Then was Elma Macdonald openly wooed and won by the man who loved her.
A garden in the west of England some two and a half centuries ago; an old-world garden, with prim yew hedges and a sundial, and, in one shady and sequestered nook, two persons standing; one, a man some forty years of age, tall and handsome, the other a lady of grace and beauty some fifteen years his junior. Both were cloaked and muffled and spoke in low and anxious tones.
"An anxious task well done, sweetheart," the husband said at length, in tones of satisfaction; "and now, my darling, remember that this secret lies betwixt thou and I. Be heedful in keeping it—for thine own sake and that of our little babe. Should evil times arise, this hidden treasure may yet prove provision for our boy and for thee." So saying, he drew her arm within his own and led her into the house.
Sir Ralph Trevern had strongly espoused the Royal cause from the commencement of the Civil troubles, and was now paying a hurried visit to his home, to conceal his chief valuables, and to arrange for the departure of his wife Sybil and his baby heir to Exeter; a town still loyal to the king, and where he hoped his wife and babe would be safer than in their remote Devonshire Manor House amid neighbours of Parliamentary sympathies.
At Exeter Sybil Trevern remained until the city was forced to capitulate in the spring of 1646; and then, widowed and landless (for Sir Ralph had fallen at Marston Moor and his estate had been confiscated), she was thankful to accept theinvitation of some Royalist friends, who had accompanied the queen, Henrietta Maria, in her secret flight to France some while before, and journeyed, with her babe, to join them in Paris.
There was no opportunity for Sybil Trevern to return to her old home, now in the possession of enemies; and, remembering her husband's strict charge of secrecy, she was reluctant to mention the hidden treasure, even to her friends.
"I will reveal it to our boy when he is of an age to understand it," thought Lady Trevern; but she never lived to see her son grow into manhood, or even into youth.
The trials and sorrows which had befallen her had told upon the gentle woman; and while the little Ralph was still a child, his mother passed into the Silent Land.
The concealment of valuables in secret places frequently results in misadventure. Sybil had often described to her little son the concealed valuables, which, if the exiled Royalists were ever able to re-visit England, she hoped to recover for herself and for him; and, in later years, Sir Ralph could still recall the enigmatical words in which his mother had (possibly with the idea that the rhyme might, as it did, cling to his childish memory) spoken to him of the hidden treasure.
"Near the water, by the fern,The Trevern secret you shall learn,"
"Near the water, by the fern,The Trevern secret you shall learn,"
had often been whispered into his childish ears, and this rhyme was now the only clue that he possessed to the hiding-place of all that remained of his family's fortunes. The articles heedfully concealed by the elder Sir Ralph were of no small value. Besides papers and documents of some moment to the family, and some heirlooms (antique silver so prized as to have been exempted, even by the devoted Royalists, from contribution to the king's "war treasure chest," for which the University of Oxford, and many a loyal family, had melted down their plate), Sir Ralph had hidden a most valuable collection of jewels, notably a necklace of rubies and diamonds, which had been a treasured possession of the Treverns sincethe days of Elizabeth, when one of the family had turned "gentleman adventurer," become a companion of Drake and Hawkins, and won it as a prize from a Spanish galloon.
In his childhood, the present Sir Ralph had heard (from old servants as well as from his mother) descriptions of these treasured jewels; but the secret of their hiding-place now rested with the dead.
Sir Ralph grew to manhood, returned to England at the Restoration, and finally, after much suing and delay, succeeded in obtaining repossession of his small paternal estate. Then, for many months, did he devote himself to a careful, but utterly unavailing, search about his property, vainly seeking along the lake-side and all round the big pond for the concealed valuables—but never finding aught but disappointment. The neighbours said that the silent, morose man, who spent his days walking about the estate with bent head and anxious, searching eyes, had become a trifle crazed; and indeed his fruitless search after his hidden wealth had grown into a monomania.
As the years rolled by, Sir Ralph became a soured and misanthropic man; for his estate had returned to him in a ruinous and burthened condition, and the acquisition of his hidden treasure was really necessary to clear off incumbrances and to repair the family fortunes.
Lady Trevern often assured her husband that it was more than probable that the late Cromwellian proprietor had discovered the jewels during his occupancy, and that, like a prudent man, he kept his own counsel in the matter. But Sir Ralph still clung to the belief that somewhere in his grounds, "near the water and by the fern," the wealth he now so sorely needed lay concealed. That in this faith Sir Ralph lived and died was proved by his will, in which he bequeathed to the younger of his two sons, "and to his heirs," the jewels and other specified valuables which the testator firmly believed were still concealedsomewhereabout the Trevern property. The widowed Lady Trevern, however, was a capable and practically-minded woman, little inclined to set much valueupon this visionary idea of "treasure trove." She was most reluctant to see her sons waste their lives in a hopeless search after the missing property, and succeeded in impressing both her children with her own views regarding the utter hopelessness of their father's quest. And, as the years passed away, the story of the "Trevern Treasure" became merely a kind of "family legend." The ferns said nothing, and the water kept its secret.
Fortune was not more kindly to the Treverns in the eighteenth century than she had been in the seventeenth. Roger Trevern, the elder son and inheritor of the estate, found it a hard struggle to maintain himself and his large family upon the impoverished property, while the younger son Richard, the designated heir of the missing treasure, became implicated in the Jacobite rising of 1715, was forced to fly to Holland after Mar's defeat, and died in exile, a few years after the disaster of Sherrifmuir, bequeathing a destitute orphan girl to his brother's charge.
Roger Trevern, a most kindly man, welcomed this addition to his already large family without a murmur; and little Mary Trevern grew up with her cousins, beloved and kindly treated by all in the household. It was only as the child grew into womanhood that a change came over Madam Trevern's feelings towards her young niece; for Madam Trevern was a shrewd and sensible woman, a devoted, but also an ambitious, mother. Much as she liked sweet Mary Trevern, she had no desire to see her eldest son, the youthful heir of the sadly encumbered estate, wedded to a portionless bride, however comely and amiable. And Dick Trevern had lately been exhibiting a marked preference for his pretty cousin, a fact which greatly disturbed his mother's peace of mind.
Mary herself knew this, and did not resent her aunt's feelings in the matter. The girl, as one of the elders among the children, had long been familiar with the story of the family straits and struggles, and could only acquiesce (though with a stifled sigh) in Madam Trevern's oft repeated axiom that "whenever Dick wedded, his bride must bring with her sufficientdowry to free the estate" from some of the mortgages which were crushing and crippling it. Mary knew that a marriage between herself and Dick could only result in bringing troubles upon both—and yet—and yet—love and prudence do not often go hand-in-hand—and although no word of actual wooing had ever passed between the young folk, both had, unfortunately, learned to love each other but too well. Wistfully did she think of that hidden treasure, now but a forlorn hope, yet all the hope she had.
