitting about the room with his hands in his pockets, making himself agreeable to his feminine patients, with medical impartiality, and being welcomed everywhere as a doctor by hereditary right not one of those miserable apothecaries who canvass for practice in strange neighbor- hoods, and spend all their income in starving their one horse, but a man of substance, able to keep an extravagant table like the best of his patients. Time out of mind the Raveloe doctor had been a Kimble ; Kimble was inherently a doctor's name ; and it was difficult to contemplate firmly the melan- choly fact that the actual Kimble had no son, so that his practice might one day be handed over to a successor, with 424 SILAS MARNER. the incongruous name of Taylor or Johnson. But in that case the wiser people in Raveloe would employ Dr. Blick of Flitton as less unnatural. " Did you speak to me, my dear ?" said the authentic doc- tor, coming quickly to his wife's side ; but, as if foreseeing that she would be too much out of breath to repeat her re- mark, he went on immediately " Ha, Miss Priscilla, the sight of you revives the taste of that super-excellent pork-pie. I hope the batch isn't near an end." " Yes, indeed, it is, doctor," said Priscilla ; " but I'll answer for it the next shall be as good. My pork-pies don't turn out well by chance." " Not as your doctoring does, eh, Kimble ? because folks forget to take your physic, eh ?" said the Squire, who regard- ed physic and doctors as many loyal churchmen regard the church and the clergy tasting a joke against them when he was in health, but impatiently eager for their aid when any thing was the matter with him. He tapped his box, and look- ed round with a triumphant laugh. " Ah, she has a quick wit, my friend Priscilla has," said the doctor, choosing to attribute the epigram to a lady rather than allow a brother-in-law that advantage over him. " She saves a little pepper to sprinkle over her talk that's the rea* son why she never puts too much into her pies. There's my wife, now, she never has an answer at her tongue's end ; but if I offend her, she's sure to scarify my throat with black pep- per the next day, or else give me the colic with watery greens. That's an awful tit-for-tat." Here the vivacious doctor made a pathetic grimace. " Did you ever hear the like ?" said Mrs. Kimble, laughing above her double chin with much good-humor, aside to Mrs. Crackenthorp, who blinked and nodded, and seemed to intend a smile, which, by the correlation of forces, went off in small twitchings and noises. " I suppose that's the sort of tit-for-tat adopted in your pro- fession, Kimble, if you've a grudge against a patient," said the rector. " Never do have a grudge against our patients," said Mr. Kimble, " except when they leave us : and then, you see, we haven't a chance of prescribing for 'em. Ha, Miss Nancy," he continued, suddenly skipping to Nancy's side, " you won't forget your promise ? You're to save a dance for me, you know." " Come, come, Kimble, don't you be too for'ard," said the Squire. "Give the young uns fair-play. There's my son Godfrey '11 be wanting to have a round with you if you SILAS MARKER. 425 run off with Miss Nancy. He's bespoke her for the first dance, I'll be bound. Eh, sir ! what do you say ?" he con- tinued throwing himself backward, and looking at Godfrey. "Haven't you asked Miss Nancy to open the dance with you ?" Godfrey, sorely uncomfortable under this significant insist' ance about Nancy, and afraid to think where it would end by the time his father had set his usual hospitable example of drinking before and after supper, saw no course open but to turn to Nancy and say, with as little awkwardness as possi- ble " No ; I've not asked her yet, but I hope she'll consent if somebody else hasn't been before me." "No, I've not engaged myself," said Nancy, quietly, though blushingly. (If Mr. Godfrey founded any hopes on her consenting to dance with him, he would soon be unde- ceived ; but there was no need for her to be uncivil.) " Then I hope you've no objections to dancing with me," said Godfrey, beginning to lose the sense that there was any thing uncomfortable in this arrangement. " No, no objections," said Nancy, in a cold tone. "Ah, well, you're a lucky fellow, Godfrey," said uncle Kimble ; " but you're my go'dson, so I won't stand in your way. Else I'm not so very old, eh, my dear?" he went on, skipping to his wife's side again. " You wouldn't mind my having a second after you were gone not if I cried a good deal first," " Come, come, take a cup o' tea and stop your tongue, do," said good-humored Mrs. Kimble, feeling some pride in a hus- band who must be regarded as so clever and amusing by the company generally. If he had only not been irritable at cards ! While safe, well-tested personalities were enlivening the tea in this way, the sound of the fiddle approaching within a distance at which it could be heard distinctly, made the young people look at each other with sympathetic impatience for the end of the meal. " Why, there's Solomon in the hall," said the Squire, " and playing my fav'rite tune, I believe ' The flaxen-headed plough-boy' he's for giving us a hint as we aren't enough in a hurry to hear him play. Bob," he called out to his third long-legged son, who was at the other end of the room, " open the door, and tell Solomon to come in. He shall give us a tune here." Bob obeyed, and Solomon walked in, fiddling as he walked, for he would on no account break off in the middle of a tune. . 