‘We’ve done our devoir in that way already,’ said Griff. ‘Paid our dues.’
‘One can’t,’ cried Ellen, with an eager look. ‘One longs to do all the more when He has just let us have such a taste of His beautiful things.’
‘One, perhaps, when one is a little saint,’ returned Griff.
‘Oh don’t, Griff! I’m notthat; but you know every one wants all the help and blessing that can be got. And then it is so delightful!’
He gave a long whistle. ‘Every one to his taste,’ he said; ‘especially you ladies.’
He did come to the Cathedral with us, but he had more than half spoilt this last Sunday. Did he value her for what was best in her, or was her influence raising him?
‘Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears,The plaintive voice alone she hears,Sees but the dying man.’Scott.
‘Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears,The plaintive voice alone she hears,Sees but the dying man.’
Scott.
C.Morbus, Esq. Such was the card that some wicked wag, one of Clarence’s fellow-clerks probably, left at his lodgings in the course of the epidemic which was beginning its ravages even while we were upon our pleasant journey—a shade indeed to throw out the light.
In these days, the tidings of a visitation of cholera are heard with compassion for crowded towns, but without special alarm for ourselves or our friends, since its conditions and the mode of combating it have come to be fairly understood.
In 1832, however, it was a disease almost unknown and unprecedented except in its Indian abode, whence it had advanced city by city, seaport by seaport, sweeping down multitudes before it; nor had science yet discovered how to encounter or forestall it. We heard of it in a helpless sort of way, as if it had been the plague or the Black Death, and thought of its victims as doomed.
That terrible German engraving, ‘Death as a Foe,’ which represents the grisly form as invading a ballroom in Paris, is an expression of the feeling with which the scourge was regarded on that first occasion.Two Years Agogives some notion of the condition of things in 1849, but by that time there had been some experience, and means of prevention were better understood. On the alarm in that year there was a great inspection of cottages throughout Earlscombe and Hillside, but in 1832 there was no notion of such precautions. Nevertheless, on neither visitation, nor any subsequent one, has the disease come nearer to us than Bristol.
As far as memory serves me, the idea was that wholesome food, regular habits, and cleanliness were some protection, but one locality might be as dangerous as another. There had been cases in London all the spring, but no special anxiety was felt when Clarence returned to his work in the end of July, much refreshed and invigorated by his holiday, and with the understanding that he was to have a rise in position and salary on Mr. Castleford’s return from Ireland, where he was still staying with his wife’s relations. Clarence was received at the office with a kind of shamefaced cordiality, as if every one would fain forget the way in which he had been treated; and he was struck by finding that all the talk was of the advances of the cholera, chiefly at Rotherhithe. And a great shock awaited him. He went, as soon as business hours were over, to thank good old Miss Newton for the comfort and aid she had unwittingly given him, and to tell her from what she had saved him. Alas! it was the last benefit she was ever to confer on her old pupil. At the door he was told by a weeping, terrified maid that she was very ill with cholera, and that no hope was given. He tried to send up a message, but she was in a state of collapse and insensible; and when he inquired the next morning, the gentle spirit had passed away.
He attended her funeral that same evening. Griff said it was a proof how your timid people will do the most foolhardy things; but Clarence always held that the good woman had really done more for him than any one in actually establishing a contact, so to say, between his spirit and external truth, and he thought no mark of respect beyond her deserts. She was a heavy loss to him, for no one else in town gave him the sense of home kindness; and there was much more to depress him, for several of his Sunday class were dead, and the school had been broken up for the time, while the heats and the fruits of August contributed to raise the mortality.
His return had released a couple more clerks for their holiday; it was a slack time of year, with less business in hand than usual, and the place looked empty. Mr. Frith worked on as usual, but preserved an ungracious attitude, as though he were either still incredulous or, if convinced against his will, resolved that ‘that prig of a Winslow’ should not presume upon his services. Altogether the poor fellow was quite unhinged, and wrote such dismal bills of mortality, and meek, resigned forebodings that my father was almost angry, declaring that he would frighten himself into the sickness; yet I suppressed a good deal, and never told them of the last will and testament in which he distributed his possessions amongst us. Griff said he had a great mind to go and shake old Bill up and row him well, but he never did.
More than a week passed by, two of Clarence’s regular days for writing, but no letter came. My mother grew uneasy, and talked of writing to Mrs. Robson, or, as we still called her, Gooch; but it was doubtful whether the answer would contain much information, and it was quite certain that any ill tidings would be sent to us.
At last we did hear, and found, as we had foreboded, that the letter had not been written for fear of alarming us, or carrying infection, though Clarence underlined the words ‘I am perfectly well.’
Having to take a message into the senior partner’s room, Clarence had found the old man crouched over the table, writhing in the unmistakable grip of the deadly enemy. No one else was available; Clarence had to collect himself, send for the doctor, and manage the conveyance of the patient to his rooms, which fortunately adjoined the office; for, through all his influx of wealth, Mr. Frith had retained the habits and expenditure of his early struggling days. His old housekeeper and her drudge showed themselves terrified out of their senses, and as incapable as unwilling. Naval experience, and waiting on me, had taught Clarence helpfulness and handiness; and though this was the very thing that had appalled his imagination, he seemed, as he said afterwards, ‘to have got beyond his fright’ to the use of his commonsense. And when at last the doctor came, and talked of finding a nurse, if possible, for they were scarce articles, the sufferer only entreated between his paroxysms, ‘Stay, Winslow! Is Winslow there? Don’t go! Don’t leave me!’
No nurse was to be found, but to Clarence’s amazement Gooch arrived. He had sent by the office boy to explain his absence; and before night the faithful woman descended on him, intending, as in her old days of authority, simply to put Master Clarry out of harm’s way, and take the charge upon herself. Then, as he proved unmanageable and would not leave his patient, neither would she leave him, and through the frightful night that ensued, there was quite employment enough for them both. Gooch fully thought the end would come before morning, and was murmuring something about a clergyman, but was cut short by a sharp prohibition. However, detecting Clarence’s lips moving, the old man said, ‘Eh! speak it out!’ ‘And with difficulty, feeling as if I were somebody else,’ said Clarence, ‘I did get out some short words of prayer. It seemed so awful for him to die without any.’
When the doctor came in early morning, the watchers were astonished to hear that their charge had taken a turn for the better, and might recover if their admirable care were continued. The doctor had brought a nurse; but Mr. Frith would not let her come into the room, and there was plenty of need for her elsewhere.
Several days of unremitting care followed, during which Clarence durst not write to us, so little were the laws of infection understood. Good Mrs. Robson stayed all the time, and probably saved Clarence from falling a victim to his zeal, for she looked after him as anxiously as after the sick man; and with a wondering and thankful heart, he found himself in full health, when both were set free to return home. Clarence had written at the beginning of the illness to the only relations of whose existence or address he was aware, an old sister, Mrs. Stevens, and a young great-nephew in the office at Liverpool; and the consequence was the arrival of a sour-looking, old widow sister, who came to take charge of the convalescence, and, as the indignant Gooch overheard her say, ‘to prevent that young Winslow from getting round him.’