"And had the poor child but a dowry there is none to whom I would sooner see our Dick wedded," Madam Trevern once remarked to her husband; "for Molly is a good girl, and like a daughter to us already. But, Roger, 'tis but sheer midsummer madness to dream of such a marriage now; truly 'twould be but 'hunger marrying thirst.' Dick must seek for a bride who at least brings some small fortune with her; and is there not Mistress Cynthia at the Hall, young and comely, and well dowered, casting eyes of favour upon him already?"
Roger Trevern sighed a little; he honestly liked Mary, and would have welcomed her heartily as a daughter-in-law, though prudent considerations told him that his wife spoke truly regarding the hopelessness of such a marriage for his son.
And then Madam Trevern went on to discuss with her husband the scheme she had now much at heart, viz., the separation of the young folks by the transference of Mary to the family of a distant kinsman in London.
"You do but lose your youth buried here with us, child," said Madam Trevern to Mary, with kindly hypocrisy one day, "while with our cousin Martin, who would be glad enough to take a bright young maid like thee to be companion to his ailing wife, thou mayst see the world, and perchance make a great marriage, which will cause thee to look down upon us poor Devon rustics." But Mary wept silently, though she was ready, even willing, to go to London as desired.
It was the girl's last day in the old home; her modest outfit had been prepared and packed, and the old waggoner wasto call on the morrow to convey Mary and her uncle (who was to be her escort to the wonderful, far-off "London town") to Exeter; whence, by slow and tedious stages, the travellers would reach the metropolis at last.
Dick, who had been astutely sent away from home for a few weeks, knew nothing of his cousin's intended departure—Madam Trevern had purposely schemed thus to escape any "farewells" between the young people, arranging Mary's London visit very suddenly; and "perhaps 'twas the wisest," the girl sighed to herself as she wandered for the last time round the old, familiar garden, and seated herself,alone!on the mossy well curb, where she and Dick had so often sat and talked together on sweet summer evenings in the past.
Mary's heart was indeed sad within her, and visions of what "might have been" would keep welling up before her. Oh! if only some good fairy had been keeping back the secret of the hidden treasure to reveal it now, how happy it would be.
Her solitary musings were, however, put to flight by the appearance of the younger children, with whom she was a great favourite, and who had gained an hour's respite from their usual "bed-time" upon this, their cousin's last night at home. Tom, and Will, and Sally, and Ben, had indeed received the tidings of their beloved "Molly's" impending departure with great dismay; and their vociferous lamentations were hardly to be checked by their mother's assurances that one day "Cousin Molly" might come back to see them, when she was "a great lady, riding in her coach and six," and would bring them picture-books and gilt gingerbread.
It was with a strange pang at her heart that Mary now submitted to the loving, if rather boisterous, caresses of the urchins who climbed her lap and clung around her neck.
But Mary had not chosen her quiet seat with a view to childhood's romps or she had chosen a safer one. As it was the shout of merriment was quickly followed by a sudden cry, a splash, and a simultaneous exclamation of dismay from Mary and the children. Will, the youngest, most troublesome, and therefore best beloved of the family, the four-years-old"baby," had slipped on the curb of the well, overbalanced himself, and fallen in; dropping a toy into the water as he did so. In a moment Mary was on her feet. Seizing the bucket, she called the elder boys to work the windlass, and, with firm, but quiet instructions and a face as white as death, consigned herself to the unknown deep.
Near the bottom of the well, which was not very deep, she came upon her little cousin suspended by his clothes to a hook fastened in the well side. She was not long in disengaging the little fellow's clothes from the friendly hook, and was about to signal to be drawn up, when beneath the hook, and explanatory of it—"near the water, by the fern"—what was it? A large hole in the side of the well, and in it—the Trevern treasure, found at last!
Though the lapse of many years had rotted some of the leather covering of the jewel casket, the gems themselves, when lifted out, flashed forth in undimmed beauty; the silver cups and flagons, if discoloured, were still intact, and the papers in the metal case were well preserved.
These last proved of great importance to Roger Trevern, enabling him to substantiate his claim to some disputed property, which was quite sufficient to relieve his estate of all its embarrassments.
And as for Mary, she restored her youngest cousin to his mother's arms, and took the eldest to her own.
Miss Tillotson's grey parrot had called "Clarissa" a dozen times at least, and was listening with his cunning head on one side for footsteps on the stairs. Breakfast was ready; an urn, shaped something like a sepulchral monument, was steaming on the table, and near it stood an old china jar filled with monthly roses. It was a warm, bright morning—that twenty-ninth of August in the year 1782. The windows at each end of the room were wide open, but scarcely a breath of air wandered in, or stirred the lilac bushes in the garden. For the Tillotsons' house could boast of a respectable strip of ground, although it stood in a street in Portsea.
At a quarter past eight Clarissa Tillotson came downstairs, and entered the room with a quick, firm step, taking no notice of the parrot's salutation. She was a tall, fair girl of nineteen; her hair, worn according to the fashion of that period, in short curls, was almost flaxen; her eyes were clear blue, her features regular, and, but for a certain hardness and sternness about the mouth, she might have been pronounced beautiful. She was dressed in a short-waisted gown of white muslin, with a blue girdle; her bodice was cut square, leaving her neck uncovered; her tight sleeves reached to the wrists. The gown was so scanty, and the skirt clung so closely to her figure, that it made her appear even taller than she really was. And at this day, on the wall of a modern London mansion, Clarissa's grandchildren and great-grandchildren behold her ina tarnished gilt frame, habited in the very costume which she wore on that memorable morning.
"Good-morning, Anthony," she said stiffly, as a young man, two years older than herself, made his appearance.
"Good-morning, sister," he answered in a cheery tone, drawing a step nearer as if he meant to give her a kiss. But Clarissa drew up her stately figure to its full height, and turned quickly to the table.
Her brother coloured with annoyance. There had been a quarrel between them on the preceding day, and Anthony was willing to make the first advance towards reconciliation. But he saw that Clarissa intended to keep him at a distance, and he knew the obstinacy of her nature too well to renew his attempt. He took his seat with a sigh, thinking how bright the home-life would be if the cloud of her unyielding temper did not too frequently darken the domestic sunshine.
"I find that father is not well enough to come down yet," he said at last, breaking an awkward silence. "He means to leave his room this afternoon."
"Dr. Vale charged him to be very cautious," rejoined Clarissa.
These young people were motherless; the daughter reigned as mistress of her father's house, acknowledging no control save his, and that was of the mildest kind. Captain Tillotson was the most indulgent of parents; his wife had died while Clarissa was still too young to realize her loss, and the child had been entirely left to the care of an old servant, who allowed her to have her own way in all things. At school she had been forced to submit to discipline; but her strong will was never conquered, and she generally contrived to gain an ascendency over her companions. Having retired from long and honourable service in the Royal Navy, the captain settled himself at home, to pass his old age in peace; and Clarissa proved herself an affectionate daughter. But Anthony was scarcely so easy to manage as her father; to him, his sister's word was not always law, and she sometimes found herself good-humouredly contradicted.