426 SILAS 3IARXEB, "Here, Solomon," said the Squire with loud patronage. " Round here, my man. Ah, I knew it was ' The flaxen-head- ed plough-boy :' there's no finer tune." Solomon Macey, a small, hale old man with an abundant crop of long white hair reaching nearly to his shoulders, ad vanced to the indicated spot, bowing reverently while he fid- dled, as much as to say that he respected the company, though he respected the key-note more. As soon as he had repeated the tune and lowered his fiddle, he bowed again to the Squire and the rector, and said, "I hope I see your honor and your reverence well, and wishing you health and long life and a happy New Year. And wishing the same to you, Mr. Lammeter, sir ; and to the other gentlemen, and the mad- ams, and the young lasses." As Solomon uttered the last words, he bowed in all direc- tions solicitously, lest he should be wanting in due respect. But thereupon he immediately began to prelude, and fell into the tune which he knew would be taken as a special compli- ment by Mr. Lammeter. " Thank ye, Solomon, thank ye," said Mr. Lammeter when the fiddle paused again. "That's 'Over the hills and far away,' that is. My father used say to me, whenever we heard that tune, ' Ah, lad, I come from over the hills and far away.' There's a many tunes I don't make head or tail of; but that speaks to me like the blackbird's whistle. I suppose it's the name : there's a deal in the name of a tune." But Solomon was already impatient to prelude again, and presently broke with much spirit into " Sir Roger de Cover- ly," at which there was a sound of chairs pushed back, and laughing voices. " Ay, ay, Solomon, we know what that means," said the Squire, rising. " It's time to begin the dance, eh ? Lead the way, then, and we'll all follow you." So Solomon, holding his white head on one side, and play- iisg vigorously, marched forward at the head of the gay pro- vtf.ssiou into the White Parlor, where the mistletoe-bough was hung, and multitudinous tallow candles made rather a bril- liant effect, gleaming from among the berried holly-boughs, and reflected in the old-fashioned oval mirrors fastened in the panels of the white wainscot. A quaint procession 5 Old Solomon, in his seedy clothes and long white locks, seemed to be luring that decent company by the magic scream of his fiddle luring discreet matrons in turban-shaped caps, nay, Mrs. Crackenthorp herself, the summit of whose perpendicular feather was on a level with the Squire's shoulder luring fair lasses complacently conscious of very short waists and skirts SILAS MARNER. 427 blameless of front folds luring burly fathers in large varie- gated waistcoats, and ruddy sons, for the most part shy and sheepish, in short nether garments and very long coat-tails. Already Mr. Macey and a few other privileged villagers, who were allowed to be spectators on these great occasions, were seated on benches placed for them near the door ; and great was the admiration and satisfaction in that quarter when the couples had formed themselves for the dance, and the Squire led off with Mrs. Crackenthorp, joining hands with the rector and Mrs. Osgood. That was as it should be that was what every body had been used to and the charter of Ra- veloe seemed to be renewed by the ceremony. It was not thought of as an unbecoming levity for the old and middle- aged people to dance a little before sitting down to cards, but rather as part of their social duties. For what were these if not to be merry at appropriate times, interchanging visits and poultry with due frequency, paying each other old-estab- lished compliments in sound traditional phrases, passing well- tried personal jokes, urging your guests to eat and drink too much out of hospitality, and eating and drinking too much in your neighbor's house to show that you liked your cheer? And the parson naturally set an example in these social duties. For it would not have been possible for the Raveloe mind, without a peculiar revelation, to know that a clergyman should be a pale-faced memento of solemnities, instead of a reasonably faulty man, whose