There were no signs of such a feat having been performed, when, the panic being past, my father went up to London with Griffith, who was to begin eating his terms at the Temple. He was to share Clarence’s lodgings, for the Robsons had plenty of room, and Gooch was delighted to extend her cares to her special favourite, as she already reigned over Clarence’s wardrobe and table as entirely as in nursery days; and, to my great exultation, my father said it would be good for Griffith to be with his brother; and, moreover, we should hear of the latter. Nothing could be a greater contrast than his rare notifications or requests, scrawled on a single side of the quarto sheet, with Clarence’s regular weekly lines of clerkly manuscript, telling all that could interest any of us, and covering every available flap up to the blank circle left for the trim red seal.
Promotion had come to Clarence in the natural course of seniority, and a small sum, due to him on his coming of age, was invested in the house of business, so that the two brothers could take between them all the Robsons’ available rooms. Clarence’s post was one of considerable trust; but there were no tokens of special favour, except that Mr. Frith was more civil to my father than usual, and when he heard of the arrangement about the lodgings, he snarled out, ‘Hm! Law student indeed! Don’t let him spoil his brother!’
Which was so far an expression of gratitude that it showed that he considered that there was something to be spoilt. Mr. Castleford, however, showed real satisfaction in the purchase of a share in the concern for Clarence. His own eldest son inherited a good deal of his mother’s Irish nature, and was evidently unfit to be anything but a soldier, and the next was so young that he was glad to have a promising and trustworthy young man, from whom a possible joint head of the firm might be manufactured.
If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanours you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.’—Twelfth Night.
If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanours you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.’—Twelfth Night.
Inthe early summer of 1833, we had the opportunity of borrowing a friend’s house in Portman Square for six weeks, and we were allowed to take Ellen with us for introduction to the Admiral and other old friends, while we were to make acquaintance with her connections—the family of Sir Horace Lester, M.P.
We were very civil; but there were a good many polite struggles for the exclusive possession of Ellen, whom both parties viewed as their individual right; and her unselfish good-humour and brightness must have carried her over more worries than we guessed at the time.
She had stayed with the Lesters before, but in schoolroom days. They were indolent and uninterested, and had never shown her any of the permanent wonders of London, despising these as only fit for country cousins, whereas we had grown up to think of them with intelligent affection. To me, however, much was as new as to Ellen. Country life had done so much for me that I could venture on what I had never attempted before. The Admiral said it was getting away from doctors and their experiments, but I had also done with the afflictions of attempts at growth in wrong directions. Old friends did not know me, and more than once, as I sat in the carriage, addressed me for one of my brothers—a compliment which, Griff said, turned my head. Happily I was too much accustomed to my own appearance, and people were too kind, for me to have much shyness on that score. Our small dinner parties were great enjoyment to me, and the two girls were very happy in their little gaieties.
Braham and Catalani, Fanny Kemble, and Turner’s landscapes at his best, rise in my memory as supreme delights and revelations in their different lines, and awakening trains of thought; and then there was that entertainment which Griffith and Clarence gave us in their rooms, when they regaled us with all the delicacies of the season, and Peter and Gooch looked all pride and hospitality! The dining-parlour, or what served as such, was Griff’s property, as any one could see by the pictures of horses, dogs, and ladies, the cups, whips, and boxing-gloves that adorned it; the sitting-room had tokens of other occupation, in Clarence’s piano, window-box of flowers, and his one extravagance in engravings from Raffaelle, and a marine water-colour or two, besides all my own attempts at family portraits, with a case of well-bound books. Those two rooms were perfectly redolent of their masters—I say it literally—for the scent of flowers was in Clarence’s room, and in Griff’s, the odour of cigars had not wholly been destroyed even by much airing. For in those days it was regarded by parents and guardians as an objectionable thing.
Peter was radiant on that occasion; but a few evenings later, when all were gone to an evening party except my father and myself, Mr. Robson was announced as wishing to speak to Mr. Winslow. After the civilities proper to the visit of an old servant had passed, he entered with obvious reluctance on the purpose of his visit, namely, his dissatisfaction with Griff as a lodger. His wife, he said, would not have had him speak, she wasthatattached to Mr. Griffith, it couldn’t be more if he was her own son; nor was it for want of liking for the young gentleman on his part, as had known him from a boy, ‘but the wife of one’s bosom must come first, sir, as stands to reason, and it’s for the good of the young gentleman himself, and his family, as some one should speak. I never said one word against it when she would not be satisfied without running the risk of her life after Mr. Clarence; hattending of Mr. Frith in the cholery. That was only her dooty, sir, and I have never a word to say against dooty: but I cannot see her nearly wore out, and for no good to nobody.’
It appeared that Mrs. Robson was ‘pretty nigh wore out, a setting up for Mr. Griffith’s untimely hours.’ ‘He laughed and coaxed—what I calls cajoling—did Mr. Griff, to get a latch-key; but we knows our dooty too well for that, and Mrs. Winslow had made us faithfully promise, when Master Clarence first came to us, that he should never have a latch-key,—Mr. Clarence, as had only been five times later than eleven o’clock, and then he was going to dine with Mr. Castleford, or to the theayter, and spoke about it beforehand. If he was not reading to poor Miss Newton, as was gone, or with some of his language-masters, he was setting at home with his books and papers, not giving no trouble to nobody, after he had had his bit of bread and cheese and glass of beer to his supper.’
Ay, Peter knew what young gentlemen was. He did not expect to see them all like poor Master Clarence, as had had his troubles; the very life knocked out of him in his youth, as one might say. Indeed Peter would be pleased to see him a bit more sprightly, and taking more to society and hamusements of his hage. Nor would there be any objection if the late ’ours was only once a week or so, and things was done in a style fitting the family; but when it came to mostly every night, often to two or three o’clock, it was too much for Mrs. Robson, for she would never go to bed, being mortal afraid of fire, and not always certain that Mr. Griffith was—to say—fit to put out his candle. ‘What do you mean, Peter?’ thundered my father, whose brow had been getting more and more furrowed every moment. ‘Say it out!—Drunk?’
‘Well sir, no, no, not to say that exactly, but a little excited, sir, and women is timid. No sir, not to call intoxicated.’
‘No, that’s to come,’ muttered my father. ‘Has this often happened?’
Peter did not think that it had been noticed more than three times at the most; but he went on to offer his candid and sensible advice that Mr. Griffith should be placed in a family where there was a gentleman or lady who would have some hauthority, and could not be put aside with his good-’umoured haffability—‘You’re an old fogy, Peter.’ ‘Never mind, Nursey, I’ll be a good boy next time,’ and the like. ‘It is a disadvantage you see, sir, to have been in his service, and ’tis for the young gentleman’s own good as I speaks; but it would be better if he were somewheres else—unless you would speak to him, sir.’
To the almost needless question whether Clarence had been with his brother on these occasions, there was a most decided negative. He had never gone out with Griffith except once to the theatre, and to dine at the Castlefords, and at first he had sat up for his return, ‘but it led to words between the young gentlemen,’ said Peter, whose confidences were becoming reckless; and it appeared that when Clarence had found that Gooch would not let him spare her vigil, he had obeyed her orders and ceased to share it.
Peter was thanked for the revelations, which had been a grievous effort to him, and dismissed. My father sat still in great distress and perplexity, asking me whether Clarence had ever told me anything of this, and I had barely time to answer ‘No’ before Clarence himself came in, from what Peter called his language-master. He was taking lessons in French and Spanish, finding a knowledge of these useful in business. To his extreme distress, my father fell on him at once, demanding what he knew of the way Griffith was spending his time, ‘coming home at all sorts of hours in a disreputable condition. No prevarication, sir,’ he added, as the only too familiar look of consternation and bewilderment came over Clarence’s face. ‘You are doing your brother no good by conniving at his conduct. Speak truth, if you can,’ he added, with more cruelty than he knew, in his own suffering.