"If I give in," thought she, going over the before-mentioned quarrel, "he will think that he has got the mastery. No; I will treat him with marked coldness until he makes an apology."
Thoroughly chilled by her frigid tone and manner, Anthony made few efforts to sustain the conversation. Breakfast was finished in silence, and he rose rather hastily from his seat at the table.
"I am going on board theRoyal Georgethis morning," he said, moving towards the door. "If my father asks for me, Clarissa, please tell him that I wanted to say a few words to Lieutenant Holloway. He will have to sail again shortly."
"Very well," replied Clarissa, indifferently.
The hall-door closed behind him, and she rung the bell to have the breakfast-table cleared. Then the sunshine tempted her to saunter into the garden, and gather a bunch of sweet lavender, but from some unexplained cause her mind was ill at ease. She could take no pleasure in her flowers; no interest in the vine which had been her especial care; and she returned to the house, determined to spend the morning at her worsted-work. Seating herself near the open window, she drew her frame towards her, and arranged her crewels. The shining needle darted in and out, and she was soon deeply absorbed in her occupation.
Every piece of work has a history of its own; and this quaint representation of the woman of Samaria was fated to be of great interest to succeeding generations. But the busy worker little guessed what memories would hereafter cling to that morning's labour, nor dreamed that some day those very stitches would remind her of the darkest hours in her life.
She worked on until the old clock in the hall struck ten; and at the same moment a sudden gust of wind swept through the room, strewing the table with petals from the over-blown roses in the jar, and blowing Clarissa's curls about her head. It was a welcome breeze, coming as it did after the sultry stillness, and she stood up between the two windows to enjoy the draught. Then, after pacing the long room to and frofor awhile, she sat down to her frame again, and began to think about her brother Anthony.
Had she been quite right after all? Would it not have been well to have received that kiss of peace? Was it such a very meritorious thing to hold out until her adversary had humbled himself before her? Even if the apology were made, would it not be rather a poor victory—one of those conquests which degrade instead of exalting the conqueror? Anthony was a noble fellow, a brother of whom most girls would be proud. His only fault was that determination to maintain his own opinion; but was that indeed a fault? She worked faster, and almost decided that it was not.
So busy was her brain that time flew by unheeded, and she started to hear the clock striking one. Scarcely had the stroke died away, when a shrill cry came ringing through the quiet street, driving the colour out of her face in an instant. Springing up from her chair, she hurried to the window that overlooked the pavement, and saw that people had come to their doors with dismayed faces, for a woman was standing on the causeway, raising that terrible wail.
"It's all true—it's all true!" she shrieked. "TheRoyal Georgehas gone down at Spithead."
The two maid-servants rushed upstairs in affright, for the cry had reached their ears. The captain heard it in his room overhead, and came down in his dressing-gown and slippers; but his daughter scarcely stayed to exchange a word with him. Mechanically seizing the garden-hat and shawl that hung in the hall, she put them on, and ran out into the street, setting off at full speed for the dockyard gates. Could it be true? Alas! the news was confirmed before she reached her destination, and the first wail was but the herald of many others. Even in that hour of universal distress and consternation people took note of the tall, fair young lady whose face and lips were as white as the dress she wore.
TheRoyal Georgehad lately arrived at Spithead after a cruise, and on that fatal morning she was undergoing the operation known as a "parliament heel." The sea wassmooth and the weather still, and the business was begun early in the morning, a number of men from Portsmouth dockyard going on board to assist the ship's carpenters. It was found necessary, it is said, to strip off more of the sheathing than had been intended; and the men, eager to reach the defect in the ship's bottom, were induced to heel her too much. Then indeed "the land-breeze shook her shrouds," throwing her wholly on one side; the cannon rolled over to the side depressed; the water rushed in; and the gallant ship met her doom. Such was the story, told in hurried and broken words, that Clarissa heard from the pale lips of an old seaman; but he could give no other tidings. The boats of the fleet had put off to the rescue; that was all he could tell.
There was no hope in Clarissa's heart as she turned her steps homewards. Anthony had gone down—gone down with Admiral Kempenfeldt and his eight hundred. The same breeze that had scattered the rose-petals and played with her curls had a deadlier mission to perform. She remembered how she had stood rejoicing in that sudden gust of cool wind, and the thought turned her faint and sick as she reached her father's house.
"Clarissa," cried the captain, meeting her at the door, "what is all this? Surely it can't be true. Where's Anthony?"
Ay, where was Anthony? She threw her arms round the old man's neck, and hid her eyes upon his shoulder that she might not see his face.
"Father—dear father! He said he was going to see Lieutenant Holloway on board——"
She could not finish her sentence, and there was no need of more words. Captain Tillotson was a brave man; he had faced death many a time without flinching, but this was a blow which he was wholly unprepared to meet. Putting his daughter gently aside, he sat down on a sofa, and looked straight before him with that terrible blank look that tells its own tale of a stroke that has crushed out all strength. Theservants, glancing from the father to the daughter, saw that on both faces this sudden sorrow had done the work of years. What was time? Was it months or minutes ago that the first cry had sounded through the street?
"If I had only kissed him!" Clarissa did not know that she was saying the words aloud. To her, indeed, this cup was doubly bitter, for it was mingled with the gall of remorse. But for that hard nature of hers, she might have had the sweetness of a kind parting to think upon. Had he forgiven her, in his loving heart, while the great ship was going down, and the water was taking away his life? Ah, she might never know that, until the cruel sea gave up its dead.
There was a noise of wheels in the street; but what were noises to her? The sound drew nearer; the wheels stopped at the door, but it could be only some friend, who had come in haste to tell them the bad news which they knew already.
Battered, and bruised, and dripping with water, a man descended from the hackney coach, and Clarissa started up.
The face was so pale, the whole aspect so strange, that she could not receive the great truth all at once. It was not until he entered the room, and knelt down, wet and trembling as he was, at his father's feet, that she realized her brother's safety.
Anthony had been on the upper deck when the ship sank, and was among that small number who escaped death. All those who were between decks shared the fate of the great Admiral who went down with his sword in its sheath, and ended his threescore years and ten of hard service, in sight of shore. The many were taken, the few left; but although hundreds of homes were made desolate that day, there were some from whence the strain of thanksgiving ascended, tempered by the national woe.
People were wont to say afterwards that Clarissa never again looked so young and fair as she did before the blow fell. But if that day's agony robbed her of her bloom, it left with her the "meek and quiet spirit" which never comes to some of us until it is gained through a great sorrow.
Tell you a story, Master 'Arry? Ah! there's only one story as ought to be told in this yer stable, and that's the old un as allus hupsets me to tell. But I don't mind a-goin' over the old ground once ag'in, Master 'Arry, as you know werry well, if these yer gents 'as a mind to listen to a hold man's yarn. It beats all the printed stories as ever I see, but then, as I ain't no scholar, and can't see werry well neither, p'raps that ain't no much wonder arter all. Reading ain't much in my line, yer see, sir, and, as the old master used to say, "Bring up yer boys to the prerfishuns yer means 'em to foller." 'Osses is my prerfishun, sir, and 'osses I was brought up to.