exclusive authority to read prayers and preach, to christen, marry, and bury you, neces- sarily co-existed with the right to sell you the ground to be buried in, and to take tithe in kind ; on which last point, of course, there was a little grumbling, but not to the extent of irreligion not of deeper significance than the grumbling at the rain, which was by no means accompanied with a spirit of impious defiance, but with a desire that the prayer for fine weather might be read forthwith. There was no reason, then, why the rector's dancing should not be received as part of the fitness of things quite as much as the Squire's, or why, on the other hand, Mr. Macey's offi- cial respect should restrain him from subjecting the parson's performance to that criticism with which minds of extraordi- nary acuteness must necessarily contemplate the doings of their fallible fellow-men. " The Squire's pretty springy, considering his weight," said Mr. Macey, " and he stamps uncommon well. But Mr. Lam- meter beats 'em all for shapes : you see he holds his head like a sodger, and he isn't so cushiony as most o' the oldish gentle- folks they run fat in general ; and he's got a fine leg. The 428 SILAS MARNER. parson's nimble enough, but he hasn't got much of a leg : it's a bit too thick down'ard, and his knees might be a bit nearer wi'out damage ; but he might do worse, lie might do worse. Though he hasn't that grand way o' waving his hand as the Squire has." " Talk o' nimbleness, look at Mrs. Osgood," said Ben Win- throp, who was holding his son Aaron between his knees. " She trips along with her little steps, so as nobody can see how she goes it's like as if she had little wheels to her feet. She doesn't look a day older nor last year : she's the finest- made woman as is, let the next be where she will." " I don't heed how the women are made," said Mr. Macey, with some contempt. " They wear nayther coat nor breeches you can't make much out o' their shapes." " Fayder," said Aaron, whose feet were busy beating out the tune, " how does that big cock's-feather stick in Mrs. Crackenthorp's yead ? Is there a little hole for it, like in my shuttlecock ?" "Hush, lad, hush; that's the way the ladies dress their- selves, that is," said the father, adding, however, in an under- tone to Mr. Macey, "It does make her look funny, though partly like a short-necked bottle wi' a long quill in it. Iley, by jingo, there's the young Squire leading off now, wi' Miss Nancy for partners. There's a lass for you ! like a pink-and white posy there's nobody 'ud think as any body could be so pritty. I shouldn't wonder if she's Madam Cass some day, arter all and nobody more rightfuller, for they'd make a fine match. You can find nothing against Master Godfrey's shapes, Macey, P\\ bet a penny." Mr. Macey screwed up his mouth, leaned his head farther on one side, and twirled his thumbs with a presto movement as his eyes followed Godfrey up the dance. At last he sum med up his opinion. " Pretty well down'ard, but a bit too round i' the shoulder- blades. And as for them coats as he gets from the Flitton tailor, they're a poor cut to pay double money for." " Ah, Mr. Macey, you and me are two folks," said Ben, slightly indignant at this carping. " When I've got a pot of good ale, I like to swaller it, and do my inside good, i'stead o' smelling and staring at it to see if I can't find taut wi' the brewing. I should like you to pick me out a finer-limbed young fellow nor Master Godfrey one as 'ud knock you down easier, or's more pleasanter looksed when he's piert and merry." " Tchuh !" said Mr. Macey, provoked to increased severity, " he isn't come to his right color yet ; he's partly like a slack- SILAS MARNER. 429 baked pie. And I doubt he's got a soft place in his head, else why should he be turned round the finger by that offal Dun- sey as nobody's seen o' late, and let him kill that fine hunting hoss as was the talk o' the country ? And one while he was allays after Miss Nancy, and then it all went off again, like a smell o' hot porridge, as I may say. That wasn't my way when /went a-coorting." " Ah, but mayhap, Miss Nancy hung off, like, and your lass didn't," said Ben. " I should say she didn't," said Mr. Macey, significantly. " Before I said ' sniff,' I took care to know as she'd say ' snaff,' and pretty quick too. I wasn't a-going to open my mouth, like a dog at a fly, and snap it to again, wi' nothing to swal- ler." " "Well, I think Miss Nancy's a-coming round again," said Ben, " for Master Godfrey doesn't look so down-hearted to- night. And I see he's for taking her away to sit down, now they're at the end o' the dance : that looks like sweetheart- ing, that does." The reason why Godfrey and Nancy had left the dance was not so tender as Ben imagined. In the close press of couples a slight