‘Sir,’ gasped Clarence, ‘I know Griff often comes home after I am in bed, but I do not know the exact time, nor anything more.’
‘Is this all you can tell me? Really all?’
‘All I know—that is—of my own knowledge,’ said Clarence, recovering a little, but still unable to answer without hesitation, which vexed my father.
‘What do you mean by that? Do you hear nothing?’
‘I am afraid,’ said Clarence, ‘that I do not see as much of him as I had hoped. He is not up till after I have to be at our place, and he does not often spend an evening at home. He is such a popular fellow, and has so many friends and engagements.’
‘Ay, and of what sort? Can’t you tell? or will you not? I sent him up to you, thinking you a steady fellow who might influence him for good.’
The colour rushed into Clarence’s face, as he answered, looking up and speaking low, ‘Have I not forfeited all such hopes?’
‘Nonsense! You’ve lived down that old story long ago. You would make your mark, if you only showed a little manliness and force of character. Griffith was always fond of you. Can’t you do anything to hinder him from ruining his own life and that sweet girl’s happiness?’
‘I would—I would give my life to do so!’ exclaimed Clarence, in warm, eager tones. ‘I have tried, but he says I know nothing about it, and it is very dull at our rooms for him. I have got used to it, but you can’t expect a fellow like Griff to stay at home, with no better company than me, and do nothing but read law.’
‘Then youdoknow,’ began my father; but Clarence, with full self-possession, said, ‘I think you had better ask me no more questions, papa. I really know nothing, or hardly anything, personally of his proceedings. I went to one supper with him, after going to the play, and did not fancy it; besides, it almost unfitted me for my morning’s work; nor does it answer for me to sit up for him—it only vexes him, as if I were watching him.’
‘Did you ever see him come home showing traces of excess?’
‘No!’ said Clarence, ‘I never saw!’ and, under a stern, distressed look, ‘Once I heard tones that—that startled me, and Mrs. Robson has grumbled a good deal—but I think Peter takes it for more than it is worth.’
‘I see,’ said my father more gently; ‘I will not press you farther. I believe I ought to be glad that these habits are only hearsay to you.’
‘As far as I can see,’ said Clarence diffidently, but quite restored to himself, ‘Griff is only like most of his set, young men who go into society.’
‘Oh!’ said my father, in a ‘that’s your opinion’ kind of tone; and as at that moment the yell of a newsboy was heard in the street, he exclaimed that he must go and get an evening paper. Clarence made a step to go instead, but was thrust back, as apparently my father merely wanted an excuse for rushing into the open air to recover the shock or to think it over.
Clarence gave a kind of groan, and presently exclaimed, ‘If only untruth were not such a sin!’ and, on my exclamation of dismay, he added, ‘I don’t think a blowing up ever does good!’
‘But this state of things should not last.’
‘It will not. It would have come to an end without Peter’s springing this mine. Griff says he can’t stand Gooch any longer! And really she does worry him intolerably.’
‘Peter professed to come without her knowledge or consent.’
‘Exactly so. It will almost break the good old soul’s heart for Griff to leave her; but she expects to have him in hand as if he was in the nursery. She is ever so much worse than she was with me, and he is really good-nature itself to laugh off her nagging as he does—about what he chooses to put on, or eating, or smoking, or leaving his room untidy, as well as other things.’
‘And those other things? Do you suspect more than you told papa?’
‘It amounts to no more. Griff likes amusement, and everybody likes him—that’s all. Yes, I know my father read law ten hours a day, but his whole nature and circumstances were different. I don’t believe Griff could go on in that way.’
‘Not with such a hope before him? You would, Clarence.’
His face and not his tongue answered me, but he added, ‘Griff is sure ofthatwithout so much labour and trouble.’
‘And do you see so little of him?’
‘I can’t help it. I can’t keep his hours and do my work. Yes, I know we are drifting apart; I wish I could help it, but being coupled up together makes it rather worse than better. It aggravates him, and he will really get on better without Gooch to worry him, and thrust my droning old ways down his throat,—as if Prince Hal could bear to be twitted with “that sober boy, Lord John of Lancaster.” Not,’ he added, catching himself up, ‘that I meant to compare him to the madcap Prince. He is the finest of fellows, if they only would let him alone.’
And that was all I could get from Clarence.
‘Spited with a fool—Spited and angered both.’Cymbeline.
‘Spited with a fool—Spited and angered both.’
Cymbeline.
Thislong stay of Ellen’s in our family had made our fraternal relations with her nearer and closer. Familiarity had been far from lessening our strong feeling for her goodness and sweetness. Emily, who knew her best, used to confide to me little instances of the spirit of devotion and self-discipline that underlay all her sunny gaiety—how she never failed in her morning’s devout readings; how she learnt a verse or two of Scripture every day, and persuaded Emily to join with her in repeating it ere they went downstairs for their evening’s pleasure; how she had set herself a little task of plain work for the poor, which she did every day in her own room; and the like dutiful habits, which seemed, as it were, to help her to keep herself in hand, and not be carried away by what was a whirl of pleasure to her, though a fashionable young lady would have despised its mildness.
Indeed Lady Peacock, with whom we exchanged calls, made no secret of her compassion when she found how many parties the ladies werenotgoing to; and Ellen’s own relations, the Lesters, would have taken her out almost every night if she had not staunchly held to her promise to her mother not to go out more than three evenings in the week, for Mrs. Fordyce knew her to be delicate, and feared late hours for her. The vexation her cousins manifested made her feel the more bound to give them what time she could, at hours when Griffith was not at liberty. She did not like them to be hurt, and jealous of us, or to feel forsaken, and she tried to put her affection for us on a different footing by averring that ‘it was not the same kind of thing—Emily was her sister.’
One day she had gone to luncheon with the Lesters in Cavendish Square, and was to be called for in the carriage by me, on the way to take up the other two ladies, who were shopping in Regent Street.
Ellen came running downstairs, with her cheeks in a glow under the pink satin lining of her pretty bonnet, and her eyes sparkling with indignation, which could not but break forth.
‘I don’t know how I shall ever go there again!’ she exclaimed; ‘they have no right to say such things!’ Then she explained. Mary and Louisa had been saying horrid things about Griffith—her Griff! It was always their way. Think how Horace had made her treat Clarence! It was their way and habit to tease, and call it fun, and she had never minded it before; but this was too bad. Would not I put it in her power to give a flat contradiction, such as would make them ashamed of themselves?
Contradict what?
Then it appeared that the Misses Lester had laughed at her, who was so very particular and scrupulous, for having taken up with a regular young man about town. Oh no,theydid not think much of it—no doubt he was only just like other people; only the funny thing was that it should be Ellen, for whom it was always supposed that no saint in the calendar, no knight in all the Waverley novels, would be good enough! And then, on her hot desire to know what they meant, they quoted John, the brother in the Guards, as having been so droll about poor Ellen’s perfect hero, and especially at his straight-laced Aunt Fordyce having been taken in,—but of course it was the convenience of joining the estates, and it was agreeable to see that your very good folk could wink at things like other people in such a case. Then, when Ellen fairly drove her inquiries home, in her absolute trust of confuting all slanders, she was told that Griffith did, what she called ‘all sorts of things—billiards and all that.’ And even that he was always running after a horrid Lady Peacock, a gay widow.