Excuse me just a minute, sir, if yer don't mind a-settin' on this yer stool. I don't like to see nobody a-leanin' ag'in that there post. That were "Snowflake's" stall, sir, in the old time, and "Snowflake" were little Dora's pony.
My father were os'ler here, sir, afore I were born, and I growed up to the stable, Master 'Arry, just as your ole father growed up to the 'All. It were in ole Sir Markham's time, this were—ole Sir Markham, whose picture hangs above the mantel in the dinin'-'all, as fine a hold English gen'leman as ever crossed a 'unter and follered the 'ounds. The first time as ever I see Sir Markham were when I were about four year old. O' course, we lived on the estate, but I don't knowas I'd ever been up to the 'All till that partickler mornin', when I came wi' a message for my father, and meets ole Sir Markham in the park. Now, yer know, Sir Markham were a queer ole chap when he liked. He didn't take no nonsens from nobody, he didn't. I've seen him thrash the keeper afore now with his own ridin' whip, and he wouldn't 'a' stood partickler about a boy or two, and as there'd been a deal of fruit stole out o' the orchard about that time, he thought he'd jist up and frighten me a bit. So he hollers out—"Hi! there, you boy, what right 'a' you got in my park?" but I see a sort o' twinkle in his eye, so I knowed he weren't real cross, and so I up and says, "Ain't boys got a right to go where their fathers is?" He didn't say nothing more to me then, but when he sees my father he says, "That's a smart boy o' yours, Jim," he says, "and when he's a bit older yer must 'ave 'im up 'ere to 'elp."
Well, sir, I got a bit older in time, and I come up 'ere to 'elp, and, 'ceptin' for a very little while, I've been 'ere ever since.
I were a boy of fourteen when the things 'appened as make up the rest o' my story. Sir Markham he were a matter o' sixty year old, I should say, and Miss Dora, as I see it said in a book, once, "sweet, wery sweet, wery, wery sweet seventeen."
I allus 'ad a hadmiration for Miss Dora. "Darling Dora" they called 'er at the 'All, and so did I, when nobody wasn't listenin'. Nobody couldn't know 'er without admirin' 'er, but I 'ad a special sort of hadmiration for 'er as 'ad made me do any mortal thing she asked me, whatever it might 'ave costed.
Yer see, when I were quite a little chap, and she were no much bigger, she ses to me one day, when I were a bit scolded, she ses, "Never mind, Jim," she ses, "cheer up; you'll be a man o' some sort some day;" and I tell you, though I allus 'ad a hidea that way myself, when she said it I grow'd a hinch straight off. If yer believes in yourself, Master 'Arry, yer can do a lot, but if somebody else believesin yer there ain't nothink in the whole world what yer can't do.
My particler business in the stable were Miss Dora's pony, Snowflake, darling Dora's darling, as it got called o' times. She rode out a great deal, did Miss Dora, and she rode well, and I generally 'ad to foller 'er on the bay cob. She'd spend a lot o' time about this yer stable, one way and another, and we got to be werry partickler friends. Not as I presum'd, mind yer, nor as she forgot 'er station; she were just a hangel, she were, what couldn't be spoilt by nobody's company, and what couldn't 'elp a-makin' o' other people wish as they were summut in the hangel line, too.
But yer a-gettin' impatient I see, gents, and I ax yer pardon for a-ramblin' a bit.
Well, it were Chris'mas time, as it might be now, and young Markham (that were your father, Master 'Arry) he were 'ome from Oxford for 'is 'olidays, with as nice a young fellow as ever stepped, as 'ad come with him to spend Chris'mas at the 'All. They called 'im the "Captain," not that he were a harmy captain, or anythink of that, he were a captain of summut at the college—maybe football or summut else. Somehow he often came 'ome with young Markham at 'oliday times, and 'im and Miss Dora was partickler friendly like.
It were not a werry snowy Chris'mas that year, though there were plenty of frost, and the lake in the park would 'a' borne the London coach and four without a crack. Young Markham and the Captain and Miss Dora did a deal o' skatin', and ole Sir Markham invited a lot o' friends to come and stay Chris'mas for the sake o' the sport. They did say as Aunt Dorothy as Miss Dora were called arter 'ad been a-preachin' at 'im for a-neglectin' o' Miss Dora and a-keepin 'er at the 'All without no society, and I s'pose that's why Sir Markham were a-aggitatin' himself a bit cos' we never 'ad no fuss at Chris'mas as a rule.
Well, we was werry busy at that time, I can tell yer; several of the wisitors brought their own 'osses with them, and me and my father had plenty to do a-lookin' arter 'em.
Among the wisitors as come from London were a real military hofficer, a reg'lar scaff'ld pole he were, for length and breadth, with mustaches as 'ud 'a' done for reins, if 'e'd only been a 'oss. He weren't no favourite o' mine, not from the fust. He were a bit too harbitry for me. He were a-thinkin' he were a-goin' to hintroduce 'is harmy regerlations into our stables; but he allus 'ad to wait the longest, for all 'is hinterferin'. But what used to rile me the most with him were 'is nasty, sneerin' ways at young Markham's friend, the Captain. Yer see, sir, he were a real harmy captain, and so I s'pose he were a bit jealous o' our young Captain, as was a lot better than 'im, arter all. O' course I didn't see it at the time, but I've said to myself lots o' times since, it were a reg'lar plant, that's what it were, that Aunt Dorothy 'ad brought the big soldier down o' purpose for Miss Dora to fall in love with; but 'e were just a little bit too late.
Well, yer know, gents, I told yer as I were quite a youngster at the time, and though ole Sir Markham said as I were werry sharp, I must confess as I didn't quite understand 'ow things were a-goin' on. I noticed that the two captains kept pretty clear of each other, and that Miss Dora never came near the stables for three days together, which were a werry unusual thing for 'er; and one of the ole servants at the 'All told me as the hofficer 'ad been hasking Sir Markham if he might pay his addresses to Miss Dora, and that Sir Markham 'ad said he might.
My ole father were a-hactin' a bit queer about that time, too; he kept a-hasken' me if I'd like to be a postboy, or drive the London coach, or anything o' that, cos', he ses, "Yer know, Jim, Miss Dora 'll be marryin' somebody one o' these days, and maybe you'll 'ave to find summut else to do when Snowflake's gone." "Well," I ses, "if Miss Dora got married and go'd away, I reckon she'd take me with 'er to look arter 'er 'osses, so I sha'n't want no postboy's place, nor coachun's neither, as I sees." And father he seemed pretty satisfied, he did, only 'e says, "If ever you should want to drive to Scotland, Jim," he ses, "you go across the moor to theBurnley Beeches, and then yer bears off to yer right by the Ambly Arms, three mile along you'll fine the great North Road, and there yer are."