accident had happened to Nancy's dress, which, while it was short enough to show her neat ankle in front, was long enough behind to be caught under the stately stamp of the Squire's foot, so as to rend certain stiches at the waist, and cause much sisterly agitation in Priscilla's mind, as well as serious concern in Nancy's. One's thoughts may be much occupied with love-struggles, but hardly so as to be insensible to a disorder in the general framework of things. Nancy had no sooner completed her duty in the figure they were dancing than she said to Godfrey, with a deep blush, that she must go and sit down till Priscilla could come to her ; for the sisters had already exchanged a short whisper and an open-eyed glance full of meaning. No reason less urgent than this could have prevailed on Nancy to give Godfrey this opportunity of sitting apart with her. As for Godfrey, he was feeling so happy and oblivious under the long charm of the country-dance with Nancy, that he got rather bold on the strength of her confusion, and was capable of leading her straight away, without leave asked, into the adjoining small parlor, where the card-tables were set. " Oh, no, thank you," said Nancy, coldly, as soon as she perceived where he was going, " not in there. I'll wait here till Priscilla's ready to come to me. I'm sorry to bring you out of the dance and make myself troublesome." " Why, you'll he more comfortable hei-e by yourself," said 430 SILAS MARKER. the artful Godfrey : " I'll leave you here till your sister can come." He spoke in an indifferent tone. That was an agreeable proposition, and just what Nancy desired ; why, then, was she a little hurt that Mr. Godfrey should make it ? They entered, and she seated herself on a chair against one of the card-tables, as the stiffest and most unapproachable position she could choose. " Thank you, sir," she said immediately. " I needn't give you any more trouble. I'm sorry you've had such an unlucky partner." " That's very ill-natured of you," said Godfrey, standing by her without any sign of intended departure, " to be sorry you've danced with me." " Oh, no, sir, I don't mean to say what's ill-natured at all," said Nancy, looking distractingly prim and pretty. " When gentlemen have so many pleasures, one dance can matter but very little." "You know that isn't true. You know one dance with you matters more to me than all the other pleasures in the world." It was a long, long while since Godfrey had said any thing so direct AS that, and Nancy was startled. But her instinc- tive dignity and repugnance to any show of emotion made her sit perfectly still, and only throw a little more decision into her voice as she said "No, indeed, Mr. Godfrey, that's not known to me, and I have very good reasons for thinking different. But if it's true, I don't wish to hear it." " Would you never forgive me, then, Nancy never think well of me, let what would happen would you never think the present made amends for the past ? Not if I turned a good fellow, and gave np every thing you didn't like ?" Godfrey was half conscious that this sudden opportunity of speaking to Nancy alone had driven him beside himself, but blind feeling had got the mastery of his tongue. Nancy really felt much agitated by the possibility Godfrey's words suggested, but this very pressure of emotion that she was in danger of finding too strong for her, roused all her power of self-command. " I should be glad to see a good change in any body, Mr. Godfrey," she answered, with the slightest discernible differ- ence of tone, "but it 'ud be better if no change was wanted." " You're very hard-hearted, Nancy," said Godfrey, pettish- ly. " You might encourage me to be a better fellow. I'm very miserable but you've no feeling." " I think those have the least feeling that act wrong, to be- SILAS MABNEB. 431 gin with," said Nancy, sending out a flash in spite of herself. Godfrey was delighted with that little flash, and would have liked to go on and make her quarrel with him ; Nancy was so exasperatingly quiet and firm. But she was not indifferent to him yet. The entrance of Priscilla, bustling forward and saying, " Dear heart alive, child, let us look at this gown," cut off Godfrey's hopes of a quarrel. " I suppose I must go now," he said to Priscilla. " It's no matter to me whether you go or stay," said that frank lady, searching for something in her pocket, with a pre- occupied brow. " Do you want me to go ?" said Godfrey, looking at Nan- cy, who was now standing up by Priscilla's order. " As you like," said Nancy, trying to recover all her former coldness, and looking down carefully at the hem of her gown. " Then I like to stay," said Godfrey, with a reckless deter- mination to get as much of this joy as he could to-night, and think nothing of the morrow. CHAPTER