‘They went on in fun,’ said Ellen, ‘and laughed the more when—yes, I am afraid I did—I lost my temper. No, don’t say I well might, I know I ought not; but I told them I knew all about Lady Peacock, and that you were all old friends, even before he rescued her from the Bristol riots and brought her home to Chantry House; and that only made Mary merrier than ever, and say, “What, another distressed damsel? Take care, Ellen; I would not trust such a squire of dames.” And then Louisa chimed in, “Oh no, you see this Peacock dame was only conducted, like Princess Micomicona and all the rest of them, to the feet of his peerless Dulcinea!” And then I heard the knock, and I was never so glad in my life!’
‘Well!’ I could not help remarking, ‘I have heard of women’s spitefulness, but I never believed it till now.’
‘I really don’t think it was altogether what you call malice, so much as the Lester idea of fun,’ said Ellen, recovering herself after her outpouring. ‘A very odd notion I always thought it was; and Mary and Louisa are not really ill-natured, and cannot wish to do the harm they might have done, if I did not know Griff too well.’
Then, after considering a little, she said, blushing, ‘I believe I have told you more than I ought, Edward—I couldn’t help having it out; but please don’t tell any one, especially that shocking way of speaking of mamma, which they could not really mean.’
‘No one could who knew her.’
‘Of course not. I’ll tell you what I mean to do. I will write to Mary when we go in, and tell her that I know she really cares for me enough to be glad that her nonsense has done no mischief, and, though I was so foolish and wrong as to fly into a passion, of course I know it is only her way, and I do not believe one word of it.’
Somehow, as she looked with those radiant eyes full of perfect trust, I could not help longing not to have heard Peter Robson’s last night’s complaint; but family feeling towards outsiders overcomes many a misgiving, and my wrath against the malignity of the Lesters was quite as strong as if I had been devoid of all doubts whether Griff wore to all other eyes the same halo of pure glory with which Ellen invested him.
Such doubts were very transient. Dear old Griff was too delightful, too bright and too brave, too ardent and too affectionate, not to dispel all clouds by the sunshine he carried about with him. If rest and reliance came with Clarence, zest and animation came with Griffith. He managed to take the initiative by declining to remain any longer with the Robsons, saying they had been spoilt by such a model lodger as Clarence, who would let Gooch feed him on bread and milk and boiled mutton, and put on his clean pinafore if she chose to insist; whereas her indignation, when Griff found fault with the folding of his white ties, amounted to ‘Et tu Brute,’ and he really feared she would have had a fit when he ordered devilled kidneys for breakfast. He was sure her determination to tuck him up every night and put out his candle was shortening her life; and he had made arrangements to share the chambers of a friend who had gone through school and college with him. There was no objection to the friend, who had stayed at Chantry House and was an agreeable, lively, young man, well reported of, satisfactorily connected, fairly industrious, and in good society, so that Griff was likely to be much less exposed to temptation of the lower kinds than when left to his own devices, or only with Clarence, who had neither time nor disposition to share his amusements.
There was a scene with my father, but in private; and all that came to general knowledge was that Griff felt himself injured by any implication that he was given to violent or excessive dissipation, such as could wreck Ellen’s happiness or his own character.
He declared with all his heart that immediate marriage would be the best thing for both, and pleaded earnestly for it; but my father could not have arranged for it even if the Fordyces would have consented, and there were matters of business, as well as other reasons, which made it inexpedient for them to revoke their decision that the wedding should not take place before Ellen was of age and Griffith called to the bar.
So we took our young ladies home, loaded with presents for their beloved school children, of whom Emily said she dreamt, as the time for seeing them again drew near. After all the London enjoyment, it was pretty to see the girls’ delight in the fresh country sights and sounds in full summer glory, and how Ellen proved to have been hungering after all her dear ones at home. When we left her at her own door, our last sight of her was in her father’s arms, little Anne clinging to her dress, mother and grandfather as close to her as could be—a perfect tableau of a joyous welcome.
‘Unless he give me all in changeI forfeit all things by him;The risk is terrible and strange.’Mrs. Browning.
‘Unless he give me all in changeI forfeit all things by him;The risk is terrible and strange.’
Mrs. Browning.
Youwill be weary of my lengthiness; and perhaps I am lingering too long over the earlier portion of my narrative. Something is due to the disproportion assumed in our memories by the first twenty years of existence—something, perhaps, to reluctance to passing from comparative sunshine to shadow. There was still a period of brightness, but it was so uneventful that I have no excuse for dwelling on it further than to say that Henderson, our excellent curate, had already made a great difference in the parish, and it was beginning to be looked on as almost equal to Hillside. The children were devoted to Emily, who was the source of all the amenities of their poor little lives. The needlework of the school was my mother’s pride; and our church and its services, though you would shudder at them now, were then thought presumptuously superior ‘for a country parish.’ They were a real delight and blessing to us, as well as to many more of the flock, who still, in their old age, remember and revere Parson Henderson as a sort of apostle.
The dawning of the new Poor-Law led to investigations which revealed the true conditions of the peasant’s life—its destitution, recklessness, and dependence. We tried to mend matters by inducing families to emigrate, but this renewed the distrust which had at first beheld in the schools an attempt to enslave the children. Even accounts, sent home by the exceptionally enterprising who did go to Canada, were, we found, scarcely trusted. Amos Bell, who would have gone, if he had not been growing into my special personal attendant, was letter-writer and reader to all his relations, and revealed to us that it had been agreed that no letter should be considered as genuine unless it bore a certain private mark. To be sure, the accounts of prosperity might well sound fabulous to the toilers and moilers at home. Harriet Martineau’sHamlets, which we lent to many of our neighbours, is a fair picture of the state of things. We much enjoyed those tales, and Emily says they were the only political economy she ever learnt.
The model arrangements of our vestries led to a summons to my father and the younger Mr. Fordyce to London, to be examined on the condition of the pauper, and the working of the old Elizabethan Poor-Law.
They were absent for about a fortnight of early spring, and Emily and I could not help observing that our mother was unusually uncommunicative about my father’s letters; and, moreover, there was a tremendous revolution of the furniture, a far more ominous token in our household than any comet.
The truth came on us when the two fathers returned. Mine told me himself that Frank Fordyce was so much displeased with Griffith’s conduct that he had declared that the engagement could not continue with his consent.
This from good-natured, tender-hearted Parson Frank!
I cried out hotly that ‘those Lesters’ had done this. They had always been set against us, and any one could talk over Mr. Frank. My father shook his head. He said Frank Fordyce was not weak, but all the stronger for his gentleness and charity; and, moreover, that he was quite right—to our shame and grief be it spoken—quite right.
It was true that the first information had been given by Sir Horace Lester, Mrs. Fordyce’s brother, but it had not been lightly spoken like the daughter’s chatter; and my father himself had found it only too true, so that he could not conscientiously call Griffith worthy of such a creature as Ellen Fordyce.