Well, I didn't take no notice of this, though father he kept on sayin' o' summut o' the sort all day long, and when it came to evenin', bein' Chris'mas Eve, we went up to the 'All to 'ave supper in the kitchen, and drink ole Sir Markham's 'elth. Sir Markham come down in the servants' 'all and made a speech, and some o' the gents come down too; but while things were a-goin' at their 'ighest, my father he says to me, "Jim," 'e says, "if ever you want to go to Scotland you go across the moor to the Burnley Beeches, and then yer bears off to yer right by the Ambly Arms, three mile along you'll fine the great North Road, and there yer are." "All right," I says, angry like, "I don't want no Scotland; what d'yer want to bother me for with yer Burnley Beeches, and yer Ambly Arms?" "Jim," 'e ses solemn, "yer never know how useful a bit of hinformation may come in sometimes; now," he says, "you'd better run over to the stables, and see if all is a-goin' on right." Well, I see it was no use argifyin', so off I starts. I sees as I comes near the stables as there were a light there, as ought not to be, and o' course, I run back'ard to tell my father, but lor, I thought he were off 'is 'ed, for all he ses was, "If ever you wants to go to Scotland, Jim, it's across the moor to the Burnley Beeches, off to yer right, by the Ambly Arms, three mile along you'll fine the great North Road, and there yer are."
They'd been a-drinkin' a bit 'ard some of 'em, and I ses to myself father's been a'elpin' of 'em, and I tears off to the stables to see what was up.
Well, when I gets here, I comes in at that there door behind yer, sir, and what should I see, but Miss Dora in Snowflake's stall, a-kissin' and a-cryin' over 'im like mad. She didn't take no notice o' me no more'n if I hadn't been there at all, and I came and stood ag'in that there post as you were a-leanin' ag'in just now, sir. Little Dora were a-sobbin' as if 'er 'art would break, and she were a-tryin' to say "Good-bye."They're only little words, sir, at the most, but werry often they're the 'ardest words in all the world to say.
Well, sir, to make a long story short, it were just this: Sir Markham had told 'er as she mustn't think nothink of young Markham's college friend, 'cos 'e were poor and 'adn't nothink but 'is wits and 'is learnin' to live on, and that the tall soldier 'ad been a-haskin' for 'er, and he'd promised 'er to 'im; and it 'ad clean broke 'er 'art, and so she 'ad come down to this yer stable where everythink loved 'er to tell 'er sorrows to her old pet Snowflake, to bury her face in his snowy neck, and wipe 'er eyes on his flowin' mane.
But, afore I 'ad time to say anythink, who should foller me in at the door but the young Captain hisself, and 'e come and stood by me a moment without sayin' a word. He were werry pale, and 'is eyes shone like fire, and at last he ses, in a hoarse sort of a whisper, "Jim," 'e ses, "they wants to marry darling Dora to the big swaggerin' soldier, and I want yer to 'elp me prewent 'em." "'Elp yer prewent 'em," I ses; "why, I'll prewent 'em myself. I ain't werry big, p'r'aps, and maybe I couldn't reach 'is bloated face, but a stone 'ud find 'is head as quickly as it did the big Bible chap as David killed; and maybe I can shie." I hadn't practised on ole Sir Markham's apples for nothink.
Well, sir, I needn't say as it didn't come to that. The fact is, everythink were arranged. It were a matter o' seventy miles to Scotland by the road, and they'd made up their minds to start for Gretna Green as soon as the wisitors 'ad gone to bed. Father were in the swim, and that's why he'd been a-'intin' to me all day and 'ad sent me to see what the light meant. My father 'e were a artful ole man, 'e were; he knowed better nor to 'ave anythink to do with it hisself. Why, I b'leave Sir Markham 'ud a murdered 'im if he 'ad, but me, o' course,—I was only a boy, and did as I were told.
Well, sir, a-hactin' under horders, I were a-waitin' with the post-chaise at them Burnley Beeches at eleven o'clock. I'd been a-waitin' some time, and I begun to be afraid as they weren't a-comin'. At last I see a white somethink comin'along, and in another minute they was alongside. I shall never forget that night. Miss Dora fainted directly she were inside the carriage, and to me she looked as if she were dead. "For God's sake, and for Dora's sake, drive for your life, Jim!" said the young Captain, and I just did drive for my werry life. It was werry dark and I couldn't see much, and it must a bin a-rainin' or summut else,—anyhow there were a preshus lot o' water got in my eyes, till I couldn't see nothink. Father had taken care to git the 'osses in good condition, and they went away as though they knew as they were a-carryin' their darlin' Dora from death to life.
From the Burnley Beeches I drove as I 'ad been directed, past the Ambly Arms, and three mile further I found the great North Road, and there I wore. You never know how useful a bit o' information may come in sometimes. It were pretty straight work now, and the only thing I 'ad to fear was a-wearin' out me 'osses afore we reached the Border. At two o'clock we stopped and baited, and the young Captain he give me the tip. He says, "Don't gotoofast," he ses; "they won't be arter us for an hour or two yet, if they come at all. I've given 'em summut else to look for fust," 'e ses, "and it'll take 'em all their time."
Weil, there ain't no need to make a long story out o' our run to Scotland; we got there safe enough arter imaginin' as we was follered by highwaymen, and goblins, and soldiers, and hall sorts o' other hevil sperits, which were nothink but fancy arter all.
Why, bless yer, we 'adn't no real need to fear; the young Captain he were one too many for 'em, he were, in more ways nor one. Afore he came away he smashed a big hole in the ice, in the middle of the lake, and put 'is 'at and Miss Dora's muff on the edge of the hole; and they were a-breaking up the ice and dragging the lake all Chris'mas Day instead of a-follerin' us.
Next thing came the weddin' in the blacksmith's shop, where the young Captain took our darling Dora all to hisself, with ne'er a bridesmaid but me to give 'er away and everythinkelse. Poor little Dora, she fainted right off ag'in directly it were all over; and the young Captain he flushed up regular, like one o' them hero chaps as they put in books. I never see such a change in any one afore or since. 'E seemed as if 'e could do anything now Miss Dora were hall 'is own. I tell yer, sir, you can't fight nothing like 'arf so 'ard for yourself as yer can if you've got some one else to fight for.
After the weddin', the Captain put up at the "Blacksmith's Arms," where 'e writes a long letter to ole Sir Markham, and one to your father, Master 'Arry, which he give me to deliver, and with which I started 'ome ag'in.
Ole Sir Markham never forgave the young Captain for a-runnin' off wi' Miss Dora, and if it 'adn't 'a' bin for your father, Master 'Arry, I shouldn't never 'a' come back to the 'All. Arter that they went abroad to some foreign place as I never heerd of, and they lost track of 'em up at the 'All too arter a bit; though I know as your father, Master 'Arry, used to send 'em lots o' things without Sir Markham a-knowin' anythink about it. And then came the letter with the black edge as said as our Dora 'ad died o' one of them furren fevers as I didn't even know the name of, and arter that we never heard no more. Poor ole Sir Markham began to break up werry soon arter that. He were not like the same man arter Miss Dora went, and werry soon 'e kept to the 'ouse altogether, and we never saw nothink of 'im out o' doors.