XII WHILE Godfrey Cass was taking draughts of forgetful- ness from the sweet presence of Nancy, willingly losing all sense of that hidden bond which at other moments galled and fretted him so as to mingle irritation with the very sun- shine, Godfrey's Avife was walking with slow, uncertain steps through the snow-covered Raveloe lanes, carrying her child in her arms. This journey on New Year's Eve was a premeditated act of vengeance which she had kept in her heart ever since God- frey, in a fit of passion, had told her he would sooner die than acknowledge her as his wife. There would be a great party at the Red House on New Year's Eve, she knew : her hus- band Avould be smiling and smiled upon, hiding her existence in the darkest corner of his heart. But she would mar his pleasure : she would go in her dingy rags, with her faded face, once as handsome as the best, with her little child that had its father's hair and eyes, and disclose herself to the Squire as his eldest son's wife. It is seldom that the misera- ble can help regarding their misery as a wrong inflicted by those who are less miserable. Molly knew that the cause of her dingy rags was not her husband's neglect, but the demon 432 SILAS MARNER. Opium to whom she was enslaved, body and soul, except in the lingering mother's tenderness that refused to give him her hungry child. She knew this well ; and yet, in the mo- ments of wretched unbenumbed consciousness, the sense of her want and degradation transformed itself continually into bitterness towards Godfrey. He was well off; and if she had her rights she would be well off too. The belief that he repented his marriage, and suffered from it, only aggravated her vindictiveness. Just and self-reproving thoughts do not come to us too thickly, even in the purest air, and with the best lessons of heaven and earth ; how should those white winged delicate messengers make their way to Molly's poi- soned chamber, inhabited by no higher memories than those of a bar-maid's paradise of pink ribbons and gentlemen's jokes ? She had set out at an early hour, but had lingered on the road, inclined by her indolence to believe that if she waited under a warm shed the snow would cease to fall. She had waited longer than she knew, and now that she found her- self belated in the snow-hidden ruggedness of the long lanes, even the animation of a vindictive purpose could not keep her spirit from failing. It was seven o'clock, and by this time she was not very far from Raveloe, but she was not familiar enough with those monotonous lanes to know how near she was to her journey's end. She needed comfort, and she knew but one comforter the familiar demon in her bosom ; but she hesitated a moment, after drawing out the black rem- nant, before she raised it to her lips. In that moment the mother's love pleaded for painful consciousness rather than oblivion pleaded to be left in aching weariness, rather than to have the encircling arms benumbed so that they could not feel the dear burden. In another moment Molly had flung something away, but it was not the black remnant it was an empty viaL And she walked on again under the breaking cloud, from which there came now and then the light of a quickly-veiled star, for a freezing wind had sprung up since the snowing had ceased. But she walked always more and more drowsily, and clutched more and more au- tomatically the sleeping child at her bosom. Slowly the demon was working his will, and cold and weariness were his helpers. Soon she felt nothing but a su- preme immediate longing that curtained off all futurity the longing to lie down and sleep. She had arrived at a spot where her footsteps were no longer checked by a hedegerow, and she had wandered vaguely, unable to distinguish any objects, notwithstanding the wide whiteness around her, and SILAS MARKER. 433 the growing starlight. She sank down against a straggling furze bush, an easy pillow enough ; and the bed of snow, too, was soft. She did not feel that the bed was cold, and did not heed whether the child would wake and cry for her. But her arms had not yet relaxed their instinctive clutch; and the little one slumbered on as gently as if it had been rocked in a lace-trimmed cradle. But the complete torpor came at last: the fingers lost their tension, the arms unbent ; then the little head fell away from the bosom, and the blue eyes opened wide on the cold starlight. At first there was a little peevish cry of " mammy," and an effort to regain the pillowing arm and bosom ; but mammy's ear was deaf, and the pillow seemed to be slipping away backward. Suddenly, as the child roll- ed downward on its mother's knees, all wet with snow, its eyes were caught by a bright glancing light on the white ground, and, with the ready transition of infancy, it was im- mediately