Poor Griff, he had been idle and impracticable over his legal studies, which no persuasion would make him view as otherwise than a sort of nominal training for a country gentleman; nor had he ever believed or acted upon the fact that the Earlscombe property was not an unlimited fortune, such as would permit him to dispense with any profession, and spend time and money like the youths with whom he associated. Still, this might have been condoned as part of the effervescence which had excited him ever since my father had succeeded to the estate, and patience might still have waited for greater wisdom; but there had been graver complaints of irregularities, which were forcing his friend to dissolve partnership with him. There was evidence of gambling, which he not only admitted, but defended; and, moreover, he was known at parties, at races, and at the theatre, as one of the numerous satellites who revolved about that gay and conspicuous young fashionable widow, Lady Peacock.
‘Yes, Frank has every right to be angry,’ said my father, pacing the room. ‘I can’t wonder at him. I should do the same; but it is destroying the best hope for my poor boy.’
Then he began to wish Clarence had more—he knew not what to call it—in him; something that might keep his brother straight. For, of course, he had talked to Clarence and discovered how very little the brothers saw of one another. Clarence had been to look for Griff in vain more than once, and they had only really met at a Castleford dinner-party. In fact, Clarence’s youthful spirits, and the tastes which would have made him companionable to Griff, had been crushed out of him; and he was what more recent slang calls ‘such a muff,’ that he had perforce drifted out of our elder brother’s daily life, as much as if he had been a grave senior of fifty. It was, as he owned, a heavy penalty of his youthful fall that he could not help his brother more effectually.
It appeared that Frank Fordyce, thoroughly roused, had had it out with Griffith, and had declared that his consent was withdrawn and the engagement annulled. Griff, astounded at the resolute tone of one whom he considered as the most good-natured of men, had answered hotly and proudly that he should accept no dismissal except from Ellen herself, and that he had done no more than was expected of any young man of position and estate. On the other indictment he scorned any defence, and the two had parted in mutual indignation. He had, however, shown himself so much distressed at the threat of being deprived of Ellen, that neither my father nor Clarence had the least doubt of his genuine attachment to her, nor that his attentions to Lady Peacock were more than the effect of old habit and love of amusement, and that they had been much exaggerated. He scouted the bare idea of preferring her to Ellen; and, in his second interview with my father, was ready to make any amount of promises of reformation, provided his engagement were continued.
This was on the last evening before leaving town, and he came to the coach-office looking so pale, jaded, and unhappy that Parson Frank’s kind heart was touched; and in answer to a muttered ‘I’ve been ten thousand fools, sir, but if you will overlook it I will try to be worthy of her,’ he made some reply that could be construed into, ‘If you keep to that, all may yet be well. I’ll talk to her mother and grandfather.’
Perhaps this was cruel kindness, for, as we well knew, Mrs. Fordyce was far less likely to be tolerant of a young man’s failings than was her husband; and she was, besides, a Lester, and might take the same view.
Abusing the Lesters was our great resource; for we did not believe either the sailor or the guardsman to be immaculate, and we knew them to be jealous. We had to remain in ignorance of what we most wished to know, for Ellen was kept away from us, and my mother would not let Emily go in search of her. Only Anne, who was a high-spirited, independent little person, made a sudden rush upon me as I sat in the garden. She had no business to be so far from home alone; but, said she, ‘I don’t care, it is all so horrid. Please, Edward, is it true that Griff has been so very wicked? I heard the maids talking, and they said papa had found out that he was a bad lot, and that he was not to marry Ellen; but she would stick to him through thick and thin, like poor Kitty Brown who would marry the man that got transported for seven years.’ ‘Will he be transported, Edward? and would Ellen go too, like the “nut-brown maid?” Is that what she cries so about? Not by day, but all night. I know she does, for her handkerchief is wet through, and there is a wet place on her pillow always in the morning; but she only says, “Never mind,” and nobodywilltell me. They only say little girls should not think about such things. And I am not so very little. I am eight, and have read theLay of the Last Minstreland I know all about people in love. So you might tell me.’
I relieved Anne’s mind as to the chances of transportation, and, after considering how many confidences might be honourably exchanged with the child, I explained that her father thought Griff had been idle and careless, and not fit as yet to be trusted with Ellen.
Her parish experience came into play. ‘Does papa think he would be like Joe Sparks? But then gentlemen don’t beat their wives, nor go to the public-house, nor let their children go about in rags.’
I durst not inquire much, but I gathered that there was a heavy shadow over the house, and that Ellen was striving to do as usual, but breaking down when alone. Just then Parson Frank appeared. Anne had run away from him while on a farming inspection, when the debate over the turnips with the factotum had become wearisome. He looked grave and sorrowful, quite unlike his usual hearty self, and came to me, leaning over my chair, and saying, ‘This is sad work, Edward’; and, on an anxious venture of an inquiry for Ellen, ‘Poor little maid, it is very sore work with her. She is a good child and obedient—wants to do her duty; but we should never have let it go on so long. We have only ourselves to thank—taking the family character, you see’—and he made a kindly gesture towards me. ‘Your father sees how it is, and won’t let it make a split between us. I believe that not seeing as much of your sister as usual is one of my poor lassie’s troubles, but it may be best—it may be best.’
He lingered talking, unwilling to tear himself away, and ended by disclosing, almost at unawares, that Ellen had held out for a long time, would not understand nor take in what she was told, accepted nothing on Lester authority, declared she understood all about Lady Peacock, and showed a strength of resistance and independence of view that had quite startled her parents, by proving how far their darling had gone from them in heart. But they still held her by the bonds of obedience; and, by dealing with her conscience, her mother had obtained from her a piteous little note—
‘My dear Griffith—I am afraid it is true that you have not always seemed to be doing right, and papa and mamma forbid our going on as we are. You know I cannot be disobedient. It would not bring a blessing on you. So I must break off, though—’
‘My dear Griffith—I am afraid it is true that you have not always seemed to be doing right, and papa and mamma forbid our going on as we are. You know I cannot be disobedient. It would not bring a blessing on you. So I must break off, though—’
The ‘though’ could be read through an erasure, followed by the initials, E. M. F.—as if the dismal conclusion had been felt to be only too true—and there followed the postscript, ‘Forgive me, and, if we are patient, it may come right.’
This letter was displayed, when, on the ensuing evening, it brought Griff down in towering indignation, and trying to prove the coercion that must have been exercised to extract even thus much from his darling. Over he went headlong to Hillside to insist on seeing her, but to encounter a succession of stormy scenes. Mrs. Fordyce was the most resolute, but was ill for a week after. The old Rector was gentle, and somewhat overawed Griff by his compassion, and by representations that were only too true; and Parson Frank, with his tender heart torn to pieces, showed symptoms of yielding another probation.
The interview with Ellen was granted. She, however, was intrenched in obedience. She had promised submission to the rupture of her engagement, and she kept her word,—though she declared that nothing could hinder her love, and that she would wait patiently till her lover had proved himself, to everybody’s satisfaction, as good and noble as she knew him to be. When he told her she did not love him she smiled. She was sure that whatever mistakes there might have been, he would give no further occasion against himself, and then every one would see that all had been mere misunderstanding, and they should be happy again.
Such trust humbled him, and he was ready to make all promises and resolutions; but he could not obtain the renewal of the engagement, nor permission to correspond. Only there was wrung out of Parson Frank a promise that if he could come in two years with a perfectly unstained, unblotted character, the betrothal might be renewed.
We were very thankful for the hope and motive, and Griff had no doubts of himself.