Next thing we 'eard as he were ill, and everybody were a-wishin' as Miss Dora 'ud come back and comfort 'im. At last, when he were really a-dyin', 'e kep' on a-callin' her, "Dora, Dora," in 'is wanderin's like, and nobody couldn't answer 'im, their 'arts was that full as there weren't no room for words. I remember that night, sir, as if it were yesterday, and yet it were forty year ago, Master 'Arry, ten year afore you were born. It were Chris'mas Eve, and ole Sir Markham he were keepin' on a-haskin' for Miss Dora, and I couldn't stand it no longer, so I come over 'ere to smoke my pipe and be to myself, yer see, and bide my feelin's like. Well, I were a-sittin' on a stool in that there corner, a-thinkin' about ole Sir Markhamand our darlin' Dora, when I looks up, and as true as I ever see anythin' in my life I see her a-standin' there afore me. She didn't take no notice of me, though, but she run into Snowflake's stall there, sir, and buried her pretty face in 'is neck and stroked his mane and patted his sides, then she laughed one o' her silv'ry laughs and clapped 'er 'ands and calls out, "'Ome again, 'ome again at last; happy, happy 'ome. Jim, Jim, where's that lazy Jim?" But lor', sir, she were gone ag'in afore I could get up off the stool. I rushed up to the 'All like lightnin', I can tell yer, and I see a bright light a-shinin' in ole Sir Markham's bedroom. I never knowed 'ow I got up them stairs, but I heerd ole Sir Markham cry out as loud as ever I heerd 'im in my life, "Dora, Dora, come at last; darling Dora, darling!" 'E never said no more, did ole Sir Markham, she had taken 'im away.
You'll excuse me a-haskin' you not to lean ag'in that post, won't you, sir? It's a kind o' sort o' friend o' mine. There ain't a sorrow as I've ever had these forty year that I haven't shared with that post. It 'ave been watered by little Dora's tears, and it 'ave been watered by mine, and there ain't nothink in the 'ole world as I walues more. It ain't for the likes o' me to talk o' lovin' a hangel like 'er, sir, but I 'av'n't never loved no one else from that day to this, and maybe when my turn comes at last, Master 'Arry, to go where there ain't no difference between rich and poor, I may 'ear 'er bright sweet voice cry out ag'in to me: "'Ome ag'in, Jim: happy, happy 'ome!"
In the heart of England stands a sleepy hollow called "Green Corner," and in this same sleepy hollow stands a fine old English manor house styled "Green Corner Manor." It belongs to the Medlicott family, who have owned it for generations. In their picture gallery hangs a most singular picture, which is known far and wide as "The Portrait of Little Peace." It depicts a beautiful child in the quaint and picturesque costume of the age of King Charles II. A lamb stands by her side, and a tame ringdove is perched on her wrist. Her eyes are deeply, darkly blue, the curls which "fall adown her back are yellow, like ripe corn." Beneath this portrait in tarnished golden letters are these words of Holy Writ, "Blessed are the peacemakers," and if you read the chronicles of the Medlicott family you will read the history of this child. It was written by Dame Ursula, the wife of Godfrey Medlicott, and runs as under:—
"It was New Year's Eve, and my heart was heavy, so also was my husband's. For 'Verily our house had been left unto us desolate.' Our son Hilary had died in France, and our daughter, Grace, slept in the chancel of the parish church with dusty banners once borne by heroic Medlicotts waving over her marble tomb. 'Would God, that I had died for thee, my boy,'said dead Hilary's father when he looked at the empty chair in the chimney corner; 'and, my darling, life is savourless without thee,' I cried in bitterness of spirit, as I looked at the little plot of garden ground which had been known as Mistress Gracie's garden when my sweet one lived. Scarcely had this cry escaped my lips when a most strange thing befel. Seated on the last of the terrace steps was a little child, who as I passed her stretched out her hand and caught fast hold of my gown. I looked down, and there, beside me, was a most singular and beautiful child. The moonlight fell on her small, pale face and long, yellow hair, and I saw that she was both poorly and plainly clad. 'What do you want, my little maid?' I asked. 'You, madam,' she said serenely. 'From whence have you come?' was my next query. 'From a prison in London town,' was the strange reply. Doubtless this child (so I reasoned) was the daughter of some poor man who had suffered for conscience' sake; and, mayhap, some person who pitied his sad plight had taken the girl and thrown her on our charity, or, rather, mercy. 'Child,' said I, 'wilt come into the Manor with me, and have some chocolate and cake?' 'That will I, madam,' she answered softly. 'I came on purpose to stay with you.' The little one has partly lost her wits, I thought, but I said nothing, and the stranger trotted after me into my own parlour, just as a tame lamb or a little dog might have done. She took her seat on a tabouret at my knee, and ate her spiced cake and sipped her chocolate with a pretty, modest air. Just so was my Gracie wont to sit, and even as I thought of her my dim eyes grew dimmer still with tears. At last they fell, and some of them dropped on the strange guest's golden head, which she had confidingly placed on my knee. 'Don't, sweet madam,' she said, 'don't grieve overmuch! You will find balm in giving balm! You will find comfort in giving comfort! ForI am Peace, and I have come to tarry with you for a little space!' I perceived that the child's wits were astray, but, somehow, I felt strangely drawn to her, and as she had nowhere else to go I kept her with me, and that New Year's Eve she slept in my Grace'sbed, and on the succeeding day she was clothed in one of my lost ewe lamb's gowns, and all in the household styled her Little Peace, because she gave no other name at all.