absorbed in watching the bright living thing run- ning towards it, yet never arriving. That bright living thing must be caught ; and in an instant the child had slipped on all fours, and held out one little hand to catch the gleam. But the gleam would not be caught in that way, and now the head was held up to see where the cunning gleam came from. It came from a very bright place ; and the little one, rising on its legs, toddled through the snow, the old grimy shawl in which it was wrapped trailing behind it, and the queer little bonnet dangling at its back toddled on to the open door of Silas Marner's cottage, and right up to the warm hearth, where there was a bright fire of logs and sticks, which had thoroughly warmed the old sack (Silas's great-coat) spread out on the bricks to dry. The little one, accustomed to be left to itself for long hours without notice from its mother, squatted down on the sack, and spread its tiny hands towards the blaze, in perfect contentment, gurgling and mak- ing many inarticulate communications to the cheerful fire, like a new-hatched gosling beginning to find itself comforta- ble. But presently the warmth had a lulling effect, and the little golden head sank down on the old sack, and the blue eyes were veiled by their delicate half-transparent lids. But where was Silas Marner while this strange visitor had come to his hearth ? He was in the cottage, but he did not see the child. During the last few weeks, since he had lost his money, he had contracted the habit of opening his door and looking out from time to time, as if he thought that his money might be somehow coming back to him, or that some trace, some news of it, might be mysteriously on the road, 19 434 SILAS MARNER. and be caught by the listening ear or the straining eye. It was chiefly at night, when he was not occupied in his loom, that he fell into this repetition of an act for which he could have assigned no definite purpose, and which can hardly be understood except by those who have undergone a bewilder- ing separation from a supremely loved object. In the eve- ning twilight, and later whenever the night was not dark, Silas looked out on that narrow prospect round the Stone- pits, listening and gazing, not with hope, but with mere yearning and unrest. This morning he had been told by some of his neighbors that it was New Year's Eve, and that he must sit tip and hear the old year rung out and the new rung in, because that was good luck, and might bring his money back again. This was only a friendly Raveloe-way of jesting with the half-crazy oddities of a miser, but it had perhaps helped to throw Silas into a more than usually excited state. Since the on-coming of twilight he had opened his door again and again, though only to shut it immediately at seeing all dis- tance veiled by the falling snow. But the last time he open- ed it the snow had ceased, and the clouds were parting here and there. He stood and listened, and gazed for a long while there was really something on the road coining to- wards him then, but he caught no sign of it ; and the still- ness and the wide trackless snow seemed to narrow his soli- tude, and touched his yearning with the chill of despair. He went in again, and put his right hand on the latch of the door to close it but he did not close it : he was arrested, as he had been already since his loss, by the invisible wand of catalepsy, and stood like a graven image, with wide but sightless eyes, holding open his door, powerless to resist either the good or evil that might enter there. When Marner's sensibility returned, he continued the action which had been arrested, and closed his door, una- ware of the chasm in his consciousness, unaware of any in- termediate change, except that the light had grown dim, and that he was chilled and faint. He thought he had been too long standing at the door and looking out. Turning to- wards the hearth, where the two logs had fallen apart, and sent forth only a red uncertain glimmer, he seated himself on his fireside chair, and was stooping to push his logs together, when, to his blurred vision, it seemed as if there were gold on the floor in front of the hearth. Gold ! his own gold brought back to him as mysteriously as it had been taken away ! He felt his heart begin to beat violently, and for a few moments he was unable to stretch out his hand and ' He felt his heart begin to beat violently, and for a few moments he was unable to stretch out his hand and grasp the restored treasure." PAGE 434. 