‘One can’t look at the pretty creature and think of disappointing her,’ he said. ‘She is altered, you know, Ted; they’ve bullied her till she is more ethereal than ever, but it only makes her lovelier. I believe if she saw me kill some one on the spot she would think it all my generosity; or, if she could not, she would take and die. Oh no! I’ll not fail her. No, I won’t; not if I have to spend seven years after the model of old Bill, whose liveliest pastime is a good long sermon, when it is not a ghost.’
‘Soone as the Elfin knight in presence cameAnd false Duessa, seeming ladye fayre,A gentle husher, Vanitie by name,Made roome, and passage did for them prepare.’Spenser.
‘Soone as the Elfin knight in presence cameAnd false Duessa, seeming ladye fayre,A gentle husher, Vanitie by name,Made roome, and passage did for them prepare.’
Spenser.
Thetwo families were supposed to continue on unbroken terms of friendship, and we men did so; but Mrs. Fordyce told my mother that she had disapproved of the probation, and Mrs. Winslow was hurt. Though the two girls were allowed to be together as usual, it was on condition of silence about Griff; and though, as Emily said, they really had not been always talking about him in former times, the prohibition seemed to weigh upon all they said.
Old Mr. Fordyce had long been talking of a round of visits among relations whom he had not seen for many years; and it was decided to send Ellen with him, chiefly, no doubt, to prevent difficulties about Griffith in the long vacation.
There was no embargo on the correspondence with my sister, and letters full of description came regularly, but how unlike they were to our journal. They were clear, intelligent, with a certain liveliness, but no ring of youthful joy, no echo of the heart, always as if under restraint. Griff was much disappointed. He had been on his good behaviour for two months, and expected his reward, and I could not here repeat all that he said about her parents when he found she was absent. Yet, after all, he got more pity and sympathy from Parson Frank than from any one else. That good man actually sent a message for him, when Emily was on honour to do no such thing. Poor Emily suffered much in consequence, when she would neither afford Griff a blank corner of her paper, nor write even a veiled message; while as to the letters she received and gave to him, ‘what was the use,’ he said, ‘of giving him what might have been read aloud by the town-crier?’
‘You don’t understand, Griff; it is all dear Ellen’s conscientiousness—’
‘Oh, deliver me from such con-sci-en-tious-ness,’ he answered, in a tone of bitter mimicry, and flung out of the room leaving Emily in tears.
He could not appreciate the nobleness of Ellen’s self-command and the obedience which was the security of future happiness, but was hurt at what he thought weak alienation. One note of sympathy would have done much for Griff just then. I have often thought it over since, and come to the conclusion that Mrs. Fordyce was justified in the entire separation she brought about. No one can judge of the strength with which ‘true love’ has mastered any individual, nor how far change may be possible; and, on the other hand, unless there were full appreciation of Ellen’s character, she might only have been looked on as—
‘Puppet to a father’s threat,Servile to a shrewish tongue.’
‘Puppet to a father’s threat,Servile to a shrewish tongue.’
Yet, after all, Frank Fordyce was very kind to Griff, making himself as much of a medium of communication as he could consistently with his conscience, but of course not satisfying one who believed that the strength of love was to be proved not by obedience but disobedience.
Ellen’s letters showed increasing anxiety about her grandfather, who was not favourably affected by the change of habits, consequent on a long journey, and staying in different houses. His return was fixed two or three times, and then delayed by slight attacks of illness, till at last he became anxious to get home, and set off about the end of September; but after sleeping a night at an inn at Warwick, he was too ill to proceed any farther. His old man-servant was with him; but poor Ellen went through a great deal of suspense and responsibility before her parents reached her. The attack was paralysis, and he never recovered the full powers of mind or body, though they managed to bring him back to Hillside—as indeed his restlessness longed for his native home. When once there he became calmer, but did not rally; and a second stroke proved fatal just before Easter. He was mourned alike by rich and poor, ‘Hewasa gentleman,’ said even Chapman, ‘always the same to rich or poor, though he was one of they Fordys.’
My father wrote to summon both his elder sons to the funeral at Hillside, and in due time Clarence appeared by the coach, but alone. He had gone to Griffith’s chambers to arrange about coming down together, but found my father’s letter lying unopened on the table, and learnt that his brother was supposed to be staying at a villa in Surrey, where there were to be private theatricals. He had forwarded the letter thither, and it would still be possible to arrive in time by the night mail.
So entirely was Griff expected that the gig was sent to meet him at seven o’clock the next morning, but there was no sign of him. My father and Clarence went without him to the gathering, which showed how deeply the good old man was respected and loved.
It was the only funeral Clarence had attended except Miss Newton’s hurried one, and his sensitive spirit was greatly affected. He had learnt reserve when amongst others, but I found that he had a strong foreboding of evil; he tossed and muttered in his sleep, and confessed to having had a wretched night of dreams, though he would not describe them otherwise than that he had seen the lady whose face he always looked on as a presage of evil.
Two days later theMorning Postgave a full account of the amateur theatricals at Bella Vista, the seat of Benjamin Bullock, Esquire, and the Lady Louisa Bullock; and in the list ofdramatis personæ, there figured Griffith Winslow, Esquire, as Captain Absolute, and the fair and accomplished Lady Peacock as Lydia Languish.
Amateur theatricals were much less common in those days than at present, and were held as thene plus ultraof gaiety. Moreover, the Lady Louisa Bullock was noted for fashionable extravagance of the semi-reputable style; and there would have been vexation enough at Griffith’s being her guest, even had not the performance taken place on the very day of the funeral of Ellen’s grandfather, so as to be an outrage on decorum.
At the same time, there came a packet franked by a not very satisfactory peer, brother to Lady Louisa. My father threw a note over to Clarence, and proceeded to read a very properly expressed letter full of apologies and condolences for the Fordyces.
‘He could not have got the letter in time’ was my father’s comment. ‘When did you forward the letter? How was it addressed? Clarence, I say, didn’t you hear?’
Clarence lifted up his face from his letter, so much flushed that my mother broke in—‘What’s the matter? A mistake in the post-town would account for the delay. Has he had the letter?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Not in time—eh?’
‘I’m afraid,’ and he faltered, ‘he did.’
‘Did he or did he not?’ demanded my mother.
‘What does he say?’ exclaimed my father.
‘Sir’ (always an unpropitious beginning for poor Clarence), ‘I should prefer not showing you.’
‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed my mother: ‘you do no good by concealing it!’
‘Let me see his letter,’ said my father, in the voice there was no gainsaying, and absolutely taking it from Clarence. None of us will ever forget the tone in which he read it aloud at the breakfast-table.
‘Dear Bill—What possessed you to send a death’s-head to the feast? The letter would have bitten no one in my chambers. A nice scrape I shall be in if you let out that your officious precision forwarded it. Of course at the last moment I could not upset the whole affair and leave Lydia to languish in vain. The whole thing went off magnificently. Keep counsel and no harm is done. You owe me that for sending on the letter.—Yours,‘J. G. W.’
‘Dear Bill—What possessed you to send a death’s-head to the feast? The letter would have bitten no one in my chambers. A nice scrape I shall be in if you let out that your officious precision forwarded it. Of course at the last moment I could not upset the whole affair and leave Lydia to languish in vain. The whole thing went off magnificently. Keep counsel and no harm is done. You owe me that for sending on the letter.—Yours,
‘J. G. W.’