"Time passed on—and the strange child still abode with us, and every day we loved her more, for she 'went about doing good,' and, what is more, became my schoolmistress, and instructed me in the holy art of charity. For my own great woe had made me forgetful of the woes and afflictions of others. This is how she went about her work. One winter day, when the fountain in the park was frozen, the child, who had been a-walking, came up to me and said, 'Dear madam, are apples good?' 'Of a surety they are—excellent for dessert, and also baked, with spiced ale. Wherefore dost ask?' 'Because old Gaffer Cressidge, and the dame his wife, are sitting eating baked apples and dry bread over in Ashete village, and methinks that soup would suit them better. Madam, we must set the pot boiling, and I will take them some. And, madam, dear, there must be a cupboard in this house.' 'Alack, my pretty one,' said I, 'of cupboards we already have enow. There is King Charles's cupboard in which we hid his Majesty after Worcester fight, and the green and blue closet, as well as many others. Sure, you prattle of that of which you do not know.' She shook her fair, bright head, and answered, 'Nay, madam, there is no strangers' cupboard for forlorn wayfarers, and there must be one, full of food, and wine, and physic, and sweet, health-restoring cordials. And the birdies must have a breakfast daily. Dorothy, the cookmaid, must boil bread in skimmed milk, and throw it on the lawn; then Master Robin and Master Thrush and Mistress Jenny Wren will all feast together. I once saw the little princes, in King Edward's time, feed the birdies thus; and so did Willie Shakespeare, in Stratford town.' Alas, I thought, alas, all isnow tooplain. This child must have been akin to some great scholar, who taught her his own lore, and too much learning hath assuredly made her mad; but I will humour her, and then will try to bringher poor wits home. Thus reasoning, I placed her by my side, and cast my arms around her, and then I whispered, 'Tell me of thyself.' 'That will I,' she replied. 'I am Peace, and I come both in storms and after them. I came to Joan the Maid, on her stone scaffold in the Market Place of Rouen. I came to Rachel Russel when she sustained her husband's courage. I came to Mère Toinette, the brown-faced peasant woman, when she denied herself for her children. I came to Gaffer and Grannie Cressidge as they smiled at each other when eating the apples and bread. And I came to a man named Bunyan in his prison, and lo! he wrote ofme. Now I have come to you.' 'Yea, to stay with me,' I said, but she answered not, she only kissed my hand, and on the morrow, when the wintry sunlight shone on all things within the manor house, it didnotshine upon her golden head! Her little bed was empty, so was her little chair; but the place she had filled in my heart wasstillfilled, and so I think it will be for ever! Some there are who call her a Good Fay or Fairy, and some there are who call her by another and sweeter name, but I think of her always as Little Peace, the hope giver, who came to teach me when my eyes were dim with grief. For no one can tell in what form a blessing will cross his threshold and dwell beside him as his helper, friend, and guest."
Whilst staying in Siberia, on one occasion, when returning from an evening walk in the woods I was surprised at seeing a young Russian girl crying beside a clump of trees; she seemed pretty, and I approached; she saw me not, but continued to give vent to her tears.
I stopped to examine her appearance; her black hair, arranged in the fashion of the country, flowed from under the diadem usually worn by the Siberian girls, and formed a striking contrast, by its jet black colour, with the fairness of her skin. Whilst I was looking at her, she turned her head, and, perceiving me, rose in great haste, wiped off her tears, and said to me:
"Pardon me, father—but I am very unfortunate."
"I wish," said I, "that it were in my power to give you any consolation."
"I expect no consolation," she replied; "it is out of your power to give me any."
"But why are you crying?"
She was silent, and her sobs alone intimated that she was deeply afflicted.
"Can you have committed any fault," said I, "that has roused your father's anger against you?"
"He is angry with me, it is true; but is it my fault if I cannot love his Aphanassi?"
The subject now began to be interesting; for as Chateaubriand says, there were love and tears at the bottom of this story. I felt peculiarly interested in the narrative.
I asked the young Siberian girl who this Aphanassi was whom she could not love. She became more composed, and with enchanting grace, and almost French volubility, she informed me that the summer before a Baskir family had travelled further to the north than these tribes are accustomed to do, and had brought their flocks into the neighbourhood of the zavode of Tchornaïa; they came from time to time to the village to buy things, and to sell the gowns calleddoubas, which their wives dye of a yellow colour with the bark of the birch tree. Now her father, the respectable Michael, was a shopkeeper, and constant communications began to be established between the Baskir and the Russian family. This connection became more close, when it was discovered that both families were of that sect which pretends to have preserved its religion free from all pollution or mixture, and gives its members the name ofStareobratzi. The head of the Baskir family, Aphanassi, soon fell in love with young Daria, and asked her in marriage from her father; but though wealthy, Aphanassi had a rough and repulsive look, and Daria could not bear him; she had, therefore, given him an absolute refusal. Her father doated on her, and had not pressed the matter farther, though he was desirous of forming an alliance so advantageous to his trade; and the Baskir had returned to his own country in the month of August to gather the crops of hemp and rye. But winter passed away, and the heats of June had scarcely been felt before Aphanassi had again appeared, with an immense quantity of bales of richdoubas, Chinese belts, and kaftans, and a herd of more than five hundred horses; he came, in fact, surrounded with all his splendour, and renewed again his offers and his entreaties. Old Michael was nearly gained by his offers, and Daria was in despair, for she was about to be sacrificed to gain, and she detested Aphanassi more than she had done the year before.
I listened to her with strong emotion, pitied her sorrows, which had so easily procured me her confidence, and when she left me, she was less afflicted than before.
The next day I returned to the spot where I had seen her,and found her again; she received me with a smile. Aphanassi had not come that morning, and Daria, probably thinking that I would come back to the spot, had come to ask me what she ought to reply to him, as well as to her father. I gave her my advice with a strong feeling of interest, and convinced that pity would henceforward open to me the road to her heart, I tried to become acquainted with her family. The same evening I bought some things from old Michael, and flattering him on his judgment and experience, endeavoured to lay the foundation of intimacy.
During several days I went regularly to the same spot, and almost always found Daria, as if we had appointed a meeting. Her melancholy increased; every time she saw me she asked for further advice, and although she showed me nothing but confidence, yet the habit of seeing her, of deploring her situation, of having near me a young and beautiful woman, after hearing for many, many months no other voices than the rough ones of officers, soldiers, and smiths—all these circumstances affected my heart with unusual emotion.
The sight of Daria reminded me of the circumstances of my first love; and these recollections, in their turn, embellished Daria with all their charms.
One day she said to me:
"You have seen Aphanassi this morning at my father's; don't you think he is very rough, and has an ugly, ill-natured countenance?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Well, I will show you whom I prefer to him." She smiled in saying this, and I was powerfully affected, as if she had been about to say, "You are the man!" She then threw back the gauze veil that flowed from her head-dress, and instantly, at a certain signal, a young man sprung from behind the trees and cried out to me:
"Thank you, Frenchman, for your good advice! I am Wassili, the friend of Daria!"
This sight perfectly confounded me. So close to love, and to be nothing but a confidant after all! I blushed for shame,but Daria soon dispelled this impulse of ill-humour. She said to me:
"Wassili, whom I have never mentioned to you, is my friend; I was desirous of making you acquainted with him. But he was jealous because you gave me consolation and I wished him to remain concealed from you, that he might be convinced by your language of the worthiness of your sentiments. Wassili will love you as I do; stranger, still give us your advice!"
The words of Daria calmed my trouble; and I felt happy that, at a thousand leagues from my native land, in the bosom of an enemy's country, I was bound by no tie to a foreign soil, but could still afford consolation to two beings in misfortune.
Wassili was handsome and amiable; he was also wealthy; but Aphanassi was much more so, and old Michael, though formerly flattered with the attentions of Wassili to his daughter, now rejected them with disdain. We agreed upon a plan of attack against the Baskir. I talked to Michael several times on the subject, and tried to arrange their differences; but it was of no avail.