436 SILAS MARKER. grasp the restored treasure. The heap of gold seemed to glow and get larger beneath his agitated gaze. He leaned forward at last, and stretched forth his hand ; but instead of the hard coin with the familiar resisting outline, his fingers encountered soft warm curls. In utter amazement, Silas fell on his knees and bent his head low to examine the marvel : it was a sleeping child a round, fair thing, with soft yellow rings all over its head. Could this be his little sister come back to him in a dream his little sister whom he had car- ried about in his arms for a year before she died, when he was a small boy without shoes or stockings? That was the first thought that darted across Silas's blank wonderment. Was it a dream? He rose to his feet again, pushed his logs together, and, throwing on some dried leaves and sticks, raised a flame ; but the flame did not disperse the vision it only lit up more distinctly the little round form of the child, and its shabby clothing. It was very much like his little sis- ter. Silas sank into his chair powerless, under the double presence of an inexplicable surprise and a hurrying influx of memories. How and when had the child come in without his knowledge? He had never been beyond the door. But along with that question, and almost thrusting it away, there was a vision of the old home and the old streets leading to Lantern Yard and within that vision another, of the thoughts which had been present with him in. those far-off scenes. The thoughts were strange to him now, like old friendships impossible to revive; and yet he had a dreamy feeling that this child was somehow a message come to him from that far-off life : it stirred fibres that had never been moved in Raveloe old quiverings of tenderness old impres- sions of awe at the presentiment of some Power presiding over his life ; for his imagination had not yet extricated it- self from the sense of mystery in the child's sudden presence, and had formed no conjectures of ordinary natural means by which the event could have been brought about. But there was a cry on the hearth : the child had awaked, and Marner stooped to lift it on his knee. It clung round his neck, and burst louder and louder into that mingling of inarticulate cries with " mammy " by which little children ex- press the bewilderment of waking. Silas pressed it to him, and almost unconsciously uttered sounds of hushing tender- ness, while he bethought himself that some of his porridge, which had got cool by the dying fire, would do to feed tha child with if it were only warmed up a little. He had plenty to do through the next hour. The por- ridge, sweetened with some dry brown sugar from an old SILAS MARNER. 437 store Avhich he had refrained from using for himself, stopped the cries of the little one, and made her lift her blue eyes with a wide quiet gaze at Silas, as he put the spoon into her mouth. Presently she slipped from his knee and began to toddle about, but with a pretty stagger that made Silas jump up and follow her lest she should fall against any thing that would hurt her. But she only fell in a sitting posture on the ground, and began to pull at her boots, looking up at him with a crying face as if the boots hurt her. He took her on his knee again, but it was some time before it occurred to Si- las's dull bachelor mind that the wet boots were the griev- ance, pressing on her warm ankles. He got them off with difficulty, and baby was at once happily occupied with the primary mystery of her own toes, inviting Silas, with much chuckling, to consider the mystery too. But the wet boots had at last suggested to Silas that the child had been walk- ing on the snow, and this roused him from his entire obliviov of any ordinary means by which it could have entered c been brought into his house. Under the prompting of this new idea, and without waiting to form conjectures, he raised the child in his arms, and went to the door. As soon as he had opened it, there was the cry of " mammy " again, which Silas had not heard since the child's first hungry waking. Bending forward, he could just discern the marks made by the little feet on the virgin snow, and he followed their track to the furze bushes. "Mammy !" the little one cried again and again, stretching itself forward so as almost to escape from Silas's arms, before he himself was aware that there was something more than the bush before him that there was a human body, with the head sunk low in the furze, and half- covered with the shaken snow. CHAPTER XHL IT was after the early supper-time at the Red House, and the entertainment was in that stage when bashfulness itself had passed into easy jollity, when gentlemen, conscious of unusual accomplishments, eould at length be prevailed on to dance a hornpipe, and when the Squire preferred talking loud- ly, scattering snuff, and patting his visitors' backs, to sitting longer at the whist-table a choice exasperating to uncle Kimble, who, being always volatile in sober business hours, became intense and bitter over cards and brandy, shuffled 438 SILAS MARKER. before his adversary's