Clarence had not read to the end when the letter was taken from him. Indeed to inclose such a note in a dispatch sure to be openeden famillewas one of Griffith’s haphazard proceedings, which arose from the present being always much more to him than the absent. Clarence was much shocked at hearing these last sentences, and exclaimed, ‘He meant it in confidence, papa; I implore you to treat it as unread!’
My father was always scrupulous about private letters, and said, ‘I beg your pardon, Clarence; I should not have forced it from you. I wish I had not seen it.’
My mother gave something between a snort and a sigh. ‘It is right for us to know the truth,’ she said, ‘but that is enough. There is no need that they should know at Hillside what was Griffith’s alternative.’
‘I would not add a pang to that dear girl’s grief,’ said my father; ‘but I see the Fordyces were right. I shall never do anything to bring these two together again.’
My mother chimed in with something about preferring Lady Peacock and the Bella Vista crew to Ellen and Hillside, which made us rush into the breach with incoherent defence.
‘I know how it was,’ said Clarence. ‘His acting is capital, and of course these people could not spare him, nor understand how much it signified that he should be here. They make so much of him.’
‘Who do?’ asked my mother. ‘Lady Peacock? How do you know? Have you been with them?’
‘I have dined at Mr. Clarkson’s,’ Clarence avowed; and, on further pressure, it was extracted that Griffith—handsome, and with talents such as tell in society—was a general favourite, and much engrossed by people who found him an enlivenment and ornament to their parties. There had been little or nothing of late of the former noisy, boyish dissipation; but that the more fashionable varieties were getting a hold on him became evident under the cross-questioning to which Clarence had to submit.
My father said he felt like a party to a falsehood when he sent Griff’s letter up to Hillside, and he indemnified himself by writing a letter more indignant—not than was just, but than was prudent, especially in the case of one little accustomed to strong censure. Indeed Clarence could not restrain a slight groan when he perceived that our mother was shut up in the study to assist in the composition. Her denunciations always outran my father’s, and her pain showed itself in bitterness. ‘I ought to have had the presence of mind to refuse to show the letter,’ he said; ‘Griff will hardly forgive me.’
Ellen looked very thin, and with a transparent delicacy of complexion. She had greatly grieved over her grandfather’s illness and the first change in her happy home; and she must have been much disappointed at Griffith’s absence. Emily dreaded her mention of the subject when they first met.
‘But,’ said my sister, ‘she said no word of him. All she cared to tell me was of the talks she had with her grandfather, when he made her read his favourite chapters in the Bible; and though he had no memory for outside things, his thoughts were as beautiful as ever. Sometimes his face grew so full of glad contemplation that she felt quite awestruck, as if it were becoming like the face of an angel. It made her realise, she said, “how little the ups and downs of this life matter, if there can be such peace at the last.” And, after all, I could not help thinking that it was better perhaps that Griff did not come. Any other sort of talk would have jarred on her just now, and you know he would never stand much of that.’
Much as we loved our Griff, we had come to the perception that Ellen was a treasure he could not esteem properly.
The Lester cousins, never remarkable for good taste, forced on her the knowledge of his employment. Her father could not refrain from telling us that her exclamation had been, ‘Poor Griff, how shocked he must be! He was so fond of dear grandpapa. Pray, papa, get Mr. Winslow to let him know that I am not hurt, for I know he could not help it. Or may I ask Emily to tell him so?’
I wish Mrs. Fordyce would have absolved her from the promise not to mention Griff to us. That innocent reliance might have touched him, as Emily would have narrated it; but it only rendered my father more indignant, and more resolved to reserve the message till a repentant apology should come. And, alas! none ever came. Just wrath on a voiceless paper has little effect. There is reason to believe that Griff did not like the air of my father’s letter, and never even read it. He diligently avoided Clarence, and the pain and shame his warm heart must have felt only made him keep out of reach.
‘The slippery verge her feet beguiled;She tumbled headlong in.’Gray.
‘The slippery verge her feet beguiled;She tumbled headlong in.’
Gray.
Oneof Griffith’s briefest notes in his largest hand announced that he had accepted various invitations to country houses, for cricket matches, archery meetings, and the like; nor did he even make it clear where his address would be, except that he would be with a friend in Scotland when grouse-shooting began.
Clarence, however, came home for a brief holiday. He was startled at the first sight of Ellen. He said she was indeed lovelier than ever, with an added sweetness in her clear eyes and the wild rose flush in her delicate cheek; but that she looked as if she was being refined away to nothing, and was more than ever like the vision with the lamp.
Of course the Fordyces had not been going into society, though Ellen and Emily were as much together as before, helping one another in practising their school children in singing, and sharing in one another’s studies and pursuits. There had been in the spring a change at Wattlesea; the old incumbent died, and the new one was well reported of as a very earnest hardworking man. He seemed to be provided with a large family, and there was no driving into Wattlesea without seeing members of it scattered about the place.
The Fordyces being anxious to show them attention without a regular dinner-party, decided on inviting all the family to keep Anne’s ninth birthday, and Emily and Martyn were of course to come and assist at the entertainment.
It was on the morning of the day fixed that a letter came to me whose contents seemed to burn themselves into my brain. Martyn called across the breakfast-table, ‘Look at Edward! Has any one sent you a young basilisk?’
‘I wish it was,’ I gasped out.
‘Don’t look so,’ entreated Emily. ‘Tell us! Is it Griff?’
‘Not ill-hurt?’ cried my mother. ‘Oh no, no. Worse!’ and then somehow I articulated that he was married; and Clarence exclaimed, ‘Not the Peacock!’ and at my gesture my father broke out. ‘He has done for himself, the unhappy boy. A disgraceful Scotch marriage. Eh?’
‘It was his sense of honour,’ I managed to utter.
‘Sense of fiddlestick!’ said my poor father. ‘Don’t stop to excuse him. We’ve had enough of that! Let us hear.’
I cannot give a copy of the letter. It was so painful that it was destroyed; for there was a tone of bravado betraying his uneasiness, but altogether unbecoming. All that it disclosed was, that some one staying in the same house had paid insulting attentions to Lady Peacock; she had thrown herself on our brother’s protection, and after interfering on her behalf, he had found that there was no means of sheltering her but by making her his wife. This had been effected by the assistance of the lady of the house where they had been staying; and Griffith had written to me two days later from Edinburgh, declaring that Selina had only to be known to be loved, and to overcome all prejudices.
‘Prejudices,’ said my father bitterly. ‘Prejudices in favour of truth and honour.’
And my mother uttered the worst reproach of all, when in my agitation, I slipped and almost fell in rising—‘Oh, my poor Edward! that I should have lived to think yours the least misfortune that has befallen my sons!’
‘Nay, mother,’ said Clarence, putting Martyn toward her, ‘here is one to make up for us all.’
‘Clarence,’ said my father, ‘your mother did not mean anything but that you and Edward are the comfort of our lives. I wish there were a chance of Griffith redeeming the past as you have done; but I see no hope of that. A man is never ruined till he is married.’
At that moment there was a step in the hall, a knock at the door, and there stood Mr. Frank Fordyce. He looked at us and said, ‘It is true then.’
‘To our shame and sorrow it is,’ said my father. ‘Fordyce, how can we look you in the face?’
‘As my dear good friend, and my father’s,’ said the kind man, shaking him by the hand heartily. ‘Do you think we could blame you for this youth’s conduct? Stay’—for we young ones were about to leave the room. ‘My poor girl knows nothing yet. Her mother luckily got the letter in her bedroom. We can’t put off the Reynoldses, you know, so I came to ask the young people to come up as if nothing had happened, and then Ellen need know nothing till the day is over.’