Meanwhile took place the feast of St. John, the patron saint of Tchornaïa, which assembled all the inhabitants of the neighbouring villages.
Early in the morning of the holiday, the whole of the inhabitants, dressed in their finest clothes, get into a number of little narrow boats, made of a single tree, like the canoes of the South Sea savages. A man is placed in the middle with one oar in his hands, and strikes the water first on one side and then on the other, and makes the boat move forward with great velocity. These frail skiffs are all in a line, race against each other, and perform a variety of evolutions on the lake. The women are placed at the bow and stern, and sing national songs, while the men are engaged in a variety of exercises and amusements on the shore. A large barge, carrying the heads of the village and the most distinguished inhabitants, contains a band of music, whose harmony contrasts with the songs that are heard from the other boats.
Beautiful weather usually prevails at this season, and the day closes with dances and suppers in the open air; and the lake of Tchornaïa, naturally of a solitary aspect, becomes all at once full of life and animation, and presents an enchanting prospect.
Wassili had got several boats ready, which were filled with musicians, who attracted general attention, and were soon followed by almost all the skiffs in the same way as the gondolas in the Venetian lagoons follow the musical amateurs who sing during the night. Wassili knew that Michael would be flattered to hear an account of the success he had obtained: but Aphanassi had also come to the festival. As soon as he learned that the musicians of Wassili were followed by the crowd, and that his rival's name was in every one's mouth, he collected twenty of his finest horses, covered them with rich stuffs, and, as soon as the sports on the lake were over, began, by the sound of Tartar music, a series of races on the shore, which was a novel sight in the summer season, and was generally admired. His triumph was complete, and at Tchornaïa nothing was talked of for several days but the races on the shore of the lake, and the Baskir's influence with Michael increased considerably.
The grief of Daria made her father suspect that she met Wassili out of the house, and he confined her at home. I saw none but the young man, whose communications were far from being so pleasing to me as those of Daria. Towards the end of July he informed me that Aphanassi had made another attempt to get her from her father; but that the old man was so overcome with her despair that he had only agreed that the marriage should take place the ensuing summer, delaying the matter under the pretext of getting her portion ready, but, in truth, to give her time to make up her mind to follow the Baskir.
About this period Wassili was sent by M. Demidoff's agent, at the head of a body of workmen, to the centre of the Ural Mountains to cut down trees and burn them into charcoal. He was not to return till the middle of September.During his absence I saw Daria almost daily; she had lost the brilliancy of her look, but it seemed to me that her beauty was increased, her countenance had assumed such an expression of melancholy. I had gradually obtained the goodwill of Michael, and dispelled, as far as lay in my power, the sorrows of his daughter. I was a foreigner, a prisoner, little to be feared, and pretty well off in regard to money, so that Michael felt no alarm at seeing me, and neglected no opportunity of showing me his goodwill.
I received a strong proof of this about the middle of August. He brought me to a family festival that takes place at the gathering of the cabbage, and to which women only are usually admitted; it is, in fact, their vintage season.
On the day that a family is to gather in their cabbage, which they salt and lay up for the winter season, the women invite their female friends and neighbours to come and assist them. On the evening before, they cut the cabbages from the stem, and pull off the outside leaves and earth that may be adhering to them. On the grand day, at the house where the cabbages are collected, the women assemble, dressed in their most brilliant manner, and armed with a sort of cleaver, with a handle in the centre, more or less ornamented, according to the person's rank. They place themselves round a kind of trough containing the cabbages. The old women give the signal for action; two of the youngest girls take their places in the middle of the room, and begin to dance a kind of allemande, while the rest of the women sing national songs, and keep time in driving their knives into the trough. When the girls are tired with dancing, two more take their place, always eager to surpass the former by the grace with which they make their movements. The songs continue without intermission, and the cabbages are thus cut up in the midst of a ball, which lasts from morning till night. Meanwhile, the married women carry on the work, salt the cabbages, and carefully pack them in barrels. In the evening the whole party sit down to supper, after which only the men are admitted, but eventhen they remain apart from the women. Glasses of wine and punch go round, dancing begins in a more general manner, and they withdraw at a late hour, to begin the same amusement at another neighbour's till all the harvest is finished.
Amidst all these young girls Daria always seemed to me the most amiable! she danced when called upon by her mother; her motions expressed satisfaction, and her eyes, scarcely refraining from tears, turned towards the stranger, who alone knew her real situation, though amidst so many indifferent people who called themselves her friends.
Towards the end of September, Wassili returned from the woods. Daria had a prospect of several months before her before the return of Aphanassi, if ever he should return at all; and she gave herself up to her love with pleasing improvidence.
At this period there came to Tchornaïa two Russian officers, with several sergeants, who were much more like Cossacks than regular soldiers. Their appearance was the signal of universal mourning—they came to recruit. They proclaimed, in the Emperor's name, that on a certain day all the men in the district, whatever their age might be, were to assemble in the public square, there to be inspected.
At the appointed day every one was on the spot; but it was easy to see by their looks that it was with the utmost repugnance that they had obeyed. All the women were placed on the other side, and anxiously waited for the result of the inspection, and some of them were crying bitterly. I was present at this scene. The officers placed the men in two rows, and passed along the ranks very slowly. Now and then they touched a man, and he was immediately taken to a little group that was formed in the centre of the square. When they had run over the two rows, they again inspected the men that had been set apart, made them walk and strip,verifiedthem, in a word, such as our recruitingcouncilsdid in our departments for many years. When a man was examined he was allowed to go, when the crowd raised ashout of joy; or he was immediately put in irons, in presence of his family, who raised cries of despair—this man was fit for service.
These unfortunate beings, thus chained up, were kept out of view till the very moment of their departure. No claims were valid against the recruiting officer; age, marriage, the duties required to be paid to an infirm parent, were all of no avail; sometimes, indeed, it happened, and that but rarely, that a secret arrangement with the officer, for a sum of money, saved a young man, a husband, or a father from his caprice, for he was bound by no rule; it often happened, also, that he marked out for the army a young man whose wife or mistress was coveted by the neighbouring lord, or whom injustice had irritated and rendered suspected.
To finish this description, which has made me leave my friends out of view, at a very melancholy period, I shall add a few more particulars.
Wassili, as I said before, was at the review; the recruiting officer thought he would make a handsome dragoon, or a soldier of the guard, and, having looked at him from top to toe, he declared him fit for the army.
Whilst his family were deploring his fate, and preparing to make every sacrifice to obtain his discharge, some one cried out that the officer would allow him to get off because he was wealthy, but that the poor must march.
The Russian heard this, and perhaps on the point of making a bargain, felt irritated, and would listen to no sort of arrangement, as a scoundrel always does when you have been on the point of buying. Wassili was put in irons, and destined to unlimited service—that is, to an eternal exile, for the Russian soldier is never allowed to return to his home.[1]Daria nearly fell a victim to her grief, and only recovered some portion of vigour when the recruits were to set out.