deal with a glare of suspicion, and turn ed up a mean trump-card with an air of inexpressible disgust, as if in a world where such things could happen one might as well enter on a course of reckless profligacy. When the evening had advanced to this pitch of freedom and enjoy- ment, it was usual for the servants, the heavy duties of sup- per being well over, to get their share of amusement by com- ing to look on at the dancing ; so that the back regions of the house were left in solitude. There were two doors by which the White Parlor was en- tered from the hall, and they were both standing open for the sake of air ; but the lower one was crowded with the servants and villagers, and only the upper doorway was left free. Bob Cass was figuring in a hornpipe, and his father, very proud of this lithe son, whom he repeatedly declared to be just like himself in his young days, in a tone that implied this to be the very highest stamp of juvenile merit, was the centre of a group who had placed themselves opposite the performer, not far from the upper door. Godfrey was standing a little way off, not to admire his brother's dancing, but to keep sight of Nancy, who was seated in the group, near her father. He stood aloof, because he wished to avoid suggesting himself as a subject for the Squire's fatherly jokes in connection with mat- rimony and Miss Nancy Lammeter's beauty, which were like- ly to become more and more explicit. But he had the pros- pect of dancing with her again when the hornpipe was con- cluded, and in the mean while it was very pleasant to get long glances at her quite unobserved. But when Godfrey was lifting his eyes from one of those long glances, they encountered an object as startling to him at that moment as if it had been an apparition from the dead. It was an apparition from that hidden life which lies, like a dark by-street, behind the goodly ornamented fa9ade that meets the sunlight and the gaze of respectable admirers. It was his own child carried in Silas Marner's arms. That was his instantaneous impression, unaccompanied by doubt, though he had not seen the child for months past ; and when the hope was rising that he might possibly be mistaken, Mr. Crack- enthorp and Mr. Lammeter had already advanced to Silas, in astonishment at this strange advent. Godfrey joined them immediately, unable to rest without hearing every word trying to control himself, but conscious that if any one no- ticed him, they must see that he was white-lipped and trem- !_! bang. But now all eyes at that end of the room were bent on Si- las Marner ; the Squire himself had risen, and asked angrily, SILAS MARNEB. 439 " How's this ? wtiat's this ? what do you do coining in here in this way ?" " I'm come for the doctor I want the doctor," Silas had said, in the first moment, to Mr. Crackenthorp. " Why, what's the matter, Marner ?" said the rector. " The doctor's here ; but say quietly what you want him for." " It's a woman," said Silas, speaking low, and half-breath- lessly, just as Godfrey came up. "She's dead, I think dead in the snow at the Stone-pits not far from my door." Godfrey felt a great throb: there was one terror in his mind at that moment : it was, that the woman might not be dead. That was an evil terror an ugly inmate to have found a nestling-place in Godfrey's kindly disposition ; but no dis- position is a security from evil wishes to a man whose happi- ness hangs on duplicity. " Hush, hush !" said Mr. Crackenthorp. " Go out into the hall there. I'll fetch the doctor to you. Found a woman in the snow --and thinks she's dead," he added, speaking low, to the Squire. "Better say as little about it as possible : it will shock the ladies. Just tell them a poor woman is ill from cold and hunger. I'll go and fetch Kimble." By this time, however, the ladies had pressed forward, curious to know what could have brought the solitary linen- weaver there under such strange circumstances, and interest- ed in the pretty child, who, half alarmed and half attracted by the brightness and the numerous company, now frowned and hid her face, now lifted up her head again and looked round placably, until a touch or a coaxing word brought back the frown, and made her bury her face with new determina- tion. " What child is it ?" said several ladies at once, and, among the rest, Nancy Lammeter, addressing Godfrey. " I don't know some poor woman's who has been found in the snow, I believe," was the answer Godfrey wrung from himself with a terrible effort. (" After all, am I certain ?" he hastened to add, silently, in anticipation of his own con- science.) " Why, you'd better leave the child here, then, Master Mar- ner," said good-natured Mrs. Kimble, hesitating, however, to take those dingy clothes into contact with her own ornament- Mice. " I'll tell one o' the