‘If I can,’ said Emily.
‘You can be capable of self-command, I hope,’ said my mother severely, ‘or you do not deserve to be called a friend.’
Such speeches might not be pleasant, but they were bracing, and we all withdrew to leave the elders to talk it over together, when, as I believe, kind Parson Frank was chiefly concerned to argue my parents out of their shame and humiliation.
Clarence told us what he knew or guessed; and we afterwards understood the matter to have come about chiefly through poor Griff’s weakness of character, and love of amusement and flattery. The boyish flirtation with Selina Clarkson had never entirely died away, though it had been nothing more than the elder woman’s bantering patronage and easy acceptance of the youth’s equally gay, jesting admiration. It had, however, involved some raillery on his attachment to the little Methodistical country girl, and this gradually grew into jealousy of her—especially as Griff became more of a man, and a brilliant member of society. The detention from the funeral had been a real victory on the widow’s part, and the few times when Clarence had seen them together he had been dismayed at thecavaliere servienteterms on which Griff seemed to stand; but his words of warning were laughed down. The rest was easy to gather. He had gone about on the round of visits almost as an appendage to Lady Peacock, till they came to a free and easy house, where her coquetry and love of admiration brought on one of those disputes which rendered his championship needful; and such defence could only have one conclusion, especially in Scotland, where hasty private marriages were still legal. What an exchange! Only had Griff ever comprehended the worth of his treasure?
Emily went as late as she could, that there might be the less chance of a tête-à-tête, in which she might be surprised into a betrayal of her secret: indeed she only started at last when Martyn’s impatience had become intolerable.
What was our amazement when, much earlier than we expected, we saw Mr. Fordyce driving up in his phaeton, and heard the story he had to tell.
Emily’s delay had succeeded in bringing her only just in time for the luncheon that was to be the children’s dinner. There was a keen-looking, active, sallow clergyman, grizzled, and with an air of having seen much service; a pale, worn wife, with a gentle, sensible face; and a bewildering flock of boys and girls, all apparently under the command of a very brisk, effective-looking elder sister of fourteen or fifteen, who seemed to be the readiest authority, and to decide what and how much each might partake of, among delicacies, evidently rare novelties.
The day was late in August. The summer had broken; there had been rain, and, though fine, the temperature was fitter for active sports than anything else. Croquet was not yet invented, and, besides, most of the party were of the age for regular games at play. Ellen and Emily did their part in starting these—finding, however, that the Reynolds boys were rather rough, in spite of the objurgations of their sister, who evidently thought herself quite beyond the age for romps. The sports led them to the great home-field on the opposite slope of the ridge from our own. The new farm-buildings were on the level ground at the bottom to the right, where the declivity was much more gradual than to the left, which was very steep, and ended in furze bushes and low copsewood. It was voted a splendid place for hide-and-seek, and the game was soon in such full career that Ellen, who had had quite running enough, could fall out of it, and with her, the other two elder girls. Emily felt Fanny Reynolds’ presence a sort of protection, ‘little guessing what she was up to,’ to use her own expression. Perhaps the girl had not earlier made out who Emily was, or she had been too much absorbed in her cares; but, as the three sat resting on a stump overlooking the hill, she was prompted by the singular inopportuneness of precocious fourteen to observe, ‘I ought to have congratulated you, Miss Winslow.’
Emily gabbled out, ‘Thank you, never mind,’ hoping thus to put a stop to whatever might be coming; but there was no such good fortune. ‘We saw it in the paper. It is your brother, isn’t it?’
‘What?’ asked unsuspicious Ellen, thinking, no doubt, of some fresh glory to Griffith.
And before Emily could utter a word, if there were any she could have uttered, out it came. ‘The marriage—John Griffith Winslow, Esquire, eldest son of John Edward Winslow of Chantry House, to Selina, relict of Sir Henry Peacock and daughter of George Clarkson, Esquire, Q.C. I didn’t think it could be you at first, because you would have been at the wedding.’
Emily had not even time to meet Ellen’s eyes before they were startled by a shriek that was not the merry ‘whoop’ and ‘I spy’ of the game, and, springing up, the girls saw little Anne Fordyce rushing headlong down the very steepest part of the slope, just where it ended in an extremely muddy pool, the watering-place of the cattle. The child was totally unable to stop herself, and so was Martyn, who was dashing after her. Not a word was said, though, perhaps, there was a shriek or two, but the elder sisters flew with one accord towards the pond. They also were some way above it, but at some distance off, so that the descent was not so perpendicular, and they could guard against over-running themselves. Ellen, perhaps from knowing the ground better, was far before the other two; but already poor little Anne had gone straight down, and fallen flat on her face in the water, Martyn after her, perhaps with a little more free will, for, though he too fell, he was already struggling to lift Anne up, and had her head above water, when Ellen arrived and dashed in to assist.
The pond began by being shallow, but the bottom sloped down into a deep hollow, and was besides covered several feet deep with heavy cattle-trodden mire and weeds, in which it was almost impossible to gain a footing, or to move. By the time Emily and Miss Reynolds had come to the brink, Ellen and Martyn were standing up in the water, leaning against one another, and holding poor little Anne’s head up—all they could do. Ellen called out, ‘Don’t! don’t come in! Call some one! The farm! We are sinking in! You can’t help! Call—’
The danger was really terrible of their sinking in the mud and weeds, and being sucked into the deep part of the pool, and they were too far in to be reached from the bank. Emily perceived this, and ran as she had never run before, happily meeting on the way with the gentlemen, who had been inspecting the new model farm-buildings, and had already taken alarm from the screams.
They found the three still with their heads above water, but no more, for every struggle to get up the slope only plunged them deeper in the horrible mud. Moreover, Fanny Reynolds was up to her ankles in the mud, holding by one of her brothers, but unable to reach Martyn. It seems she had had some idea of forming a chain of hands to pull the others out.
Even now the rescue was not too easy. Mr. Fordyce hurried in, and took Anne in his arms; but, even with his height and strength, he found his feet slipping away under him, and could only hand the little insensible girl to Mr. Reynolds, bidding him carry her at once to the house, while he lifted Martyn up only just in time, and Ellen clung to him. Thus weighted, he could not get out, till the bailiff and another man had brought some faggots and a gate that were happily near at hand, and helped him to drag the two out, perfectly exhausted, and Martyn hardly conscious. They both were carried to the Rectory,—Ellen by her father, Martyn by the foreman,—and they were met at the door by the tidings that little Anne was coming to herself.
Indeed, by the time Mr. Fordyce had put on dry clothes, all three were safe in warm beds, and quite themselves again, so that he trusted that no mischief was done; though he decided upon fetching my mother to satisfy herself about Martyn. However, a ducking was not much to a healthy fellow like Martyn, and my mother found him quite fit to dress himself in the clothes she brought, and to return home with her. Both the girls were asleep, but Ellen had had a shivering fit, and her mother was with her, and was anxious. Emily told her mother of Fanny Reynolds’ unfortunate speech, and it was thought right to mention it. Mrs. Fordyce listened kindly, kissed Emily, and told her not to be distressed, for possibly it might turn out to have been the best thing for Ellen to have learnt the fact at such a moment; and, at any rate, it had spared her parents some doubt and difficulty as to the communication.